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selene-ella · 3 months

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" Relics of the Past | III "

Pair: Qimirxfemale!reader

Summary: still unable to face your hidden feelings, Qimir offers you a solution.

Warnings: mdni, slow burn, mind reading(?), improper use of the force, fingering, unprotected piv, sensory deprivation(?) I still don't know how his helmet works like, possible typos.

Notes: excuse my English. That's it.

Part I , Part II Part IV (final)

Word Count: 3.7k

Qimir’s fingers traced the jagged seam of his cortosis helmet, the metal cool against his skin. The helmet had saved his life more times than he could count, but now it lay broken—a reflection of his own fractured existence.

As he worked, the dim light of the lantern cast shadows across the cave’s walls. .Repairing the helmet was a distraction—an attempt to silence the racing thoughts that filled his mind.

Beside him, you stirred in your sleep, caught in the grip of visions. Your murmurs were unintelligible, a language spoken only in dreams. Qimir glanced at you, concern etching lines into his weathered face. The Force had always been unpredictable, but earlier, it felt like a revolt tearing at the fabric of reality.

Your mind remained clouded, the aftermath of opening the Sith holocron. Qimir had asked you if you wanted it—the ancient artifact held power beyond comprehension. It was meant to reveal glimpses of the future, but its whispers had become a cacophony, mingling with your own fears and desires.

And then came the dream—the one that shook you awake, gasping for breath. In it, Qimir stood before you, lightsaber drawn, facing a faceless force being. Its eyes glowed like dying stars, and its intent was clear: to end him. The vision left you trembling, your heart racing.

As you tried to piece together what had transpired, your ears buzzed, and your head spun. The holocron’s influence lingered, a phantom weight on your soul. You remembered Qimir’s offer to help you unlock its secrets, the way he’d guided you through the process. But afterward, everything blurred—a haze of fragmented memories.

Now, as you lay there, puzzled, your gaze shifted to Qimir. His back was to you, hunched over the helmet. The marks left on it told stories of battles fought and lost. Did he sense your wakefulness? His focus remained on the helmet, meticulous and unwavering. Was he able to see more of in that short amount of time?

You wondered if he regretted helping you with the holocron. If he knew the cost—the way it had woven itself into your mind, a tapestry of prophecy and emotion. And what of the faceless being? Was it a harbinger of doom or a warning? Qimir’s fate seemed entwined with yours, and the Force whispered secrets neither of you fully understood.

As dawn approached, casting a pale glow through the cave’s entrance, you debated whether to speak. Would Qimir welcome your questions, or would he retreat further into silence? The helmet sat before him, a puzzle waiting to be solved. But perhaps the real puzzle was the connection between you—the one who left to forge her own path—and the man who danced on the edge of darkness.

And so, you watched him, wondering if he sensed your gaze, if he felt the tremors of uncertainty that echoed through your very being. The next steps were unclear—the path veiled by visions and the remnants of a shattered holocron. But one thing remained certain: Qimir held answers, and you were determined to uncover them—even if it meant risking everything.

The cave seemed to hold its breath, cocooning you both in a fragile intimacy. Qimir’s hands—once skillfully repairing the helmet—now hung still, forgotten tools resting on the crate. His hair, dark and unruly, fell across his forehead, framing the edges of his face. You watched him, as if drawn to him by an invisible thread.

Your gaze dipped, tracing the movements of his body. There it was—the scar that marred his lower back, a testament of his first betrayal. As he lifted his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, the scar peeked out, a raw reminder of how those who are the closest, can hurt you the most. You wondered how many nights he’d spent alone, nursing both physical and emotional hurts, after you've left.

Closer now, your breaths mingled in the close space. Inches apart, you reached out—a hand resting on his shoulder, the other finding its place on the small of his back. The scar tissue was rough beneath your fingertips, a map of resilience etched into his skin. He remained still, as if afraid to break the fragile closeness built between you.

The silence spoke volumes—a language of longing and restraint. Qimir didn’t pull away; he allowed your exploration, a silent invitation. Your hand moved upward, tracing the contours of his the scar adorning his back, memorizing each imperfection. His shirt yielded, riding up as your fingers ventured higher. The rest of his skin felt warm and soft and made you wondered if he felt the heat radiating from your palm, if he sensed the ache that mirrored your own.

And then, as if guided by a force beyond reason, your other hand joined the first. You circled both arms around his middle back, your body hovering above his. The cave walls seemed to lean in, conspirators in this clandestine dance. Qimir’s breath hitched—a barely perceptible tremor—as if he, too, craved the closeness.

The helmet lay forgotten.In this moment, it was just you and him.

And so, you held him, your heart echoing the rhythm of his. The whispers of what's to come are still echoing in your mind, indifferent to your vulnerability. But here, in this hidden sanctuary, you dared to touch the edges of something profound—a longing that transcended words, a shared ache that defied fate.

You bent down, your cheek grazing his shoulder, replacing the weight of your hand that of your cheek. The fabric of his shirt coarse against your skin, as your eyes traced along his pulse points.

This intimacy was uncharted territory—a map drawn in stolen moments and shared glances. If something happened—some unspoken confession or desperate kiss—it was always a distraction from sorrows too heavy to bear. For both of you, this closeness was a fragile bridge between survival and surrender.

The dim light of the lantern painted Qimir’s skin in a glimmer. His jaw clenched, and you wondered what battles he fought within.

You let yourself immerse in this feeling—the warmth of him, the salt-scented air. His skin glowed, and you wondered if he felt the same pull.

Qimir’s gaze met yours—a galaxy of uncertainty. But there, in the dim-lit cave, he was pleased with this side of you—the unguarded vulnerability, the ache that mirrored his own. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was enough—a chance for redemption, a reclamation of all the feelings they’d lost.

Remaining silent, his hands searched for yours, joining them as if he wanted to pull you closer. You broke the embrace, one of his hands still gripping your arm, fighting for attention. You shifted, changing your position, and found yourself guided to match his level—seated on his thighs. His curious gaze lifted to you.

His voice, rough and deep, sliced through the silence, laced with anger and desire. “Want to kill me, still?” he asked, his gaze unyielding. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and memories surged. Everything connected to him weakened your resolve. You wanted to sob—to release the weight of it all.

“No,” you managed, your voice a fragile whisper. It was your first word, a denial that held more truth than you cared to admit. He traced the faint red shadows on your skin, and you flinched.

"You know," he began, gaining back your attention " unlike others, I cannot read minds", but he could read guilt—the way it clung to you like a shadow.

His hand moved toward your neck—a threat or a promise, you weren’t sure. Big accusations had been thrown, and now, with clarity returning, you realized you’d projected your guilt onto him. The lines blurred—the boundaries between right and wrong. But he was right about one thing: you’d have to talk.

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted your spiraling thoughts. “We’ll get there.” His other hand reached past you, fingers closing around his helmet. Sternness filled his tone. “Put it on.”

“What? Why?” Confusion colored your question. His demand cryptic.

“You like to push your limits,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Battle with the unknown. Put it on.” His eyes never leaving yours.

And so, you hesitated, torn between fear and curiosity. The helmet sat before you. You wondered if it would reveal truths you weren’t ready to face. But then again, perhaps it was time to embrace the unknown—to confront the guilt that still bound you to him.

"It's gonna be just you and the Force. Nothing from me, or any outside source to cloud your mind" he gently pushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, "trust yourself."

Once the decision was made, the helmet settled over your head, its weight heavy, pulling you into darkness. Thoughts retreated, replaced by a quietude—an emptiness that both unnerved and intrigued. All your senses diminished, as if a veil had been drawn between you and reality.

The Force surged—a river of energy coursing through your veins. Your heartbeat quickened, a counterpoint to your breath, which slowed, muffled by the helmet’s confines. It was as if the very air conspired to keep you breathless.

Tension unravelled. Your body relaxed, surrendering to the heaviness of the Force. You fell back, supported only by Qimir’s workbench—an anchor in this shifting tide. “Qimir…” The name escaped you—a breathless sigh, a plea for understanding.

His arms—strong and unyielding—pulled you closer. The proximity was both intimate and dangerous. You felt the heat of his groin, the magnetic pull that defied reason. His voice—close yet distant—commanded you. “Focus.”

And so, you did. The helmet’s darkness became a canvas—a place where guilt and longing danced. Redemption or damnation? The Force held the answer, and Qimir was your guide.

The air crackled with tension as Qimir's hands moved with

deliberate precision, unraveling the layers that shielded you from his touch. The foreign heat intensified, searing through your veins, and you wondered if it was the forbidden thrill of your yearning for him or the real touch of his fingers that ignited this wildfire within you

All of his focus was on you--the fabric slipping away, revealing skin that trembled under his touch. The imagined caresses you'd conjured in your mind merged seamlessly with the reality of his hands mapping every curve, every hidden desire.

Your top pooled at your feet, forgotten, as Qimir's palms replaced its confines.

His voice, low and intimate, sent shivers down your spine. The room seemed to close in, the air thick with anticipation. His hands, deft and purposeful, worked on your belt.

You had no idea which Qimir was to blame for this pleasure--the one from your fantasies or the one standing right in front of you. The room seemed colder now, and you sensed him shifting.

His breath hovered inches from your heated core, his hands tracing a tantalizing path up and down your body. "Ready to give in?" His voice, low and intimate, accompanied a kiss placed on your inner thigh.

The air crackled with anticipation as you struggled to form a restless “yes.”

“Good,” you heard him murmur, the command a velvet thread weaving through the charged air. You struggled to lift the helmet, your fingers trembling as you carefully placed it on the surface behind you. Qimir remained knelt before you, his gaze intense. “As much as I’d like to have you in that state,” he said, voice low, “I wouldn’t be a fan of hearing muffled moans.”

He straightens himself, his body molding against yours. As your senses return, a newfound confidence surges within you—a desire to assert control, to match his intensity.

"I used to dream about it years ago,” you confessed, “but I never dared to pressure you into anything.” Your slender fingers worked deftly, untying his white shirt. You pushed the fabric away, revealing the contours of his chest—a canvas waiting for your touch.

“Now where were we?” you questioned, your touch both deliberate and gentle as you guided Qimir back to his seated position. The air hummed with anticipation, as you placed your mouth to his.

Qimir’s eyes traced every nuance of your movement. His gaze, intense and unwavering, mapped the contours of your form—the rise and fall of your chest, the delicate curve of your neck. In that charged space between desire and restraint, he drew you closer, his fingers entwining in your hair. The strands yielded to his touch, a cascade of midnight silk slipping through his grasp.

You, too, were not passive. Your breath hitched as you tugged at his hair, unraveling the facade he wore—beneath it all lay vulnerability, a raw ache that mirrored your own. His neckline yielded to your exploration, revealing skin still unmarked by your teeth. The pulse at his throat echoed your own racing heart.

And then, with a hunger that defied reason, you leaned down. His scent enveloped you—a heady blend of leather, sweat.Your lips met the exposed skin, a silent confession etched in the press of flesh. Each kiss was a revelation, a promise whispered across the expanse of his collarbone.

In that stolen instant, you both surrendered. Not to the dark side or the light, but to the desire swirling in the air. And as your lips molded to his skin, you tasted the bittersweet truth: lust was the most dangerous game they played, and yet, it was the only one worth winning.

