saturnsmirrorball

[saturnsmirrorball]

Girls when they see a man in uniform

[saturnsmirrorball]

Daddy Issues (Part Three)

Pairing: Dominant!Cillian Murphy & Shy!Reader (& Jamie Dornan)

Warning: Smut, BDSM, Daddy Kink, 4-Somes, 3-Somes, Sugar Baby Arrangements

Summary: Through your best friend, you meet actor Cillian Murphy and come to some kind of arrangement involving intimacy in exchange for being spoiled financially.

Written with: my beautiful wife @darkshelbyfiction

Within minutes, and after leaving your clothes behind in the living room, Cillian pulled you into the guestroom without any hesitation whatsoever. 

"I can't believe that you are hard again already," you marveled, tracing your hands along his chest  as he guided you onto the queen size bed.

He laughed lightheartedly, taking your neck into his hands, pulling you closer to him. "Well, what can I say...watching you and Em swallow my cum turned me on all over again," he answered playfully, lowering his mouth to yours once more for a passionate kiss.

 As his tongue danced with yours, his hands roamed your body, exploring your curves, eliciting gasps and moans from both of you.

"Do you want more?" Cillian then asked seductively. "Because I can fuck you all night long if you like," he murmured against your ear, nipping your lobe playfully while using his fingers to tease your wet entrance.

"I do, although guess I will be sore tomorrow then," you joked, smirking as he slid his finger into your wet hole teasingly.

"You will be sore, yes," he agreed playfully, moving his fingers around within you, creating a rhythmic pattern. "But your raw pussy will only serve as a reminder of tonight's wild adventures, which makes it worthwhile, doesn't it?" 

"It certainly adds to the experience," you agreed, a slight flush creeping across your cheeks as you reflected upon your newfound courage.

"Alright then, let's try something different this time," he suggested before saying "I want you to ride me, bare. I want you to show me just how much you want it."

"Bare?" you echoed, surprised at first but becoming increasingly aroused as you contemplated the idea.

"Don't worry, I won't cum inside you unless you want me to" he reassured you, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap.

Feeling empowered by his trust in you, you began to guide his rigid member towards your tight entrance. As he watched, fascination evident in his gaze, you closed your eyes and concentrated on accepting him fully, allowing yourself to embrace the discomfort that came with being stretched so tightly.

It was undeniably pleasurable pain. As you moved above him, gradually adjusting to the fullness of his length, he held you steady with strong arms wrapped firmly around your waist. This position provided easy access to your breasts, which he grabbed possessively, pinching your nipples roughly between thumb and index finger, eliciting small whimpers of delight from deep within your core. At this point, neither of you needed further stimulation; instead, you surrendered to pure primal instinct and focused solely on giving and receiving pleasure.

"That's it, good girl, prove to me how much you need my cock inside of you," he growled suggestively, driving home his point with a sharp thrust, causing your breath to hitch slightly. With each passing minute, his pace quickened, turning fervent as the air thickened with anticipation.

In response, you arched your back seductively, grasping his shoulders with determination as you braced yourself for impact. Every plunge into your depths sent a wave of ecstasy shooting through your entire being, intensifying your craving for release.

Feeling him bare inside you felt incredible as, this way, you felt the heat radiate from him deep inside you. The friction created by your movements combined with his relentless pace soon became too much for either of you to bear. His face darkened with ardor, a mixture of lust and desire consuming him completely. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth as he drove harder into you, his muscles flexing beneath your touch. Gasping for air, he struggled to maintain control. But he knew he couldn’t hold back forever, not without losing complete composure.

"I want you to cum inside me," you whispered hoarsely.

Desire flashed in his eyes at your bold confession.

"Fuck, tell me again. Where do you want my cum?" Cillian rasped, his voice husky with need.

"In my pussy! I want your cum in my pussy!" you repeated assertively, your conviction apparent in your tone. Unable to resist anymore, Cillian groaned deeply and gave in to your desires. As his hips bucked violently, he unleashed his pent-up desire inside you, filling you with warmth and power. Feeling his cum pour into you ignited a fierce fire within you, heightening your senses and making you lose track of everything else.

You came with him, riding the waves of pleasure crashing over you until finally subsiding, spent and exhilarated. 

Feeling the stickiness of his semen throughout your body filled you with pride and satisfaction. You had achieved a milestone in your sexual journey with someone who understood exactly what you desired. 

"Now bring your pussy up here and sit on my face," he commanded, his voice demanding submission but laced with tenderness. 

"But you just came inside me!" you protested, giggling nervously, but ultimately complying.

"Exactly, and I can't wait to see your pussy close up, dripping with my cum," Cillian groaned as you lifted yourself up from where you were still connected before crawling onto his face slowly.

"Jesus, look at this pretty gaping hole, leaking all that cum," he exclaimed, licking the juices running down your thigh before ordering you to turn around so that you could suck his cock at the same time.

Feeling a surge of shame mixed with excitement, you looked away briefly, letting the moment sink in before, finally, you savored the sweet taste of him lingering on his skin.

"Good girl, clean it all up," he groaned playfully, pushing your head gently towards his throbbing cock which you gladly accepted. 

Your mouth enveloped him greedily, loving the feel of his thick veiny length pressed against your soft lips. Your hands reached out to stroke his erection, enjoying the weight of it in your palms. You took great care to ensure that every drop of his precious seed was meticulously lapped up, wanting nothing left unsatisfied.

Meanwhile, Cillian ate you out expertly with his practiced tongue, alternating between gentle nibbles on your clitoris and vigorous licks along its surface, ensuring to drive you mad with pleasure. You moaned loudly, almost unable to handle the dual stimulation. And when you could take no more, your orgasm hit you suddenly, your body tensing underneath his ministrations. Tears welled up in your eyes from the intensity of the climax, but you found comfort in Cillian's tender words and attentiveness.

"That's it. Cum for me babe, let it all go..." Cillian encouraged you.

"Oh God, I am going to cum," you cried out, feeling your walls contract rapidly, drawing ever closer to release. Suddenly, with one final push, you let loose, screaming his name. Your body shook with powerful spasms, sending shockwaves through Cillian as he continued to feast upon your delicious cunt. He drank every last drop, reveling in the sight of your body trembling in the wake of such intense pleasure.

"Fucking hell, baby," he muttered admiringly, wiping your essence off his chin before placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

As the aftershocks subsided, the two of you lay there together, intertwined and satisfied, cherishing the intimacy you shared.

There was something uniquely gratifying about the knowledge that you had pleased him so immensely. Despite initial reservations, you discovered a strength within yourself that allowed you to conquer any doubts or fears – an awakening that would shape your life from now on. 

Even though your physical bodies calmed down, you remained entangled in one another, lost in each other's presence. For once, you didn't feel anxious about engaging in conversation right away—there was enough unspoken understanding between you two.

After some moments of quiet contemplation, you both broke eye contact briefly, giving yourselves a chance to regain composure which is when Cillian finally spoke up. 

"You have never done this kind of thing before, have you?" he asked, half in jest, pulling you even closer to him.

"No...this is my first time experiencing anything like this," you admitted quietly, blushing lightly as you did so.

He smiled affectionately, stroking your hair with tender affection.

"Did you enjoy it though? Because, if you did, we don't have to stop here. I am in London every second week," Cillian offered casually, caressing your shoulder gently.

"Really?" you asked, raising your eyebrows with surprise.

He nodded seriously. "Yes, I usually come here to visit friends, attend events and work. If you had fun tonight, we can do this again and I am not talking about all of us. Just you and me," he explained, his hand cupping your cheek protectively.

"If you are suggesting an arrangement like the one Jamie and Emma have in place, then I am not sure. I am not that kind of person," you replied hesitantly, trying to process his offer mentally.

"Okay, maybe it wasn't clear. What I meant was that, if our encounter today was enjoyable for you, perhaps we should continue building on that foundation and catch up again some time. No strings attached," Cillian tried to clarify carefully.

"So, you mean that we might sleep together again? Just very casually, whenever it suits us both?" you questioned tentatively, trying to understand his intent better.

"Exactly. Casual catch-ups, no commitment, no expectations beyond having a damn good time," he clarified patiently, smiling reassuringly. This seemed intriguing yet daunting for you, since it presented an opportunity to explore your newfound desires outside the safe haven of college and without the risk of ruining your professional image. After careful consideration, you decided to give his proposition serious thought, knowing full well that accepting it may open doors leading to a world unknown.

"I will think about it, alright?" you responded hesitantly, biting your lip anxiously. Your heart raced wildly as you mulled over his suggestion. It was thrilling yet terrifying at the same time. However, you also realized that taking this step forward might be instrumental in your personal growth. Furthermore, getting involved with him could potentially provide endless opportunities to satisfy your appetite for adventurous experiences without compromising your studies or career goals.

"I am sure you will," Cillian grinned, knowing very well that you couldn't resist him.

"You are very cocky, aren't you?" you said, challenging him playfully.

"Let's just say, I have a certain level of confidence when it comes to those kinds of situations," Cillian said and, with that, he pulled you closer, pressing his body firmly against yours - a silent invitation that caused an unexpected stir deep within you just before he pulled away.

"I need to head back to my hotel now, but why don't we exchange numbers?" he suggested nonchalantly, extending his arm towards you to hold out his phone screen. The sudden urgency for a way to reach him again made you eagerly grab his device without missing a beat. "Here's mine," you told him, showing him your number quickly, scribbled hastily on the notepad function on his phone. He inputted your digits swiftly too.

As he finished keying them in, he gave you a meaningful stare that penetrated your soul. The depth behind his gaze hinted at possibilities that both excited and frightened you simultaneously. His mere presence invoked a longing within you that felt impossible to suppress. 

"It was nice to meet you, Y/N." He whispered into your ear seductively, nipping gently at your lobe. His breath brushed tantalizingly across your neck, causing a sensation unlike any you'd encountered before. There was a magnetic force drawing you towards him, one you couldn't quite comprehend nor deny.

"Thank you, Cillian," you managed to utter, barely audible due to your racing pulse. Unable to contain the heat radiating within you, you shifted uneasily, seeking relief from the sweltering blankets wrapped tightly around you.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

[saturnsmirrorball]

Doctor Strange - Baby Blues & Tattoos

A/N & WC - This is the enemies-to-lovers, co-workers, 'there was only one bed' fic. As soon as I thought of it, I knew it had to be a Dr Strange thing, and I loved writing it. Also, Ben's wink in the below GIF makes my knees go weak. 8.9k.

Warnings - Swearing, too much bickering, mentions of scars, mentions of a daddy kink, smut: oral (f rec), unprotected sex, brief orgasm denial, 'Doctor' kink, tattoo kink, hickey kink, belly bulge kink. 18+.

Summary - After a tiring mission, the last thing you want to do is have to crash at a hotel, especially with the cockiest man alive. Will things change with the fact there's only one bed on such a sleepless night? PART II HERE!

YOUR DAY HAS BEEN EXHAUSTING, there’s no denying it, and the only thing to possibly make it worse?

“C’mon, there’s a place not far away,��� Stephen snaps at you, cajoling.

“Why can’t we just portal back?” you ask, uncaring of your tone, how brisk you are.

“Because we can’t. Shut up.”

And you do. He’s been grating on your nerves for this whole mission. It wasn’t like it was a bad one, you were away barely for twenty four hours, but this is Stephen. He gets exhausting after five Goddamn minutes.

Bags slung over your shoulders, you follow him down the street. This, sadly, is the type of place you don’t use your powers, save for impending doom. And you have to grant it to Stephen, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s admirable with it. The way he carries his title, so graciously aids those who need him, all with a stoic resolve. He’s a good sorcerer, that’s an irrefutable fact, and you wouldn’t be this far without him.

Still, doesn’t mean you have to like the pretentious bastard in any way.

Dusk is long gone, night time in full bloom, stars scattering around the sky like tiny sprinkles, smudges of light to guide you through the night, only a thin crescent moon available to you in the far distance. The enveloping navy of the night sky meets the dark hues of Stephen’s mundane clothes, sheltering him from view ever so slightly, walking a few paces in front of you.

It doesn’t take long for a relatively small building to come into view, small for a hotel, no bigger than the body of Bleecker Street, an orange glow bleeding out the entrance.

His shoulders rigid, his posture as straight as a rod, he stalks through the front doors and up to the clerk, slightly more human clothes back on in place of his mission attire.

“‘Scuse me, please can I book a room for tonight?” he says, each word articulated to its fullest.

“How many people, Sir?”

He casts a glance towards you, rolls those pretty blue eyes of his, and looks back. “Two.”

“What kind of room would you like, sir?”

“One with two beds, I don’t care about the cost.”

The boyish clerk nervously clears his throat and shuffles the papers on the desk before clicking around on his computer a fair amount. When he looks at you with that typically awkward glance hospitality workers give when they can’t give you what you want, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Sorry sir, we only have rooms with one bed available. I can get you one with a couch if that’s better?”

Stephen grinds his ridiculously defined jaw so aggressively, you can almost hear the bones crunching, grating together.

