Welcome to my universe! My name’s Cass, but before you explore, make sure to read the guidelines. It’s extremely important that you do because I want to ensure your safe travels on here!
Tags & warnings. Angst, like, just angst. Steven hurts his hand at the beggining so there's blood involved, Marc is kind of a... jerk.
Word count. 3.8k
Summary.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame,
It's all fun and games 'til you don't wanna play now.
Run away, run away, run away,
It's easy to say but it's harder to say now.
You're onto something else,
I'm a picture left on your shelf.
The dream's a lie I tell myself
Feel like I'm sleepwalking when you're gone.
The moment the bomb detonated was more horrible than Marc had imagined. Not only because of Steven, who in his mind was the worst of his problems, but because the moment you closed the door behind you, it felt as if you had taken his heart with you.
Marc collapsed on the floor, unable to cry, even if he wanted to. He wasn't like Steven; he couldn't just let it flow, but at this moment, it seemed more like he was in shock.
He wondered, did that really happen or am I just dreaming?
His body tensed for a few seconds; he closed his eyes tightly, and before he could protest, Steven had taken control of the body. He had struggled so hard to keep him in the shadows that his body felt exhausted, with a horrible burning sensation in his muscles.
"Marc?" he questioned out loud, still on the floor. "Marc? What did you do?"
There was no response, and he could only swallow hard as if it would help wash away the bad taste in his mouth.
"What did you do, Marc?" Sometimes the best part of having Steven was having a way to express his pain. By the third time he asked, his voice was already broken, his vision blurred by the tears that threatened to come out at any moment.
Finally, the other one had the courage to respond.
"L-Layla knows," was the only thing that sounded in the headspace.
"How am I going to fix this, Marc?" Memories of what happened just a few minutes ago came to him in flashes; he didn't have the whole conversation because Marc had forced him to stay in the shadows.
The mere image of your heartbroken gaze was enough to cause nightmares for the rest of his life, whether he managed to fix Marc's mistake or not.
"I don't care; I don't care about her!" He sobbed with anger coursing through him from head to toe. At this point, his pain seemed more physical than emotional. He felt exactly like that time when he was impaled multiple times in Cairo.
But worse. At that time, he had a suit to protect him. How would he deal with this now without anything to shield him?
"You can't go on like this, Steven, we can't…"
As if his body moved automatically, he headed for the nearest mirror, the one where you had sought him out for help. His hands stopped on the edge of the sink, and he stared fixedly at himself in the mirror.
Tears flowed freely, seeking to heal a wound the size of his chest.
"I hate you," he whispered with a voice shattered, Marc looked back at him trying to maintain his composure. The pain of a broken heart combined with his constant battle with pride; he would never admit that he might be wrong. "You ruined it, Marc, you ruined everything."
"I did? I ruined everything?" Marc's ironic laughter made his blood boil. "I told you a damn million times, Steven!" The screams made him startle, but he was determined to hide his weakness. He was finally ready to face him. "I told you to stay away from her; was it fair to snatch away the one thing I have?"
Steven's fist went straight to the mirror. He didn't break it, but he shattered the reflection of Marc into many small pieces, and his knuckles were bleeding in a matter of seconds.
"My life is made to support yours." When Steven's fixed gaze met his, Marc had time to question how they had come to this after supposedly fixing things. Was this also his entire fault? "And I understood it, I swear to God I did." Sometimes he had to pause to sniff through his nose. "All I've done is give everything for you, and you took away everything I had."
There was only silence from the other side of the mirror.
"You took her away from me, Marc." His voice gradually lowered; suddenly, he reverted to the old Steven, with a broken heart and his guard down. The one that made him think so much of his younger brother. "What do I have in life if it's not her?"
More silence. Of course, Steven was in the same predicament as him, clinging to something that brought them happiness.
The difference was that for him, it wasn't exactly Layla.
"We were happy with Layla." His broken voice was barely perceptible.
"You were happy." He looked at his fingers, as the blood continued to run through them. "You were happy with stability, happy hiding from problems with stupid adventures that make you forget how bad your life is outside of there."
The amount of resentment in his voice was terrifying. Painful.
"You were happy pretending to be someone you're not." He closed his eyes, letting the tears flow freely. "You were happy pretending I didn't exist."
"S-Steven, I, I, don't…"
There was no more conversation at that moment. Not for the rest of the day. Or the night. Marc was a silent witness to how Steven cried until his throat was raw, how his entire body trembled, and how an nauseating knot formed in his stomach, paralyzing all his muscles.
The next day was a nightmare worse than the previous one. For the first time in a long while, Steven was able to sleep the hours that a normal human needed to function, but the problem was that, of course, these hours had been filled with nightmares and dreams where only you were present. Waking up to the reality where everything was worse was an emotional burden that filled his eyes with tears in the first minutes of regaining consciousness.
Well, he had to start trying. He picked up his phone, the one you always teased him about because it was the oldest phone you had ever seen.
First call, first voicemail.
"Love? Could you answer the calls? I really need to talk to you, I'm so sorry for the things Marc said yesterday."
Second call, second voicemail.
"I'm so sorry, really, please, please answer, okay? I need you."
Third call, third voicemail.
"It was never my intention to hurt you," and yes, for a change, Steven was taking responsibility for Marc's mistakes. "And I know it wasn't his either, he's just… damaged and scared. Please, love, please, let's talk."
Fourth call, fourth voicemail.
"We can't throw away all our plans, love." He didn't fear that you could hear his sobs or the way he struggled for breath between sentences. "I want to be with you. I want to be with you until the last day of my life, please, please."
The fifth call didn't go through. It seemed like you had turned off your phone. Fifth voicemail.
"I know you don't want to see me right now." He had to clear his throat before speaking again. "I just want to talk to you. It's all I'm asking for, it doesn't have to be now, just give me a sign that I can come closer, I'm begging you."
He didn't give up. If it were up to his anxiety, his love, or his fear of abandonment, he would have called you a total of 20 times per hour. But he knew you wanted and needed space. All that was left was to pray that you would hear his messages and give him the slightest sign of life.
In the end, he returned to bed, laying face down, and closed his eyes for just a few seconds.
"Steven?"
"What?"
"The body."
"Huh?"
"Give me the body."
"What do you mean…?"
"I need to go talk to Layla."
"You must be kidding." Steven barely lifted his head to see the mirror resting on one of the furniture next to his bed.
The one he never touched because it had a lipstick mark from you in one corner. A perfectly formed kiss. There was Marc.
"Tell me you're joking."
"Give me the body or I will take it from you."
Steven had no strength to fight, he relented and hoped for a little peace in the darkness of his mind.
That afternoon, Marc apologized tirelessly, and yes, he preferred a million times to falsely accept that he had had an affair than to confess Steven's existence.
"Forgive me, okay? I made a mistake." His hands cradled Layla's face between them. Of course, he had made a mistake, although he didn't specify what kind.
"You're an idiot, Marc." And he couldn't help but think that yes, indeed, he was. There weren't many more words exchanged between them, but unfortunately, this relationship was an imbalanced scale.
It was about two people who simply didn't know how to deal with their emotions, didn't know how to communicate with each other, and undoubtedly had never dealt with their emotional baggage separately to understand that they needed to work to become better.
He couldn't help but notice the parallel. He doesn't remember the romantic part of your relationship with Steven because Steven himself took great care to hide it perfectly, but Marc is aware of every aspect of what your friendship was.
He remembers every argument, if they could even be called that. You two never raised your voices, never.
And you, as the apparent best friend, knew Marc's story inside out, you were never one to raise your voice, but you were always careful not to trigger a bad memory in Steven.
On his part, Steven was incredible at listening. He listened attentively, didn't interrupt, and when you finished talking, he would explain his perspective. You didn't always reach an agreement, that was obvious, but you always knew that you both were much more important to each other than any silly disagreement.
Marc thought about how he would have liked to be as honest as Steven was when Layla's lips were on him. When his way of clarifying things was to have the grossest sex of both their lives.
Usually, the best part of spending these kinds of nights with her was that it meant a mental break with you in exactly two days. Although Steven never understood why you refused to see him the next day, Marc always knew why you felt disgusted. In fact, he understood perfectly, but he never had the courage to tell you that he was sorry.
Thinking that not only were you in love with Steven but that you were also a couple fueled his self-disgust even more.
"I love you, Marc." That was the last thing he heard before leaving his wife's house, which at every moment felt more like a stranger to him.
He didn't respond, and like everyone else around him, she settled for it because everyone always accommodates themselves to Marc Spector's wishes.
Each passing hour, you were crumbling in a worse way. Probably "dead inside" was one of the best ways to describe your current state.
The stages of grief were starting to attack you, very slowly, but you didn't want to be rational because calling it "grief" would mean that you had lost Steven forever.
And you had, but you didn't want to think about that. After all, you were still in the first stage, denial.
It took you a few hours to decide to listen to his voicemails.
"My baby." You whispered to yourself as your arms clung to one of the many garments you had stolen from him. His navy blue sweater that was too long on the sleeves.
You felt ridiculous.
You sobbed forcefully, your cheek had been tingling for a while from the warmth and moisture of your tears on the pillow. Did the breakup hurt? Of course, it hurt to the core, but after hearing his broken voice on the other end of the line, what was probably hurting you the most was knowing that Steven was suffering.
It felt like they were being forcibly torn apart, although it had felt that way from the moment their relationship began. The rope had been tightening around each of you, pulling you apart at the cost of permanently hurting them.
You were sure you would never love anyone the way you loved and still love Steven. Steven would rather vanish than even imagine a life with someone else.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." You whispered as the fabric of his sweater covered part of your face, with the sole purpose of sniffing and recapturing a bit of his scent. The garment had been in your possession for so long that you could barely perceive Steven in it anymore.
You apologized for not being more discreet, for, in your opinion, ruining your perfect relationship, maybe for not knowing how to keep your distance when there was still time. You apologized for being so deeply in love that you felt like you couldn't live without him, for choosing to look out for yourself instead of running into his arms, and for any inconveniences you might have caused Marc one day.
Steven and you were on autopilot. Barely eating, barely breathing, barely existing.
You somehow managed to get up and shower after receiving the call from the pet adoption center confirming that the form you and Steven had filled out had been approved, and now you just had to go for 3 days, 2 hours to visit your future pet.
A part of you momentarily thought about ignoring the call, you were so broken that the mere thought of that visit together ended up squeezing your heart painfully, not to mention that the whole plan from the beginning was for the cat to belong to both of you.
Your rational side was always stronger than you, you couldn't leave the little one without a home. Besides, maybe you needed the company.
Perhaps he would do you good, and you would do everything possible to do right by him.
Needless to say, on the first day of bonding, you cried until your lungs hurt, with the little kitten in your arms. He was so affectionate, providing excellent comfort, but you didn't stop crying for a single moment during the 2 hours.
Then you cried more on the way back home because you had to say goodbye to him.
On the second day, you only cried half of the visit because when the cat started playing in front of you, it drew a small laugh from you for the way he twirled around.
On the last day, you found him waiting for you, ready to settle on your lap. It was as if he understood that you were exhausted, and his purring felt like receiving a hug. You were a perfect match.
Meanwhile, Marc was living days that were going from bad to worse. Steven refused to speak to him more than necessary, but everything hurt twice as much when the breakdowns started coming back.