A trail of kisses ignited along the contours of his chest, each one a whispered promise of desire. And then, as if the force itself conspired, a soft touch slid upward, finding it's trajectory against your inner thigh. The sensation was both fire and ice, a paradox of pleasure and anticipation. Your breath hitched, caught between surrender and resistance.

His dark eyes, twin black holes of need, pierced into yours.

The kiss resumed—filled with hunger and longing. His lips mapped your skin, leaving trails of fire and memory. The holocron’s hum echoed in your veins, a symphony of fate and desire. And as his touch ventured higher, closer to the heart of your vulnerability, you surrendered to his pull.

His touch was a solar flare, searing through the fabric of your resistance. Fingers, calloused and unyielding, found their way into your core—the epicenter of longing and vulnerability. The tightness that welcomed him brining a faint smirk to his face.

You gasped, in mixes of pleasure and surrender. Your body trembled, caught in the gravitational pull of his action. Your existence narrowed to this singular moment.

“Qimir,” you breathed, the syllables a prayer and a plea. Your grip on his arm was desperate, a lifeline in a tempest of sensation.

And then, with the precision of a cosmic clock, his fingers worked on your needy cunt. Their curling motion unraveled you, leaving you gasping for air, for sanity, for something beyond the boundaries of flesh and bone.

You had no time to breathe, eyes fluttering closed, you surrendered to the tidal forces of pleasure.

His fingers retreated all of a sudden— bringing part of your sanity back . The hiss that escaped you was not pain; it was desperation, a plea for more, for everything. And Qimir reveled in your unraveling.

Your gaze shifted toward him. Brows furrowed, you sought answers in the depths of his eyes.

He brought those same fingers to his lips, a siren, and licked them clean. The taste of your arousal lingered—a blend of spice and sweetness. His gaze searching for yours.

“You think,” he murmured, his voice deep “that I’ll let you go with mere fragments of pleasure?” His fingers caught the length of your hair, swirling it around them. “Can I read your mind?” he teased, “No. But your actions,” he pointed at your hand gripping his hip, “they betray you.”

His head tilted, and a mischievous smile curved his lips. He had you where he wanted, drenched in your rawest want. Toying with you was an art form at this point.

“Now,” he murmured, his voice a velvet tremor, “do me a favour.” His hand caressed your face—a touch that could bring you to your knees. “Turn around,” he breathed, his lips grazing your ear, and your years started buzzing. In that whispered command, you surrendered to his demand pulled by the thread of his desire.

You turned, back facing him. His fingers traced a line along your spine, memorizing each spot of your bare skin. "Qimir, please", cave’s walls absorbed your breathy plea, echoing it like a sacred hymn.

“It’s funny,” his voice low, interrupting your thoughts “how you brought me to this state.” His hand gripped your nape, anchoring you. “You fled,” he chanted, “leaving me a prisoner to my own want.”

Guilt swirled within you, a black hole devouring reason. “Always eager to face your trauma,” he said, his words dripping with invitation, “yet avoiding pleasure and desire" the hardness of his arousal pressed against your back.

His touch was teasing your entrance, waiting for you to finally break. “I won’t go further,” he murmured, “unless you tell me what you want.” His fingers danced around your sweet spot, drenched in your early release.

You both loved and hated this game—ot filled you with desire and frustration.

“By the looks of it,” he hummed, his hand palming your cunt “you won’t even be needing my cock.” His palm pressed against your skin.

“For the Force’s sake, Qimir,” you groan, frustration echoing through the cave. “This is torture.” Your words loud.

He pulls you into his embrace, “then,” he murmurs, his lips a comet’s trail against your skin, “what would it be, hm?” His voice is a sweet chant. “Do you want me to fuck you right now, right here?” His breath fans your neck. “Or perhaps,” he continues, “you feel bold enough to show me?”

You turned, your heart racing inside your chest, and took a breath—a gulp of courage. “Qimir,” you began, your voice a quivering, “I—” The words hung in the air, as his chuckle brings back your attention.

“Okay,” you said, “I never dared to go further because—” another stop, “Gosh,” you continued, “I feared your rejection, Qimir.” His name on your lips was heavy this time.

“You were so deep into your head,” you confessed, “about plans and creating your new legacy.” I felt like a threat,” you admitted, “to your grandiose scheme.” Your feelings swirled within you. “I didn’t want,” you paused, “my feelings for you to hold you back.”You hid your face in your palms.

He listened quietly, his finger tracing across your lips once your face peeked out from behind your palms. “What about the jealousy outburst from earlier?” he asked.

“Risking your cover?”

“Hm,” he considered, “understandable.” But there was more. “I wanted someone to teach and make use of,” he continued, his grip on your hips accentuating “Do you think I wanted an acolyte so I can fuck her?” His mocking tone was making you feel stupid.

“Still,” he hummed, his voice light as a breeze, “this is not what I want to hear from you.” His eyes not leaving yours.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “what you want from me.” The words hung in the air.

"Still, this is not what I want to hear from you, your jealouseness. Tell me what you want from me"

He peers into your thoughts:

I want you to strangle the light left with me. I want to break me. I want to consume me until you can only hear me screaming from how good it feels to finally have you pull me apart and leave me aching for more- ...

The realisation hits you.

"That will do do" You hear him say. "You have no idea how long I've imagined being inside of you like this," he admits as he toys with your entrance.

You feel a surge of excitement as he pulls you into his lap, toes curling when you feel him press against you, hard and throbbing.

You lick your lips, whimpers leaving them as he sinks deeper, filling you all the way in, hot breath hitting your face. "How does it feel?" He breaks the silence, "finally having me fill your warm, needy cunt?"

You tighten your legs around him, gripping his shoulders, nails leaving red marks behind, and you hear him speak " no need to tighten up sweet thing" he adjusted your position.

"Who would have thought you feel this good and welcoming" his voice coarse.

Your mind was a blur. His steady thrusts were clouding all of your fields of perception.

" I want to have you filled up, filled up with me, make a mess out of you, and repeat it all over again"

Were you in his mind? Or is he in yours? It didn't matter anyway.

"Feels good right? I want you to let me make you feel good, lose the grip on reality. I'll give you everything"

Your mouth was dry, head fallen back, supported only by Qimir’s hand, arms pulling you back down on him.

You feel a wave shattering inside you. Not pain, but ecstasy. Your legs locked around his hips, chasing your high, a pool of heath soaking your insides.

You feel Qimir’s breath hot against your skin, consciousness falling back down into your body.

His mind, a quiet nebula, observed the aftermath.

"You still have a bit of me left in you" he said, referring to the energy he passed you earlier to aid you with your task.

"I think I have way more than a bit of you left inside me" you laughed while pointing your eyes at the place your bodies connected.

He kissed your shoulder, slowly sliding out of you. "You know- you still have a mark"

You quickly started to inspect your body.

"No" he pulls your attention back to him" it's on your back, near your shoulder blades" he pointed. "Does it feel... like it changed something?" He asks while making his way to the hot pool in the middle of the cave.

"No." , you shrugged, "It's just - there. I don't feel different" you confessed.

"Good" he follows, "then care to join me for a bath, or will try to fit your sticky body back into your clothes?"

He offers you a hand, guiding your steps into the warm water. An urge to have him closer fills you up, and you don't resist it this time. You place your head on his chest, arms pulling him closer.

"I love you, Qimir."

"I know.”

#qimir x reader #the stranger x reader #qimir x you #qimir #the acolyte x reader #the acolyte fanfiction #qimir smut

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thedailyaesthetics · 2 years

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 3 months

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Objects in Motion

Part 3

Alpha! Billy Russo x Omega! Reader

Hey, I hit 4k followers! That's pretty cool, thank you everyone!

Part 1 // Part 2

A snip taken from Le Printemps, by Eugène Bidau

It takes you too long to pick a dress the next morning. There was an issue with all of them, one was too tight around your chest that you could barely breathe, the other had a hole in the sleeve that you hadn’t noticed before.

You'd ended up picking something you hadn't worn in a while- sage green with little flowers on it.

Halfway to the museum, you'd noticed a small stain on the skirt, that had made you frown.

It wouldn't lift with the wet wipe you'd pulled from your bag, and you'd have to settle for hoping he wouldn't see it.

Your stomach flips at the thought of him.

You'd worn a dress in hopes that this was a date- you didn't understand why you wanted it to be a date so badly.

Okay, that wasn't true, you knew you liked him, even though you shouldn't.

It probably wasn't a date, why would he be interested in dating you?

I haven't had a clear thought since, he'd said, you knew the sentiment, wondering, if he was just like every other Alpha, nice at first and then demanding later.

The other Alphas you'd been with- you try not to shudder- they'd been awful, love bombing until you let your guard down, and then getting angry when you tried to deny them something.

The last one had gotten upset that after only knowing him for two weeks, you didn't want to share your heat with him.

The scorn he'd shown you when you reinforced your denial instead of caving, it had made you curl up and never want to see another Alpha again.

This Alpha could be worse, he could be cruel, waiting to get you alone to trick you into something you didn't want because you'd stolen his coat. The thought sent an uncomfortable wave of nausea over you.

You see your seedy reflection in the window, everything moving too fast for you to focus on except your own gaze.

You would not be taken advantage of.

There’s that too much feeling again, everyone is so busy around you as you stand outside the art museum waiting. You see children running past, and dogs, a delighted scream in the distance that makes your chest feel like it’s on fire with the too much of it all.

Why did the world have to be so chaotic? Why couldn’t it be warm and quiet and peaceful with hints of cracked pepper and bergamot-

You blink, realising you’d been thinking about the Alpha again.

Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. To get involved with someone that made you feel this way, like you wanted to give in to his demands. At which point would he ask for too much?

Your shoulders drop, you check the time, quarter to twelve.

You turn to leave.

Someone says your name.

You raise your head to find the Alpha approaching. He’s wearing a beige shirt, with large threads that look almost knitted, paired with black pants and another coat that definitely costs more than you can afford.

Too late, your stomach twists.

You nod your head in greeting.

“Hi,” You acknowledge shyly, “You’re early.”

“Hello, I thought I told you to call me when you got here?”

Your chest squeezes in fright. Was he already making demands?

You keep his gaze, trying to show him a braver you than you were.

“I only just got here.” You challenge, wondering why it was such a big deal.

He nods, raising a hand to push his hair back. You watch him scan the area before letting out a soft breath.

“Sorry, I just didn’t like the idea of you waiting all alone here.”

Was he worried about you?

“I can manage,” You inform him, “I come here all the time.”

He studies you for a moment, looks as though he wants to say something, but decides against it.

“My apologies,” He turns to stand beside you, “Shall we?”

Your stomach flips at his words and you try not to focus on it, or him, and definitely not his smell.

You begin walking.

You try not to touch him, keeping a respectful distance, not wanting to take any part of him he might not be willing to give.

As you walk through the museum’s outdoor park, a lot of people glance your way. Men and women alike, want to steal a look at the man standing beside you. It makes you feel incredibly conscious of yourself, and you feel like the stain on your skirt grows ten times its size in that time.

You wonder if any of their staring has to do with the assumption that you were a mated pair- the thought makes you shiver- the idea that you would be mated to a person that looks like him.

“Cold? Want my coat?” He offers.

You shake your head, not wanting to touch this Alpha’s coats ever again.