“You’re small, you take the couch,” he hisses, the comment directed at you before gulping down a breath, straightening his resolve, and meeting the clerk’s gaze. “That’ll do.” he says, his manner more brusque than usual.

You roll your eyes, biting back a snarky comment at his forcing you onto the sofa for the night, and stay positively quiet and zoned out as he organises the rest, handing over his card, and in turn, receiving your room keys.

He marches you down the corridor, shouldering more than his fair share of the bags, while still keeping a gloved hand on the small of your back to steer you in the right direction. He never takes his gloves off. Ever. Even in all your months at the Sanctum, whether he’s fresh out the shower or fully dressed for work, he has never once removed those gloves with you in the vicinity. Strange, like him.

He deftly swipes the key card, his arm looping around your body to do so, and pushes the door open, allowing you in first.

The room is nothing special, just your standard hotel room. White sheets grace the double bed, the main feature of the room, with a soft grey footer to match the draping curtains, comparatively light when beside the ever darkening night. Stephen’s elbow hits the light switch, a white globe light shade casting a fluttery white glow everywhere, bouncing off the tea tray atop the dark wood desk that invades and clunks up half the room. The wardrobe is just behind the door, and doesn’t actually seem to have a front to it, but there’s an ironing board you won’t use—but Stephen probably will—and some coat hangers. The walls are mostly a very pale grey, modern, but a feature appears behind the headboard, the main attraction point of the room, a bright orange that pairs nicely, if not shockingly with the sofa: a poxy thing, barely a two seater. You wouldn’t even get your torso on there comfortably. It’s a decent room, not to your taste but nice enough, and clean, your main query.

“I’ll take the first shower,” he says.

Shifting past you, he nudges your shoulder, heat temporarily shooting between your bodies, and he flings the bags carelessly onto the bed, shrugging off his jacket before shouldering past you and chucking open the bathroom door. You’re still just standing there, even after you hear the door lock shut, Stephen huff a little to himself in the mirror (that much you can imagine, he does it all the time), the clink of a belt and the water start running. You already know this is going to be a long, long night, and it hasn’t even begun.

While he’s out of the way, you begin unpacking, simply lying out your night clothes and any necessities you brought with you just in case, straightening the pillows. Then he walks out, a plain white towel hung low around his hips, his Adonis belt glistening with droplets of water all around. His body is defined, incredibly chiselled—no surprise there—but from what you can see, he’s scarred too, his tan skin worn and cut in places it shouldn’t be. Still, his hands are covered in a towel that he’s rubbing through his charcoal hair, even when he brings it down, you’re not even allowed to catch a glimpse of his bare fingers, the cloth shielding them.

“It’s free.”

“I can see that, thanks Mr Obvious.”

He offers you a saccharine smile, “That’s Dr Obvious to you, rookie.”

“Myehhh,” you mimic, rolling your eyes as you brush past him, but really, his bulk of muscle does more damage to you than him, leaving your arm throbbing, only able to clutch it and open your mouth in a silent cry of pain once the door is shut and locked behind you.

As you undress, you’re sure you hear his soft chuckles as he goes about his inane bedtime rituals. One of your own rituals is listening to music in the shower, the one thing you know drives Strange insane, so you do exactly that, putting your current favourite song on repeat as you shower.

The bathroom is nice, too, just white. All porcelain white: floor, walls, sink, with only the mirror and showerhead a glistening silver. Why does nowhere have the same character as the Sanctum? If this is the rest of the world you’ve been avoiding a while, you’re not sure if you like it.

Coming out the bathroom, you wrap your white towel taut around your body and tuck the corner in, the lump pressing into your supple skin, releasing your hair from the shower cap. Almost unwittingly you begin humming the song—instinct, you guess, an earworm, a good song with infectious lyrics and a strong tune. You’ll be over it in a week.

“Do you?” Stephen suddenly asks, appearing from around the wall.

You gasp in surprise, your reverie snapped. He’s right there next to you, his hair coiffed but still slightly damp, wearing his usual half-baggy blue pyjamas. His blue eyes snag on something, a peek of black partially obscured by the towel, but he can't be sure.

“What?”

His exasperated sigh fills your brain with naught but aggravation. How can one person be so anxious and annoying?

“That song you were playing, it’s called Daddy Issues. Do you have them?”

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, tossing your hair around, running your fingers through the locks. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

You don’t even bother to deadpan him for more than a split second before you’re pushing past him, your shoulder bumping his bicep again, and you’re shifting over to the desk area, where you lay out your moisturiser and hairbrush.

“Well, statistically, more than fifty percent of people do—"

“Just be quiet Stephen. Get ready for bed.”

He bares his teeth, but obliges, and within half an hour, you’re nervously slouched on opposite sides of the bed, the top light off, curtains drawn, only the bedside lamps on to offer your bodies some shadow.

“I’m not taking the couch,” you warn, “it’s bloody tiny.”

“I don’t expect you to, and this bed is bigger than I anticipated, so I suppose we can share if you stick to your side.”

You grumble, making strange whining noises to piss him off momentarily, “What do you propose, a pillow wall?”

“Yes, actually,” he says, “that sounds rather practical.”

“Why? It’s not like I’m gonna try and cuddle you or hold your hand or anything. You’re not my type anyway, God.”

“Almost, but not quite.” he snarks.

“Could you be any more conceited, Strange?”

“Yes. But, just lie down, I’m tired and can’t be arsed to hear your whining all night. No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, asshat.”

You draw back your side of the duvet and slide beneath, curling your toes at the cold weight of it, your back to Stephen’s. There’s so much space between the two of you it’s bordering on ridiculous, you could fit half the other wizards in with you at this rate. You're small, but with how close he is to his edge, he has to be falling off. He’s abnormally tall, his feet are probably dangling off the end, too.

“Is this about your hands?” you whisper, barely heard over the deafening silence crashing around in both of your ears, “or your scars? If so I— I don’t mind, I’m not in any position to judge.”

“Shut. Up.” he enunciates.

“Dude, it’s okay.”

“It’s also none of your fucking business.”

Oh he’s seething. He’s fucking hilarious when he’s mad. His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare and his face goes as red as Goddamn tomato, his lips quirk to suffocate a grimace and hands close to fists he can barely control and his voice always stutters when his desperately regulated breath hitches. That’s exactly what’s happening now, you can feel the shift of the bed next to you, hear every tiny movement.

“I’m not trying to pry, just curious.”

“Well, you are prying. You know what happened to me, you know who I was and who I am, surely you have some idea what I must… look like.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, an inflection of compassion in your tone, “and I don’t give a shit. I hate you no less.”

He allows a breathy chuckle out, one of the lightest sounds you’ve ever heard from him, nothing derisive in it, no spite or teasing, just a small laugh. “Hate me all you want. I know I’m right.”

“About what?”

“You don’t want to see me.”

It’s so quiet a request that it's barely a whisper, simply a wistful hope, a prayer, a silent plea. His last word cracks, breaks, and his currently slightly less annoying voice trails away, broken. Even now, the least you can do is respect his privacy on it despite the fact it's the last thing you want to do.

You find the only words you can muster, curling further inwards on yourself. “Night, Stephen. Thanks for this.” you bid.

“Night, Y/N.”

And you still into a horrible, dense silence, the darkness of the room overwhelming your senses. If you sleep a wink like this, you’ll be lucky.

—

You find yourself to be regrettably correct, since after what feels like a lifetime (and appears to only have been an hour, and even then, just barely) you feel the whole weight of the bed shift, followed by muffled cursing. You’re cold, incredibly uncomfortable, and the pillow is too cold, but you daren’t move it, lest you disturb the wrath of Stephen.

Fuck it, you tell yourself. You won’t lie on the ridge of a hard mattress all night just because he’s a whiny brat who never cuts you a break. Fidgeting and jolting, tossing and turning, you eventually turn over full bodily, and completely by accident, your hand falls onto more flesh, warm and callused, Stephen. Instantaneously, he recoils, his body slithering away from you, even across the masses of space. Your own breath catches, brows furrowing, shock, perhaps?

“Stephen?” you husk, your voice full of surprise. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You reach over and flick your bedside lamp on, fluffing your pillow and turning to him.

“No. Why did you do that?”

“Why did I do what, roll over in bed and accidentally brush your hands?”

“Yes.” he says, teeth gritted.

“Don’t be such a twat, what’s the big deal anyway?” you ask, a throwaway comment, but the way he gulps, his blue eyes so full of anxiety, you know well enough what it is. “Strange, I didn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Only, you know it does. His hands are balled up in his shirt and embedded into his body, covered by the duvet despite the convulsive movements. He’s asking for it. In one swift move, the duvet is folded back, and you’re grabbing his hands roughly by the wrists and tugging them away from him. Sitting up a little more, moving your body and crossing your legs, you yank his hands into your lap. Gnarled red scars run down each finger and down the back of both hands, puckering from stitches mars them too, and beneath the skin, when you tenderly run the pads of your fingers over his scars, the cuts, you feel metal. Screws, bolts, whatever else. Maybe even metal rods are in there, holding his bones together.

Sure, they’re not pretty, no scars are, but they aren’t as repulsive as he makes them out to be. They’re endearing, unique, and show he’s a Goddamn fighter. Maybe you’d be more inclined to work with him if he hadn’t been trying to hide from you so much.

Suddenly, he jolts away from you, away from the tender rub of your fingers on his skin, his face contorted in a perpetual wince. There’s an expectant pause, like he’s waiting for you to say something, but for once, you’re lost for words.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” he says, wholly tugging away from you.

“Why, Stephen? Why are you being so pretentious and callous? Can’t we share a bed without it being fuckin’ weird?” you demand, hitting a fist against the pillow childishly.

“No.”

He shifts his pyjama bottoms awkwardly when he catches another peek of your skin—your upper arm this time, a swirl of ink—and clambers out of bed, snatching a spare sheet from the wardrobe that he takes over to the sofa with him. No way is he gonna fit, but if he’s going to be that obtuse, you’re gonna let him.

—

Another hour has gone by, and having tried just about every possible position known to man on both sides of the bed, every pillow on both the head and foot of the bed, you’re still unable to sleep, simply staring at the dull white ceiling, your fingers linked and resting over your steadily rising chest. You’d think that sorcery has some perks, perhaps a spell to help you sleep, but no. There are some herbs that can go in drinks to knock you out, but naturally, they’re all at the Sanctum. You’re fucking knackered, and usually sleep so well, why is tonight any different? Does it have anything to do with the gnawing in the pit of your stomach? The anxiety of Stephen being so far away—or perhaps it's just having him in the room. Somehow, you don't know which is worse.

“Stephen,” you tentatively call out, your sound swallowed by the reverberating night. “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Why?” he replies in his typical abrupt nature.

“Just wondered. I’m cold, can you come sit?”

“No.”

This time you don’t even bother to turn on the light, but merely point your finger at the wall shade and light begins to glow around you, allowing you to peer at Stephen over there. It’s a pitiful sight, really, and one he willingly inflicted on himself, but with his long legs dangling off the edge and his head at a funny angle on the arm, the sheet barely covering half of him, you know this isn’t fair. Still, doesn’t stop you from having a hearty chuckle to yourself.

“You’re so fucking uncomfortable over there and don’t try to deny it. Get your ass into bed with me. Now.”

He’s not used to you being bossy, no one is. As he so constantly reminds you, you’re just a rookie, you don’t bark orders, and only occasionally lend a snarky comment. He likes those best, no matter how much he tries to feign it.

“Can you tolerate me enough to just lie in bed with me?” you tease, hearing his footsteps padding on the carpeted floor.

“To say I ‘tolerate you’ is a vast overstatement.”

“Thanks, Doc.” you reply sardonically, rolling your eyes—playfully this time—and smiling at the fact.

He does as you say, though, and shuffles into bed beside you, actually bothering to get properly comfortable this time, settling into a relatively normal position on his back, his head turned to the side, his cheekbones glowing from definition in the shine from your light. You could cut yourself on those, sweet Mercy.

Once he’s nuzzling into his pillow, you begin to do your own fidgeting around, finding your own comfort with a heavy, warm weight beside you, one of relative solace. You don’t mean to, but you’re stretching, and just trying to find a good position, when your hand accidentally grazes…

No way, this is incredible, better than anything you could have dreamt up. You think you might even bite a hole in your tongue from biting hard enough to keep your incredulous laugh under control.

“Is this why you didn’t wanna sleep in the bed? Because you’ve got a boner?” you ask, slyly.

“Don’t talk about it.” he growls in warning.

“Why? Secret stash of porn up there in that eidetic brain of yours?”

“Could you be more oblivious?” he says under his breath.

Turning onto his side, he pushes you away, prying your arm from him.

“Myeh could you beeee more oblivious, Y/N?” you mimic, purposely whining in that tone you know he hates.

You were trying to banter, so if he wants to be a tosser about it, so fucking be it. At least he’s offering you his bodily warmth so you don’t feel so alone in such an unfamiliar place.