As he took another sip of his whiskey, he realized that this time he had nowhere to go, that he would probably never hear you say "I'm here" again to keep him sane, that your arms wouldn't surround him, and you wouldn't leave him a space in your bed that was a million times more comfortable than his.
Accepting that he missed you churned his stomach.
Because, of course, it wasn't the first time he had thought of you since you left, but it was the first time he lowered his guard enough to digest that all of this was his fault. That he had hurt you in a permanent way while you had only given him peace whenever you could.
Steven understood that both of them were fucked up when he finally saw Marc cry. When Marc finally cracked.
Steven almost had a heart attack when he received a message from you. There was no text, just a photo of the kitten he recognized perfectly.
He wasn't aware of the smile that appeared on his face. One, he could see that the background of the photo was your apartment, which meant the kitten was already with you. Two, perhaps this meant that not everything was lost.
"Can I come see him?" He was biting his nails while waiting for your response.
"Sure."
Steven left his apartment so quickly that his curls were still damp from the shower he took in a matter of seconds. He didn't care about being on the most crowded bus if it meant getting to your apartment faster.
Exactly 22 minutes after your message, he was standing at your door.
The smile on his face vanished when you opened the door. Both of you looked like a mess, in pain, and by this point, you had accepted that your eyes would be swollen and irritated for the rest of your days.
You didn't approach him for a hug like he thought would happen. You also took a few seconds to analyze him from head to toe.
He was as beautiful as ever. His messy curls made him look even more adorable. A meow echoed behind you, snapping you back to the present.
"Do you want to come in?"
"Please."
Everything was so… awkward. You stepped aside to let him in and closed the door behind him.
"Sekhmet?"
"Yes."
"I told you that's the name of a goddess, not a god," he said as he crouched down to pet the kitten, who seemed to recognize Steven. The little one rubbed against him, purring loudly, audible to both of you.
"And I told you I didn't care."
A nostalgic laugh escaped both of you. Why was all of this so difficult?
"Hello, Sekhmet." His pronunciation was perfect. You couldn't believe you had the love of your life in front of you after everything that happened.
And worse, you couldn't believe you were about to let him go, for the second time.
"He likes you." You whispered, watching them get to know each other with a lump in your throat. This was nothing like what you had imagined at first; this wasn't how things were supposed to go.
Everything was wrong.
"Steven?"
"Yes, love?" It rolled so casually off his tongue. You didn't remember Steven calling you by your name much, it was always "love" or "lovey" for him, and you were content with that.
This time, you felt a pang in your heart when he used the nickname.
"We have to do this." Your voice broke, and when he noticed your teary eyes, he understood the purpose of the visit. There was no way out of this.
"No, please." He looked up at you from the floor, still on his knees because the kitten refused to leave him. "Please, don't do this."
He broke down quickly too.
"I love you, Steven." Your hand went to his chin, holding him in a way that he couldn't look away from you. "And because I love you, it's only fair that we do this, you and I. Okay?"
He kept denying and denying. Ignoring the insistent meows, he stood up. Now you were the one who had to look up due to the difference in height.
Your heart rate increased with the closeness between you two.
"I don't want to say goodbye." The lump in his throat could be heard in his voice. "I don't want to be alone. I can't do it without you." You couldn't bear to tell him otherwise when you knew you were in the same position.
You stood on tiptoes and, without letting him continue, kissed his lips.
Even his kisses tasted like pain. They were desperate, almost violent in the way he clung to your waist and you to his neck.
You remained like that for a few minutes, tasting each other's tears on your lips until your lungs gave up. It felt like an eternity during which you exchanged kisses and embraced each other between sobs. It genuinely felt like you were tearing a part of yourselves away.
An eternity was not enough for either of you.
"Steven." Your hands on his chest pulled him away just a few centimeters from you to face him. His forehead rested against yours while he hiccuped from crying.
He was your little one. He always had been. Your sweet, sweet Steven. He deserved more than everything life was giving him, and in some way, you and Marc knew it.
"You have to go, okay?" He didn't respond, you just felt his fingers tighten their grip on your waist. "You will be fine, I know you will be." Your fingers roamed through his curls, messing them up even more, and you enjoyed their softness one last time.
"I won't be able to. L-Lovey, I w-won't…"
"Shhh. You will be able to, okay?" The tip of your nose gently brushed against his in an affectionate and intimate gesture. "You will get through this, and you will have the beautiful life that I've always known you deserve."
"I don't want it if it's not with you." His fingers crumpled your clothes from the force of holding onto you.
You lowered your hands to his and slowly made him let go, he shook his head again.
"You have to do this for Marc, okay?" You swallowed hard when his hands finally relented and let go of your waist. "And maybe, if it's meant to be, fate will let us know in the future. Okay?"
Bullshit.
You wanted to be with him now, and he wanted to be with you now, but you were grasping at every possible resource to try to make him understand.
"I need to be alone, okay?" You knew he wouldn't leave unless you hinted that you were uncomfortable with the situation.
Always so respectful, he took a step back and nodded, even though his hands were trembling. He didn't say anything, just looked at you as he stepped back again.
"I love you," you whispered, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.
"I love you." It was the only thing he could say. He was about to leave when his legs gave an awkward twitch.
Marc.
Steven looked down, frowning slightly at the momentary loss of control over his body. If Marc was going to object, now was the perfect time because Steven knew he was the only one who could fix this.
His stubbornness was the only obstacle preventing you from being happy.
And yes, Marc wanted to talk. But when he saw you, he knew he would never find the words to fix what he did.
His fear of change hit him again. Why was he regretting this when apparently this was what he wanted from the beginning?
He parted his lips and tried to say something that never came out of his throat. He gave up in seconds and basically fled your apartment, closing the probably happiest chapter of his life in a long time.
"“Cheers,” Steven chirps quietly, ignoring Marc. He knows he has a goofy smile on his face, he knows that he’s just staring at you.
But you’re smiling back and Marc is strangely quiet now, a glow of happiness lingers there. Steven has a suspicion that he’s happy too, basking in the fact that you said yes."
Pairings: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader
Series warnings: mostly fluff, angst, pining, canon-typical violence, threats of violence, angst mostly from Marc because he’s just like that, Jake Lockley really likes the word fuck, minor mention of depression
Series status: COMPLETE - the main story is complete and any added parts will be bonus content
Main Series
Moon Struck - Steven asks you out, Marc falls in love.
Over the moon - Steven takes you out, Marc continues to be in denial about his feelings.
Three Moons - Marc takes you out, and Jake steps into your life.
The Moonbeam additions - every first time is different.
Moonlight - You really like to read in Steven’s flat, and Steven likes having someone to come home to.
Crescent - Marc has never felt lucky, but with you, he does.
Jake [Untitled] - coming soon
Bonus chapters
Gus the Second - You and Steven name the fish, Marc absolutely hates it. (this takes place between Over the moon and Three Moons)
Alleyway Cats - You and Jake take care of the alleyway cats. (this takes place after Three Moons)
No fish were harmed in the making of this meet-cute: Marc Spector x fem!reader
Summary: You have a dilemma. You don’t want to sell the man any more fish. But you do want him to keep coming back to your shop 👀
Word count: short and sweet, a very quick one
Genre: meet-cute (or should that be a meet-cranky?), blurb, silly and fun
Warnings: dead fish, murder mentions, bit of sexism, way fluffier than it sounds. Not proofed.
Author’s note: can’t stop, send help 🥴
GIF: @anhandfulgirl18
“Murderer!” you yell abruptly, in the direction of your shop’s most recently arrived patron.
Your loud, rather alarming accusation causes the other customers - dotted about the aisles - to turn towards you aghast. However, once they realise nothing bad is actually happening, they all too quickly resume their business. At least, mostly they do. The woman in the yellow dungarees is still having a good neb, from over the top of the stacks of kitty litter.
The bleary-eyed American -the current bane of your entire existence - whips his head toward you a little too quickly; which is almost an admission of guilt in itself really, when you think about it. He even begins to raise his palms a little in surrender as you storm determinedly towards him, his gaze evasive and body primed as though he’s preparing to fight or flee.
“Don’t think I can’t see you, eyeballing your next victim!” You stab your pointer finger angrily in the direction of the tanks, and he shrinks almost imperceptibly back from the force of your ire, making himself physically smaller. “If you think for a second that I’m selling you any more fish… I swear to God.”
“Uh. Excuse me?” he says indignantly, blinking his bleary eyes as though he’s just woken up. Perhaps that’s why he’s managing to sound cool as a cucumber in the face of your rather bold intervention; the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. Meanwhile, his face (absurdly handsome, how dare he?) is the picture of innocence, but you don’t buy that for a second. What’s more, as your eyes needle him, he very deliberately slathers on a liberal coating of charm too, which you wholly refuse to fall for.
Oh, this is just typical him, isn’t it?
Such an arsehole.
You look the man up and down, having the cheek to stand there all smug with his rolled-up utility shirt sleeves and combat boots and waterproof watch - like he’s just stepped out of the pages of some outdoor sports catalogue.
It annoys you. Everything about this man annoys you, from his ridiculously perfect hair to his penchant for fish murder. The latter in particular.
(Also, why the hell does he need to wear such practical clothing out and about in central London, anyway? Planning to go for a swim in the Thames, is he? Before commando crawling up Primrose Hill? There’s something sketchy about him and you just don’t like it.)
“Do you know that goldfish can live up to thirty years?” you question pointedly. “Just think about that for a moment, and then contrast that with your track record.”
He swallows thickly. Arcs a thick eyebrow, looking sheepishly between you and the tank. The tank where his next poor little orange victim swims, travelling in blissfully ignorant circles. Well - not his next victim, if you can help it.
The American squints at you, puffing air through his teeth as though he’s emphatically not in the mood for this.
He knows precisely what you’re getting at, you’re sure of it, but just in case he needs a little help, he needn’t worry. You’re planning to spell it out for him.
“You’re in here every two weeks! Buying a fish! It literally has to stop!”
The man now looks at least somewhat contrite, blinking at you steadily from beneath his annoyingly long lashes. You might even have fallen for it -that he felt remorse- had you not detected the undertone of apparent amusement, a smirk playing on the corners of his mouth below those big puppy dog eyes. That annoys you too. Does he think this is funny?
Do the fish not have enough problems, without this guy tipping the scales? (No pun intended.)
Next, he offends you even further, by casually shoving his broad hands into his trouser pockets, pulling the fabric taut across his hips as he swivels all the way round to face you. Does he have to look so good performing basic actions?
You hate him.
Shit, though. Now that he’s squaring off with you, you note that he’s actually rather imposing, his shirt tugged taut around the cultivated muscle of his torso. Imposing enough, at least, to make you wonder whether your tirade is the best idea.
Also ugh. You can’t help but note that up close, he’s disarmingly handsome. Enough so, that you just know he’s going to think he can wiggle out of your interrogation, simply because he’s so pretty.
Typical arsehole behaviour.
Of course.
Why would you expect anything less from him?
You swear that he even bats his lashes at you a little, and you steel yourself against his oncoming charm offensive.
Oh no. Not today, Satan.
There is a beat while he thinks. “Ok. Well. How do you know they’re dead?” he asks coolly, with a pump of his defined brows. His voice is infeasibly smooth and deep. Robust notes and trickery. “How do you know I don’t have a tank full of the little fellas at home?”
He offers you an easy flash of teeth. You don’t know how he’s managing to grow even more handsome by the second, but you swear that you will not be defeated, successfully maintaining your levels of ire.