“I’m alright, I’m overheating anyway.” You reply, hoping he didn’t ask any follow up questions. Your period would be upon you soon.

“Poor thing.” He soothes.

It almost makes you stumble.

Your eyes widen and you feel a sharp pang in your stomach, his easy comfort swirling in your hindbrain, begging you to curl up with this man in a cozy nest- not a man, you correct yourself, an Alpha.

You’d only walked a few minutes beside him and already you were thinking about bringing him into your nest? Had you gone insane?

You refuse to think about it, focusing on the trees, and the people passing by with dogs on harnesses leading the way-

“Did you grow up in New York?” He asks, his voice breaking into the whirlwind in your head.

You swallow, shaking your head before looking over at him.

Damn- looking at him was a mistake.

You tell him where you grew up on a shaky breath, asking him to reciprocate.

He smiles, calmly responds that he grew up here, bounced around the city a bit. Something about his response, the tone of his voice, tells you that there’s a key part of the story missing.

You don’t pry, knowing better than to ask intrusive questions.

You swallow, smiling at him politely when he looks at you, still trapped in the moment when he offered you his coat.

You catch a group of women with their eyes on William, and when their gaze falls on you, you watch their collective expressions switch from interest to disdain.

You drop your head, finding that maybe the floor is safer to gaze at than your environment.

What were you doing here with him? Why had you done this? You should have just stayed home where you were safer.

“What do you do for work?” He asks next, breaking into the din in your head.

You turn to look at him with wide eyes, unsure as to why he was so interested in you.

“Uh- I’m- I work in customer service… somehow. I have no idea how I ended up there.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, the tone of his voice sounds genuinely curious.

You glance his way, giving him a smile.

“I’m not exactly a person that’s comfortable around people. I like… being alone.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Not really, but it’s better than nothing.” You let out a breath, “Can’t complain.” You finish with a mutter.

“Something else you want to do?”

You shake your head sadly. You couldn’t very well say that you’d rather not work at all- it would look like you were after his money.

You think for a moment, trying to make something up, and falling short.

“Honestly, I don’t know, I guess I haven’t found my calling yet.”

He nods in understanding, and it gives you the opportunity to ask about his line of work.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“I'm in security,” he answers, “I handle asset and individual protection, and I even get contracted by the government occasionally.”

You listen intently, nodding along to his words. You'd already looked him up and had some idea of what he did, but it was interesting to hear it from him.

“That sounds really cool. Is there a lot of danger?”

He grins, and abjectly, you feel as though you've asked something stupid.

“It can get dicey sometimes, yeah, especially with protecting people.”

“Right, yeah, sorry, dumb question.” You mutter, looking down.

“I like your questions.” He says lowly, angling his head in your direction so that you hear him.

Like a fledgling omega, your heart skips a damn beat.

His eyes are very dark, you try not to trip as you get caught up in them, pools of obsidian, pulling you into him.

He gazes right back, the soft look in his eyes fills your head with delight, makes you forget about breathing for a few moments.

It's something so primal inside of you, a whisper in your head that this… this alpha, might be special.

You breathe out a short sigh, inching closer, until you're close enough to breathe him in. You close your eyes, taking a deep, slow breath, bergamot and citrus chasing your anxieties away.

You lean in more, hindbrain in control, desperate for more of his scent, his hand is rough on the back of your neck.

Your nose almost brushes the scent gland on the side of his neck when someone walking past clears their throat loudly.

You jerk, pulling back, brain restarting as absolute horror fills you.

No way did you almost scent a stranger in a public place.

You make a sound of regret, stepping back, his hand slips from your neck, you glance up at him, the scent of desire heavy in the air.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry.” You vocalise, turning away for a second to catch your breath and calm yourself.

“I wasn't stopping you.” He admits, as you continue to breathe.

This was too much, he had too much of an influence on you. His words make your stomach flip.

It was a very good thing, you decided, that you'd chosen a public place. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what would have happened if you'd been alone. You weren't sure if you had the capacity to stop yourself around him.

He had the hidden ability to somehow switch your brain from rationality to instinct. And that, was the most dangerous thing of all.

“I'm sorry,” you say again, trying not to cry from how overwhelming it is to resist him, “If you- if you want to leave I'll understand.”

“Not at all, omega.” He replies almost instantly, “I want this, don't be sorry.” He reaches out to take your hand in his, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on.” He guides, taking a step forward to prompt you into walking again.

He doesn't let go of your hand.

The sandwich shop has an old feel to it, sitting at the center of the park with lots of seating both indoors and out for dining, the little building looks like it was built at least a decade or two ago. The roof is partially made of glass to allow natural light to spill in, blocked by trees all around except in the direct centre where a large amount of light spills in.

When Billy asks to be seated in the coolest spot, you turn to look at him in surprise, your stomach twisting, heart accelerating as you take in his casual dominance of his environment.

Like other Alphas, he knew how to command a room, though, with him, the assertion was more subtext. He was polite, and yet he always seemed to get what he wanted. It was a dangerous mix, and the implications of what that meant for you scared you a little.

“Is here okay?” He asks, turning to you when the woman at the front guides you to a table.

You blink in surprise. No one had ever-

You study the booth with a little frown, finding it a little too bright for your senses and then your eyes drift two tables down to a darker booth before looking back at him shyly.

“That one?” He asks, already moving.

“Yes please.” You say nicely, following him.

It's nice, you never sit in the booths because it's usually just you when you come here, but the seats are soft, and you can tell the velvety upholstery is clean and has recently been redone.

He slides into the seat opposite to you, his knees bumping yours for a second as he gets settled.

You giggle when they bump you again and he mutters an apology.

“Sorry, it's a little small,” you say, “And you're kind of… not.”

He laughs quietly.

“I'm okay, getting in was the hardest part, and it's not too bad.” You feel his legs extend out on either side of yours, taking up space to get comfortable.

You can feel your heart beating forcefully as you watch him scan the little paper menu that had been placed on the table before you'd been seated. Finding difficulty in figuring out why exactly he'd taken an interest in you.

“S-so,” you murmur, getting his attention, “You didn't have the coat cleaned?”

His eyes darken, a smile pulling on his lips as he recounts the memory in his head.

“I was curious. I'd deleted the video of you taking it- didn't want to cause unnecessary trouble for you- plus I know that omegas occasionally do things on instinct- so when I got it back, wrapped so tightly, I was… just wondering about you a little.”

You swallow nervously.

“And then?”

You feel the molten heat in his gaze as his eyes roam over you.

“And then I smelled the most delicious scent. It made me desperate, made me lose control of my own thoughts for a couple of minutes. The smell of your heat was wonderful, omega. I knew I had to find you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your eyes catch movement of a waitress coming your way.

“Hello, my name is Teresa, I'll be your waitress this evening. Are you ready to order?” She rushes out, smiling politely though you notice that her eyes linger on William for a few moments more.

“We're not ready to order yet,” he says, eyes still locked on you, “Can you come back in five minutes?”

She nods easily, stepping away with a ‘sure thing.’

There's a beat of silence, where you stare down at your menu and read none of the words, head racing with what you know.

“What are you thinking about getting?”

You blink, glancing up at him and then back down to the menu.

“Um, I usually get the turkey on rye, so maybe that.”

“Got any suggestions for me?”

You hum, deep in thought.

“The grilled chicken pesto always smells so delicious, there's some fresh mozzarella in it too. I've never had it, but it's a popular one.”

“You should try it. Mix things up.”

You smile sadly, glancing at the price of the sandwich in question, the fresh mozzarella near triples the price.

“That's okay, I'll stick with my turkey.”

“Don't worry about anything else. If you really want the pesto, get it.”

His eyes are earnest, and you know there's another conversation happening in the subtext of this one. That he was willing to cover the cost, that it was obvious that it was the source of your hesitation.

You swallow, glancing down at the price once again, figuring that one sandwich wouldn't throw him into debt.

A little lump swells in your throat, you wonder if he would expect anything because of this like alphas before. You figure one sandwich did not give him that much leverage over you. You'd done more damage with his coat and he'd overlooked that.

“Okay, I'll have it. What will you get?”

“Steak sandwich.” He answers, with a smile, just as Teresa appears again.

“Ready?” She asks eagerly.

“Why did you pick this table?” He asks, studying you.

You glance over at him, having been distracted by some people walking in.

You're beautiful, he squeezes his fists, fighting himself. He wants to provide for you so badly that it tears at him. He can see how defensive you are, how cautious you act sometimes. He knows that you must have had bad encounters with Alphas to be this wary. He wants to learn you, know you better than he knows himself.

“I have a little sensitivity to light.” You respond, absentmindedly, “I can barely see in direct sunlight.”

He inclines his head, noting for later, to avoid anything that would overwhelm you.

“I'm sorry to hear that, sweetheart, it must be so hard to deal with.”

He feels delight fill his body as you give him a wide eyed look, your omega nature appreciating his sympathy to your plights.

He bites the inside corner of his lip, wanting this sweet, timid omega to be his, very badly.

The urge to have you scent him sharpens, to press your nose to his neck, to have you breathe him in, mix your scents together so that no one would question whether or not you were a mated pair. You'd almost done it earlier, and he hadn't realized how eager he was for it until the moment you'd pulled away.

He had to play his cards right. If he scared you away, he would not get another chance.

You talk a lot, about where you grew up, and the schools you went to, and when he tells you about his childhood, you try not to give him any looks of pity, nodding along, eager to listen to everything he has to tell you.

You want to comfort him though, your hands clenching into fists in your lap because you want to reach over and squeeze his hand and tell him you’re sorry but logically you know that you barely know him.

Except that you feel like you’ve known him a very long time. Your face hurts with the amount you’ve smiled, the unfamiliar expression printed onto your face, where you’re usually shy or frightened.

When he asks about you, you feel a little more comfortable revealing personal information. Describing the details of your job so that he understands your day to day work.

“Does it pay well?”

“You know it doesn't.” You grumble sadly, “I would take up a second job if I could, but companies have this rule about how many hours an omega is allowed to work weekly.” You stop talking, waiting to see what stance he was going to take on this. The entire job market was designed to push omegas into the arms of alphas or betas rich enough to take care of them.

His mouth turns down into a frown.

“They should just pay people liveable wages to begin with. Having a second job would be too much for anyone. At least tell me you get health insurance.”

You make an unsure face.

“For the most part, but there are… big gaps.”

His eyebrows crush together in sympathy.

“You get heat days?”

You nod, taking a few sips of your drink.

“Yeah, they give us three, and I usually have to take two extra sick days because I have longer heats.”

“Wait, they don’t give you days specific to your heat requirements?”

You let out a little awkward laugh.

“No, three heat days, giving more days to some people would be unfair according to them.”

He clicks his tongue, “That must be so hard.” He hums, and something primal sparks inside of you.

Yes, your mind screamed at him, yes alpha, I’m a poor little thing, please soothe me and take care of me and keep me warm and safe and full-

You clear your throat.

“I get by.” You reply.

He shakes his head, deep in thought.

“It’s still not fair.”

You let out a slow sigh when you take your first bite of the sandwich.

Eyes closed, you can't believe what you're tasting, that it could be so delicious.

You do your hardest not to take a second bite before finishing the first, determined to savour it.

Across from you, he makes a low hum when he bites into his, and you fight a smile, stomach fluttering, happy that he likes it.