“It’s fine if you do have a boner. For all I care, go sort it out. Human nature, buddy.” you quip, turning on your own side, almost half way into the bed, his body within touching distance, breathing distance. “I am curious, though, why didn’t you just say so? Or wear baggier pants? Men, you’re all the same, so fuckin’ annoying. Contrary doesn’t even begin—“

You don’t have a chance to finish your arsey statement before he’s right there, his hot breath fanning your face hovering above you, his forearms on either side of your head, trapping you in.

“You think you know everything, huh? I bet you’d really love to know what got me so riled up.” he growls, his face lowering to your neck, the juncture of your shoulder, his lips barely brushing the skin there before he’s taking a deep inhale; animalistic, almost.

There’s no denying that his actions send heat flooding to your core. Frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if a wet patch appeared in the sheet beneath you right about now. Who knew his voice could be so low? So sensual? Christ...

“You’re so fucking insolent. Maybe if you hadn’t been such a bratty bitch then I might’ve fucked you quiet two hours ago. You wanna know what made me hard? You, dancing around in your skimpy underwear and pyjamas. Every day I see you around the Sanctum, and even when you’re dressed in every layer of robe under the sun I can’t keep my eyes off you. You should see how damn hard I struggle to keep my hands to myself, even these Goddamn lumps.”

His fists clench next to your head, shifting your head on the pillow. His eyes burn sapphire. You’re not one for ‘skimpy’ clothes, but you have to admit that being the only woman in a house full of completely disinterested men has made you want to try and test the boundaries just a little, leading to your slightly smaller pyjamas and other minuscule changes in your wardrobe.

Still, his admission sends your mind into a lust-filled frenzy, your only coherent thought being to just submit to him, to kiss him, to finally know what he tastes like. For all these months he’s been watching you, his criticisms have been his manner of flirting, his hiding his own shield. As sweet as that is, there’s something very hard urgently poking at your thigh, something you should probably see to...

“Fucking hell, Stephen, just kiss me.”

After so much waiting, he really doesn’t need to be told twice, pouncing onto you, his lips meeting yours furiously, a desperate clash of tongues. Never in your life has someone kissed you this way before, with so much passion and life and unadulterated want. It makes you wonder just how long he’s wanted to do this for.

It doesn’t take long for his hands to stray, his palms skimming down your burning flesh, goose bumps rising in his wake.

“Off.” he ghosts, tugging at your pyjamas.

You begin to peel your shirt off, but Stephen grabs it by the neck and removes it before you can get any further.

“No bra?”

“Maybe I wanted to tease you too.” you breathe, and only once you say it do you realise the truth of it.

Perhaps all this time you have been subconsciously been trying to tease him, rile him up. You’re in for it now, that much is easily detectable by the ragged breaths he begins to take, his grip on your waist increasing as his lips make a downward trail. First, he kisses gently at your neck, only growing more fervent when he reaches your pulse point where he sucks, hard, but only for a moment as he moves further down, biting your right clavicle while pinching your left breast, then switching, and grazing his lips over the swells of your boobs. You’re barely able to control yourself or your moans, desperately holding your tongue, silencing yourself and the obscenities bound to spill. Next, he goes just below your sternum, the sensitive skin there reacting to his tender assault. Until now, he’s had his thinned eyes focussed on you, silently working his way down your body.

“I can’t wait to put bruises all over that pretty, unblemished skin…” he murmurs, vibrations shooting through you like a meteor shower. You don’t realise why he’s training off until his baby blues aren’t locked on your eyes anymore. “Is that a tattoo?”

Not the time, but your cheeks begin to burn red, drawing a blush onto your skin.

“I asked you a question, is that a tattoo?” He’s more solemn this time, commanding your full attention so naturally. Unable to control your voice, you offer him a nod, your eyes wide. “When did you get this? Oh, my God.”

“B— before I came to the Sanctum. I have more, if you like them.”

“Fuck,” he blasphemes, running a hand over his face. Is he… flustered? “Where? Show me.”

Who would’ve guessed he has a thing for tattoos? It’s not like you’re covered, just the odd few: one on your hip, one in between your ribs, one on your back. You’re surprised he hasn’t noticed the few at the tops of your arms yet. You adjust your positioning and show him what he wants: he’s damn near salivating, his fingers toying with his beard as he grows impossibly harder against your leg.

“Do you have a thing for tattoos? Do you like girls with ink all over their skin?”

“Stop,” he whines, imploring, “don’t, I’ll finish too fast if you keep on.”

You cup his cheeks, turning his face towards you, and begin to pepper kisses over his long neck, grazing your teeth where he seems to be the most sensitive, chuckling into your actions.

He kisses you hotly, briefly, and resumes his prior attack. Biting and sucking, drawing the supple skin of your hip bones between his teeth, he has you clamping your screams behind your hand, writhing around beneath his hold.

“These walls are pretty thick, which means you and I can be as loud as we want.” he whispers, and continues his actions, prying your hand away with one of his, and not flinching when you begin to hold it. Tight.

“You know, you’re gonna look so much better when I mark you up, every inch of you. Already look like mine.”

You dare a glance down, and half your stomach is covered in bites already, and he’s right, it looks damn good.

“I know, please.”

He moves gradually lower, tugging on the waist of your trousers. That seems to be when the reality hits him, drawing away from you, his breathing laboured, his beard tickling your hip bones.

“We shouldn’t,” he stammers, casting his gaze away.

You find yourself gulping nervously, “I know.”

His blue orbs wantonly flit from your eyes to your lips, searching for reassurance that’s been there all along. It doesn’t last long, you knew it wouldn’t, because his lips are colliding with yours after little more than a tense moment of eye contact. Your hands grip onto his arms, corded with muscle, tensing as they hold him up. He’s so reliant on his arms, his hands trembling with the slightest movement when it’s not sorcery related. Tonight, you want to show him that he doesn’t have to struggle, but merely has to enjoy it.

Mouths fastened together, your chest presses to his as his tongue glazes along your bottom lip, then your top, delving into your mouth. His muscle is skilled, dancing with yours, but not in a tender waltz, more a hazed tango of burning passion, like he has to taste all of you before he can be content in life. In return, you can’t kiss him deeply enough either, hold him tightly enough, clinging to him with your whole being.

He tears his lips away from you, leaving a strange void in your chest once he lifts away, an emptiness where his deft mouth was licking into yours just moments before. You’re certainly not disappointed when he presses a single kiss to your navel and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, peeling them off, sliding them down your legs along with your panties.

“You look good all soaking wet.” he purrs, his eyes glued to the glistening slick coating your heat.

You revel in the fact that he can barely tear his eyes away long enough to glance at you, but once he catches sight of your lust-clouded eyes, half-lidded, expectant only for him, he can’t look away, his blue eyes enraptured with the slight drop your jaw makes as his breath fans over you. Almost animalistically, he licks his lips, then yours, tracing the shape of your vulva with the tip of his lithe muscle. Already you’re keening as he languidly works his mouth on your core. He presses a tantalising kitten lick to your clit, causing your legs to instinctively clamp around his head, your thighs trapping his ears. He still doesn’t break eye contact. How he does this, you don’t know, and don’t particularly care to find out right about now, since his eyes are so mesmerising, the different flecks and shades of blue, contrasted with hues of golden green—

Oh Mary sweet Mother of God.

How does he do that? His moustache tickles your swollen pearl as he literally eats you out, no reservations, a full meal to him. His tongue in your cavern, it’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever beheld, his doling out of sloppy kisses while you can but watch, grasping onto his hair, threading your fingers through his dark locks, tugging for some semblance of grounding, something to keep you tethered to this realm, because this level of pleasure is unmeasured.

“I think you’re going to ruin me. Am I right?” you gasp, your words cut off when he suckles on your most sensitive spot.

“For every other man?” he purrs, straight into your core. “Absolutely.”

The vibrations are simply heavenly, sending your spare hand flying to the pillow beside you, grasping to it with all you're worth, until your fingers begin to cramp, but not once does his assault on your sensitive heat ease, his eyes smiling at you as though you’re the most beautiful thing in the planet.

You’re close, though, so close, teetering just on the edge of something incredible, something mind blowing, something astronomical. You’re simpering as he nears you closer and closer, every lavish of his tongue within your cavern, every nudge of his nose to your overly sensitive clit…

And Stephen being Stephen, that’s when he decides to pull away, crawling back up your body until he’s laying beside you, the heat welcoming and warm, the heavy weight of his arm slung around your bare waist, his breath fanning over your neck. He begins to lazily brush kisses over your neck, but it’s not enough. Frustrated would be a behemoth understatement.

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he hums heartily, “you get under my skin like no one else.”

“Yeah?” you retort, not pondering the consequences in your haze of denial and desire, “you quite literally were just under mine, and you didn’t let me cum. Asswipe.”

Heaving a sigh, he rolls away slightly, stopping his sweet show of affections in favour of sulking

“If you’d shut up for one damn second and not insult me, I’d tell you why.”

“Why then, huh?” you square up to him.

The last thing you expect is to be kissed, his scarred hand weaving its way into your hair, pushing your head closer to his. You can feel the heat emanating from his cheeks, from his chest. Who knew heaven would be as hot as hell?

“Because I want the first time I make you come to be around my cock, darling. Okay?” he growls.

Wow. That’s one argument you can get behind, but two can play at his game, so you flutter your lashes and play coy, your most innocent doe-eyes joining your pretty, swollen lips that curl up into the sweetest smile you can manage.

“Okay, Doctor.”

“Fuck me,” he groans, barely audible.

In one movement, you have him pinned beneath you, hands on either side of his head while he’s listless between your legs, cerulean irises fixated on your every perceptible move.

“Only if you ask nicely, Doctor.”

His eyes fly shut, lids squeezed together, his head tossed back into the pillow. That’s when you get to work on his shirt. You grasp the hem with nimble fingers, slowly tugging it up the tanned skin of his torso. He occasionally walks around with just a towel on, like today, but you barely glimpse him before he’s disappearing, and even then he’s moving deftly, muscles contracting and water droplets glistening on the panes of his chest, so you're not entirely sure what you’ll find. You tug it up to his collar bones, and he does the rest, since you can’t help but run your hands all over him. Every inch of flesh you can reach. His body quite frankly ripples, his muscles incredible, and his scars matter no more or no less than ever, because he’s just Stephen and you’re just you, and this is just a moment you’ve caught yourselves in. His skin is burning, begging to be ravished the way he did yours, but you daren’t mess up such a masterpiece.

In an intoxicating kiss, you catch his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling gently as you tug on it, your smirk unwavering yet your eyes as round as saucers.

“You’re heaven.” you whisper.

“You taste like it.”

The blush that dusts your cheeks is undeniable, sprinkling raging droplets of fire that reach the tips of your ears.

You sigh breezily, moving up his hips a little further, thinking aloud at your position, his body all yours, your bare heat hovering his clothed member, rock hard against your bum. “I’ve yearned for this for so long.”

“What, to shag me?”

“No, to finally have you quiet and under my control.”

“I’ve always been under your control,” he tells you earnestly, raising a hand to brush errant locks of hair away from your face, his rough fingers touching your cheek. You nestle into his grip. “Say the word, I’m yours.”

“The magic word?”

“Mhm.”

“Agamotto?” you question bashfully, curling your hair behind your ear.

He splutters a laugh, jolts his body up to meet yours, and kisses you, a searing embrace, his tongue working it’s way back into his mouth. You can still taste yourself on him. Beneath you, however, his length is twitching, begging to be touched.

You stand on your knees, and crawl back down his body, settling yourself on his beefy lower thighs that clench so delectably, setting friction onto your own throbbing core. You unravel the string at the waist, and fumble to get the soft cotton trousers off him, but seem to forget that, well, you’re hindering your own access. He nudges his legs and pelvis up, shucking the material over his bum. The action grazes over your slit in such a way that makes your breath hitch, the mix of the material of his pyjamas, the hair on his leg, and his tensing muscles creating the perfect cocktail of arousal within you, clouding your cognitive processes. He kicks them off, and draws you further up his legs, his member standing proud, brushing against your navel.

Something strange and new stirs deep within you at the sight, a primal need awakened. Sex has never been… this way for you before, this pleasurable, this fun. And as much as you hate to admit it, that’s because of Stephen and his God-like appendage that you’re not even sure will fit.

“Baby, you’re drooling,” he coos in a condescending tone, something that makes you impossibly wetter, “you gonna ride me?”

“Want your hands on me, though,” you softly admit, wrapping your hands over his, moving them to the dip of your waist. Instantly, they take a bruising settle there, but the pinch is so delectable.

Grasping him in your hands is quite the feat, but nonetheless you try, spitting on your palms to give yourself ample slick as you jerk him a couple of times, watching intently how the skin pulls around his member, your brows furrowed at such a simple yet such a beautiful sight. As much as you hate to cede it, he has a fucking incredible dick. He’s allowed to be as cocky as he is.

“If you keep on…”

You know he means for it to be a threat but he sounds so blissed out, his voice gruff and hitting you right at the pit of your belly. He has a point, though, with your fingertips gingerly running up the vein on the underside, your nails grazing tantalisingly over his balls. His slit is already leaking, a bead of pearly-white precum there. He won’t last. Eh, maybe he doesn’t have to be so cocky if such a featherlight touch can drive him to the edge.