You fold your arms across your chest and jut out a hip, tipping your chin up to him in challenge, refusing to back down. “But do you?”
His charming smile instantly drops from his face. “Well… no. But I’m away a lot and they…”
He tosses a palm to the side and waits for you to infer the end of his sentence; but oh no. You don’t plan on throwing him a lifeline anytime soon.
“They what?” you prompt.
“You know….”
“Spell it out for me.”
The man tilts his head abruptly to the side, drawing a single finger straight across his throat before emitting a harsh “crrrkkkk” sound.
Spoiler, they die.
The fish fucking die.
Perhaps he hoped his little mime would endear him to you, but oh hey, it’s not working.
“Then. Stop. Buying. Them,” you plead emphatically, wagging a finger in his face, which he looks down at with even greater amusement.
God, you swear, if this asshole says a single thing about you looking “cute” when you’re “angry” you’re going to cover him in mice and unleash the snakes on him.
“Look,” the man smooths. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But that’s not an option.” He presses his palms together in supplication. “I’m gonna need that fish.”
You face him down. “Do you though?”
Oh, he’s getting irritated now, alright.
Serves him right.
He sighs and closes his eyes - a long, slow blink. “Lady, don’t test me. I’m tired, alright? And my pal is going to be very upset if I don’t get this fish. Fuck me over all you like, but I’m begging you, don’t do it to him. He’s a good guy. Having a tough time of it.”
The man flashes his best puppy dog eyes at you once again, and holy hot damn they’re effective.
What a bell end.
For a moment though, he must even believe he’s cracked it. That you intend to soften.
You almost do, in fairness. But… “A tough time, hmm? Made eminently worse by the fact you killed his fish, I imagine?” You arc an indignant eyebrow.
“No! Barely….” he scrambles, before seeing that his protestations are useless anyway as you eye him sceptically. You’re not buying it. “Alright. Fine,” he admits, his shoulders slumping as though it is actually a relief to make his confession. “Yeah. I’ll be honest. I killed seven of them. But this one…” - he gesticulates towards the tank - “…This one is different. Gus 8 is going to make it. I can feel it.”
You stamp your foot. He sounds earnest, and you want to believe him. Even complete bell ends are capable of turning it around. Maybe there’s hope for this guy too. “Do you promise?”
His eyes soften to a dull, pleasant sparkle, and you fortify your defences against his evil wizardry. “Yeah. I promise.”
Damn it, he’s wearing you down. He’s only gone and done it. “Uch,” you concede. “Fine. I believe you. But I do not want to see you back here. Not unless you’re popping ‘round with an invite to Gus’ 21st birthday party. Okay?”
He smiles, even as you scold him, like a true bastard. “You got it.”
With a sigh, you grab a net and prepare to scoop the goldfish from out the top of the tank. “Now, would you like a bag with that? Or should we skip ahead and flush the poor creature right down the toilet in the staff bathroom?”
“A bag. A bag is good,” he nods vehemently, flashing you a glorious smile which almost makes you fall off your little step ladder as you climb up to reach and bag his purchase.
He’d probably love it if you did fall off since he’s that much of a dickhead.
“Okay,” you announce, handing him the bag, which he holds up to his face, mouthing hi, Gus eight, and you really do give it everything you’ve got to keep hating him, but damn. Fish murder aside, he’s… actually growing on you?
You’re weakening.
You resolve to think about how repulsive his beautifully shapely arms are.
Yeah. Horrible. You might even throw up.
The man follows you to the counter where you ring the purchase up, bashing some buttons on the till face. He boops his card against the reader, and you wait for the signal to connect, hand primed to tear off the receipt.
Your system is slow, and, as you wait, the man’s eyes sweep around the shop.
“Chinchillas are cute,” he chats idly, throwing his thumb and nodding his head over in the direction of the enclosures.
You stare him down with a fury reserved for the deepest circle of hell. “Don’t even think about it.”
His mouth makes a small “o”, and, for the second time, he holds his hands up in surrender. “Gotcha. Copy that.”
He tries a smile as you tear off the receipt and hand it to him, but you are still having none of that. You will not fall victim to his sorcery. Not this late in the game. Absolutely not.
“You really care about the fish, huh?” he asks softly, combing his beautiful hair back from his beautiful face. God. “Hate” isn’t even a strong enough word at this point. “My friend would frickin’ love you.”
You tip your gaze up to him, entirely unimpressed, wondering why he’s even still here, with one of his palms flattened against the counter and his fingers gently drumming against it.
Christ, his fingers really are annoyingly thick.
Definitely wouldn’t want those things to touch you absolutely everywhere. That’d be gross.
“Look, I really am sorry about the fish. Is there… anything I can do to make it up to you?”
You snort, as if the very notion is preposterous. What could this wanker possibly do for you?! Laughable, really. “Pfft. Not unless you want to take me on a date.”
Wait.
Um…
What?
You realise what you’ve said, far too late.
Shit! Bollocks. Shit! Bollocks. Shit!
You freeze, your laugh suddenly evaporating on your lips, and you wonder what on earth possessed your brain to betray you on such a fundamental level. You thought you were friends!
“Alright,” he says coolly, before you can even think, never mind hope to backpedal, your jaw hanging slack with your own idiocy. “I’d be happy to do that.”
Oh boy. You are glad your hips are leant against the counter right now, otherwise, you honestly think you would keel over then and there, possibly becoming his next victim even before Gus 8 can manage to croak.
“O-okay then,” your traitorous lips mouth, before you are even aware of what they’re saying.
“Friday? 7pm, at Luigi’s? Do you know it?”
“Yep. Fab.” Holy fuck there you go again! What is wrong with you?!
“Great. And, uh, I’m Marc, by the way. Reformed fish murderer. Pleased to meet you.”
You open and close your mouth, a little like a fish - you think you say your name but who even knows anymore- and then Marc sweeps out, Gus 8 in tow, tucked safely in the little bag.
Wow. You really hope this one sticks.
Marc - the arsehole- spins around when he reaches the doorway; evidently one more killing blow left to deal. “By the way,” he purrs, voice dropped low in his throat. “You’re hella cute when you’re angry.”
Oh god.
You hate him.
And, adding to his spree, you think he might just have murdered your pussy.
But, you really do think he’s starting to win you over. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.
warnings: mutual pining, steven is a shy babygirl, marc playing wingman (but he's kinda terrible at it cause he's also falling in love), no jake (the crowd is booing), no khonshu, steven still works at the museum, post mk s1, no use of y/n
an: rewatched the whole of mk last night and needed to write about my dearest stevie, would love to plan out some future chaps if you guys want :)) pls comment i'd love to hear what y'all think and don't forget to repost to support your fav writers
summary: Steven's apartment has become overrun with more bouquets of flowers than any one man could ever find use for, but they would continue to pile up as long as the pretty girl at the flower shop continued to melt him with that syrupy smile each time he walked in.
Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.
Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.
Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.
He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?
In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.
Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.
Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.
Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.
Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.
He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.
Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.
Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.
The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"
Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.
By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.
There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.
Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.
Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.
It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.
"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"
Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.
The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.
Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.
"That was mortifying." He muttered back.
The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.
"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.
He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."
"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.
"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."
Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."
Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.
He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.
It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--
"Steven don't even think about it--"
Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.
"Oh my god, are you alright?"
The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.
As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."
Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."
Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"
Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."
"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.
"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.
"Jesus, Steven."
Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.
"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"
An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.
"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."
"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.
"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.
"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.
"Who's birthday is it?"
Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"
"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"
"My girlfriend's."
"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"
"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.
"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."
"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.
Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"
Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"
You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"
Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.
You blushed a velvety red.
"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"
"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."
Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."
He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.
"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."
Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?
"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.
"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.
"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."
Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.
"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"
"Let her respond, Steven."
But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.
"So, uh, yeah."
"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"
Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."
You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"
"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."
You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."
"Thanks."
"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.
"Uh-- and you are?"
"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.
Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.
"It's ... it's a beautiful name."
You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."
His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."
Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.
"Good job, Stevie."
-
Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.
Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”
His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”
-
In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.
Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.
Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”
But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.
Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.
He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.
Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.
“What’s up, Stevie?”
The nickname made him shiver every time.
“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.
When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.
“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.
You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”
It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.
Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.
“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”
Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.
He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.
“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.
Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.
Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”
It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.
He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.
The day passed like most of them do.
The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.
Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.
Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.
He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.
A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--
"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."
The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.
Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."
Your eyes found him, waving a hand.
Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.
"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"
"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."
He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”
Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.
“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”
Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.
“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”
“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.
The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.
“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”
With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."
"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"
"Of course."
Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.
When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.
"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.
The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.
Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.
With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.
"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"
The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.
Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.
Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.
“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”
He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.
The silence was beginning to turn stale.
“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.
“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My bus will be leaving soon.”
Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”
“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”
“And you’re very beautiful.”
The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”
Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”
An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.
“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”
“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“
A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.
The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.
Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.
He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.
“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.
He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.
In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.
Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.
“Steven?”
The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.
He didn’t.
Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.
Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”
If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.
“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“
He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.
“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You blinked up at him. Once, twice.
The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.
“When?”
Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?
“Now. Right now, tonight.”
The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.
“Don’t you have work?”
“You haven’t answered my question yet.”
“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”
Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“
He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.
“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.
He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.
They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.
With his experience being limited to the pool of:
A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.
B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,
C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,
It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.
“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.
You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.
“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”
content warnings. sfw, sleeping/napping/cuddling with miguel, miguel purrs because he's literally half spider, not edited/proofread
word count. 0.6k
notes. so, i've read a spider-man fic some time ago, where it was mentioned that peter could purr. and then i googled and would you look at that, some spiders can actually purr. this is the end result of my research
[Male wolf spiders vibrate dead leaves to create purring noises and court females. The right kind of “purr” makes a female wolf spider go weak at the joints… Biologists have known for awhile that wolf spiders can make songs that humans can hear… However, wolf spiders don’t have ears themselves— at least in the traditional sense.] Helen Thompson, Smithsonian Magazine
The first time it happens, you’re half asleep. Snuggled close to Miguel, his arms wrapped around your body and completely engulfed by his calming presence, it doesn’t take long until your eyes slowly close. You don’t fight against it, sleeping with him, close and in your bed, helps you to calm your nerves and get a good night of sleep.
Miguel has long fallen silent, his grumbles about his work no longer heard, now he’s just watching how you slowly but surely fall asleep, hidden beneath your covers and curled up against him. All the tension falls off his shoulders, seeing you so calm and safe in his arms, his tight muscles loosening, until he’s completely relaxed. It’s then, in this moment of peace, where his chest starts to rumble, it’s then, minutes after your eyes have fallen shut, when he starts to purr. He doesn’t stop it, only presses you closer, fully knowing what it means.
And you? You must be dreaming, probably about a big, fluffy cat, why else would Miguel purr? It’s a really nice dream, you only press your face closer to the calming vibrations and let yourself drift off.
You don’t see Miguel’s soft smile, you don’t feel what he feels— the happiness spreading in his body, the amount of love he holds for you about to burst. He knows, oh he knows, you’re the one, his true love, never has he ever purred in another person’s presence. And so he cradles your body against his, promising himself that he will keep you safe and love until he dies.
The second time it happens, well, the first time you actually realize what’s happening, you’re cuddling with Miguel again. He runs warm, almost feverish, so in your eyes, Miguel is the perfect personal heater. You tease him about it, of course you do, and he flashes his fangs at you— and yet, when you finally lay your head on his chest, right above his heart, when your laughter smoothed over to giggles until you only smile, then… then Miguel cradles your head, murmurs how much he loves you and you melt against him.