“Maybe you can find another job?” He suggests between bites.

You blink, shoulders dropping.

“I've been trying, it's just not that easy,” You look down at your sandwich, a touch of sadness fills your chest, “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain.”

“It's okay, I want to hear about it.”

You let out a harsh breath, your stomach turning over.

“Why? Because you smelled my heat and decided I was going to be your omega?” You blink, regretting the words as soon as they come out, drawing back into yourself and waiting for him to get angry.

“I'm sorry,” you say when he doesn't immediately speak, “I shouldn’t have- I'm sorry.” You take a shallow breath, feeling the panic grip you tightly.

“Don't apologize, sweetheart, you didn't do anything wrong.”

You don't meet his eyes, still trying to get control of your fears.

You hear movement, and in your peripherals, you watch him slide out of the booth and to a stand. Oh god, was he leaving? You feel your eyes begin to swell with tears.

You'd done it, successfully chased him away.

Your breath stutters when his plated sandwich slides in beside yours, and finally, you glance up at him.

“May I?” He asks softly, and you automatically comply without thinking, sliding deeper into the booth to give him more space.

He fits himself in, while you grab a napkin to blot at your tears, a little embarrassed now that you realize he wasn't actually leaving.

“S-sorry.” You whisper, trying to apologize for this abundance of emotion. For sure, it would definitely annoy him.

Your breath stutters when you feel the warm press of his palm to your shoulder blade.

“Breathe, omega, everything's alright.”

You suck in a shaky breath, his scent wrapping around you.

He moves slowly in your peripheral, moving his hand to brush the backs of his fingers over your cheek.

You finally look at him when he touches you, the sensation leaving tingles behind.

“One more big breath for me.” He guides, and you obey, feeling your brain respond to his gentleness.

His eyes are warm, chocolate, a feeling of ease settles into the base of your spine.

“When I smelled you on my coat for the first time, I knew I had to find you. But, finally meeting you, and slowly getting to know you, is what makes me want to stay. You're not my omega, and I'm not your alpha… But I'd like to be.”

My alpha?

Your lips part in disbelief, looking into his eyes, feeling hope swell inside of you.

Maybe he would make a good alpha, maybe he would hold you when you were scared, and kiss your cheek every night before falling asleep, maybe he would hold you tightly and talk to you after sex, and not make you feel like a used item to be discarded-

You shudder out a breath.

“I-I'm not interested in finding an alpha right now.” You stutter out, afraid of his response.

His eyes remain kind, though there's something in them that makes you think that he's sad.

“I understand, sweetheart. I won't bring it up again.” He turns, bringing his sandwich up to his mouth to take another bite.

You follow his lead with wide eyes, surprised that this was all he had to say on the subject.

After a few bites, shoulder brushing his arm every now and again, you can't hold back.

“You're not… mad?”

You hear him exhale slowly.

“I don't think I could ever be mad at you, little one. I like you a lot, and I'm willing to… be as patient as you need me to be.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest.

“And what if it never happens? I don't want to give you false hope.”

To your surprise, he laughs, low and sweet. It brings a smile to your face though you don't know the joke.

“I'm going to have hope whether I want to or not. That's the consequence of wanting.”

Want.

“You want… me?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Well, yes, I guess it was, but…” You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head, “I'm sorry, this is so crazy.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why is it crazy?”

“Bec-” You couldn’t say it out loud.

He turns to you, studying you intently for a moment.

“I mean, well, look at me.” You say softly.

He raises his eyebrows.

“You're lovely.” He murmurs.

You can't help the shy smile that it brings to your face.

To no one's surprise, he pays.

You let him, because you were in no position to offer any kind of payment, and he was willing to lose a three thousand dollar coat on a whim.

When he offers you a ride home, you feel comfortable enough with him to accept, looping your arm around his bicep when he extends his elbow for you to take.

The muscle below is firm, and you simmer with delight at the privilege he gives you.

You look around as you walk together, taking in the scenery around, watching as someone throws a frisbee, and a dalmatian runs to catch it.

“I take it you don’t like me, then.” He says, interrupting your thoughts.

“I do.” You blurt so quickly that your brain doesn’t have time to catch up. There’s something aching in your chest at the thought that he was unlikeable to you.

You take a deep breath, smiling sadly.

“That’s the problem. I like you, and that will cloud my judgement. My past experience has made following my heart almost impossible… and alphas…” You swallow, “Alphas can be scary, and they flip so suddenly sometimes,” you let out a sigh, shaking your head, “It's dangerous to trust an alpha.”

“It hurts me to hear you say that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm the one who's sorry. I'm so sorry, and angry that you've had so many bad experiences with alphas. I'm sorry that they made you feel unsafe. I know it doesn't hold much weight right now, but I'd never hurt you.”

You're almost inclined to believe him.

“I guess we'll see.” You say, giving him a meaningful look.

He grins down at you.

“I like the sound of that.”

His car is heavy with his scent. You close your eyes, heart racing, breathing in deep lungfuls, feeling your brain go hazy with it.

Your skin gets hypersensitive, the feel of his leather seats brushing your thighs, the way it feels on your fingertips, makes you drunk in a way you've never felt before.

You don't give him your real address, but one that's a block over so that he doesn't see the hovel you really live in.

It's hard to focus on anything outside of the vehicle, when his engine purrs to life and the sound vibrates your eardrums gently, he makes sure you're buckled in, before starting off.

He doesn't race, takes his time, moves reasonably. It makes you feel safe, settles you. You'd been a little worried he was an aggressive driver, but you had nothing to worry about.

You blink in surprise when he extends his phone to you, unlocked, his hands catching your eye, a work of art you could stare at for hours.

“Pick some music?” He offers.

You nod, fingers brushing his, and you select something soothing, lo-fi, to enjoy.

You get hypnotised by it, the bergamot and notes of citrus, cracked pepper that makes you hum, delighted. If this was what being in his presence was always like, how would you ever leave?

You wanted to press your nose to his neck, breathe him in right from the source, you wanted this scent soaked into your pores until it followed you everywhere. You wanted this smell in your nest, clinging to your things.

You're so needy by the time he pulls over, eyes glassy with want, you notice his hands are gripping his steering tightly.

“Omega,” he says, a slight tremble to his voice, “Do you want to scent me? It'll help you relax.”

It wouldn't. You knew it from the bottom of your heart, scenting him would only make you want him more. But your hindbrain's in control now, and all you do is nod shakily, fumbling to unbuckle your seat belt.

He covers your hands calmly, doing it for you when you struggle too many times. You look at him shyly when you're both free.

He gives you a warm smile, before tilting his head up, exposing his gland to you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a thrumming that fills your head, almost too loud as you lean forward, pressing your face to his neck.

He groans, and you reach to fist his shirt tightly in your hands, taking in a deep breath.

This was your alpha, there was no denying it, no other scent had ever took hold of you the way his did, everything else was rotten in comparison, and you were losing grip of your sanity with each passing moment.

You breathe him in, memorizing it, the extra kick, straight from the source, your hindbrain takes full control in these moments, and you're completely helpless to it.

“Alpha.” You sigh into his neck, and you feel him shudder beneath you.

You tilt your head up, lips brushing his gland, he groans loudly, the sound echoing in your ears, drowning out the thrumming of your heart for just a moment.

“That's it, omega," He guides, "Take what you need.”

You whine, if you really took what you needed, he'd already be at home in your nest, ready to make you his.

You tilt your head higher, and he turns to look at you with heated eyes, your noses brush in the quiet of his car.

Someone walking past catches in your peripheral, and you gasp, reeling back, realising where you were.

“S- sorry.” You say, scrambling away, reaching to unlock the door, stepping out and bolting as fast as your legs can carry you, too afraid to look back at him.

It takes you three orgasms in your bed before you begin thinking again.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #my writings #the punisher #omega!reader #Alpha!Billy Russo #objects in motion

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threepandas · 3 months

Text

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

#threepandas #yandere #yandere otome #yancore #yanblr #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere otome isekai #bad end hidden heir au #i always wanted to explore this dynamic #i have the power therefor you HAVE to let me serve you #isekai #adopted reader #isekai reader #yandere duke #tw sex assault #nothing happened #but Reader-chan is freaked out by being changed while unconscious #tw drugging

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autumnshighlady · 9 months

Text

Yes, sir

Eris x female!reader

part of The Professor Series

summary: you've been trying to impress Dr. Vanserra for weeks, and an opportunity presents itself when he offers you private study sessions ;)

warnings: smut, power dynamic, name calling, oral sex (f receiving), thigh riding, face sitting, fingering, inappropriate use of mirror, tw: Ianthe

word count: 6.7k

request/prompt: Eris would undoubtedly be a history teacher, sarcastic at times and rigid

a/n: i got my degree in medieval history so there's a bit of rambling in this fic about my area of study since Eris is a history professor, figured i spent 4 years researching it so may as well incorporate it into this fic lmao feel free to breeze past the reader's monologue about the study material (or read it if you're interested hehe)

series playlist on Spotify here

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

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“Does anyone know why this manuscript was significant to political theory at the time of its creation?”

A few hands raised around you in the lecture hall, yours included. Political history professor Dr. Eris Vanserra paced slowly across the floor, his amber eyes scanning the rows of students for someone to pick on. His red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, a look that had more than a few of you swooning. His red button up shirt complimented the brown tweed jacket on his shoulders, an outfit that no doubt cost you more than you made in a month. Dr. Vanserra always had the nicest outfits out of all your professors, never coming to class with a thread out of place.

Over the last few weeks, you had come to terms with the fact that you were harbouring an intense crush on him. You couldn’t help it – he spoke with such elegance, explaining the most boring concepts in a way that had you utterly entranced. Frequently, you found yourself staring at his slender hands, which he often gestured with as he spoke. He was a strict professor, who had no patience for any fooling around during class. But his dry jokes were laced with sarcasm, adding to his charming wit. Everyone tried to impress him – Dr. Vanserra was a distant male, often brushing off students in his office hours as if he wanted as little interaction as possible. He never complimented their work either, a simple head nod being the closest anyone has gotten to positive feedback. He was quick to point out what you did wrong, never beating around the bush.

And so you moved your seat from the back of the class to the front, always making sure to be the first student in the door and the last one to leave. It was tough, with other students just as eager to gain a minute of his attention. But you welcomed the challenge, craving to be the one who broke his rigid exterior and get him to show that he at least had a heart. That included always being ready to answer any questions.

Eris’s glowing gaze landed on you, and your heart fluttered. For a moment, you were sure he would call on you to answer the question. But his gaze came as quickly as it left, landing on the blonde female two seats down from you, Ianthe.

“They’re important because they were written by a woman,” Ianthe said proudly, her annoying voice raising three pitches higher than what you knew was her normal voice. “The only one of its time, too. Proof that women in the elite class were learning to read and write just like the men.”

Ianthe proudly lifted her chin up, satisfied with her answer. Dr. Vanserra took a single step towards her, and she crossed her arms together and leaned her elbows on the table, her big eyes wide as she batted her lashes at the professor. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at her lack of subtly, noting how ridiculous she looked trying to push her breasts together to show off her cleavage.

“A weak and shallow take, Ianthe, as per usual.” Eris said, sarcastic disappointment lacing his voice.

You had to cough to conceal your laugh. Ianthe was always trying to suck up to Dr. Vanserra, always humiliating herself along the way yet failing to recognize how foolish she looked.