His eyes draw yours in and keep their focus as you rise onto your knees and fidget a little closer, your knees scratching on the white sheets. Your brain grows foggy, like the night outside as you tease the head of his dick against your wetness before you gradually lower yourself down.

Birds crow outside, owls cresting their night time lullaby as he enters you, the most delightful harmony. Flickers of twinkling stars can be seen in your periphery through the slit in the plain curtains.

You hiss, but the slight pain of him stretching you simply spurs you further onto him, desperate to engulf him all. Your bum hits his thighs, and that’s when you realise, your breathing shallowed, that he’s balls deep within you.

This is actually happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters letting out the most aching groan yet, throwing his head back into the pillow once more and letting his dark hair flop of its own accord, his hands tangling their way into your hair to pull you down to him.

Your actions start slowly, a small rocking to your hips as you get used to his sheer size filling you to the brim, even the slightest movement causing your walks to tense around the ridges of his dick, rubbing within you so detectably. His breathing increases with every rock, his eager pants and soft pleas filling the air as you begin to speed up, silenced by your lips.

His moans increase once you start to raise yourself up, only to grind back down with purpose. You’re sure your own moans and whimpers are deafening, too. Stephen simply doesn’t know what to do, where to look. His lips attack your neck, moaning into it as he starts to drive himself further and further into your pussy, his hips bucking to meet your movements.

“Stephen,” you squeak as he grazes something special, followed by a shout of, “Fuck!” though that’s more to the stimulation to the precious spot on your neck he seems to be so wantonly attacking, bruising you.

“Tell me—” he orders, pausing to pant between kisses and his frantic movements beneath you, seeking the best position, “what you like.”

“This— fuck just keep doing that!”

His hands on your waist keep guiding your movements, the rotations of your hips, the rise and fall of your body unencumbered, unbound, free to drive him to insanity with your sensuality in this moment.

“Think you can handle that much?” he taunts.

“Just fuck me, Stephen, no restraints, just you.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? I could really hurt you.”

“I don’t care. I need you.” you grit out, whining at the slight still.

You thank whatever deity there is that it’s only very brief before his pace begins to pick up again, your body so malleable despite your being on top. And frankly, you can’t stop the screams that erupt from somewhere deep in your throat, followed by a steady stream of whimpers, your hands curling into his pecs to keep you upright.

“If you keep making those sounds, I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“I don’t care what you want, I’m in charge.”

“Myeh I’m in charge, I’m Doctor Strange, ooooo look at me.” you mimic, challenging him, and his movements stall.

“You’d better watch your fucking mouth.” he spits.

The cock of your head is simply devilish, defiant in every way possible, power surging within your veins as you say, “Or what?”

Regret is instantaneous. You’re not sure why you thought that, if you were on top you’d have the power, because you certainly don't. His hands grasp your hips bruisingly hard, lifting you up before literally impaling you on his dick. His pace soon after is punishing, controlling your every movement so you can barely breathe or see straight, just a rag doll for him to throw about. He reaches new depths you’ve never even found yourself before, all while keeping his tip grazing your g-spot on every stroke, his pelvis meeting your clit on every hit. Your jaw hangs open, and you can’t even help it, merely gripping onto Stephen you’re not sure where for dear life. That’s the ‘or what’.

He’s quite literally ravishing you in a way no one has before. You’re fucking mewling before you can help it. His sudden surge of dominant energy causes you to moan headily, putty within his control. With each upward thrust of his, your hips roll in ways you never knew they could before, offering you new depths of pleasure, rolling more arousal from your core.

‘Rough’ was never a word you’d have used to describe the astute, precautious Dr Stephen Strange before, but with the sheer strings of profanity leaving his perfect, plump lips as he takes you wholly, it’s certainly up there with adjectives to describe the supreme sorcerer.

“Fucking hell you’re so good,” he praises, “shit— squeezing me so well.”

“Stephen…” you plead. You can’t care that you’re begging, not with the wash of pleasure trickling down your spine, a building climax within the pit of your stomach, ready to split at any second.

You lean forwards daringly, connecting your lips in a clash of teeth and tongues, a tango of passion, desire, sheer unadulterated need

“Want your hands on me,” you moan, whine, beg. Your words come out in broken fragments in between slathering kisses, your body bouncing.

“No you don’t. I promise you don’t.” he refutes, cut off by a deep groan.

He doesn’t stop pounding into you, your one hand moving to cling around the back of his neck, your other with your nails digging into his flesh, grazing over his nipples; anything to keep you half steady.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. I like your hands.”

“I don’t— fucking hell.”

“And I don’t care. Please touch me, just run your fingers over me, palm at my tits, anything, I don’t care. I just need your hands on me.” Tears begin to well in your eyes before you can help it, a feeble squeak when his thick tip drives into that spongy spot deep within that has your toes curling, his vein squeezed by the slight ridges within you. “Please.”

He sighs, cut off by a growl, holding his hands out before him, removing them from their hold on your waist. “These things?”

“Yes!” you shout in response, both to the stimulation on your clit from his pelvis and his rhetorical question. “Those ‘things’ that wield so much power. Such ability for pleasure. Doctor.”

That seems to be what does it, a gasping groan leaving him, taking incentive. His scarred finger begins to brush up your stomach, the dip of your hips, pinching your tattoos. His palms splay over your boobs kneading the flesh, eyes as wide as saucers, mesmerised by the way they bounce in his hand, your peaked buds caught under the rough pads of his thumbs. He runs his hands across your whole body, your back, shoulders, arms, savouring every inch of flesh he can reach as your back arches with waves of pleasure above him, thrusting your chest further out as your head lulls backwards and your mouth falls open in a silent ‘o’. When he seems satisfied enough, they travel to your ass, squeezing your cheeks, his hold bruising.

He’s enthralled by every movement you make, his blue eyes staring at you, fixed so intently, the intensity sparking something to life in your belly. You draw your lip between your teeth before leaning down to kiss him, his mouth devouring yours hotly, his lips almost burning on yours, chapped skin massaging yours. While he has you there, his grip on your ass increases, and he begins to go harsher.

“Baby,” you hiss before you can help it.

Skin slaps against skin, you’re just there for him, feeling every jolt of his body so thoroughly beneath you. He swallows your moans, and you swallow his, before detaching and moving your lips to his jaw instead, kissing along the sharp bone gently. He’s fucking you so hard, so meaningfully, you’re going to be aching for days.

“Look at me,” he demands, “look.”

You do, but you’re in such a haze that you only manage to actually see into the crystal orbs once he grasps your skin between his scarred fingers, one of which you press your lips to, swirling the tip of your tongue around the digit.

“No, no darling, I need my hand for this.”

Doe-eyed, you let his finger go with a pop, but follow his hand where it goes, trailing down to your lower stomach. His fingers tentatively press over a blossoming bulge there, one that grows every time you sink down onto him, and then his palm presses down, causing you to scream a little, a pleasurable sort of pain.

“You feel that?” you nod. “That’s where I am, so deep inside you.”

The stream of expletives you moan is utterly unholy, in need of censorship. Never before have you imagined this, anyone being so deep inside they’re bulging against your belly…

“Nobody does it like you do.” you whine, bouncing up and down on him at an inhuman speed, nearing climax more and more, still holding back despite it all, despite the pressure building right where his tip grazes.

“I taste you on my tongue. Still,” he confesses, licking into your mouth filthily so you can taste it too.

“Stephen, I’m gonna—” you can’t finish your sentence, as you’re finishing in other ways, the pressure on your g-spot and the brush on your clit and the intense penetration too much for you to handle amongst his piercing blue stare.

You can’t hold the inevitable tide back anymore, clamping and clenching around him, causing him to emit a guttural, feral moan, clamping his teeth down on your shoulder, his cry resonating through your entire being. It’s a pleasurable ache, but a mark you’ll struggle to hide. This spurs you on further, your entire body pulsing, limbless. You’re whimpering amidst your screams of pleasure, cries so pornographic they startle you. That’s when the world slows, and you feel his thumb pressing harshly into your clit, his other hand pinching your nipple, tweaking it fervently.

The hot white wash of euphoria sends you to heaven and shooting through the stars in a split second elongated by the prolonged, unceasing pressure in your bundle of nerves, keeping you in uncontrollable bliss for you’re not sure how long. Your entire body is electrified, stars dancing on your skin like droplets of Elysian sun, shocking your nerves into a tingling sensation, heavy limbs filled with ecstasy filled blood. The world around you faded long ago, replaced by his beautiful hands and his kiss intoxicating you, explosions of delightful rapture filling your earthly being. In all fairness, you wouldn’t be surprised if, when you opened your eyes, you were in your astral form, on absolute cloud nine, or in another realm entirely. Maybe you’re simply in paradise, your sorcery skills having transported you there of their own volition.

Somewhere in your elation, Stephen comes too, filling you up entirely, warm stickiness painting your inner walls and beginning to trickle out, down your thighs and onto his, melding the two of you together further. Was his orgasm as incredible as yours? Like a hundred put together? Stars plucked from the sky and morphed into a single climax just for the pair of you? Because if he shared it, there’s no way you’re not doing this again, that much you can bank on.

It takes a while for you to come around enough to flutter your eyes open, only to find your chest almost pressed fully against Stephen’s, his arms around you entirely, your harsh breathing in sync. A veil of sweat gleans on your skin, gathering between your breasts, moving up and down hastily with your ragged breaths. He’s covered in a similar sheen, his abs and forehead, the ripples of his biceps as you hold him, feebly pushing yourself half upright.

The last thing you expect while basking in the afterglow, desperate to just catch your breath is for him to lick a blood stripe from the tattoo at the side of your ribs, around the underside off your one boob, and to then suckle tiredly on the rune nestled between your tits, but apparently...

“What’s that for?”

“Love your tattoos. So sexy.”

That’s something you’re never gonna let him forget, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s also going to beg for you to get more. You find yourself giggling, the sweet bubbling of it in your throat. It comes out as an airy sound, endearing Stephen.

“What?”

“Oh my God, you’re so much better than the last person I was with.” you sigh, flopping down next to him.

“And you, bloody hell.”

“We should do this again.”

“We definitely should.”

His hand flies out to rest on your stomach, linking your fingers with his, watching you conspicuously from the corner of his eye.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern betrayed in his tone and the crinkle of his nose.

“Yeah, just might be a bit sore.”

He shrugs his shoulders softly, and you chuckle, “You told me to give it all I’ve got. I think I’m rather spent now, though.”

“So spent. God, is this what overstimulation feels like? How can something be so nice and so achy all at once?”

“That’s how my cock feels, Y/N. You milked me for all I’m worth.”

“Don’t be so crude!”

“I’ll be what I like, baby, and right now I’m going to be bossy. Go to the restroom, I’ll be waiting when you come out.” A mischievous grin creeps its way onto his face, watching you struggle as he sneers, “try to walk in a straight line, sweetheart.”

You offer him your middle finger as you stagger to your feet, clutching onto every piece of furniture along the way. It’s strange to be so naked around him, nothing to shield you from his stare that follows you, right from the bed until you disappear into the bathroom. While there, you glance at your dishevelled state in the mirror. Small hickeys litter your skin, hand prints lying lightly, but the most noticeable things are the signs of affection around your tattoos. Bite marks, finger prints, blossoming bruises. He’s an absolute scamp. You take the opportunity to run a brush through your hair and tap some balm onto your lips.

Your steps are a little more shy on the scratchy, grey carpet as you step out again, taking strides as wide as you can before all but throwing yourself onto your side of the bed.

“Here,” he says, smiling at you in that sweet, closed-mouth way he does, the apples of his cheeks glowing.

In his outstretched hand is his pyjama shirt, creased from your clutching to it. You take it, the soft material limp in your hands, but it simply radiates ‘Stephen.’ You tug it on over your head, unfazed when it hits your mid thigh.

“Looks good on you. Come here.”

You don’t mind his commands for once, and happily shuffle in beside him, instantly curling into his side. Heat radiates from his body, and only when you sling your one leg over his thigh do you realise he’s put his pyjamas back on, the bottoms at least. His arm winds around your shoulder, and perhaps in a feat of confidence, he starts to brush his forefinger up and down the skin of your arm, rising goose bumps in its wake. You could just stay this way forever.

A strange thought brews in the back of your mind, and you almost can’t help but to blurt it out, “Did you want me to call you 'Daddy?' Is that why you asked about the song earlier?”

A subdued nature overtakes him, his voice becoming shy as he murmurs, “Maybe. I like ‘Doctor’ too.”

You roll closer to him, wrapping an arm around his torso.

“Maybe next time,” you tease courageously, kissing his neck softly. “I can’t wait to be on my knees for you later.”

“Tomorrow, baby, I’m tired enough to sleep at last.”