It’s so rare, these gentle moments, both of you’re too busy with your lives, so when he holds you like this— gently, as if you would break any moment, and yet so close, almost bruising, as if you would slip from his arms the moment he lets go. And it’s then, when you listen to his calming heartbeat, it’s then, when you hear and feel it.
The rumbling chest, noise vibrating against your ear, the sound escaping his parted lips. Purrs. Your eyes widen, your heart skips a beat and you try to hide your giddiness. Anything to not make him stop, stop him from purring. It sends goosebumps down your arms, a slight shudder going through your body—
Of course he notices how you try to hide it, your new gained knowledge. He just grumbles, the purring coming to an uncomfortable stop and you hold your breath. But then it slowly picks up again, Miguel’s arms around you hugging you closer, while you listen to the soft noises he makes.
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can i plllllleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaase have a bubbly reader offering miguel a hug (as a joke bc hes grumpy) and he says no at first but later on when hes rlly upset abt whatever he puts his pride in his pocket and asks for one??? i know tht man is touchstarved a good hug might fix him
wait shut up. this is adorable :((
✫ ;: .. A HUG? / miguel o’hara
fluff; that’s literally it; maybe a bit of angst??
“And why are you so grumpy?” You slid across the bench, as Miguel sat, minding his own business and eating. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you just rested your hands on your elbows, tilting your head with a smile.
“What is she doing?” Gwen asks, from her farther seat, next to Hobie, Pavitr, Miles, and (occasionally) Peter. They are all staring at you and your bubbly nature.
“Ah, let her figure out how antisocial he is.” Peter shrugs, adjusting Mayday’s spider beanie.
“I think she already knows.” Miles says.
“That’s probably why she’s over there. To “cheer” him up.” Pav adds.
“Good luck with tha’” Hobie lightly chuckles, resting back against Pav as he swings his legs up, watching what he’d call a “show”.
“You look like you could use a friend.” You say, finally making Miguel look at you. His expression was the definition of ‘indifferent’. Your smile didn’t fall. “Or maybe an acquaintance you can talk to?”
Miguel’s expression doesn’t shift. You nod. “Imma have you figured out soon…I promise.” Your eyes slightly narrow in an inspection of him. Then he turns back to his food.
“It’s going well.” Pav sarcastically comments back at their table, making Hobie scoff.
“You know…” you say, fingers lightly tapping the table. “There’s things that can help with being moody.”
“I’m not moody.”
“Ah huh!” You softly cheer. “You spoke. Progress.”
Miguel looks exasperated as he shuts his eyes. He just wanted to enjoy his empanada.
“But you wanna know what will help?”
“I’m not…moody.” He repeats a little slower, to make sure you heard.
“Yeah you are. But it’s okay. Cause you wanna know what will help?”
“You clearly want to tell me.” Miguel breathes out.
“Mhm.” You smile. “A hug.”
Miguel shifts his gaze to you, blinking a few times.
From the farther table, the spider gang is still thoroughly invested. “Oh shit, he looks annoyed.” Miles comments.
“What do think she said?” Gwen asks, resting against the table.
“Tha’ he looks like a wannabe gangster.” Hobie says, now rocking his leg slightly back and forth as he watches.
“A hug would help. It helps me.” You are saying, still staring at Miguel, smiling.
Miguel clicks his jaw, before he’s standing, muttering to himself.
“Let me know!” You call to his leaving form with a chuckle.
;;
Later that night Miguel is pacing his office, just back from a mission that went terribly. The anomaly got away. And Miguel is beating himself up inside. How could he let that happen?
You’re walking down HQ’s hallway, looking for something you had dropped. As you scanned the floor, you hear muttering that reminded you of earlier today. Miguel.
You stopped by his slightly cracked open office door. You carefully knock. Miguel swings it open, sighing upon seeing you. “Now’s not a good time.”
You smile. “Don’t worry. I just want to ask if you’ve seen a pen.”
“A pen?” Miguel’s brows furrow.
“Mhm. I lost it.” You reply. “You look stressed.”
“I’m not—“ he takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. And no I haven’t seen your pen.”
“No worries.” You begin to back away. “Let me know if you see it though. It’s got a weird blue design on it.”
Miguel’s mind is whirring for some reason, as he finds himself calling for you to stop and turn back around. “Did you mean it?” He muttered it so quietly that you almost missed it.
You’re now walking back, eyeing him. “Mean what?”
Miguel’s tongue pokes out against his cheek, feeling his entire body drenched with exhaust and self pity. And putting his pride away he says “A hug.”
“A hug?” Your smile has widened. “I thought you weren’t moody?”
“I’m not. I just— you know what forget I asked.” Miguel goes to turn away feeling stupid, but then you’re reaching forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, with a smile.
At first Miguel doesn’t know where to place his hands, but you stay put, just resting your body against his, as your cheek slightly squishes up against his shoulder. Then Miguel slowly—very slowly—wraps his arms around your midriff, and hugs you back.
Miguel doesn’t what to admit that his body has instantly relaxed upon feeling yours against his. Your hand had begun to softly soothe the top of his back. Just drawing in slow circles, that makes his muscles stop their tensing.
And that hug wasn’t the last time it happened.
Now Miguel would secretly search for you. Big on the ‘secret’ part though, because he can’t have anyone else knowing he likes to hug you. No that would cause too many implications and destroy his well thought out ‘in control’ demeanour.
So when he’d find you walking alone—something he noticed you did a lot. And after he’d make sure that you were both in a desolate enough place, he’d softly grab your arm, pulling you somewhere even more desolate before he’s wrapping his arms around you in a much needed hug.
You didn’t mind. Hugs had always been your love language with family and friends alike. Though you were surprised by how often Miguel would now seek you out, just so you could rest your head on his shoulder and draw patterns on his back.
He claimed it was just for relaxation and that you shouldn’t have offered him a hug if you would’ve asked so many questions. So you let him, his own hand having gradually drawn its own patterns on your waist.
He liked hearing and feeling your breathing. Your breath by his ear sent almost cleansing shivers through him. And the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his own made his usually racing heartbeat calm down to match with yours.
He liked the calmness your body gave him. And deep down he knew he now craved it.
;;
You were all in a different universe. Gwen, Miles, Pavitr, Hobie, Peter, Mayday, Miguel and you. Jess had to take care of another mission so Miguel very clearly claimed how he’s stuck with you all, his scowl very present.
It was midway through trying to catch this anomaly when Miguel’s gaze gets caught up in a man and his baby. And as you stopped, noticing his focused gaze first, you identified the man and baby as Miguel and his daughter.
You didn’t know much about Miguel’s daughter. Just that in his universe she had died. And now as Miguel watches a variant of himself with a variant of his daughter he can feel his body tensing.
He’s never had the misfortune of seeing variants of his family before. And now really wasn’t the time to dwell and sink deeper into his mind but he just can’t help it.
“Is he okay?” Whispered Miles to Peter.
Peter shakes his head. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. No one can take him out of episodes like this.”
Because everyone could see that inside Miguel was fuming, so close to exploding that everyone had almost taken a step back.
You stared at Miguel, watching as his chest heaved with a racing heart.
You remember one time he had muttered to you, head in your neck. You weren’t sure if you were actually meant to hear it or not. But he had said how your breathing slowed his breathing. Or something along those lines. Because after he had said that he had drawn you in tighter, keeping his large hands around your body.
So now you edge closer. And this could be a terrible idea, you realise that. Your friends seem to as well.
“Y/n!” Gwen hisses quietly, watching as you edged closer to the ‘beast’ or how everyone else was treating him like.
You all needed Miguel to focus to capture this especially dangerous anomaly. You couldn’t have him trapped in his mind teetering on the edge.
So you continued to walk forward, and as everyone stared in shock, you carefully wrapped your hands around his neck in a hug. You did so very lightly, to give him any room for rejection. You were actually waiting for the rejection.
But then, to everyone’s shock, Miguel wraps his arms around your waist, just like every other time. And he’s found you fit against him so nicely, it felt so comfortable. Your heartbeat was against his now, and the slower tempo made Miguel sink into your neck, his arms now engulfing you.
Shocked now isn’t a big enough word. Because you were hugging Miguel. And it wasn’t the ‘you’ part everyone was surprised by. It was the ‘Miguel’ part. He was clearly eager to hug you back, and they all watched as Miguel practically became putty in your hold.
Yes. Miguel craved your hugs now. And there was nothing you could do to stop him from bringing you in and keeping you close. You were now his comfort and he a wasn’t going to let that go so easily.
Genre - Angst, Hurt/No comfort, Exes, No-Curses AU
Masterlist
The relationship was hurting you more than you could bear. It reached one too many dead ends and faced with your final straw, you decided to let go of their hands and leave them watching your back.
At first, Geto & Gojo didn’t and couldn’t accept it & were trying to reason with you at every chance they could get. No matter the time or place or event, if you were there, you would spot them and their mile long reasons why. Over time though, Gojo was the first to accept the reality of your relationship whereas Geto was a bit more stubborn in believing that this was just a very rough patch the three of you were going through.
However, after awhile, Gojo and Geto seemed fine. Outwardly, that is. To the rest of the world, it’s as if they’ve moved on relatively easy (for such a sweet looking and long standing relationship) and it was like you never really made that much of an impact on them. But to the keen eyed, it was terribly obvious how in love they still are and how they can’t seem to let go no matter how much time passes.
Note - I personally think in a world without curses and it’s looming threats, Geto & Gojo would be more open (in many senses/aspects). I’d also like to think that you complete them. IMO they’re both individuals with a strong sense of independence and freedom, but their communication could be better and sometimes they need to be grounded. I think you bring that to the table and it makes everything work so smoothly that the three of you can’t be anything but soulmates. At least, that’s what STSG believed. It’s what they still believe, even after you left them.
Gojo, who can’t let go because he associates much too many things with you and the memories of you.
Every little thing, whether useless or useful or in passing or significant or eye catching, it doesn’t matter — every single thing reminds him of you. A little trinket he spots during his travels, a cute dessert spot he could’ve dragged you to, places you would’ve loved to visit, Megumi’s pets you loved to pet and spoil, kikufuku, little doodles, coffee shops, certain accessories, anime shows and merchandises, & etc. etc. (Gojo still accidentally buys a number of things meant for you, and he doesn’t ever bother to return them)
It physically pains him to a stop the first few weeks because when he turns to his side, it’s not you and Geto anymore. It’s just Geto and the sorrows you left behind. (He accidentally texts you the first few weeks because he was still in a little bit of denial. He blamed it on habits, but even that he knew was blatant denial)
It didn’t help either that during the first month, he wouldn’t stop talking about you. Nearly every conversation, nearly every passing comment, Gojo would not miss the opportunity to relate it to you somehow. Nanami tapped out at day 6, Shoko tapped out at week 2.5 (surprisingly long, he thinks), and Haibara, sweet Haibara, still listens to him to this day. It’s not very often anymore. He’s learned some semblance of self-control (he thinks you’d be proud and also because his pride wouldn’t let him do it much anymore), but on days where he can’t seem to shake your hold on his heart, he goes to Haibara. (He can’t go to Geto because the first and last time it happened, they got into a fight and then tried to call you after. He couldn’t tell if the constant ringing haunts him or elates him, since that means you didn’t block him)
Note - I would like to think that Gojo in a No-Curses AU would be more open to talking about his feelings/being vulnerable/being open to his close confidants to some degree because well, the weight of the literal world doesn’t rest on his shoulders. He doesn’t exactly cry to them, he more so just… talks about you. Nanami could be drinking an Americano and Gojo would tell him that you liked yours in a certain way, as if he was telling him about the weather outside. As time passes, he talks less about you, but on days he can’t seem to shake off the heavy feelings, he’d talk about his memories of you & what he knew about you.