“Is there anyone who can answer my question with a point that’s actually worth my precious time to listen to?” He continued, surveying the hesitant class.

Your hand shot up once again, and this time the professor’s gaze landed on you. He nodded, his stoic face revealing nothing as he waited for you to make your point.

“It’s the only manuscript we currently possess that’s written by a woman in its time,” You began. “That doesn’t mean it’s the only one to have existed. And the author being our only example of a body of literature written by a woman in its era doesn’t mean all elite women were doing the same. Her husband was a close friend of the emperor’s, acting as one of his closest counsellors. It’s highly likely that her husband’s unusually high status is the reason she was able to read and write.”

Dr. Vanserra nodded. “Carry on.”

You tried to ignore the intensity of his gaze as you scrambled to remember your information. “Well, the manuscript itself gives us insight into the political strife of the realm. Many of our other sources from that era never address the problem because they don’t want the history books to remember the bad times. Not only does she directly address the political issues at hand, but she also inserts herself into the narrative, something no other source from its time does. So while it’s written as a book of advice to her son who’s a political prisoner in an enemy court, it gives us insight into 3 aspects of family in that era: feelings, authority, and consciousness. Which also links back to what we talked about last week regarding the connection between the theme of consciousness within this era’s literature.”

You let out a breath, trying not to shake. The professor continued to stare at you, expressionless, leaving you unsure if your points were completely bogus or not. Finally, Dr. Vanserra dipped his head. “Good.” He said plainly, and Ianthe audibly huffed. “Now speaking of last week’s material…”

Dr. Vanserra continued his lecture, and you felt Ianthe shooting daggers at you with her eyes. But you didn’t care, you were too busy riding the high of your first ever praise from the instructor – anyone’s first ever praise from him, now that you thought of it. You happily scrawled down your notes for the remainder of the period, until the clock struck 9am, indicating class was over.

“I will expect the first draft of your midterm essays in three weeks, do not forget.” Dr. Vanserra said as students began packing up. “It’s going to take me a hundred hours to go through them all, so make them worth the headache it will cause me.”

Students began scurrying out the door, and you were grateful that you had no classes for the rest of the day. You packed up your things more slowly, your books and notepads stacked in an organised pile, just how you liked it. You stepped around the front of your desk and scooped them up in your arms, but quickly collided with a blonde female carrying a very full mug of coffee.

“Oh my goodness!” Ianthe squealed, her voice sweet as honey. “Your notes! I am so sorry hun, let me help you clean that up.”

Anger boiled in your blood, and it took everything in you not to yank her by her blonde hair and drag her face through the spilled mess. “It’s ok,” You forced yourself to say through gritted teeth. “It was an accident.”

“Oopsies!” She chuckled, her blue eyes glittering. “See ya!” She skipped away, miniskirt bouncing with every step. Gods, you hated her.

You looked down at your fallen pile of notes, now drenched in caffeine and completely illegible. Kneeling down, you tried to see if anything was salvageable, but nothing remained. Tears welled in your eyes – weeks of hard work, just gone. You felt your white t-shirt sticking to your chest, now strained with brown.

You hadn’t even noticed Dr. Vanserra approach. His pale, slender hand appeared next to yours, picking up a drenched piece of paper. You looked up, seeing him crouched down in front of you.

“Can any of it be saved?” He asked, her voice still stoic but slightly softer.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak without crying yet.

Dr. Vanserra clucked his tongue. “Unfortunate. You’ve worked very hard on those.”

“Those are all my notes from the last few weeks,” You said quietly, lip wobbling. “Sir… I have nothing to work with for my essay draft now.”

He merely hummed as if deep in thought before grabbing the soaked papers from your hands and standing up. You heard him stride over to the trash bin and lift the lid, tossing the remains of the material inside. His expensive shoes clicked on the floor as he walked back over to you. His hand reached out, coming into your lowered field of view.

You looked up at him through teary eyes, confused.

“Come on, get up.” Dr. Vanserra said, sighing. “She wins if you sit like that, just sulking. So get up and come with me.”

Trying not to tremble, you grabbed his hand. He pulled you up with surprising strength, his hand warm despite the freezing temperature of the room. Wordlessly, he grabbed your bags along with his own, walking out of the lecture hall with long strides. Puzzled, you scrambled to follow, too nervous to say a word. This was the most Dr. Vanserra had ever spoken to you, you didn’t want to risk screwing it up by saying something stupid.

You followed him all the way to his office, shutting the door behind you as you entered the space. Rich tones of red, amber, and green adorned the room, expensive looking furniture and decor scattered everywhere in an organised manner. The office was filled with more candles than you could count, their orange flames flickering gently. Dr. Vanserra set your bags down on one of the chairs before finally speaking.

“Twelve lectures worth of your notes are gone, and you cannot do anything about that.” He said sternly. “So do not cry over it. However, I do not want to see you fall behind and try to redo the notes off of memory alone. You will fail the course if you do so. Therefore, for the next two weeks, we will meet in my office every day at 5pm. Each session we will go over one lecture, and you will redo your notes. We can go slow to ensure you do not miss anything, and you may ask me any questions you need. That will give you only a week to complete your draft, but at least you will not be lacking half the material needed for it. Does this work for you?”

Your jaw went slack. One on one review with the professor? It was the golden ticket you needed to succeed in this course, and you were going to make it count. “Yes, sir, absolutely.” You replied quickly, letting out a breath. “Thank you, Dr. Vanserra, thank you.”

“We are going to be spending a lot of time together over the next two weeks, my dear. You can call me Eris.”

Your heart flipped. “Eris.” You corrected yourself, testing his name on your tongue.

He smirked. “Excellent. Now that we are on a first name basis, I can comfortably tell you that the coffee has rendered your shirt see through.”

The blood drained from your face, and your arms shot from your sides to cover your chest. As luck would have it, you weren’t wearing a bra that day, meaning your nipples were likely visible through the wet white shirt. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.” You stammered, cheeks flushing red.

“It’s quite alright.” Eris strolled towards a small dresser in the corner of the room, opening up the middle drawer and pulling out a cream coloured polo sweater with a v-neck. “Put this on, I won’t have my student walking around campus with her tits in plain sight.”

You blushed deeply, taking the fabric from him. It was the softest thing you’d felt, and smelled strongly of the cologne you frequently caught a whiff of whenever the professor walked by you. The plainness of his words made your brain go haywire, and you stood there dumbly.

“Unless you want to give me a show, I suggest you turn around and change so I can put your shirt in a bag for you to take home.” Eris said, a hint of mischief behind his amber gaze.

You turned around, reaching down and pulling the ruined t-shirt over your head. You shivered, feeling those eyes burning into your bare back as you carefully held your arm out behind you with the shirt balled inside your fist.

Eris took it, and you heard him turn around and walk away, presumably to grab a bag. You quickly pulled the sweater over your head, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach that danced happily at the thought of wearing your professor’s sweater.

“All done.” You said, turning around. “I’ll get this dry cleaned before I give it back.”

The male only shrugged as he tossed your shirt into a spare grocery bag. “Clean it, keep it, shred it, it matters not to me. I have three more identical to that one.”

“Uh, ok.” You muttered. The idea of keeping his sweater felt wrong, but you were secretly thrilled that he suggested it.

Eris took a seat behind his desk, pulling out books from his briefcase. “Now be gone with you, I have research to do. And remember, 5pm tomorrow. Do not be late.”

“I won’t.” You promised, grabbing your bags and making your exit.

Maybe it was a good thing Ianthe spilled her coffee on you.

************************

ONE WEEK LATER

You tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep hours after your study session with Eris. At first, they had been gruelling. Eris would grill you for every answer you gave him, making sure you could confidently back up your claims. Your brain was exhausted by the end of it, but you were happy. Eris had also given you helpful anecdotes that he hadn’t mentioned to the class. You had twice as many notes as before, and they were twice as helpful.

He was different than when he taught in class. More patient, less demanding. He spoke slower, allowing you to catch up if you fell behind. His strict persona was as rigid as ever in class, but you found he was calling on you more and more to answer questions. It delighted you.

At first, you had sat in the chair in front of his desk. But today, the chair was moved beside his. More than once, your leg knocked against his muscular thigh, and you’d murmur an embarrassed apology. Eris never acknowledged it, only smirked before returning to the material at hand. You still felt the tingling sensation on your own thigh from earlier when he gently squeezed it. You had gotten a tough question right, and Eris had reached down and put his hand on your thigh, quickly squeezing it before retreating.

Your face had gone bright red, and there was no way he hadn’t noticed. Just that one simple action had made your core throb with need. It didn’t help that he had begun calling you pet names, such as ‘my dear’ and ‘love’. You drank them up, his silver tongue making the nicknames sound just right. Every time he said them, it went straight to your core.

Studying with your professor had suddenly become incredibly hard.

You rolled over in your bed once more, hoping that perhaps this side of the sheets would finally bring you sleep. But every time you closed your eyes, all you could think about was Eris’s touch on your thigh, and how it would feel if his hand was higher up, right where you had dreamed about it being. You imagined his slender fingers pumping inside you, filthy words falling from his lips like the first snow of winter, red hair falling in your face was his body moulded over top of yours–

“Get it together.” You scolded yourself. “He’s your fucking professor. It was nothing. Stop overthinking.”

But that didn’t stop you from sneaking your hand between your legs in a last ditch effort to ease yourself into sleep.

************************

A few days later, you checked your outfit in the bathroom mirror at 4:55pm before heading to Eris’s office. You hadn’t slept well last night, so you opted for a casual pair of soft, flowing green pants paired with a simple cream coloured button up. You’d be lying to yourself if you claimed you hadn’t deliberately chosen the pants that seemed to be Eris’s favourite shade of green. It was hard to sleep when all you could think about was how close you were going to be sitting to him the next day.

At 5pm on the dot, you opened the door to his office. “Good evening, sir.” You greeted him, locking the door behind you. It was something he insisted on, claiming he didn’t want his other students barging in thinking you were getting special treatment.

“Hello, my dear.” Eris said. “We’re covering lecture 10 today, I assume you brought the material.”

You nodded, setting your bag next to the desk before making your way around to Eris’s side. You paused, noticing something was missing. “Where’s my chair?” You asked.

“Oh, that thing,” Eris tutted, lips drawn into a faint smirk. “I gave it to my brother for the week. His office chair broke, and he has fifty students lined up outside his office every day who need it more than I do.”

Your mouth was dry, unsure of what game he was playing. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

“I think there’s enough room over here for you.” Eris’s voice was velvety and laced with smugness. His brown eyes glowed, like a viper approaching a small creature to make its first strike.

“Oh, do you want me to stand?” You tried hesitantly. No way this was going where you think it was going, right?

“For two hours? I wouldn’t do that to you. Come here.” He beckoned you forward with a come here motion and spread his legs ever so slightly, making your stomach do a somersault. Your body obeyed him without question, stepping forward until Eris grabbed your hand and pulled you down, causing you to fall onto his lap with a yelp. Strong hands gripped your hips, adjusting you so you were perched on his right thing, one leg on each side.

You bit your lip so the whimper that had built in your throat didn’t slip through. Your throbbing core was pressed right into the hard muscle of Eris’s thigh, emitting a heat you were sure he would feel.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” He purred, his lips dangerously close to your ear. His breath was warm, sending shivers down your spine.