It really is an ‘at last’ type situation, and definitely more than three hours since you arrived at this place with the intention of crashing straight away. Well, it was your intention. His? You’re not entirely sure, an inkling nagging at the back of your mind. Not that you particularly care after the mind blowing shag, but...

“We could’ve portalled back, couldn’t we?” Nervously, he nods. “So this was a ploy to get me to shag you?” He nods again, blue eyes glittering, and you simply scoff at him, holding him closer under the duvet. “Cheeky little shit, Doctor.”

His low laugh rumbles through your whole being, sending more heat flooding through you. “But then again, maybe it’s best if we don’t go home. What’ll they say about us?”

“They’ll congratulate me for finally growing the balls to fuck you.” he deadpans, and you kiss his jawline once more, snorting a little laugh.

You reach out to switch the light off and instantly embed yourself in his comfort again, revelling in your synced breathing and the gentle rise of his chest against your cheek, the stolen whispers and the gentle way he kisses your hairline, so sweet in contrast to his earlier dominance.

Sleep is, rightfully, dragging you both under, your eyelids heavy at last. All you feel is him, the steady thrum of his heart, the tender run of his scarred fingers up and down your arm and spine, sparks shooting through you. Your sleepy state, however, also lowers your already dangerously thin inhibitions, and that’s why you can’t stop yourself saying—before you succumb—your most peculiar thought from the whole night, his half lidded startling baby blues trained on the barely perceptible movement of your lips.

“Hey, reckon we could have sex in our astral forms?”

FIND THE SEQUEL 'AN OUT OF-BODY EXPERIENCE (BABY BLUES & TATTOOS II)' HERE!

[saturnsmirrorball]

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐂. send in a character + a scenario for a blurb + 𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗔

ok theseus request!!!!! what about some hurt/comfort, maybe him reacting to you crying? + [ CUP ]:  bringing both hands up to cup the receiver’s face, the sender draws them in closer to them in order to get a better look at their face. (I feel like this prompt fits the scenario perfectly so yeah <3)

𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥, 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗’𝗩𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥

summary: 1.7k

It’d been all his stupid idea, one you vehemently wanted to run away from. One that struck fear up your spine like lightning and sent fire licking at the base of your skull. An idea that, now, led you to be standing outside his old flat’s front door with ice-cold rain sticking your clothes to your skin and hot tears streaming down your cheeks hours after he’d left you reeling in your own flat. 

or the three times theseus asked you to move in with him and the one time you asked.

warnings: implied smut

masterlist | taglist

Moving in with Theseus hadn’t been your idea. It’d been his. Totally, completely, and unarguably his idea. One he’d spent weeks, at this point, convincing you to go through with. An idea you’d initially been so adamant about turning down. But he was nothing if not persistent. 

He’d presented you with a key the first night he’d asked. Just a key, warm from where he’d kept it in his coat pocket pressed tight against his chest over the course of his work day. He’d dug it out of the jacket that had been hastily tossed off to the floor near the side of the bed when you’d nearly jumped his bones after he’d apparated back to his flat. You’d already been home–his home, that is–snuggled up in his bed with a cup of tea and a sleep shirt he’d had since his seventh year. 

“What’s this?” you asked as he’d handed it to you. His hands shook, and he’d been grateful you failed to make a comment on it. 

“A key,” he hummed as you took it. 

“But… Thes, I already have a key to your place?” Your eyebrows knitted across your forehead as your statement quirked into a question. 

“I know,” he said. “My lease comes up in a month and I…”

You brought a hand up to the side of his jaw, urging him to continue as his lips pressed kisses to your palm. 

“I know yours does, too. A week after mine, but I was hoping you’d think about letting it.”

It’s a wonder it hadn’t clicked for you yet. His beautiful, bright girl that amazed him every day, who was making him spell out this question for her, letter by letter, while his heart threatened to give out in his chest. 

“Letting it do what?” you asked. 

“Run out,” he exhaled. Merlin, his lungs felt heavy. 

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” you asked, hand dropping to your side as you sat up fully. You brought the top sheet with you, covering the skin Theseus had spent the last hour and a half marking with his teeth. His eyes burned as he followed your movement and leaned his back against the headboard. 

“I’d been trying to, yes,” he said. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little… I don’t know,” you swallowed, throat dry with a lack of an answer. “Fast?”

“Love, we’ve been together for nearly two years. I thought–”

He’d been cut off with your legs being thrown over the edge of the bed, feet scrambling to hold your body up as your hands reached for the clothes you’d been wearing earlier in the evening. 

“I can’t.” With your eyes screwed shut, you tugged your slip back up over your body and crossed the room to grab the shirt you’d come to his flat in–not the one of his you’d been wearing when he’d come home, a sight that has his jaw aching. It’d taken you a minute longer to find your wand, white knuckling it as you pressed a kiss to your boyfriend’s hairline. You were gone within the minute, with the key left at the foot of the bed.

He hadn’t even had the chance to move from the spot you’d left him in. 

He’d left it alone enough after that, though his heart had ached each time his hand passed over the weight of the key he still kept in his pocket. 

The second time he’d asked–more insinuated, this time–had been at breakfast two weeks later, thankfully, in a less vulnerable state of dress. 

“I saw the flat yesterday,” he said, though his eyebrows were raised with the hint that there was more lingering under that statement than you’d wanted. “Unfurnished, that is. I saw it a couple weeks ago when I bought it and everything, but I saw it for the first time since I’d signed the lease on it yesterday.”

“Theseus.”

“Look, I know. I know.” He drew his fist tight as he inhaled. “I know you think it’s too fast, darling.”

“Then why are you doing this?” you asked. 

You weren’t even sure why you were fighting it this hard at this point anymore. It was all you’d thought about since he’d asked the first time. And you weren’t going to lie, you’d warmed to the idea. Not that you were ready to admit that, apparently.

He brought your hand up to gently lay kisses on your knuckles. “Just come see it with me, yeah?”

You offered him a pointed look. “Don’t have to make any snap decisions,” he assured you. “Even though I’m desperately hoping that you will.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go look at the flat with you,” you said. 

He’d been so eager, the smile he’d given you had been enough to allow him to convince you to stop by the next morning. 

It was a lovely flat, honestly. It had a kitchen large enough to house an island, a bedroom much bigger than you’d been anticipating, and a view that had you fully leaning out the window to get a better look at. And, it was a five minute walk away from your office. A fact Theseus had mentioned thirty seconds into your initial walkthrough. A walkthrough that had unsurprisingly consisted of all the reasons Theseus had picked the place. Or, better worded, all the reasons Theseus thought the place would be a perfect fit for you. For the both of you. 

“The living room’s the perfect size for your couch, you know. I was thinking you’d want to bring it along if you ever ended up here since you spent so long picking it out and everything…”

“Thes, it’s beautiful. It really is,” you said, stepping closer to him as you watched the corners of his lips twitch into a grin. 

He fully bridged the gap then, hands falling to your hips to tug you into his chest. “So?”

“I’ll think about it,” you hummed and he leaned down to kiss you fully. 

“Improvement,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

The next couple days had been a constant barrage of dropped hints. It felt like you’d been suffocated beneath the weight of the question, one that hadn’t been asked in its entirety since that first night. 

He’d been halfway through one of his… less subtle hints when you snapped. All you’d wanted was time. A bit of time. A tiny, miniature, speck of time to organize your thoughts, and he’d given you just short of what you’d needed. 

The key had been dangling from his fingers, for Merlin’s sake, and it took all the strength in your body not to snatch it out of his hands and throw it out the window of your own flat, the one the two of you were currently curled up in. 

“Stop it!” you spat. “I said I would think about it, right. I can’t think about anything with the way you’re keeping this up.”

He stalled, fingers wrapping around the gold key to hide it from view. His jaw snapped closed as your own clenched. 

“I’m sorry, I just…” you sighed. 

“No, I get it. I’ll give you some more time,” he said, a crack of thunder in the distance rumbling overhead as you watched him pull away from you to gather the few belongings he’d brought with him. 

He left with little more than a muttered goodbye as he slipped out the door. Not even a kiss, one you’d been hopeful enough to think would come despite your current situation. 

It’d been all his stupid idea, one you vehemently wanted to run away from. One that struck fear up your spine like lightning and sent fire licking at the base of your skull. An idea that, now, led you to be standing outside his old flat’s front door with ice-cold rain sticking your clothes to your skin and hot tears streaming down your cheeks hours after he’d left you reeling in your own flat. 

You knock on the door with feeble fingers, toes curling in your shoes as your socks meld to the skin of your feet. You wait a minute. Two minutes, nearly three before he throws open the door with only a pair of trousers on. 

“What are you-” he cuts himself off. “My love, are you crying?”

You barely manage out a shake of your head, a piss poor attempt at a lie, as a shiver rumbles through your torso. 

“Come here, come inside,” he steps aside enough to let you in. He shuts the door once you’re inside, immediately tugging you into his chest where the warmth of his skin does wonders to calm the tremors wracking through you. Both of his hands come up to cup your cheeks, drawing your face into his direct gaze no matter how much you want to shove your nose into his neck and hide from his worrying eyes. 

“What is it, darling?” His eyes scan your face as his hands hold the weight of your head up under your jaw. His thumb clears a tear off your cheek before it has the chance to fall. “C’mon, love. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Please let me live with you,” you sniffle, hands coming up to grasp at the waistband of his pants. The way you’re clinging to him feels desperate, like he’d slip away if you managed to let go. 

“What?”

“I’m so sorry I let it go on this long. I’m sorry I ever made you think I don’t want this, want you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” you sob. “Please let me live with you.”

“I thought you wanted-”

“I thought I did, too,” you hiccup, and Theseus has to fight to hide the smile that’s working its way up his face. “But, then I realized what I really wanted was you. This. All of you.”

“You have me. You’ve always had me darling, promise,” he says. “And obviously I want you to live with me… but are you sure?”

You nod. 

“I need to hear you say it, lovely. You’ve kind of been fighting me on this since day one,” he says. “I’m sure,” you say. 

[saturnsmirrorball]

"Not all men."

You're absolutely right. James Potter would never treat me this way.

[saturnsmirrorball]

someone take me there please

in my iMageさんのページ

[saturnsmirrorball]

Night Monkey

18+ EXPLICIT [minors DNI] - Peter Parker/Spider-man fanfic

Words: 7,1k

Pairing: fem!superhero reader x Peter Parker (based on TASM!Peter but flexible)

Summary: Peter Parker takes a trip to Europe, where he encounters (and ruins the day of) an unnamed superhero (reader). Reader then demands help in return but they have to go into hiding together for a few days.

Tags: 18+ explicit, enemies to lovers, smut (if this is what you're here for, it's at the very end), slow burn, nudity, lots of sexual tension, minor violence, corruption (the political kind), misunderstandings, anonymity, cocky Peter, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, mild praise kink, mildly dubious consent, light choking, tied hands, some swearing, some mentions of past trauma, all characters are 18+.

Song it's based on: Shame by InnerCut & mori

[I'm more updated on AO3 than I am here. Check my profile out here. I posted the link to this some time ago, so sorry if you've already come across it!]

Night monkey.

He publicly called you night monkey. Night. Monkey. On live television. With the whole world watching.

What kind of absolute rubbish superhero name is that. Who gave him permission to say it. Why was he talking about you in the first place.

Your first public appearance after being stung by that god forsaken black jellyfish.

It happened about six months ago. It had been just another normal day at the lab. Being a clumsy person in science had always been a struggle, but that particular day you were feeling unwell on top of it. You don’t remember what happened, you were running late, the lab coat got stuck on a chair, you tripped and banged your head against one of the tanks really hard. You opened your eyes, still lying on the floor, just in time to see the crack in the glass spreading. Next thing you know, the jellyfish that had been genetically engineered to remove plastic from the ocean was wrapped around your neck and the pain was unbearable. Your airways had swollen, you thought you were going to die from asphyxia, but then your vision became clear again. By the time your colleagues had run in from the neighbouring labs, you were actually feeling fine and you insisted to everyone that you did not need to go to hospital because the jellyfish was not dangerous. You didn’t know that for sure, actually, but you despised the doctors in the local emergency room and you really did feel fine. In fact, you felt better than you had all day, maybe even all week.

You still took the day off after the incident, mostly to settle everyone else’s nerves. You were surprised to see that by the time you got home, the swelling on your head had disappeared completely and the pain was gone. The red mark on your neck was still there, but it was painless. It actually looked more like a birthmark than a scar.

You were in the shower when things started to get properly weird. Your skin was glowing blue. That was weird enough in itself. But then when you tried to reach for the towel some kind of filament actually flew out of your wrist. From inside your skin.

You knew, rationally, that you should be freaking out. This was all extremely concerning, health wise. But you hadn’t felt this balanced in years. You also felt energised, almost like you could go for a run. That was very unlike you. But you did. And with every step you took it was more and more obvious that your body was undergoing some serious changes. But also, with every step, you felt you were gaining control over said changes. Not even a few hours had passed and you could control the glowing, the filaments (which you’d found out the hard way they stung), the newfound ability to detect and identify chemicals in the environment without need for any equipment, the ability to stay underwater for long periods of time and even the instant regeneration of your cells when injured or in pain.