Geto, who can’t let go because he’s still in the belief that you’d turn around and come back to them, to him.
Geto can’t fully accept the reality of you leaving them, so his fractured heart feeds him with grand ideas of you knocking on their door, with tears in your eyes and flowers in your hand, begging for them to take you back. That you had a lapse in judgement and went through a period of craziness that convinced you that you didn’t need them. You’d apologise, sincerely and earnestly, and with open arms he would snark at you, but kiss you almost urgently in the same desperate breath.
He longs for such, more than he would ever be willing to admit. So he puts on a brave, nonchalant face. Smiling and chuckling, touched with a twinge of tension, and goes about his days being branded as someone you left.
An ex who still yearns for you deep down, and it manifests terribly in his dreams. (Sometimes, Suguru would wake up with tears staining his cheeks, but he’d refuse to acknowledge it)
An ex who used to tease you about the silly Sanrio plasters you used to buy for yourself, but now has a drawer full of them. One by one, he’d pay for them whenever it catches his eyes. One by one, stored in a space you used to occupy. Untouched and waiting to be used.
An ex who still keeps the knickknacks you gifted him. Handmade and one of kind, “Like you.”, you used to tell him. His heart still flutters. He keeps them packed and hidden in a compact box, sealed with memories tainted in quiet regrets and dried out anguish. His favourite will always be the two little clay dolls you made. One’s a snow white dragon with ugly bulging blue eyes in the shade of Gojo’s and the other’s a black matching pair with tiny purple irises in the shade of his. You promised him you’d make a version of yourself so the three of you could match like those lovesick couples you always made fun of, but you never got around to it. 3 weeks later you were gone, and a year later he’s still waiting.
Note - I think Geto would take it really hard in the lonesome comfort of his own presence. Keeping every single thought, tear, and hopes locked in his big, brittle heart.
It doesn’t do well on them that you share mutual friends either. It makes them want to be petty and hurtful, make you see what else you could lose, but when they catch your smiles and laughter in their peripherals, it simmers their bastard urges and quiets them down into pitiful longing.
It’s even worse when the kids ask about you because they didn’t know how to tell them that it was a lot of their fault why you left them.
Megumi, who loved you most out of all of the children, took it the hardest and it made Gojo & Geto hurt in different ways. But surprisingly, Megumi was also the fastest to bounce back once he realised that you breaking up with them doesn’t mean you’ll stop interacting with him too. “Don’t be silly, Megumi. You have my number and new address, just call or text or visit whenever. Nothing much is changing between us, y’know? Unless you wanna get rid of me?”, you can’t help but tease him when he pouts at you. Gojo & Geto couldn’t have been more jealous (and maybe even a little resentful) of Megumi.
Mimiko & Nanako had a mix of emotions. They were anxious, thinking maybe it was their fault somehow. They were young, they were angry, and they were hurting on behalf of their beloved dad(s). They were in denial, you had made so many promises with each other already. They were tearful. They miss seeing you everyday. They miss your head pats. They miss your praises. They miss your comfort. They miss you. (They tag along with Megumi when he goes to visit you. The ache in Geto’s heart twofolds each time.)
Tsumiki was the oldest one out of the 4 and has divorced parents and separated co-parents. She knew the protocols and how to still maintain your relationship with each other, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t felt sadden by your departure and change in relationship dynamics.
(STSG tried using the kids as a reason to make you stay too. Nanami gave them the good ol’stink eye for this)
Gojo & Geto are still together, but they don’t entertain the idea of a third anymore. (They won’t admit it, but no one could ever take your place. And truth be told, they’re still holding out hopes for you to come back to them)
tags: established relationship, fluff, gojo being annoying but the ultimate pooks, got a bit suggestive at the end lol sawry..
had to repost because i needed to re-edit it; n e way enjoy( ˘ ɜ˘) ♬♪♫
Gojo leans to take a bite of your food after you offer him some and he just winds up taking the biggest, most disrespectful bite known to man.
So much so that his lips brush up against the tips of your fingers, which hold the crêpe you originally bore out for him— with the intention that he'd take a normal bite. You're left there to watch him chew in silence, his cheeks puffed out as he swallows your meal with a satisfied hum.
It's comical, really. You've only had about 3, maybe 4, bites of food before the pressure of your boyfriend's heated glare stare on your plate willed you into sharing a taste with him.
A. Taste.
Now all you have is a few crumbs and a streak of vanilla ice cream dripping down your fingers left to your name.
"Man, I should've gone with what you've got," Gojo says, smoothing the creases on his white button-up shirt. "Next time, though."
There's a heavy silence that hangs between the two of you. Either A) it's one that he blatantly chooses to ignore, or B) he's oblivious to the turmoil you seem to be experiencing in that pretty little head of yours.
Gojo's arm rests along your neck, warm and affectionate, as he sinks into the seat of your booth's table. With his free hand, from your perspective, you can see that he's playing with his food and making an absolute mess of the once neatly plated dish into a pile of God-knows-what.
"Satoru."
"Hm?"
Warm pools of blue peeked right back at you from beneath his shades. And if you didn't know any better, you'd assume that a playful glint lingered in his eyes as he gave you his wholehearted attention, as if he was toying with you on purpose.
But you know Gojo Satoru, and well at that.
"Go and order another crêpe, please."
"Wha—" His brows furrow and his lips twist into a tight pout as if you had spoonfed him something sour. "Is it because of the bite I took?" Gojo brushes aside your squawk of that wasn't a bite and you know it to focus his sights on you and how you’re frowning at the feigned expression of innocence on his face.
Cute, you thought, but you immediately shake this revelation up and out of your head. You wouldn’t even be in this current predicament if it not been for his insatiable nature!
Gojo digs his fork into his bowl and shovels some of his fries to prod them at your mouth. “It’s fine, it’s fine!” You keep your lips tightly sealed and try to ignore the many intrigued gazes from onlookers tables away from you two. “Here, have some of mine. You won’t even notice the difference.”
Between his incessant whines for you to open your mouth and his hand squishing your cheeks so that he could slip some more food into your mouth, you eventually relent to his antics and try out one of the fries.
You can now understand why he barely made a dent in his plate since you arrived.
“Yummy, right?” Gojo inquires, an easy smile resting on his lips. His nimble fingers graze your lips, brushing off imaginary crumbs from your mouth for extra effect.
You push his hand away from you, shrinking away in disgust from his fork and drag your eyes away from it toward his eyes. You can only roll your eyes in response to the cheeky expression he wears on his face. “These are stale, Satoru…”
“Right?”
You shake your head in disbelief and shrug his arm off of you, “Let’s go,” you push your plate away from you, making a big show of how you were ready to leave, “I’m sure there’s food at home for me in the fridge, anyway.”
You manage to sway him easily, hook, line, and sinker, because Gojo tugs at your hand to pull you closer to him and deter you from leaving. “Fine, fine! I’ll buy you another, okay?”
Sticking to his word, Gojo does exactly that, even going out of his way to buy two so that you could enjoy your own. But, of course, not all good things can last forever. His trait of having a knack for sweet things rears its head, and he wolfs down his serving within minutes.
How wonderful.
With nothing else left to do, Gojo watches you eat silently. Happy that you’re happy with how things turned out. But his shades do nothing to mask the almost carnal want that swam in his eyes every time his head would not-so-conspicuously tilt down to look at how much there was left of your crêpe.
From the corner of your perspective, you spot Gojo’s hand sneaking its way off from your knee, up toward the table and slowly inching closer and closer to your plate.
That’s it.
You inhale a sharp breath, picking up the last remnants of your desert, and shove it all into your mouth in one go, leaving him none whatsoever.
When you turn your head to throw Gojo a triumphant glare, one that screams I win, you’re met with an expression that stops you dead in your tracks.
Gojo’s face is unreadable as he stares at you behind his sunglasses. Even though you can’t directly see into his eyes, you can still feel the intense weight of his gaze on you, his eyes slowly trail along your face. Suddenly you feel very conscious of the ice cream that clung to your bottom lip.
You run your tongue against your bottom lip, bringing your wrist up to your face to dab away any sticky residue it may leave behind.
He stays silent for a beat before he puffs out a breath of laughter. A sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth once he tips his head back against the padded header of his seat.
ѕυммary ➞︎ yoυ вrιng мιgυel coғғee тo нelp нιм тнroυgн a long worĸ nιgнт
warnιngѕ ➞︎ none
noтeѕ ➞︎ ιll wrιтe a parт тwo ιғ ιт geтѕ popυlar ❤︎ ιғ ι do and yoυ wιѕн тo вe тagged, coммenт :)
▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎
The evening air was so dry in the summer, and the silence that invited itself into the coffee room buried deep in your skin. The tiles felt cold under your slippers, the setting sun stealing the heat and light from every inch of the room.
You let out a harsh breath, pouring the deep brown liquid into the two cups, staining the white glass with caffeine and steam.
You, Jess, and Peter B had made an agreement since your involvement in the Spider Society had started.
Miguel’s workaholism caused long periods of time, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t even leave his lair, chest deep in his own mind and perfectionism. You all initially believed that his inhumane attributes gave him the stamina to last weeks without rest, but after catching him in deep sleep on his own computer, you realized the goliath wasn’t, in fact, invincible.
So, like any good friends (although Miguel never really used those terms), you took shifts bringing him coffee. With the mugs, Peter and Mayday brought him laughter (all of which was their own, but there wasn’t an indication he didn’t appreciate it), Jess brought him a tough love and a listening ear that fueled his work and you…
Well you weren’t sure what you offered.
You never left without a conversation- and maybe a little coffee yourself. Sometimes he would explain whatever anomaly had taken his attention for the hour, or he would stay silent, listening to you talk about your own day, slightly less exhausting but much more exciting.
Most times, however, you’d give him his coffee, and without saying much, he would look at you.
You are convinced more and more each time that, years ago, his eyes were more brown than they were red. Deep bronze like the color of the coffee in his cup. Younger than they are now. Maybe it was his exhaustion seeping through his irises, but something in the way he looked at you…it felt softer.
Kinder.
You shook off the image as your slippers padded against the hallway marble, the once lively hub now hushed to an empty whisper.
Jess had gone to her universe, undoubtedly resting her weary body, and Peter B eagerly ran home to his beloved red-heads. Homes filled, endlessly, with reunions, warm meals and kisses doused in exhaustion and a love unique to them.
You were happy for them, but you would be lying if you told yourself that you weren’t envious.
Quietly, secretly, you much preferred the hub over your own home, it’s thrum of life filling the emptiness of your crammed apartment. It was depressing to go home to silence after a day of action, which meant many nights you slept in your office, feigning the stress of work and battles to avoid questions from your peers.
You stepped over stray wires and scraps of metal, amongst other abandoned equipment you were sure meant something, once. The dark room was illuminated in neon, flashing lights pulsing across the floor and ceiling.