You stuttered something incoherent in response, but Eris cut you off casually, reaching forward and opening your book. His knee hiked up a bit, pushing his thigh further into your core. This time, you couldn’t stop the noise you let out.

“Are you alright, love?” Eris asked innocently. You gritted your teeth – he knew what he was doing, and was trying to get a reaction from you. As much as you wanted him, you were stubborn.

Two could play this game.

“Just fine.” You quipped, attempting to keep your composure.

“Wonderful. Let us begin.”

************************

An hour later, your lip had indents on it from your teeth. It was the most torturous study session you’d ever had in your life. It was less than 10 minutes in before Eris took it up a notch. He had rested one hand on your hip, a simple gesture as if to steady you. But his thumb found its way underneath the fabric of your shirt and began to rub small circles above the bone.

The more questions Eris asked you, the closer he leaned into you. His lips began grazing your ear as he spoke, driving you wild. He didn’t sit still either, casually moving his leg from time to time, causing you to slide forward, clit grazing the sinewy muscle.

It was a slow torture.

“You seem distracted.” Eris murmured in your ear, readjusting himself again and sending another wave of pleasure through your core. You couldn’t help it, a quiet moan leaving your mouth as you felt yourself giving up.

He chuckled darkly, sliding the rest of the hand under your shirt fabric and resting it on the skin above your hip bone. “You’ve been working so hard my dear, I can’t have you unfocused.”

The rest of his fingers began tracing lazy, teasing circles against your flesh. You arched into his touch, tears from the lack of stimulation to your cunt threatening to form in your eyes if he didn’t touch you soon.

“Please.” You murmured quietly.

“Please what?” Eris asked, feigning cluelessness but letting his teeth scrape the shell of your ear. “If you need something from me, you need only ask. And I will be happy to oblige.”

The bastard was really going to make you admit it. He knew what he had been doing for the past hour, teasing you subtly to the point where you’d beg for more. Your earlier determination was gone, replaced by a pathetic neediness for his touch.

“Touch me, please.” You whined, not caring how weak you sounded.

Eris paused for a second. “No.”

Your eyes shot open in surprise. If this was some sick game to humiliate you, you were going to kill him. “What do you mean–”

“You know what you want to do right now,” He cut you off, his voice low. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at my thighs for the past few days. This is your chance to take what you want, sweetheart. Only once you grind yourself into my thigh to show me how desperate you are for me, will I finally touch you.”

Humiliation burned through you. No matter how stubborn you were, it was no match for Eris’s. There was no way you’d be able to convince him to put his hands on you without first doing what he asked.

You leaned forward, placing your hands on his knee for support as your clit finally made contact with his thigh. You began rocking your hips, moaning at the relief it brought you.

“Come on, I know you can give me more than that.” Eris remarked from behind you.

You groaned and ground your hips harder into his thigh, pleasure intensifying. You swivelled your hips back and forth and in circular motions, trying to find a path to the release you had been craving.

“Fuck.” You moaned, glancing sideways at the mirror that was propped against the wall adjacent to his desk. The sight nearly made you gasp. Your face was flushed, blissed out as you grinded into Eris’s thigh, a small wet patch having formed on his light brown trousers. Eris was leaning back in his chair, his eyes hungrily drinking in the view from behind of you riding his thigh. His face was dark with want, and his knuckles were white as they gripped the side of the chair.

You continued your motions, grinding into your professor’s thigh in his locked office, coming so close to building that familiar coil in your stomach but never quite getting there.

“Eris…” You moaned.

“Yes, my dear?” Came his reply.

“I need you. Please, sir, I need you to touch me.”

One glance in the mirror and you knew you were victorious. Calling him ‘sir’ seemed to have softened his determination to make you grind into him until you couldn’t take it anymore. “Aw, can you not get yourself off on my thigh without help?” He mocked, stroking your hip again. “You need me that badly, don’t you? You know how unsatisfying it would be to cum without my touch.”

He spun the chair around, lifting your hips with one hand and peeling your pants and underwear off at the same time. The two of you were now facing the mirror, able to take in the sinfulness of the situation in full view. Eris adjusted you on his lap so that you were sitting atop his bulge, legs spread over each of his legs. Your needy cunt was on display, and you leaned back into his solid chest.

“Such a greedy little thing.” Eris said. One of his hands reached down and stroked your clit, while the other wrapped around your other hip and began to tease your entrance. For a second, you thought he was going to cruelly pull away, leaving you high and dry. But moments later he plunged a finger inside you, increasing the speed and pressure on your clit as well.

Your entire body twitched with the sudden wave of pleasure, ten times more intense than anything you had given yourself. Your moan this time was loud, echoing throughout the vast space of the office. His hands worked you in all the right places, confidently finding the perfect pleasure spots as if he had been given a map to your body and spent years studying it.

“Is that better?” Eris cooed, running his lips up and down your neck. “Is this what you’ve been fantasising about, being completely at my mercy as I make you feel good?”

“Gods, yes.” You cried out, arching into him.

“There are no gods here to help you, my dear,” He chuckled darkly. “Only me.”

Eris bit down on the juncture between your shoulder and neck, causing you to gasp. But you welcomed the sting of it, sighing as his silver tongue caressed the indents in your skin. Your legs began to tense up, feeling the orgasm you had been so desperately craving building up. The wet squelching sounds of Eris’s fingers on your cunt sang in harmony with your moans, as you watched the scene in the mirror through half-closed eyes.

“That’s it, love.” Eris murmured, sucking your neck just below the curve of your jaw. “Cum all over my hands.”

Your body obeyed, erupting into a burst of flaming pleasure as your orgasm hit you hard. Eris’s fingers continued to work you through your high, intensifying it tenfold. You were a whimpering, twitching mess in your professor’s lap. Finally, he removed his hands from between your legs, giving you a merciful break. You slouched into him, panting.

Your professor had just given you the most intense orgasm of your life.

After a few minutes letting your body recover, Eris picked you up with ease, bridal style in his arms. He settled you both down on the couch, placing his hand on your inner thigh and slowly sliding it back towards your core. You whimpered as his fingers grazed your sensitive slit, causing him to chuckle.

“Oh you poor, sweet thing,” Eris mocked. “You didn’t think that would be it, did you? I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

Your mind reeled as he adjusted himself, laying back flat on the couch and pulling you on top of him. Luckily, you caught yourself with one arm on his chest so you didn’t land flat on his body. Eris’s hand reached behind your neck, grabbing you firmly and pulling your lips into his. You groaned, shifting on top of him so you were straddling his waist to get more comfortable. Eris’s grip was tight, putting you at the mercy of his kiss as his lips consumed your own. You melted into his mouth like butter, sighing as his tongue danced with your own.

His other hand reached down and squeezed your backside, pushing your hips into his crotch and causing you both to moan into each other’s mouths. The noise that emitted from Eris’s lips was the most delightful thing you had ever heard, you decided. It filled you with determination to see what other sounds your professor could make. So you ground your hips into his bulge again, causing him to groan.

“Careful,” He growled, nipping at your lip in warning. “You’re playing with fire here, my dear. Did I say you could grind on my cock like a desperate whore?”

You paused, heat rushing to your core at his filthy words. You’d always loved the sound of Eris’s voice, and hearing him say such sinful things to you brought a fresh wave of arousal.

A hard smack landed on your ass, making you yelp in surprise.

“I asked you a question.” Eris said sternly. “Did I give you permission to grind on my cock, yes or no?”

“No.” You answered sheepishly.

“No is right. Sit up. You’re going to make it up to me.”

You frowned in confusion, but did as you were told, propping yourself up and sitting back down on Eris’s hips, trying to ignore the way his cock dug into your backside. You took a second to admire Eris’s form laying on the luxurious couch beneath you. His red hair was fanned around his face like the morning rays of sunshine, a beautiful contrast with the dark green of the sofa. His expression was relaxed, but calculating as always – angular cheekbones made more prominent in the light of the candles, his amber eyes glowing with desire. It was a sight you wanted to commit to memory forever.

“Remove your shirt, and come ride my face.” Eris said plainly. You baulked, having expected him to tell you to get on your knees and take his cock down your throat. You were supposed to make up for disobeying him by… letting him eat you out? Most males you had been with had been selfish, only going down on you if you sucked them off first. But Eris was different.

“I would suggest you listen and do as I say, unless you want to be bent over my knee and spanked until you cannot walk, and are ordered not to cum for a week.” Eris’s voice was less patient this time, noting your hesitation.

Something dark in his eyes told you he meant it, so you obeyed, unbuttoning your shirt and pulling it off your shoulders, followed by your bra. You were now completely naked on top of Eris, who remained fully clothed. Under any other circumstances, you’d have insisted he at least partially undress first. But you knew his patience was wearing thin, and as much as you secretly wouldn’t mind being spanked, the thought of not coming for a week was something you couldn’t do.

You crawled your way up his body, seating a knee on either side of his head. You lifted your hips, core inches from his face. The male was practically salivating beneath you as you gingerly lowered your cunt to skim his lips.

“I thought I told you to sit.” Eris said.

You gawked. “But I don’t want to suffocate–”

Your sentence was interrupted by a frustrated growl from your professor. He gripped your hips firmly and pulled you down hard, seating you fully on his mouth. You cried out as his tongue expertly stroked your folds, flicking your clit as he ate you out with precision that made you weak. Instinctively, one hand came down to grip Eris’s red locks, causing him to moan into your cunt. His hair was soft in your fingers, and you relished in the feeling of it.

You felt Eris’s hands guide your hips back and forth, encouraging you to rock them against his face. Moans left your lips as you obliged, grinding into his face like you had on his thigh. Evidently, this pleased Eris and he groaned, which sent delicious vibrations through your core.

You let your head fall back, shamelessly riding Eris’s mouth as you pulled on his hair. If your grip caused him any pain, he gave no indication of it. Whenever you tried to lift your hips to let him breathe, his grip only tightened and firmly held you in place. It wasn’t long before you climaxed again, letting out a choked cry as your juices covered his face. After catching your breath, letting Eris wipe his face with his fingers before sicking the digits clean, you climbed off of him, collapsing into a sitting position on the couch as Eris sat up next to you. His skilled fingers began undoing the buttons on his shirt, and you hungrily drank in the sight of his bare chest as he pulled the expensive material off.

“You did so well, my dear.” Eris purred. “I think you can cum one more time for me. Ride my cock this time, love, make a pretty mess all over it just like you did with my face. And my fingers… and thigh.”

Your mouth went slack. After two orgasms, you weren’t sure if you could handle a third. But the desire to please him outweighed any reservations you had about your sensitive body, so you reached down and unlaced his breeches, making eye contact as you did so. Eris smirked, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion as you pulled out his long cock and stroked it once. The tip was red and needy, leaking with precum and making your mouth water. You swung your leg over his hips, straddling them. One of your hands reached towards Eris’s cock, grabbing it and lining it up with your entrance. You took a breath, and began to sink down.

You stopped after getting just the tip in, trying to catch your breath. The stretch stung, and you weren’t sure how you were going to fit the rest of it in, especially being so oversensitive still. Eris simply watched with his hands behind his head casually, a smug look on his face. He did not help you, seemingly content to watch you struggle to take his length.