You’d since become Rome’s silent guardian. You’d done your best, and mostly succeeded, at staying in the shadows, literally and figuratively. Your existence went by mostly unnoticed, other than a few rumours going about. You didn’t want the fame or the recognition or the drama that others enhanced individuals were attracting. You just wanted to do some much-needed good.

That is until, for whatever reason, Spider-man showed up today in Rome.

You were following a corrupt senator, trying to gather enough evidence of his murky businesses with the local drug-dealing elite. You were just off the Piazza Navona when you saw him on top of Neptune’s fountain. Spider-man. The absolute clown of the superhero guild.

That was enough distraction to lose sight of the senator. You cursed under your breath. You hated this job. But you also knew this was the only way of making Rome, even Italy, a better place.

Irritated, you went back to the Piazza and hid behind a street food cart to watch the scene unfold.

Spider-man seemed to be causing a panic, fighting a fish-like creature that emerged from the fountain. You had no intentions of intervening. It was way too exposed and surely the one and only Spider-man could handle it. But then that absolute moron snapped an arm off one of the stone angels and that was crossing the line.

Dressed in your black suit and mask, you’d dashed to the fountain, had a brief struggle with the creature, stung it with your filaments, and handed it to a stunned and speechless Spider-man. You’d then ran to hide in the nearest dark corner. Too late, however. A local TV station had been filming something for the news report nearby and had instantly shared the images with the city and then the world. It was the first time Spider-man had been spotted outside of New York. It was a big deal. You appearing in all the footage was collateral damage, but damage your regenerating cells could not repair.

You’d just entered a café, changed into street clothes, when you saw Spider-man being interviewed on TV.

“Really who we should thank is... Is... That person. I don’t know their name.” He was stammering.

He was being pressured into giving more information about his “assistant” as the reporter called it.

“Assistance is what he’s going to need when I catch him. Moron.” You whispered to yourself.

And that’s when he said it. “The Night Monkey.” In all fairness, it did sound like he was just desperately trying to get away from the journalists. But that was no excuse for coming up with such a horrendous name.

Your mouth is still agape, eyes glued to the screen, when the barista hands you your change and your coffee. She coughs quietly for you to move along. You finally react and practically run out of the café.

It’s just your luck that you run straight into someone walking past in the street, your coffee spilling all over both of you.

You don’t even look up as you exclaim “Look out, idiot”.

You’re trying to assess the damage of  the massive brown stain on your t-shirt. You sigh and crouch to pick up the dropped cup. Next to it, on the ground, you see a backpack, likely belonging to other person.

“Sorry about that” he mutters in a strong north american accent. You stop right there. The backpack fabric is soaked through, like there’s something very wet inside. The proximity to the Piazza. The accent. The rough size and shape of the person...

He reaches down to grab his backpack and the sleeve of his oversized hoodie rides up just enough for you to get the confirmation you need: web-shooters.

You pretend to trip on the pavement edge, falling in his direction and pushing him back against the café’s wall. From this angle, no one inside can see you, and anyone walking past would think you are just a couple doing couple things. But in truth, your arm isn’t around his neck in a close hug, but pressed against it. You keep him close, your face pressed against his cheek. With your other hand, you encircle his wrist and you let a small filament brush against his skin, making him jolt.

You are sure if you could see his face, it would be the definition of confusion, tinted with a shade of panic. He could probably set himself free, but it would be a struggle and it would gather a lot of attention to two clearly gifted individuals so close to the crime scene.

You talk in a hushed but harsh tone, straight into his ear.

“Listen here, you clown. Your little charade back there cost me months of work. I saved your ass at the expense of my anonymity. And you thank me by ridiculing me in front of the entire country, if not the entire world by now. So trust me when I say the best thing you can do right now is leave Rome, leave Italy and keep that pretty mouth of yours shut about anything that might concern me.” He shivers lightly.

You can practically feel the range of emotions. Concern, to confusion, to realisation, to relief, and back to panic. You’re fairly certain he opens his mouth a little, but you don’t let him make a sound. “Have I made myself clear?” As you say those words, you press your arm against his neck a little bit harder, reminding him of his position at this very moment.

He gulps and nods. Not that there’s much else he can do.

“Good. Because if you don’t, that little sting you just felt on your wrist is going to find its way to much more sensitive areas of your exoskeleton.” You turn your arm so your wrist is facing up, and you let a filament rise until it’s right in his line of sight, and uncomfortably close to him.

You don’t wait around any longer. You turn on your heels and make your way swiftly back to where you started, hoping to still find some trace of the politician’s movements.

------

Some hours later, the sun is starting to set and you still haven’t moved from your hiding spot. Wearing your black outfit and mask, perched on the window of an empty building. You know someone is still in the drug lord’s penthouse. You know it is unlikely to be the politician, but you have no other leads at the moment and you’d rather not go home without at least one little victory today.

You check your phone again to see how the issue of your public appearance is doing. It isn’t great. Not only are a lot of people talking about it and sharing the images, they are actually calling you Night Monkey. You want to die.

Movement down in the street brings your attention back to the present. You audibly gasp. Finally, some good news. There are your corrupt politician and the drug lord, clearly intoxicated, coming out of the building. They are being unusually careless, maybe hoping the whole Spider-man and Night Monkey debacle has taken everyone’s attention off the streets for the day. In any case, this is your chance. You take some pictures on your phone.

This is all the hard proof you need for now. You’ll hand these two criminals off to the police, together with the pictures. Within the next 24 hours, while they are in custody, you’ll put together a report with all the intel you’ve been gathering. All of it will be programmed to go public. It isn’t a perfect system, but it does the job, making sure the police aren’t influenced by the far-reaching criminals.

Satisfied with the pictures, you make your way to the street. The two men are saying goodbye, laughing and joking loudly. You let some filaments stretch out of your wrist and make their way to their throats, wrapping around them. It doesn’t take long for them to realise they are in trouble, but the filaments quickly make their throats swell and the only sounds they can make are some struggling grunts. Swiftly, you take out some zip ties to restrain them. However, you suddenly notice they are signalling for help. To whom? It is deserted in this street. But they aren’t looking at someone in the street. Perched on a street lamp, your worst nightmare. Spider-man is looming over you. Not for long, though. Within a few seconds he is standing between you and the two men. One man, actually. In the confusion, the drug lord has slipped away and you just about catch a glimpse of him turning a corner. Damn it. This isn’t ideal, but at least you still have your main target.

“Get out of my way.” You say, sternly.

“You’re hurting people.” Is his only reply.

“Actually, that won’t even scar, I’ve been very gentle. And I assure you the pain he has been causing over the last fifteen years is much worse.”

“Spider-man…” the strained voice of the politician comes from behind him. “Help me. I am Senator Ricci. This woman attacked me.”

“Senator, sir, don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.” Spider-man replies, eyes still glued to you, following your movements.

“Don’t you dare. This man is one of the most corrupt politicians in Italy. He must be stopped. I’ve been following him for months; this is my chance. Do not get in the way or you will regret it.” Your voice has a tinge of desperation. You cannot lose this battle as well.

“It’s always the threats with you…” He doesn’t get to finish, a siren wails at the end of the street. The drug lord must have tipped the police off in an effort to distract the attention off of his probably already moving headquarters.

“I cannot put into words how much I hate you.” You reply as you walk past him. You place a zip-tie on the politician’s wrists, but you have no time for anything else, you have to get out of there. Spider-man seems to think the same thing because he shoots a web up to the nearest street lamp, you start to run but your feet are no longer touching the floor. This can’t be happening. Ten seconds later you’re on a rooftop.

You can hear the politician’s voice some way away, he seems to have fully recovered: “The Night Monkey. The Night Monkey attacked me. She is a criminal. Issue a search warrant right away!”

You feel dizzy all of a sudden, and not about the sudden height. How did today go so wrong. You don’t even have the energy to fight Spider-man, as much as you want to. You drop to your knees, and bury your face in your hands.

“I’m sorry if you were telling the truth. I’m used to a different type of delinquency. More obviously criminal.”

You lift your head slowly. When you speak, your voice comes out weak but your tone is harsh.

“Oh, you’d say that. You’re so hypocritical. Chasing petty thieves. The real criminals are those who stop these people from getting the support they need. Like that man down there, who has been stealing from the health ministry to give it to the city’s drug lords.”

“I…” but you don’t let him finish.

“What are you even doing in Italy? Your American narrow-mindedness has no place here.”

“I was here on holiday. I never realised there’d be someone here already protecting the city. When I saw the creature in the fountain... I was just trying to help, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“I have no interest in the implications of being a public figure. I don’t expect you to understand, you clearly enjoy the fame. With your flashy costume and your PR strategy.”

“You think you are so much better than me.” He sounds angry now.

“Maybe I am.” You snap back.

“Right. Well. I think I’m going to leave the city now. You’ve made it blatantly clear I am unwelcome.”

He raises his arm, webshooter ready. But your filaments wrap around his wrist before he can shoot. He jumps back, rubbing his finger on the stung skin.

“As much as this pains me, you cannot go. That man down there is going to try to frame me for something I haven’t done. And, unfortunately, you’re the only one who can testify in my favour.”

“What makes you think I would ever help you after the way you’ve been treating me?”

“Because it’s what you do.” The answer is so simple, so straight forward, he’s taken aback. You can tell even through the suit.

You take that as an opportunity to explain the plan.

“I always knew this was a possibility. It takes the police three whole days to comb through the city after a search and capture is issued. After that, the surveillance relaxes. We’ll use the time to expose all the intel on the Senator’s misdeeds. Then we'll come forward to the police. You’ll be on your way and I’ll go back to the shadows.”

He's still seemingly speechless.

“You owe me this, after how you’ve messed up everything today. Also I have little doubts the Senator’s story will include you. You’ll need to be incriminated too in case you bring up the company he was keeping this evening.”

“Fine.” His answer comes out curt.

You’re  surprised by his tone. It reminds you of the footage you’ve been seeing recently on international news. The media has desensitised many people and they barely react to violence on screens anymore. But you, who sees and experiences it live every day... Let’s say you can now tell when someone is overdoing it. And Spider-man seemed to be really overdoing it recently. “Friendly neighbourhood Spider-man” is a term you have come to believe must belong in the past. The fights are always going on for too long, the punches are always too hard, the movements too intense. Together with the fact that, most of the times, his “criminals” are just victims of a corrupt system...

Spider-man snaps you back to reality. “Where are we going to stay then?”

“I know a place.”

------

Much to Spider-man’s obvious despair, you walk there. It’s not far anyway. He, however, is clearly not used to such conventional ways of moving about.

You like to call it your “safe-house”. In reality, it’s your uncle’s flat for when he decides to come to the city. Which is not often at all, used as he has gotten to the peacefulness of Tuscany. It’s actually really tiny, more of a studio than an apartment. But it’s cosy and there is always homemade food in the freezer.

“You can sleep on the couch.” You say bluntly.

With that, you disappear into the bedroom, crashing on the bed, exhausted from the day’s events. You don’t even bother taking off the suit.

It’s 3 am when you wake up again, suddenly feeling suffocated and in desperate need for some water. You take off your suit, and put on an old flowery shirt of your uncle’s and some shorts you find in a drawer.

You fully expect Spider-man to be fast asleep. The blanket and a pillow on the couch show signs of having been used, but it’s currently empty. You look around, quietly, suddenly feeling very exposed, although you’re standing in the dark.

You spot him on the balcony. He’s sitting on the ground, looking out over the city lights, his head leaning on the glass door. His suit is pulled down to his waist, his mask discarded on the floor next to the couch. You can’t see his face from where you stand. Good. You can’t see him, he can’t see you. Everyone stays hidden.

His dark hair is messy, sticking out in all directions. The moonlight reflects off his lean back, highlighting every line of every muscle. The sight is somewhat hypnotising...

It takes you a moment to snap out of it. You shake your head as you walk to the kitchen sink and fill a glass. But when you turn to head back to the bedroom, Spider-man is no longer outside where he was sitting.

You look around in a panic but he’s nowhere to be seen. A voice comes from above you. “This is going to be a difficult few days if we’re going to be hiding our faces the whole time.”

He’s attached to the ceiling, but his face is turned to the city lights again.

“I’m sure you’ve done harder things. Like catching that car thief last month. Or the Christmas interview with the Bugle.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he snaps back.

“Shouldn’t you?” you start walking again as you whisper sarcastically “whatever could be keeping the amazing Spider-man up at night...”

You’re reaching for the doorknob when you hear the unmistakeable sound of his web shooter. Your right hand is now stuck to the door, your left still holding the glass. You’re about to let go of it when another web sticks your hand to the glass. You’re no longer able to use your filaments. Unused to the powerlessness, you freeze. Spider-man is behind you in an instant. You don’t turn to look at him, still hoping to preserve your anonymity. His hands lean on the door, at either side of your head, caging you in.

“You’re the most annoying, most insensitive little shit I have ever met in my entire life.”

He moves closer and you instinctively step forward, ending up flush against the door.