His gigantic platform came into view, hovering over the pitch floor. The familiar sight of him, surrounded by yellow holograms, greeted your eyes with a brightness that made you squint, vision adjusting to the light.
You caught the butt-end of a conversation, Lyla glitching around his head with attitude. You kept your mouth shut, a little curious to hear their idle chat.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Miguel said, flatly.
“Don’t play stupid, I’m an incredibly intelligent A.I. I know fondness when I see it.”
“She brings me coffee- that’s all.”
You paused, muscles tense and the suggestion that they were talking about you.
“I don’t know Miguel~. Peter B and Jess do the same and you aren’t as soft with them.”
“I am not soft!”
“Sure, sure.”
Lyla’s hologram stuttered, and she suddenly focused you. Even from far below, you recognized her mischievous grin.
“Well, I’m feeling awfully tiered. It’s very late y’know! I’ll just let you do your thing!”
“But you don’t-“ Miguel followed her line of sight. He looked down at you with surprise, and you sent him an awkward wave through the cup handle.
“Bye!” Lyla’s drawn out y’s echoed even as she disappeared, Miguel’s hand swiping at the air before she vanished.
He let out a harsh sigh, and you slung up to his platform, handing him a cup. He looked at you again, that faint brown sparkling clearer tonight.
Strange.
“Thank you.”
You nodded, leaning against his table.
“Long night again?” You asked, thumb tracing the smooth glass of the handle.
Miguel nodded, letting another exhausted sigh escape his chest. “Yes.”
You waited for more, but it never came, Miguel shifting near awkwardly as he clicked on the screens with his free hand.
You nodded slowly, taking a sip of your cup. You shuddered, unfamiliar with the pure caffeine. You looked down at your cup, dark brown looking back.
Oh shit.
You watched in short-lived anticipation as he took a sip of your cup. He’s face scrunched in surprise, as if the sweetness of sugar and cream was completely foreign to him.
He looked at you, the red in his eyes more prominent now. Your cheeks strained, but soon the ballon of laughter burst from your chest.
It bounced off the dark walls, echoing around the both of you. You closed your eyes, squeezing out tears as you gripped his desk, laughter shaking your core.
When you regained yourself, you slowly sat up, wiping your wet cheeks and grinning ear to ear. You sighed, small laughs residing with your quickened breath.
“Oh, Miguel you should’ve see your-“
You stopped.
Miguel was smiling.
Well, in the generous sense of the word. Although it wasn’t bright like Peter B’s or gentle like Jess, it was genuine. His eyes crinkled, his lips drawn into a gentle upturn, highlighting his dimples.
Your shocked face must have startled it, because it quickly disappeared, now taught in a hardened, neutral line.
You smiled at him empathetically, slightly guilty you had embarrassed him. You reached out your hand, beckoning your drink.
“Here…let’s switch.”
You fingers brushed at the exchange, and you blushed, the warmth of his skin penetrating your own. If he noticed, he didn’t let it show, taking a quiet sip of his flavorless, bitter coffee.
An awkward silence fell over the two of you, agonizingly different from the laughter just seconds before.
You were beginning to think that he really only was fond of you because you brought him coffee. Sure, you had polite conversation but it never really passed surface level. Not to mention you always initiated it. Maybe Miguel was just playing along, desperately waiting for you to leave him to his work and study.
You sighed, your tone possibly letting on to more than you would’ve liked. You stood, flexing your legs and taking a sip from your cooling coffee, ready to breathe air that wasn’t so endlessly stiff.
“Why- why do you drink coffee with so much sweetness in it?”
You paused, looking at Miguel with surprise. He’d never asked you a question like that. A question about you.
“I uh- well,” you laughed a little bit, still a little startled at the sudden interjection, “black coffee is too bitter for me. The sugar and cream lets me enjoy it.”
“But coffee is meant to energize you, you aren’t supposed to enjoy it.”
You lifted a skeptical brow. “That’s a pretty serious take, don’t you think?”
Miguel paused, lips pressed together in thought before he replied, “I’m a serious guy.”
You laughed, a little quieter now, leaning back onto the table. But this time, closer to him. If you were paying attention, the way his eyes looked at your new position might of told you he noticed.
“I gathered.”
Silence fell over the two of you like a weighted blanket. But now, you had hope that he might want this conversation to continue. That he liked it- you.
“How about this Mr. Serious,” you leaned in, “I’ll give your black coffee another shot if you do the same for my sugar and cream.”
He scoffed, but when the corners of his mouth quirked up you knew the proposition interested him- if only a little bit.
“Absolutely not. I already did try it.”
“First impressions aren’t always accurate, y’know.” You shook your mug, the light brown liquid creating a small whirlpool.
“Try it? For me?”
He glanced at you, and although you thought yourself educated on his eyes and their looks, you were stumped by this one. It was entirely alien to you- there was something in it that you couldn’t place.
You liked it.
He let out a sigh, and held his hand out. You grinned, taking his mug and swapping it for your own.
You both took a sip, and you forced yourself not to wrinkle your nose.
His coffee was extremely bitter- as close as coffee could get to the bean. If his scowl and general demeanor was grown and grind into a beverage, his drink of choice is what it would taste like.
However, it was extremely warm. Somehow it hadn’t cooled off in the fifteen minutes since you had poured it. It’s bitter bliss seeped down your throat and made home in your chest. It was almost calming.
You opened your eyes, surprised to be as content as you were with the drink.
You glanced at Miguel, whose lips were pulled into a tight line. His brows were drawn in thought, eyes glimmering in the hologram light.
“Well?” You asked, rocking on your heels.
“You first.”
You paused, running your tongue over you teeth to remember. “It was a bit gross. But honestly? No bad.”
He nodded, and sighed. “Yours wasn’t….bad either.”
You gasped, a wide smile spreading across your face in stunned victory. “So you liked it.”
“I never said that.” He said, narrowing his brows.
You raised yours. “Didn’t have too.”
He shook his head, handing you the coffee mug. You looked at him as if to ask are you sure? To which he rolled his eyes and pushed it closer to your chest.
You sighed, taking his cup and swapping mugs for the last time. When you looked up at him, sending him a gentle smile, you noticed a thin line of cream that lined his dark lips. You stifled your laughter, stepping forward to a clueless and confused Miguel.
“What are you-“
“Stay put, you have a little-“
You brought your hand up to his face, cradling is course skin under your palm. Your movement stuttered, just for a moment, savoring the feeling of his rough jaw.
You lifted a gentle thumb, your touch but a whisper on his skin as wiped the sweetness from his upper lip. Contrary to his jaw, his lips were soft under your print, molding to your movement with ease.
You imagine they’d taste like coffee.
You paused, your eyes drifting from his lips to his eyes. When they met yours, they were the softest brown you’d ever remember seeing them. It could be how close you were, feeling his slow breath on your nose. It could be how small, short the moment was, catching his facade in a moment of weakness.
But you think, hopefully, foolishly, that it might be how good it felt- to be this close.
You drew your hand away, still staring at the warmth. You settled yourself on the floor, holding your cup with both hands, the once steaming glass now a cold comparison to his face.
“You…you had some cream left on your face.” You laughed weakly, your gaze looking to the side. “I didn’t want Lyla to make fun of you.”
You paused, uncomfortable with the silence your created.
“Sorry.”
Miguel stared at you for a moment, with that same glimmer you couldn’t quite place. He cleared is throat, eyes flitting between your eyes and your lips.
“It’s- okay…I-“ He paused, eyes finding your again, “thank you.”
He had whispered, speaking as though if he has said it any louder he would’ve scared you away. It was so- gentle compared to the gruffness of his voice. Warm.
The silence that followed was completely novel from the past dips in conversation. It was full of tension, thick and suffocating. It felt as if you had swallowed cement, every breath trapped in your collarbone and buried in your throat.
You stepped back, your vision so deep in his own- their intensity making it feel as though there wasn’t anything else to look at. Even in their softer colors, they were so deeply overwhelming it felt like they had woken something visceral in you. It wasn’t fear, or terror-
It was fondness.
“Well- I think I need to get my own rest,” you tore your gaze from his, setting your coffee down on the table next to him, “I won’t be needing this- I don’t want caffeine dreams. You’re welcome to finish it- now that you like it. A little.”
You smiled up at him, the thrum of your heart and the heat of your breath tickling your skin.
“Goodnight, Miguel.”
His chest rumbled, preparing to speak, before he sighed quietly and quickly, another genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Goodnight.”
You took one last look at the brown- intimate and tailored to yours. One look at the coffee cups, different in every sense but comforting none the less.
One look at the man who may have just given you the home you’d been envious of.
As you slung off into the the void, you smiled at it all, welcoming the shudders of warmth that pooled in your stomach at the revelation.
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The next morning, you woke up in your office yet again, the early morning chill crawling up your spine and beckoning you to wake.
The first thing your eyes were met with was your mug, matte in the morning light.
Summary: The dangers of dating a man with superhuman stamina is that it's going to leave you sore.
Content: Miguel is a demanding menace. Overstimulation. Multiple orgasm. Squirting.
Word Count: 1.4k
Astroboot’s Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist
The thing about dating a man that has been genetically imprinted with the DNA of a spider is that one of the side-effects of such an occurrence means he has superhuman stamina.
It's something Miguel had told you in the early days of your relationship, listing out this characteristic as just another facet of his personality, much in the way someone would say that they're a Virgo on their Tinder profile.
You hadn't thought much of it at the time, too distracted by the list of characteristics that preceded it: retractable talons? telescopic night vision? ORGANIC WEBBING?!
In retrospect, that was naïve. The talons don't really affect your day to day. They do come out when Miguel's emotional state is particularly elevated, which has lead to incidents. Like that time you had to replace your new purchased armchair, when you were on top and post-sex your new armchair looked like it had been mauled by an escaped zoo lion.
The telescopic night vision? Incredibly convenient at night when there's a blackout and you need to find your cell phone.
And the webbing... the less said about that the better, really.
But now that you've dated as long as you have, the superhuman stamina, you realize is by far the one that has the most profound consequences on your life.
At the time you hadn't realized that those enhanced attributes weren't limited to aerial battles against the latest villain of the week when he was fighting mutant lizards, or rhino men. It also haunts you in the privacy of your bedroom.
Because this is what happens when you date a man with superhuman stamina: You'll often oversleep and barely make it on time to work. On most days you've lost your voice. You'll be sore a lot.
And the thing about dating Miguel specifically is that the man is stubborn, relentless, demanding and that too extends into your bedroom.
"Fuck, Miguel, I can't."
"'Course you can, nena, look at how well you're taking me," he says as he stares down at the space between your legs where you and him join. Where you're spread snugly around him. Where his thick cock, slick with you both, disappears into your cunt then re-emerges.
It's wet. It's messy, the sheets beneath you soaked and sticky, from the last three (four?) rounds. As snug of a fit his thick cock is inside you, he's filled you so full there's no space left for you to fit what he's spilled inside you, over and over again. It keep leaking out with each press and demanding thrust as he buries his cock inside you as deep as he goes.
You shake your head even though you know it's useless. Pleading with him has never gotten you anywhere before. You don't know why you think it's going to make a difference now.
"Please, I-I can't-- nngh, too much," you plead. You whine. You sob.
"Shh, nena, it's okay," he hushes. Again with the cooing. Again with the sweet little nicknames, but he's not showing mercy, his hand moving down from your hip, down between your legs, until his thumb presses down on your clit.