You forced your body to relax, sliding to about halfway down before stopping, moaning dizzily. All of your senses were completely overwhelmed, and you felt so full with only half his cock inside you.

“Aw, are you finding it difficult to take me, love?” Eris mocked. “Maybe you can’t handle it–”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence, for his teasing tone filled you with sheer determination and you slammed yourself down onto him. Eris was cut off in a strangled moan, eyes widening as you impaled your cunt on his cock. The force of it knocked the wind out of you, but you didn’t let it stop you. You swirled your hips, pulling yourself up his length before falling down on him again, bracing your hands on his shoulders for support. Gods, he was so deep inside of you, touching places that made your head spin.

“Fucking hell.” Eris groaned, his voice rough as you slid up and down on his cock at a relentless pace. You twisted and swivelled your hips as you did so, your cunt squeezing his cock at new angles that made your professor gasp. You threw your head back, and Eris took the opportunity to lean forward and wrap his arms around your back, pulling your chest closer to him and taking your breast in his mouth.

The new sensation made you cry out, but you refused to let your pace falter. Eris’s teeth scraped your nipple, sucking harshly before moving to your other breast. His hips began slamming up into you to meet your own, making the coil in your belly tighten.

“Eris…” You whined, tangling your hands in his hair again.

“That’s it, love, say my name,” Eris reached one hand down to roll your clit with his thumb, while the other gripped your throat and squeezed. “Let everyone know who’s fucking you dumb right now. Let them hear you scream for me as your tight little cunt takes my cock.”

You rode him with a vigour you didn’t know you possessed, shamelessly moaning his name over and over again. “Eris… Eris…. Eris!” It was overwhelming, your professor’s cock slamming in and out of you, his hand rolling your clit while the other held you by the throat. You kept your grip on his hair, yanking as you climaxed one last time, the action of your fingers pulling his red locks making Eris cry out too. His hips stuttered as his cum shot through you, your cunt clenching around him as you rode out your own orgasm. It was the most intense out of all the ones you had so far, the warmth of Eris spilling inside you making you dizzy with pleasure.

You leaned forward, dragging your lips up Eris’s throat as he moaned with you clenching around him. He cursed, the slip in his control filling you with pride. His skin tasted like rich autumn spices. You pulled his cock out from inside you and collapsed into his chest, panting. You didn’t realise how exhausted your body was until now. Every cell in you was completely spent, leaving you unable to move. You fought the sleepiness, but the warmth from Eris’s chest was too comforting and darkness overcame you.

************************

A few hours later, you opened your eyes. For a moment, you expected to be in your own bed, the whole thing having been a dream. But you took in your surroundings, realising you were still in Eris’s office. The professor was sitting at his desk, quietly grading. You scrambled upright, the blanket that had been draped across you falling onto your lap.

“I’m so sorry.” You stammered. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Eris looked up at you, smirking. “You have nothing to apologise for. I take pride in your passing out, actually. Means I did my job well, not that there was any doubt based on the noises you made.”

You blushed furiously, but then looked down at your body. You expected to be sweaty and gross from the sex, utterly naked and exposed. But you felt clean, as if you had been wiped down with a wet cloth and then dried. Your old clothes were neatly folded on the ground next to you, and you were dressed in a pair of soft, forest green sweatpants and a white crew neck sweater. They definitely were not Eris’s size. “You keep women’s clothes in your office?” You asked, confused.

“I keep a spare set of attire for all the female students I fuck in here.” Eris’s voice was dry, and you whipped around to stare at him with wide eyes. “That was a joke, my dear. I had them picked out last week. You know, in case Ianthe decided she wanted to spill more coffee on you in the future.”

You snorted, heart fluttering at the surprising thoughtfulness of his actions. While you had hoped he wouldn’t just toss your clothes at you and send you on your way without a word, given the professor’s rigidness it hadn’t been entirely out of the question. “You’re not funny.”

“On the contrary, I am terribly funny.”

“You got these clothes last week, was it really because of Ianthe or was your plan to fuck me all along? Is that why you offered to help me in the first place?”

Eris rolled his amber eyes, giving you a stern look. “No. My offer to help you was, and is, genuine, and with your best academic interests in mind. I may be a prick, but I am not cruel. Fucking you was a delightful bonus, not an expectation.”

His words reassured you. Despite his strict reputation, it seemed Dr. Vanserra had a heart after all. You checked the clock, realising it was almost 9:30pm. “Shit, I have to get home now. My roommate is going to think I fell off the face of the earth.”

You hastily grabbed your things, giving Eris a quick kiss on the mouth before hurrying to the doorway. You had no idea what this meant for the two of you, if it was a one time thing to satisfy both your needs, or something more. Regardless, you didn’t want to think too much about it, content to bask in the aftermath of the best sex you’ve ever had.

“Same time tomorrow.” Eris piped up right before you opened your door. “Don’t be late.”

“Yes sir.” You smirked at the twitch of his face at your words.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yes?”

A sadistic grin crossed Eris’s face. “When you get home, I’m positive you will be reminiscing about the mind blowing orgasms you just had. But you are not to touch yourself until I see you tomorrow night, am I clear? There will be… repercussions, if you disobey me.”

You baulked, embarrassed that he had seen right through you, but nodded anyway. As the door closed behind you, you wondered if you were going to last the next 20 hours without breaking his rule.

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aesthetic2020 · 2 months

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Best Hair Transplant Clinic in Bangalore

Are you struggling with hair loss and looking for a reliable solution? Visit Aesthetic International, the best hair transplant clinic in Bangalore, where our expert team is dedicated to providing effective hair restoration treatments to help you regain a full and natural-looking head of hair.

Why Choose Aesthetic International for Hair Transplants?

Experienced Specialists: Our team of skilled surgeons and technicians specialize in hair transplant procedures, ensuring precision and high-quality results.

Advanced Techniques: We utilize the latest hair transplant technologies, such as Follicular Unit Extraction (FUE), to provide minimally invasive and highly effective treatments.

Personalized Care: Every patient receives a customized treatment plan tailored to their unique needs and hair restoration goals.

Natural Results: Our focus is on achieving natural-looking results that enhance your appearance and boost your confidence.

Hair Transplant In Bangalore

For many Hair represents attractiveness and desirability, both personally and professionally. Studies show that 40% of men show signs of pattern baldness or thinning hair by age 35 and 65% by age 60. While roughly 50% of women will experience hair loss in their lifetime.

There are different causes of hair loss mainly are genetic or hereditary; nutritional deficiency; Lifestyle related; stress (physical or mental); smoking; Lifestyle; Dietary habits and stress are very important causative factors in millennials.

Apart from these there are some skin conditions which are important to be ruled out in cases of hair loss and also some diseases not related to skin can also cause hair loss. Which requires medical treatment than hair transplant.

Your surgeon will guide you properly if you are a candidate for hair transplant or not as early cases of hair loss can be reversed by medical therapy and on other hand few cases of baldness will not get benefit out of hair transplant. There are few conditions to rule out and type alopecia to be diagnosed for which hair transplant surgeon should assess you clinically.

AM I AN APPROPRIATE CANDIDATE FOR HAIR TRANSPLANT?

Hair Transplant procedure is done if:

• The patient’s hair has thinned considerably over time • You have experienced massive hair fall and balding • You have a receding hairline • You have lost some hair from a burn or scalp injury/scar

BENEFITS

• It can help to restore hair growth in areas where there is little or no hair. • It can help to give the appearance of a fuller head of hair. • It can help to improve self-esteem and confidence. • It can help to give the illusion of a younger appearance. • It is a relatively safe and effective surgical procedure.

ABOUT THE PROCEDURE

Hair transplant is a procedure in which persons own hair are been transposed from one side to the area of baldness so that they can cover the bald area and grow naturally where they are been transposed.

There are two methods for this FUE Follicular unit extraction in which each graft is punched out individually and transplanted to new area

FUT Follicular Unit Transplantation in which strip of skin from back side of the head is cut and each follicle is separated and transplanted in new area.

After transplantation follicles develop their own blood supply from the blood vessels of new area in 5-7 days and once they have their own blood supply they can grow naturally.

Donor area: from where hair grafts are taken are Scalp; Beard and Body hair (chest mainly) they are always taken in such a way that area from where they are taken is also not obviously noticeable.

Following hair transplant it is advisable to undergo medical treatment and regenerative treatment for maintenance of hairs (existing and transplanted).

FUE v/s FUT

FUE: Follicular Unit Extraction: FUE is a minimally invasive hair transplant procedure that involves extracting individual hair follicles from the donor area of the scalp and grafting them into the recipient area. The procedure needs two operations: first, the surgeon harvests the hair follicles from the donor area; second, the surgeon transplants the follicles into the recipient area.

FUE doesn’t leave obvious linear scar on back of the head.

Follicular Unit Transplantation: FUT is a hair transplantation procedure in which a strip of hair-bearing scalp is removed and the individual hairs are then transplanted to the balding area. The first step in FUT is to remove a strip of hair-bearing skin from the back of the head. This strip is typically about 1-2 inches wide and 6-8 inches long. The skin is then dissected into individual follicular units, which are the natural groupings of 1-4 hairs.

The follicular units are then transplanted to the balding area of the head, where they will grow into healthy, permanent hair.

This method leaves a linear scar

RECOVERY AFTER HAIR TRANSPLANT

• Out-patient procedure • You may have some swelling, bruising & discomfort in the first 24-48 hours. This is only temporary and diminishes as the recovery proceeds. • You can start your daily routine work from next day after the surgery and can go for a walk etc. • Avoid sudden movements, lifting weights, etc., for approximately two week. • Do not scratch or touch the transplanted area for at least two weeks • Sleep with your head at an elevation for at least one week post surgery • Avoid Wearing T Shirts • Minimize consuming sugar and salt and drink plenty of fluids • You need to wash your scalp using a gentle shampoo. • It may take three to four days to completely recover from the procedure. • In the month following the procedure, all the transplanted hair falls off. • The hair begins to re-grow after a period of one or two months, at an average rate of 1cm a month. • You would, therefore, be able to truly appreciate the results of the procedure after about 8-10 months. • This hair would be permanent and you can shampoo, cut, style, dye or even color it!

RISKS AND COMPLICATIONS

• Some of the common side effects of a hair transplant procedure include bleeding, infection, swelling, bruising, itching, pain, numbness, and scar. • It is important to discuss these risks with your surgeon before having the procedure so that you can make an informed decision about whether or not it is right for you.

HOW TO CHOOSE A CLINIC FOR HAIR TRANSPLANT?

In todays world of digitalisation and marketing it is very attracting to get a procedure from someone who is not qualified or underqualified to do that procedure.

Only way to avoid this is to see for the doctors qualification – (board certified plastic surgeon) and years of experience in Hair transplant, results and visit surgeon personally to understand if your Hair transplant surgeon understands your need.

WHAT CAN I EXPECT DURING A HAIR TRANSPLANT SURGERY CONSULTATION?

• During your initial consultation, you will meet with the plastic surgeon and staff. • Your previous surgeries, your medical history, medications you are presently taking, and your overall physical and emotional health will be reviewed. • Your hair ,baldness pattern & grade of balding will be evaluated • Photographs may be taken for your medical record. • Your surgeon will determine what you benefit from most and whether or not additional procedures will be necessary for you to achieve your desired results. • Recovery time, risks and limitations associated with surgery will be also be discussed. • The doctor’s patient coordinator will review surgical costs and scheduling with you.