“This is the first time you’ve been quiet since you’ve crossed my path.” His right hand moves from the door and takes some of your hair, moving it gently out of your face. “I think I like you like this.” His face is closer now, you can feel his warm breath on your cheek. His hand moves from your hair, slowly, to your face. His fingers rest finally on your lips.

You open your mouth to speak, to make a smart remark, anything really in order to regain some of your dignity. Your breath catches though, as his index and middle fingers slip into your mouth for a split second, just enough time to touch your tongue and retract quickly.

He doesn’t move away. You hear (or maybe you just feel) him putting his fingers into his mouth, his tongue circling them. He finally takes them out with a small pop. He leans close again, this time with his whole body. Pressing you further into the door. “Time to sleep, little Night Monkey. Big day of research tomorrow...” The tone in his words is cryptic, maybe a hint suggestive.

Your hands fall slightly, almost dropping the water, as the webs are removed. You turn, finally free of the haze that had overcome you. You are ready to kick his ass, metaphorically and/or literally. But he’s not in the room. You spot him finally, perched on the balcony railing, looking out at the city once more. There’s that hypnotising feeling again, rising from your belly and up to your chest. You quickly get into the bedroom and slam the door behind you.

Why didn’t you react in time. Why did you freeze. What was that all about? And most importantly, why is your underwear soaking right now...?

------

The next morning, you emerge with your mask on, and the casual clothes you’d found overnight. In one hand, you carry the empty glass, in the other, you’re balancing a laundry basket with the rest of your suit against your hip.

Spider-man is lying on the couch, elbow holding his head up. His mask is on but the suit is still down to his waist. You don’t look his way, embarrassed about last night, silly as it is since you can’t see each other’s faces. Somehow, you feel his gaze burning you. So you head to the kitchen sink to avoid him, and to ensure your voice doesn’t crack when you finally speak.

“I’m going to wash my suit if you want to put yours in as well. You’ll find some clothes in the bedroom.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you hear him walk around. You focus on making some breakfast with whatever you can find in the cupboards.

When he reappears, he’s wearing a colourful striped shirt and some grey sweatpants.

“Interesting fashion choice.” You stifle a giggle.

“Not a lot to choose from. Your boyfriend must be fun, there isn’t a single plain shirt in sight.”

“My uncle is indeed a very fun person. Hence why he doesn’t spend much of his time in Rome.”

“Hm.” Is his only response.

The rest of the day is spent mostly doing the necessary research for the case. The situation is quite tense, but the strictly professional activity leaves little way for things to get too heated, in several senses of the word. A lot of the time, you’re having to explain to him how to go about it. For someone who spends his life defending the law, he seems to know very little about how it works.

When the sun starts to set, you decide to call it a day. You have most of the material you need, but you’re  way too tired to structure it now.

You come out of your shower, wrapped only in a towel. When you go to open the door, through the mirror, you see Spider-man lying on the bed. You put on your mask quickly before he notices you.

“You know, this bed is way more comfortable than the sofa out there. I don’t really see why I have to sleep out there. That’s not very Italian hospitality of you. Especially when I’m the one helping you out.”

“I thought we had already established this was your fault. And that we’d come to a mutually beneficial agreement.” You snap back.

“Still doesn’t explain why you get the nice bed.” His left hand is softly running through the sheets as his speaks. You can’t take your eyes off of it.

“It’s my safehouse. My rules.” You say, but you know your voice doesn’t come out with much conviction.

“Least we could do is share...” He’s almost purring now.

He’s toying with you, you realise. And you need to get back to reality.

“I’d like to not have to wear my mask also throughout the night. Wearing it all day has been exhausting as it is.” You’re back to your normal self. Tone neutral and confident. Maybe a bit too confident, as you get an idea to get some revenge on the games he’s been playing. “Take it off.”

“Excuse me?” he asks incredulously.

“Take the mask off, and you can have the bed.”

Somewhat dramatically, it starts to rain outside, the drops hitting the window with force.

You 100% expect him to make a speech on anonymity or drop the topic altogether and disappear. But to your surprise, the hand that had been travelling through the sheets stops in its tracks, tensing. In fact, his whole arm is tense now. With one swift motion he pulls his hand to the back of his neck and pulls.

Brown hair, messy as it had been at night. Brown eyes, piercing through your soul and burning with a passion that could only be hatred or desire... Or both.

You inhale sharply. He stands and walks towards you, taking his time, distracting himself with the things on the desk in the corner, or with the hat rack hung from the wall.

“You’re such a tease. All day with your silly tasks and your constant bossing. Pretending like you’re anything but weak for me. Like our little encounter last night hasn’t left you curious, desperate even.”

You’re speechless. You know you should just attack him there and then, stop this madness. But what he’s saying is true and you know that if you tried to deny it, the lie would be obvious and bleak.

“Ah, quiet again. Lovely.” He’s close now, his gaze finally landing on your body, travelling up and down it and up again. “Since we’ve met, you’ve been telling me what to do... I’m not used to that. I think it’s time to make it fair and change the dynamic a bit. What do you think?”

He’s now standing right in front of you. His thumb is playing with the edge of your mask. The rest of his fingers wrap around your neck gently but firmly.

“I think you’re delusional.” Your voice comes out surprisingly confident.

He leans close, his mouth brushing your ear as he speaks.

“And I think you’re going to be begging for me before our little lockdown ends.”

“We are leaving tomorrow.”

“I stand by my words.”

And with that, he’s gone. Or so you think. You’re inhaling some much needed air when you hear him speak from the door: “The bed is mine.”

------

The next few hours are spent not much differently than the morning. However, the tension in the air is palpable.

Spider-man is no longer wearing his mask, and he makes no effort to hide the fact that he checks you out at every chance he gets. On the other hand, you have doubled your efforts to make yourself as annoying as possible: telling him how to cook, complaining about the way he sits at the table, asking him to get the light at the other end of the room,...

You’re hoping he’s feeling less and less inclined to try anything else with you. You’ve given up on the having the bed anyway.

You settle into the sofa early, making it obvious you’re not going to socialise anymore this evening. After some lingering in the kitchen, Spider-man makes his way to the bedroom door. The light coming in from the street is outlining his figure, much like last night. He turns his head until you can see his profile perfectly.

“It’s Peter, by the way.”

You say nothing for a few seconds, stunned by this new display of trust. But you finally snap back in a last attempt to be unbearable.

“I don’t need to know your name.”

“Oh, but you will.”

He disappears into the bedroom with a light chuckle.

------

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour. Before that, you’d been turning side to side for another hour. You can’t sleep. You can’t stop thinking about Spider-man, or rather, Peter. He was right, you really want him to fuck you. But you can’t. You have principles. And tomorrow evening you’ll be back in your flat with everything you need to get some release.

Maybe you could listen to some music, that tends to help you when you can’t sleep. You turn to get your headphones. But then you remember. You’re not in the bedroom. There’s no bedside with headphones in the drawer. There is also very little room to turn actually, and you lose your grip as you fall off the sofa.

“Ouch.”

You lie on the floor for a few seconds. Hoping Peter is asleep soundly enough not to have heard that.

You’re desperate now. You need to sleep and music is the only way you can think of achieving that. So you make a risky choice. You’re going to go get them.

You open the door very quietly. Peter is spread out across the bed, practically naked. His toned chest rising up and down with calm regular breaths.

After a few seconds assessing the situation, you decide it’s safe to proceed and, with all the stealth you can manage, you get to the bedside and quietly retrieve your headphones. You stop for a moment before retreating, to stare at Peter’s peaceful face, the beautiful curve of his neck, the hair ruffled as usual.

Fuck. He’s so hot. Your thoughts are spiralling out of control, going over the peculiar events of the last 24 hours. To your despair, you realise that you really want to beg for him right now. You have to get out of here. Now. You turn towards the door again, your hand still lingering on the bedside for balance, given your sudden light-headedness. But you don’t get far. An intense force pulls you from your wrist.

Before you know it, you’re lying on top of him. His eyes are wide open, intently examining your face for the first time, unashamed. You want to run but he’s holding you down with his arms around your waist.

“I told you you’d come begging.”

“Let go of me. I’m not here for you and I am certainly not begging.”

“You have a nice face.” His tone is almost surprised.

The compliment, if you could even call it that, is so ridiculous you laugh out loud in disbelief. “Thanks.” You charge the single word with as much disgust and sarcasm as you can.

“I’m going to enjoy seeing it contort in pleasure when I fuck you up.”

“Will you get that ridiculous idea out of your head already, you stupid clown?”

You have barely finished the sentence when he moves one hand to the back of your head and pushes you down towards him. Inevitably, your lips collide into his. To your despair, you reciprocate instead of using the distraction to hurt him, disappear or at least pretend to not want this. But the problem is you actually want it so bad that every sensible reason and silly excuse melts into nothing during that long first kiss.

You give up fighting. At least for the time being. In fact, you have suddenly become eager. Your hands move up, one up into his hair, the other leaning on his toned chest for support. Your lips moving more urgently by the minute.

His tongue teases your upper lip, and you bite his lower lip in encouragement. The kiss deepens, and your breaths gets heavy, panting into each other.

Peter starts moving his hips, imperceptibly at first, but slowly building up a rhythm. His growing arousal is obvious and the friction against your clit is oh-so welcome. You can’t keep it in any longer and you moan. It’s quiet enough to be missed, but there is no hiding from that stupid Spidey-sense. He stops moving. His tongue retracts from yours and his hips stay very still. After a moment, you both open your eyes to stare at each other. First you read surprise in his gaze, but shortly after it turns into amusement, as he grins against your still touching lips. Amusement leads way to mischief as he swiftly turns both of you around. He’s on top of you now. With a quick flick of his wrist, your hands are stuck to the headboard. You frown, and you go to open your mouth in protest, but he flicks his wrist once more and your mouth is sealed with more of that disgusting web.

He then moves back slightly until he’s  barely on the bed. Looking at you up and down with a stupid smirk on his face.

“Now, now. Finally you’ve come to terms with the inevitable.”

He leans forward again, straddling you and essentially pinning you down in place. He starts undoing the buttons of your shirt, slowly, deliberately.

You try to move but it’s useless. Meanwhile, he continues talking.

“So now that we both know how much you want this...” he pauses from his work on the shirt to trail his hand over your crotch. Your eyelids flutter, your body betraying you and making your desire obvious. “It is time for me to play boss for a bit.”

He moves back and pulls down your shorts and underwear in one single motion. The last two buttons on your shirt leave little to the imagination. You’re essentially naked and on display for him.

He leans forward and, with no warning, licks a single line from your entrance to your clit. It makes you moan again, louder this time, despite being muffled by the webbing.

“Mmh. So wet for me already. You can be such a good girl. Why do you go to such lengths to be an annoying piece of shit?”

His hands are roaming your body now. He ventures into your mostly open shirt, cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples. You jolt in surprise and pleasure. His cock, still covered by his underwear, is grinding against your core.

You’d probably define yourself as desperate right now. Which is exactly what he has been intending. You’re moaning again when he pulls the webbing off your mouth roughly. Your unfocused gaze comes back to fixate on his face. He doesn’t break eye contact, but gets up off the bed. You’re panting now.

“Beg for me.” He says it casually.

You don’t know where the last of your self-respect has been hiding, but it comes out now.

“I don’t beg.” You’re surprised by the conviction in your voice.

“You will beg for me. Or I’ll swing myself out of that window and you’ll never see me again.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Used as he seems to have grown to your tactics, he changes subject momentarily.

“What’s your name, Night Monkey?” the scorn in those last two words is obvious.

“Y/N.” You have little to hide by now. And you can’t think of a smart reply to the obvious insult anyway.

“Well, well, Y/N...” he slings himself to the ceiling, above the bed. “I think it’s a real shame that you’re not willing to collaborate.” He lowers himself head first until he’s hanging upside down just above you. His lips get dangerously close to yours, but they don’t touch. He lingers, moving slightly, readjusting, breathing slowly. “We could be having such a great time...” You can’t see his hand with his face blocking most of your field of vision, so it comes as a surprise when two of his fingers caress your clit. It’s almost imperceptible, the lightest touch you’ve ever experienced. Delicate. Teasing. “... If you’d just...” his fingers flick over your opening. “...beg.”

You stare at him. You’re losing your head. He smirks, as he brings his hand to his mouth and licks his two fingers. His tongue circles around for far longer than is necessary.

You can’t take it anymore.

“Please.” It comes out as a whisper.

Peter’s eyes darken. But he doesn’t give in so easily.

“I didn’t catch that, love, can you say it again?”

“Please, Peter...”

“Hmm, I told you you’d need to know my name. I like how it sounds from your lips.”

He jumps off the ceiling and kneels on the bed, far enough that you couldn’t touch him even if you could use your arms.

“Please, what?”

“Please, fuck me, Peter.”

“That sounds a lot better.” He leans closer. “But I think I deserve a little more after the hell you’ve put me through over the last two days.” His hand is running up your leg. His lips are travelling from your chest up to the base of your neck. You think you’ll pass out from the anticipation.