Electricity crackles through the length of your spine. Your back arches, lifting off the bed, you don't know if you are chasing into his touch or running away from it: the first? latter? both? neither.
You can't form a coherent thought anymore. It's good and too much, and your brain is short-circuiting from it all.
"There you go, see? Doing so good. Look how pretty you are taking me."
Even in the dim light of your bedroom, you can see his expression clearly. Eyes a piercing crimson red, the corners of his canine teeth peeking out from his self-satisfied smile.
He bends down, nearly folding you in half as he presses his cock as deep as it goes, until he's nudging at that sweet and perfect spot that has your vision go white and blinding behind your eyes.
Sweet, sharp ache scrapes close to your bones at the sensation of him filling you again. The way he stretches you to your limits, until you've forgotten how to breathe, and may very well be the death of you.
It's there again. The oppressive warmth that swirls sweetly in your stomach as a warning. Tears prickle your eyes as everything in you squeezes tight at the sensation.
Oh shit, it's--
"Fuck that's it nena. That's it. Come on my cock again. Come on it and I'll fill you up."
It rises in you. A pressure that builds and builds and builds, and robs you of your breath until you have nothing left to give. It's overwhelming, the way the pleasure burns at every one of your nerve endings, until your face tingles with a numbness and you can no longer feel your legs.
"Mi-Miguel," you stutter, "I can't--"
"Yes you can."
The pressure is still there, expanding with an ominous volume, and no, he's wrong. You can't. Something is different. This isn't like before. You squirm underneath him, feet planted against the mattress for leverage.
"Settle down," he says, but you don't know how you're supposed to do that when your entire body has been wounded so tight you think the whole of you are going to snap.
You shake your head frantically, sobbing with a raw burn in your throat as you thrash underneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation. Oh fuck-- it's too much.
Oh god, you can't-you can't-you can't--
You raise your palms against his firm chest, pressing back, in a half-formed attempt to make him ease up, but it only spurs him on. One arm loops behind your back, lifting you from the mattress to meet his hips as he snaps them into you. And oh fuck!
It hits something devastating inside. A pin prick of pleasure that strikes every nerve in your body. It hits a frequency that makes your teeth shatter, every cell in your skull vibrate. Your leg kicks out, body twisting and turning to get away from the overwhelming sensation.
"Callate," you hear his warm strained breath in your ear.
His free hand locks around your wrists, pinning them to the side, then he's lunging forward, his mouth pressed to your shoulders and you can feel the sharp warning of his fangs resting on your skin. "Calm down, or I'm gonna bite you."
You still, shivering as his hips pulls back, then he hits that devastating spot again and again.
Every muscle in you locks up tight until you can't move and for a moment you wonder if he really did bite down. But you can still feel his mouth on your throat, his tongue lapping gently at your sweat-soaked skin until the whole of your neck tingles.
He doesn't go easy on you, thrusting into you with the same demanding pace as before, and God. The sensation is heavy and ominous like nothing else you've felt before. Large and looming with nowhere else to go, and there's nothing you can do to prevent it, and you know that if this doesn't stop, if Miguel doesn't stop, then all of you are going to burst.
You open your mouth, trying to warn him, but all that comes out is the first syllable.
"Miii--" The rest dies in a wail, and you realize it's already too late. The pressure shatters and breaks.
You come with a rush of wetness that spills out of you. It soaks everything, your thighs and his, drenching his stomach and drips down against the sheets to join the mess that's already there.
Everything sounds distant like you're pulled under water. You can barely even register Miguel's voice in your ear. "Oh shit, are you-- fuck, that's --"
He sounds surprised. But he doesn't stop. Miguel fucks you through it. Your climax and his, with frantic thrusts, until finally he settles into a slow and gentler pace.
When you come back to yourself, he's kneeling above you, his large bodyframe looming over yours.
"Fuck, babe..."
He palms at his softening cock, glistening wet with your mess as he stares down at you with darkened eyes. Slowly jerking the length of it with a lazy pace that has you mesmerized. It twitches in his grip with interest, and you know it's not going to take long before he's ready to go again.
"One more time," Miguel says. "Let's see if we can make you do it again."
Jesus fucking Christ
Your head drops down to your pillow with exhaustion.
The thing about dating a man with superhuman stamina is that it may very well kill you.
Dedication & Credits: To my beloved @thirstworldproblemss who I hope is driving safely across the country through the mountains I love youuuuuuuuuuuuuu.
And to poor @guruan who I woke up with my other fic and robbed her of her beauty sleep.
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
Summary: You find yourself in a compromising position on your knees when you help stitch up Miguel's wounds.
Content: Blowjob, riding cock, overstimulation, fangs and claws. Miguel kind of likes his horniness with a little bit of pain? Just a smidge.
Word Count: 3.3k
Astroboot’s Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
"Miguel, can you please just relax?"
"I am relaxed," comes the sharp reply, as he glares down at you. Jaw so tense, you're surprised his molar teeth hasn't cracked under the pressure.
Your hand comes to his knee, as you spread them wider, and you can feel the plane of his thighs tense underneath your palm.
Yeah, the man is anything but relaxed.
Miguel is still in his suit. Skin covered in dark blue and red. The only part of him not covered in the fancy spandex (and if he heard you call it that he'd be livid, cause it's Unstable Molecule fabric, not spandex) is that scowling face of his and a small patch on the inside of his left thigh. An area the size of your hand that's bare, revealing his tanned skin underneath and a nasty looking injury.
You poise the needle in your hand against the gaping wound. You don't even get the chance to make skin contact with the tip before he's hissing at you like some damned feral cat.
"I haven't even touched you yet. This is going to hurt a hell of a lot more if you keep fighting me."
You probably sound more than a little bit irritated, because this position isn't exactly comfortable. The hardwood floor is digging into your knees, and with hindsight you should've taken the cushion he'd offered you before.
God, up close, that wound look really bad. Four inches in length, red and angry. You're not a doctor. You don't know why the hell you agreed to do this. For all you know you're going to get the wound infected or worse.
"Miggy, I don't know about this, don't you think it's better go to a hospital. What if it gets infected? You'll end up with gangrene and then we'll have to amputate it and then what?"
"That's not going to happen. It's a tiny cut."
"Fine, but I'm not a medical professional and I'm probably gonna make it scar to shit."
"So it'll scar. It'll be your permanent mark on me."
"I'm worried I'm going to mess this up".
"No", he says, shaking his head. "I trust you."
Your cheeks warm at the words, barely able to look him in the eyes after he's said it.
Fuck, he'd have to go and pull that card didn't he?
With a big sigh and bigger reluctance, you dip your head down as you pierce the needle through the skin, threading it across. There's a muffled pained noise from above. The leather of your armchair squeaks as he grips it tight.
A sympathetic ache tugs in your chest at his pain and your hand still against his thigh. "Do I need to stop?"
"No, keep going," he bites out through gritted teeth.
From the corner of your eyes, you catch a glimpse of the pointed edges of his corner teeth protruding against his bottom lip. It's hard to keep your hands still when your fingertips tingle at the sight of them.
Jesus, you need to get your head out of the gutter. This is hardly the time. You persevere, dipping back down for a better view, so you can sew up the gaping wound as best as you can, ignoring the warmth of his firm thighs that are caging you in at your sides.
You try to pretend you don't hear the strained noises he's making. (Noises that are much too similar to the ones he makes when he's the one between your thighs). Practically bury your head into his thigh so you can no longer see the way his broad chest heaves or how he bites down hard on his lip when you make another stitch.
"Stop, stop!" he demands.
His hand grips down hard on your shoulder, pressing you backwards, but you ignore it, because the needle is already halfway through his skin, and for a man who is constantly battling supervillains on skyscrapers with jetpacks and regularly crashes into skyscrapers, he can be such a baby sometimes.
"Miguel, stop, I need to--"
"Enough!" He growls, his hand pushes more insistently, determined to pry you off him until your ass lands on the hardwood floor behind you.
"Let me do it myself."
Let him? Let him?! As if you had forced him to make you do this? This asshole. Swear to god! He's the one who came home in this state, plonked his dumptruck ass in your chair and asked you to help him. He's the one who sweet-talked you with his: "I trust you," when you had soundly suggested he go to the hospital.
He's always like this. Running hot then cold. Asking you to help, then pushing you away in the next second. It's a miracle you don't have permanent neck injuries with the metaphorical whiplashes he keeps giving you.
You drag your eyes upwards, the way he's hunched on himself in your chair, covering his thigh. His face is turned to the side away from you.
You don't know why he's being so unhelpful about this.
Stitching up your superhero boyfriend with a $10 Amazon sewing kit isn't your idea of a perfect Saturday night. But now that you've started you need to finish up with the stitches, you can't just leave it as it is.
"I'm sorry that I went too rough. If I hurt you, I can go slower, okay?"
He doesn't answer you, just drags one large hand over his face. It's only then that you notice that his ears and bits of his cheeks are flushed a darker shade of red than the tanned tone of his hand.
"That's not the problem I'm having," he mutters.
"Well then, can you tell me what the problem is?"
No answer.
Leaning forward, you place your hand back on his knee. That finally seems to get his attention and he removes his hand.
"You said you trusted me right? So let me know what's wrong so I can take care of you. Please?"
For all his obstinate stubbornness, Miguel is just as susceptible as you are to that card. He groans dramatically, collapsing back into the chair with a defeated expression on his face.
His legs shift in the chair, spreading outwards. The arm draped across his lap falls away, and the tight fit of his supersuit does absolutely nothing to disguise the shape of his cock, hard and heavy under the clinging fabric.
Oh. oh.
Clearly you’re not the only one being affected by the forced proximity of this situation.
"See the problem?" he says.
You look up and his eyes flicker away sheepishly. If you didn't know better, and if it wasn't for the scowl still plastered on his face, you might've mistaken him for being embarrassed. If you didn't know better, you might've made the mistake of calling him cute.
You ache between your thighs at the sight of him. But even though there's nothing more you'd like than leap into his lap and fill that ache with every inch of him, there's other priorities right now.
Crawling forward, you shoulder your way back between his thighs and settle there.
"Let me finish," you insist. "If you let me finish, then I'll help you with your problem."
It's an uneven bargain to say the last. Because the reward you're offering him, is something you want more than your next breath, and you have to bite back the 'ohthankyousweetjesus' on the tip of your tongue, when he gives you a small nod to seal the deal.
Maybe it's your newfound incentive, but this time as you pinch the needle between your fingers to stitch him up, it's a swift and efficient ordeal. You refuse to allow yourself to get distracted, eyes focused on your goal, even as you hear him groan above or shift underneath you. Not until the last stitch is done.
When you finally let yourself tilt your head back up. His eyes are pinned on your face, and you can see now that the familiar brown shade replaced by a red tinge.
Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and you try to keep your eyes fixed on his, holding the contact as you lean forward. Anticipation rides heavy on your spine, as your mouth inches forward, until your lip press against the thin fabric of his crotch, and you nuzzle against the rigid shape of him.
The leather of your chair creaks, and there's a rip. From this angle your view is a bit obscured, but you catch sight of his hands, the firm unforgiving grip he has on your poor armchair. The extended sharp talons piercing through the soft leather in his excitement.
All you hear from above, is a breathy, "Fuck", then the thin fabric separating him from your mouth disintegrates, the dark blue fabric making way for his tanned skin underneath.