“I beg you, Peter. Fuck me. Fuck me up. I can’t take it anymore. I need your dick inside of me.” You realise you’re making little sense but you don’t care.

“Now we’re talking.” He replies, casually. He takes off his underwear and you barely catch a glimpse of his cock before he’s lining it up against your entrance.

“Is this what you want, pretty girl?” he’s whispering against your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“Yes.” Your voice cracks but you still add a whimpering “Please.”

“Good girl.” He whispers and pushes himself into you at once. He brings his lips to yours, distracting you from the slight pain of him stretching you.

You moan loudly into his mouth and that seems to spark something inside of him because he picks up the pace almost immediately.

His left arm is leaning next to your face and he lifts his hand enough to caress your face and hair. His other hand travels expertly down to your clit, rubbing softly every few thrusts. He could have made you cum already, and you realise he is keeping you on edge on purpose.

“You’re taking it so good for me, Y/N.” The comment sends a wave of pleasure down to your core and you tighten around him, close as ever to your release.

You can’t form a coherent sentence to let him know, but you don’t have to. He picks up on the clue and reacts by slowing down. You whimper in frustration.

“Don’t be upset, pretty girl, there is method in my madness.” He winks and quickly detaches your hands from the headboard but keeping them bound together.

Then, he grabs your shoulders and roughly turns you onto your stomach. He pulls your hips up to meet his. His hand wraps into your hair, lifting you rather painfully until your back is flush against his chest.

“I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.” He murmurs from behind.

He places your stuck hands against your clit, encouraging you to touch yourself. However, he still keeps his hand over yours, making sure the pace you keep is appropriate. With that, he pushes your head back onto the mattress with force.

Finally, he enters you again. The new angle lets him reach deeper inside of you. You all but scream into the mattress as he starts pounding into you with force. His speed starts to pick up quickly. You feel as well as hear his skin slapping onto yours every time he bottoms down inside of you.

“Peter...” You are not sure if you’ve actually said the words out loud, but he still reacts.

“Come on, then, love. Be a good girl and come for me.” He doesn’t falter while you finally reach the precipice. In a lucid split second, you realise the whole situation is insane and embarrassing. But the next thing you feel is your entire body spasming in pleasure and contracting against Peter’s dick. You hadn’t realised how close he was, lost as you were in your own climax. You’ve not even started recovering when he takes your hips roughly, holding you in place. Two, three, four more strokes and he’s right there with you. He’s still moaning gibberish when he lies down on top of you, spent and sated.

“What’s your name again?” He asks, between pants.

“You forgot my name?” You manage, still dazed.

“No, I just want to know if you remember it.” He chuckles into your hair. You can’t help but smile into the pillow.

“Ask me again in a few hours.” You say, yawning.

He gets up, moving away. You look at him through half shut eyes. He’s moving awkwardly, clearly unsure where to go from there. He seems to decide to head to the bedroom door. You reach out and grab his wrist.

You pull him in, not differently to how he had done to you earlier. But the intentions are different. Reading your body language, he wraps your body with his own, cuddling you.

“Tomorrow we’ll forget all of this happened.” You say, dozing off already.

You don’t know if the words he says in reply are real or part of your dream.

“I could never.”

[saturnsmirrorball]

𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

baby fever (multi-chapter, 45k total)

friends with benefits (with feelings), smut

self-preservation (multi-chapter, 30k total)

coworkers to friends with benefits to lovers(?), anxiety, smut

tell me again on a good day (9.3k)

pregnant reader, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut

part two (5.5k)

heavy handed (2.5k)

bassist!remus, hurt/comfort, hugging (?)

mean streak (4.5k)

potter!reader, degradation, smut

my perfect girl (2k)

insecure reader, hurt/comfort, fluff

cruel is the golden rule (1.6k)

suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort

paradise (1.4K)

mental health issues, hurt comfort, fluff

does that answer your question? (3.5k)

professor lupin roleplay, degredation, smut

you’re welcome, sweetness (2.3k)

established relationship, smut

summertime (is meant to fall in love) (4.4k)

friends to friends with benefits to lovers, smut, hurt/comfort

far to fall (7.8k)

best-friends to lovers, smut

[saturnsmirrorball]

girlblogging

[saturnsmirrorball]

this picture is the epitome of perfection

kaykaybrown

[saturnsmirrorball]

♱ dark chocolate hair, dreary sorrow-filled eyes, delicate as a rose petal yet a stare so heartless, shes a dream girl ♱

[saturnsmirrorball]

is this too much to ask for?

[saturnsmirrorball]

italian summer in normal people (2020)

[saturnsmirrorball]

stephen, you can make those moves on me 💋💌

Y/N: I fell-

Stephen: From heaven? Yes you did.

Y/N: No I actually fell-

Stephen: In love with me? It’s because you have good taste.

Y/N: Stephen I think I broke my arm

[saturnsmirrorball]

✿❀✿anya taylor joy ✿❀✿

[saturnsmirrorball]

Dreams, Remus Lupin x Feminine Reader

Your hands trailed down the muscles of his back, while your breathing struggled to remain steady. Your legs were strapped around his bare waist as his thrusts kept a contestant pace.

"Remus" A sigh released from your lust filled mouth.

A low, playful chuckle released from Remus.

"S'good, dove?" He teased, gripping the side of your cheek as he placed a sloppy kiss onto your now aching and swollen lips. A moan running through your throat and directly into Remus' mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes." He chuckled. He depend his thrusts and dropped his head down to kiss behind your ear.

Reacting quickly to his change in pace, a gasp sharply left your throat as your shaking hands jumped to the back of the brunette boys hair. Similar to your own, it was slightly damp with sweat, little pieces sticking to the sides of his face.

You could feel everything building up inside of you rapidly. The sweet smell of both of your individual scents, Remus a comforting smell of cocoa and books, yours the smell of fresh hyacinths and lavenders which left you with a deep rooted euphoric feeling you'd never quite explored before.

You was close, so close. Remus' moves began to become sloppy though still fierce.

"You feel wonderful, dove." Remus breathed, trailing lewd kisses down the middle of your neck to the centre of your chest.

You were far too overwhelmed to reply, the blush on your cheeks radiating a warmness throughout your whole face. As your head tilted, a vivacious moan erupted out from you.

"Rem, I think I'm going to..."

--

"So, you had a dream you were having sex with Moony?" Mary asked, sitting across from you at the dining table.

"Not so loud!" Your voice was hushed, motioning to the group of Marauders who were making their way over to the group of girls.

"This is amazing." Lily giggled with Mary.

"Was he any good?" Marlene asked quietly next to you to your right. She absolutely beamed at your look of utter annoyance.

"Was who any good?" Sirius interrupted from across the table as he and James took a seat next to Lily. He was serving himself food while looking to your fidgeting gaze.

"What?" You asked innocently, feigning confusion while sipping from your goblet in an attempt to hide away.

He smiled schemingly through his food. "Marlene asked if 'he was any good', I'm curious on who 'he' is?"

You knew that you didn't even need to look, though you could feel the presence of Remus beside you, now looking with curiosity.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes squinting in order to look like you were in deep and puzzling thought. "I don't recall that happening?" You protested, shaking your head at Sirius as you began to apply jam to the warm toast in front of you, though your appetite had long disappeared the moment the interrogation began.

"I heard it," James said through a mouthful of food. "You girls heard it, right?" James kept his head down to his food he was preoccupied with but tilted his head towards Lily and Mary to let them know he was talking to the pair.

"I heard it." Mary shrugged. "Did you, Lily?"

Lily looked towards you for a brief moment then back to Mary, a small smile on her face. "I think I heard it. Who was good, Marlene?" Lily asked her, a smirk plastered on all three of the girls' faces.

"I can't remember, who was it, y/n?" Marlene asked, looking at you reciprocating your mock-confusion.

You sat, staring at only Marlene for a moment just blinking before turning back to Sirius.

"There's no 'he' Sirius, though I thank you for the sudden interest in my personal life."

--

Your day was spent avoiding majority of the Marauders, Remus especially. Though plans had already previously been arranged for you and Peter to do your homework together in the common room, so after an hour or so of 'studying' in the library, though it was more of an attempt to hide from the rest of your friends... You began the journey back to the common room.

You had a loose cotton red skirt that settled an inch or two above your knees with a short-sleeved cream blouse.

The growing goosebumps rising on your forearms helped remind you of the knitted sweater you must have left behind in the library. Quickly turning on your heel, you turned back and sped walked to the library again.

Just as you reached the doors, your hand already making it's way to the handle, it opened gently though abruptly from the inside. Flustered, you stepped back swiftly, narrowly avoiding the impact of the tall figure that is suddenly halting in front of you.

"Oh! Y/n, I'm sorry!" Your head jolted up towards the direction of the voice. Remus, who, happened to be holding said sweater.

"I was leaving the library and I saw your sweater, assumed you'd want it back." He grinned, handing the cable-knit back to your. For a fleeting moment, his eyes lingered on your goose bumped arms and then back to you.

"Thankyou." You smiled nervously. You looked around briefly for somewhere to place down the books that were piled on top of your arms in order to put on the sweater, since it had suddenly grown progressively colder in his presence.

"Here," Remus offered, holding his hands out to hold the books. Shakily, you handed them over gratefully, muttering a small thanks. Together, the two of you began to walk in the direction of the Gryffindor common room. As you focused on putting on the cardigan, you opted to not say anything at all. Usually you wouldn't mind the silence between the two of you as it wasn't an uncommon thing. Rather, it was something you both admired in your friendship. Though now wasn't the time, as your dream was greatly plaguing your flight or fight responses; the image of Remus hovering over you lustfully was all you could focus on.

"Are you feeling alright, y/n?"

"I'm alright, yes." Breaking out of your trance, you smiled foolishly, grabbing the books back from him gently. "Why do you ask?"

"You seemed upset at breakfast... Distant, I suppose." He probed slowly. "Was it that boy?" He smiled and nudged your shoulder slightly, causing the goosebumps to reappear on your arms, thankfully, this time covered by the sweater.

"There's no boy." You smiled coyly while shaking your head. Remus stared at you with a smirk. "There isn't!" You laughed in protest.

"Alright, I believe you, y/n." He laughed, holding his hands up in defeat.

As the two of you reached the portrait entrance, Remus stopped subtly. "So no boy?" He asked, still smiling, while you looked anywhere but him, you could feel the burn of his gaze on you, studying your features intently.

You sighed, desperately wanting to erase that conversation from everyones minds, yours included.

"No, there's no boy, Remus."

"That's good." He said, his stare lingering on you for a moment. After a few seconds, he recited the password, walking inside. "Are you coming?" He asked, a smile planted on his face.

#remus x y/n #marauders #harry potter #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders imagine #remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin x reader #the marauders #remus x reader #moony #mauraders #young remus lupin

[saturnsmirrorball]

Midnight Snack, James Potter x Feminine Reader

Your mouth was covered by a large hand in attempt to quieten your giggles.

Behind the safety of the invisibility cloak, you and James stood in the dark hallway as the two of you waited for Professor McGonnagal to pass by them so they could get away.

James held you close as you breathed heavily in anticipation and in response to your mouth being covered. His head was rested in the crook of your neck as you sat cramped in between James legs. You two had volunteered to sneak into the kitchens to get some food for you and your friends. You held the snacks closely to your chest as you watched McGonnagal disappear down the hall.

"Okay, we can go now." James whispered into your ear causing the both of you to stand up and run silently down the halls. Through the excitement of it all, you accidentally dropped one of the snacks.

"Oh, wait!" You exclaimed quietly as you ran back to get it. Unfortunately you had not thought about it clearly, and now you were in the open while James was hidden behind the cloak.

"Y/m, get back!" James whispered urgently.

To your luck, the same woman you had triumphed about getting away from neared the corner and immediately spotted you. You quickly held the snack behind your hand as you plastered on a nervous smile.

"Professor" You nodded.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you supposed to be in bed, Ms. l/n?"

"No, you would be right, Professor." You nodded as you rocked back on your heels.

"Going for a midnight snack." McGonnagal said, you could swear a small glint of a smirk raised on her lips but it was so subtle you forgot about it.

"Oh, oh... this, you mean?" You asked, bringing the snack from behind your back. "I saw it on the ground and I went to return it to the kitchen." You smiled, satisfied with your response.

Your professor took in a short breath and held out her hand. "How kind of you, Ms. l/n. But I shall take it back myself, if you don't mind."

"Of course not." You sighed nervously, giving the snack away.

"Five points from Gryffindor for sneaking around ms. l/n, and another five to you mr. potter." McGonnagal said without batting an eye.

"Potter?" You improvised a look of utter confusion. You tilted your head. "James isn't here, professor."

"Another five points from Gryffindor for thinking me foolish ms. l/n. That will be all, alright? Mr. Potter?"

Slowly, in the corner of your eyes, you saw a hand appear from thin air and give a curt, awkward wave that made you want to giggle.

"Yes, that will be all, professor." You smiled as you quickly walked away, refusing to acknowledge James' floating hand.

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