Then he's right there. Bare and naked for you to touch. His cock jutting upright between his thighs. He's ruddy and flushed, the fat tip of him glistening with precome that wells from the slit that you can practically already taste on the tip of your tongue.
Your mouth salivates as you part your lips to take him.
To call Miguel thick is an understatement. It's a struggle to fit him in your mouth, your jaw strain with the effort as you slide him further down. As deep as you can, until the blunt tip nudges against the back of your throat and you have to swallow around him in a panicked fit to suppress the reflexive gag pushing back in you.
It's always the hardest the first time. Your mind and throat instinctively fighting you, as you try to swallow down the intimidating girth of him.
"Take it slow nena," Miguel rasps from somewhere above. His voice is a slow and melted hum that drips sweet and honeyed in your veins, and that helps.
You take a deep inhale from your nose, taking in the familiar musky scent of him, and feel your throat relax around him, accommodating to his thickness.
Your thighs ache with arousal. Panties wet and slick as you clench down around nothing. Everything is tightly wound inside you. Your stomach heavy with the dizzying heat as the weight of him rests so fucking perfectly on your tongue.
It's all you can take. You shove your fumbling fingers between your thighs, tugging at the edge of your panties until the obscene wetness greets you and drag it up against your clit.
Relief and pleasure surges through your head, filling your veins with the sensation and you rock into the palm of your hand seeking for more of your own touch.
"Are you touching yourself?"
Your fingers still at the question. You're not exactly embarrassed, it's not like you're doing anything wrong, but you feel sheepish all the same at being caught.
You pull off his cock, letting it slide between your lips and when you finally look back up, he's staring down at you with a dark hunger in those otherworldly crimson eyes like he wants to eat you whole.
"Fuck, come up here," he directs, but you ignore him. Tongue lapping at the tip, savouring the heady taste of him as you run the flatness of your tongue down the length of him.
"Nena," he bites off impatiently. "Up!"
He doesn't wait for your reply this time. So fucking impatient this man.
He's already lunging forward, arms circling your torso as he pulls you up and into his lap with an impressive ease. His arm comes to your thighs, rearranging you to his liking in his lap, one large hand gripping his cock as he positions you above.
"Sit on my cock, nena. Ride me."
Your eyes flit to the poorly stitched up wound on his thigh that looks flimsy to say the least.
"Won't that hurt you?"
His head tilts, brow arching with that sardonic expression of his as if he doesn't see what the problem is. "And?"
This is such a bad idea. But you'd be lying to yourself if you said you wanted to stop now. Instead you settle on a compromise to ensure that you can at least limit the potential damage on him.
"You have to stay still for me, or you'll tear the stitches," you warn.
He nods perfunctorily in agreement and you don't think he's even listening to you. No surprise there, Miguel has never been the best at listening to yours (or anyone's) instructions. He'll do what he wants as he sees fit.
But you can't find it in you to stop. Not when you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and the velvety smoothness of it twitch in your grip. Not when you notch the tip of his cock to your slick entrance and can feel yourself dripping down his length.
The only thing you care about is to have him inside you.
You lower yourself onto him, sliding down, inch by maddening inch, as that thickness stretches you to your limits and white hot pleasure invades every one of your cells until you feel drunk on the sensation.
"That's it," he encourages, with a sharp inhale, hand gripping to the sides of your hips. The honed edge of his talons gripping into your flesh, but never breaking the skin.
Your thighs are shaking as you inch down on him until they are pressed flush to his hips, and his cock is kissing that perfect spot deep inside you that has your vision whiten. Thick and sweet.
As promised, he doesn't move. Even though you can tell from the muscle twitching in his jaw, that there's nothing more he wants than to flip you over and thrust into you hard and deep until you're screaming his name with a force that makes your lungs burn out.
You lift your hips, savoring the sweet drag of his cock against your cunt, slow and unhurried until only the blunt tip of him rests inside you and stay there.
"Nena," Miguel says, and the nickname on his tongue sounds like a warning.
He's not a fan of the slow pace you're giving him apparently.
But you've never been one to heed his warnings. Instead you slide down on him, just as slowly, letting his cock fill you at a leisurely pace and it is fucking heaven.
You still as he bottoms up inside you, before you do it all over again. And again. Then again. To each grumpy groan of his that's mixed with pleasure and impatience. Then you do it again.
It's only a matter of time before his short-spanned patience snap. You can practically see it in the furrowed line of his thick brows, as you raise yourself up on his knees. His sharp canines bites down on his bottom lip, breaking the skin and that is all the warning you get before his arms wraps tight around your ribs, knocking the very breath out of your lungs.
Miguel's arms pushes you down flush on his cock, it's strong and demanding. A stubborn grip until he makes sure you've taken all of him to the root. It's blinding you with the force of it, and all you can do as he buries his face, sharp teeth poised at your shoulders, is whine.
Good, it feels so fucking good. The sweet ache of his cock filling every inch of you. You can't think anymore.
You try to raise yourself again on his cock but you wobble, the muscles in your thighs screaming in protest and gives under, unable to lift yourself back up again.
Fuck, you don't know if you can move anymore.
In a split of a second, Miguel straightens up and pulls you into his chest. "So pretty, nena," he groans into your skin, while he ruts up and into you, fucking his cock deeper.
You should probably scold him. Try to stop him somehow, so that he doesn't rip the tenuous stitches on his wound. But you can't bring yourself to open your mouth. Not when it feels this good. Not when aching pleasure is pulling you down under and robbing you of your breath and every word in your vocabulary.
"You feel so fucking good. Stretched so tight around me. Just so fucking pretty when you take my cock."
The sharp edge of his fangs skirts gently across the soft flesh of your throat, and sets every nerve in you alight. Every part of you tingles. From the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes. That telltale warmth and heat coiling in your stomach and spreads outwards ratcheting up to a fever pitch.
Your orgasm breaks. It rushes over you, hard and punishing. Your body shakes, thighs tensing and your heart is beating hard and fast into a gallop in your chest. You shake and tremble in his lap as it courses through your veins. Lungs squeezed painfully tight as the sweet bliss of it invades your ribs and you struggle to catch your breath.
You still feel it, rushing and pulsing from your stomach down your thighs, it doesn't even have a moment to properly subside.
Miguel doesn't stop. His hands are already on your waist, lifting you up and almost off his still hard cock and you gasp at the shift in pressure inside you. You're clenching down around the fat tip of him reflexively, and there's no time to adjust, no time to think, next thing you know, he lifts his hips while pushing you down on the length of his cock. All in one swift, and harsh, unforgiving motion.
It's so much, too much. You whimper at the next thrust, the whole of your body wracked in shivers as the sensation overfloods your brain. As good as if it feels, you don't know if you can't take much more.
"Keep going, don't stop. I know it's hard nena. I know you're sensitive." he coos, his hands are gentle on your hips, guiding your movements, but for all his sweet cajoling words, and for all that you're struggling he's not easing up.
"Keep going. Keep squeezing my cock like that and I'll fill you up. I'll fill you up with every drop of me."
He keeps encouraging you, as if you have any other choice but to take his demanding thrusts. As if there is anywhere for you to go with how firmly he's holding you to him.
Fuck you can't, you can't-- oh fuck, you're--
Your arms scramble to grab onto something, anything, fingers digging deep into the firm muscles underneath.
It's chaos.
He thrusts up again. Deep and demanding and your brain shortcircuits.
Sharp electricity surges through your spine and it is blinding. All you can do is hold on to him, to claw on and hold for dear life, or you're pretty sure you're gonna fall off the edge of the earth into oblivion if you lose your grip.
Distantly, you hear him hiss in your ear, feel his hips stutter up against yours, cock pulsing inside of you, but you're too far gone to piece it all together.
All you know is that you're coming again or maybe you never stopped and this is that first orgasm still wreaking havoc on your body. Maybe it'll never stop. The sensation feels like a punch to your gut, consuming and all at once. Your eyes must cross behind your head, because your vision goes dark and blank, wiped clean of thoughts. The room seems to tilt, and crash then disappear. There's no weight to your limbs, and your thighs are so numb, you're not even sure they are there anymore. Your body is not your own.
When you come to, you're still perched on his lap. You feel like wrung out and boneless, body spent and broken. His arms wrapped around your torso the only thing that's keeping you upright.
The arms of your leather chair have been scratched up to hell. Long claw marks brandishing each side.
He looks like an absolute mess. Brown curl a deranged mop on the top of his head, sheen of sweat over his tanned skin. But he looks good, messy. Looks fucking beautiful in a way that has your chest squeeze tight when you gaze at him.
Miraculously, the stitches on his thigh has held up somehow and you feel more than a little ounce of pride of your own sewing skills at the feat.
Your hands slide off of him from where they're still gripping on tight onto him and Miguel's eyes follow the motion to his biceps where your nails have broken through skin. The tiny crescent marks looks red and raw and painful.
"Shit, Miggy I'm sorry."
He blinks up at you, eyes a little bit dazed before he breaks out into a smile. He raises his arm and looks at the mark with a pleased and admiring expression one filled with pride.
"I hope it leaves a scar," he says.
Dedication & Credits:
For @thirstworldproblemss who had to listen to me figure this one out, I'm still trying to find my voice for Miguel so sorry if this is a bit clunky for you.
Also dedicated to @guruan whose artwork literally inspires me to write/think/breathe smut 24-7 like a 7-eleven store. It's always open for slut business here. This artpiece with the spread thighs definitely inspired this oneshot.
I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!
Description: After being snagged from your own universe and put to work in the med bay in the midst of spider society, you catch the notice of one Miguel O’Hara.
Warnings: blood, probably language, ignoring the ATSV worldbuilding for the sake of my silly little plot
A/N: Are there plot holes? Yes. Do I care? Yes, so please don’t bring them up, I might cry. There’s an occasional Spanish interjection from Miguel, but I am not at all a fluent Spanish speaker, so feel free to correct me on anything if so inclined! Translations are at the end. Also, it includes a roundabout ode to my dearest love, Oscar Isaac. If you know, you know.
🕷
Not every anomaly was kept in a cage. Some, like yourself, had made use of your idle hands, hands that for one reason or another, could never again touch your own universe. It had taken some convincing, but after Lyla had heard enough of your requests from the neon red confines of your prison and carried them to whatever faceless spider person led this operation, you’d been let out. Your cage hadn’t disappeared per se, but it had widened a little. If your return to your own reality would cause its inevitable collapse—as you had repeatedly assured it would—then this was more than you could ask.
heed the warnings; fem reader, consumption of blood, smut, unprotected sex, breeding, vaginal sex, fingering (fem!recieving), kinda dubcon bite, a hint of degradation
vampire!sukuna is not one to mix up hunger with lust, but when he feasts on your blood, the unthinkable happens, and he realises that there’s something new at play in his mind.
after a year of dating your vampire lover, you’re finally allowing him to have a taste of you. sukuna pins you to the bed gently, keeping your wrists down against the soft mattress, making sure that you’re completely at his mercy.
he smiles down at you - reading into your nervous expression and thinking about how cute you look when you try to appear unphased, unbothered.
“go on already. let’s get it over and done with,” you pout, knowing that he’s teasing you internally, despite having said nothing.
“no need to be so impatient. i like taking things slow, when it comes to handling you,” sukuna responds, smoothing a thumb over your cheek.