WHAT ARE THE IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO BEFORE HAIR TRANSPLANT SURGERY?

The most important thing about planning your Hair Transplant surgery is to choose the correct qualified Aesthetic plastic surgeon. More specifically, ensure that the chosen surgeon is routinely performing breast lift surgeries.

MEDICATIONS

You must STOP the following medications approximately 2 weeks before surgery – blood thinners such as ecosprin, clopidogrel, warfarin etc, estrogen containing hormones, Vitamin E, ginseng, green tea, gingko balboa, garlic pearls, ayurvedic supplements.

SMOKING

It is imperative that you completely stop smoking for a minimum of 1 week prior to your planned date of surgery as it can significantly increase your risk for anaesthesia as well as delay wound healing and increase your risk for post-surgery complications.

FITNESS

You will be advised a set of routine pre-operative investigations to ensure that you are fit for anaesthesia and surgery.

WHY AESTHETIC INTERNATIONAL®?

Once you have decided to pursue a Hair Transplant surgery , Aesthetic international® stands ready to partner with you during this life decision.

We are dedicated to our patients and open communication is never compromised. The better informed our patients are, the better they are at making their decisions.

We believe in providing the highest patient care and through your assigned patient advisor, you can be sure every consideration is made to ensure your expectations are the same as the final results.

Aesthetic international® has the latest technological advances to ensure your satisfaction with your breast lift. Our plastic surgeon is highly educated and trained in the latest medical advances.

Experience the best in hair restoration at Aesthetic International. Our commitment to excellence and patient satisfaction makes us the preferred choice for those seeking hair transplants in Bangalore.

Visit Aesthetic International - Hair Transplant Treatment to learn more about our services and book your consultation today!

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astroboots · 1 year

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EYEM #12

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel has to face his worst nightmare, again and again.

Word count: 8,600

Content: body horror, violence, angst. please come in prepared.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

Everything is gone.

It's pitch black in here, and it's the only thing he can see in this cramped and confined darkness that's pressing in on him.

There's no air in this congested space. Everything tastes of sulfur and it burns in his lungs. His heart is pounding. Alarm gripping the base of his spine.

He's afraid, but he doesn't even know why. He shouldn't be.

Miguel hasn't been afraid of the dark for a very long time.

With his optical photo-sensitivity, he's more at home here in the twilight than he is in the light.

So why is every inch of him screaming out that something isn’t right?

He moves, trying to make his way forward, but all there is to navigate him is more seemingly infinite darkness.

The only sound in here is a loud beat of a drum that crowds his ears and he can't pinpoint its source. Everything is obscured and he is trapped in this endless eclipse.

There’s no noise that accompanies his footfall in this space. With each step his feet sink into the mire of unsteady ground. If he stops to rest, it would bring him under and swallow him whole. Even a second of delay here is going to cost him.

The thumping noise is still there... It comes harder and faster now, refusing to leave him.

Taking another step, there is something from the dark that tugs at him from behind. It feels like a grip. An unseen hand that he cannot make out in the thick inky shadows trying to grab onto his limbs.

Gritting his teeth, Miguel pushes back against the force holding him, but it’s not letting go. His claws extend, primed for a fight

The loud thrashing beats pulsing in his ears isn't stopping. He knows this panicked rhythm, will never forget it for as long as he lives. It's the sound of your heartbeat as you fell...

He turns in the darkness, and the sight that greets him makes him freeze.

It’s you.

His heart stops.

Your body is wrong, sprawled against the ground, mangled and broken as your arm reaches out trying to clutch at him.

"Don’t go,” you say.

His lungs drop to his stomach. He can’t breathe. Bile floods his throat. He doesn’t understand what is happening.

“Save me,” your voice calls out to him, this time coming somewhere from his left.

He turns towards the second voice to see another you. You are covered in blood. Dried and crusted on your bruised and ruptured skin.

All the fight bleeds out of him. His hands fall limply to his sides.

"Why didn’t you help me?" you repeat.

Your voice echoes in the blank empty space. It ricochets and bounces off the nothingness and returns back to him with a sharp strike to his ribs.

"You promised," you say and the accusation is repeated and threaded into the next, as he hears your voice again, this time from behind him.

"You let me die," a third of you says.

This you is missing an arm. The space where your right eye is supposed to be is hollowed out.

He falls to his knees, but he can’t feel the ground beneath. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to help or how to save you.

He can lift a 25,000 pound bus filled with school children barehanded. Can incapacitate a genetically mutated rhino-man in ten minutes flat. But he doesn’t know how to do this again. He’s already failed once and he is powerless in a way that a man gifted with superstrength shouldn’t be.

What are superpowers good for, if it doesn’t let him protect the one person he needs to.

Your voice is small and you sound terrified as you look up at him with those wide eyes of yours that will haunt him forever. "I don't want to die."

"It hurts," another you says. It's gargled and pained. Like there are bruises inside your throat.

"Please."

“Save me”

The voices come in a chorus. They swarm him in a cacophony of sobbing pleas and angry accusations. He squeezes his eyes tight, trying to hide from the black void but the only thing that greets him is more darkness. There is no escape from this.

A thick tar rises from the ground and covers him in it, sealing off his mouth and nose. It fills his lungs with a cold viscous liquid until he can no longer breathe.

This is going to drown him, collapse his lungs with the weight of it, and there’s a part of him, if he’s being honest to himself, that wants it to. At least that would make it stop.

This grief in his chest that refuses to leave him. The sound of your heartbeat that fills his every waking moment. It would all finally stop... right?

The darkness swallows him whole. But it doesn't end. It never does.

The weight eases from his chest. Instead of an end, he re-emerges through the heavy muck and grime and slimy darkness, and there is nothing.

Everything is white. A blank empty void of space where nothing else exists.

You’re gone. Every single one of you. And that is so much worse.

Panic rises in him and he calls your name. There is no response, only the echo of his own feeble voice.

He calls and he calls until his throat is sore and raw, but there’s nothing here. Slumping down, he shuts his eyes, trying to forget how he has somehow managed to fail you all over again.

Then he hears your voice calling him. Soft and singular from all the rest.

"Miggy."

He opens his eyes again, and all he sees are your familiar eyes. Warm and loving and the only comfort he’s ever known.

“Nena?” he whispers.

He reaches up until you’re within his safe reach. He holds you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing you closely to every inch of him, trying to make sure you’re real.

You’re warm in his arms. Soft and precious. He presses his face into the soft crook of your neck, and you smell like the ridiculously expensive shampoo you get from that hipster store in Tribeca and it makes the homesickness he’s buried deep inside of him all this time crawl up through his chest to the surface.

He will always know you. This you. The you imprinted in his memory for the rest of time. The you that he wakes up every morning missing. The you he misses so much it hurts him to breathe when he thinks of you.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Nena, I’m so–”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, your arm curls around his neck as you pull him down closer to you. “Stay with me here.”

He nods into your neck where he’s buried. Because why would he ever want to be somewhere you’re not?

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to –”

You shush him before he can finish the rest of his sentence. “That doesn’t matter, you don’t have to do that anymore.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, and it tingles pleasantly as you press a soft kiss above his ear. “Just stay with me here. Forget about her.”

Forget?

He freezes in your arms, trying to process your words.

He can’t do that.

Miguel made a promise to you, the other you. The you that is fighting your hardest to survive and live back in New York. The absolutely mad and crazy you that jumped off the Chrysler building and fell from the sky just to lure him out. The you who makes weird sour faces while staring at excel spreadsheets all day long. The you that makes him feel something again. Who makes it feel like everything is going to be okay after all, every time you smile.

He can’t just abandon you.

“No, I can’t. I–I can’t stay here. I still need to protect her,” he murmurs into your skin.

“Stop, Miguel.” The arms around his neck squeezes down around him harder, and to his surprise he can’t get free.

This isn’t right. He tries to move away, gently prying himself off. He needs to save you. Has to help you. Needs to–

“Nena, please, I need to–”

One hard hand cups his jaw, tilting his head until he meets pitched dark eyes he doesn't recognize that are nothing like yours. “You can’t save me, Miggy. You never could. Don’t you understand? It’s your fault I keep dying.”

The voice is cold and unforgiving, and the grip tightens on him until it’s painful.

“You’re just gonna make it worse.”

Sharp nails digs into his forearm until it ruptures the skin. “How many more of me do you have to kill before you stop?”

“I didn’t, I–”

He didn't... right? Is it his fault? Is it–

"Miguel!"

He hears his name. It’s muffled and far away. Like someone is calling him from the outside.

Distracted, he looks up into the void, easing his grip. The warmth and weight pressed against him fades. He looks down to see the outline of a torso and arms crumbling in his arms. The features of your face fading before him into nothingness against the infinite blank white.

No, no. no. Tears and panic wells up in his throat and pushes against the corner of his eyes.

Why does this keep happening? He shouldn’t have let go. Shouldn’t have–

“Miguel, wake up.” It’s soft and familiar and he hears it again. There’s no anger in the voice this time. No pain.

The whiteness fades away back into darkness. It’s warm here, wherever it is.

Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is your face. The warmth of your eyes, the soft curve of your lips.

"You looked like you were having a nightmare again," you say.

You are here right in front of him, real and solid and alive.

He shoots upright in bed, arms reaching out before he can stop himself from grabbing you as he drags you into his arms, clutching you hard to him.

"Miguel–" you yelp.

Too hard, and he knows it, he can hear the small squeak of surprise as your breath is squeezed right out of you.

He’s such an idiot.

He should let you go. At this rate he's going to crush you. He’s a big clumsy oaf that doesn’t know how to handle you carefully, but he can't make himself let go. Can't risk that you'll start to crumble into dust the moment he eases up, or that the universe won't find some way to rip you from him again.

“Are you okay?” you ask breathlessly.

Bile of anxiety pushes against the sides of his throat, but he swallows it down. Forces himself to relax his grip on you and let you out of his arms.

“Yeah,” he answers, but it doesn’t sound anything like his own voice. When has his voice ever sounded that weak? When has it ever trembled like this? Why are his hands shaking?

You observe him with worry, then you reach up, resting one hand on the crown of his head, patting gently. Warmth spreads down to his chest and lingers.

It feels good... nice.

All he wants is to lean in and linger in it.

Instead his mind refuses to let go. A thousands thoughts pushes its way to the front.

How did this happen? Did he fall asleep? He was supposed to watch over you while you slept. How did he end up being the one falling asleep?

"I won't let anything happen to you,” you say. Your hand slide down to cup his cheek, searching for his eyes.

“Anyone messes with you, you let me know. I'll beat them up for you.”

He blinks down at you dumbfounded. The absurd image of you, with balled up fist trying to fight a supervillain flashes before his eyes. Then he bursts into laughter. It's so sudden he surprises even himself and the tremor in his hand stops somehow.

You pull your lips into a soft and playful smile.

“What? You don’t think I can?” you lean in closer to his face, as you continue. “Yeah, maybe you’re right, but I know this spider-guy, he'll beat them up for you. He's really grouchy and mean and he bites.”

The smile on your face is so bright it’s radiant even in this dimly lit room. You’re beaming from it and his heart starts to swell, chest feeling full and warm at the sight of you.

He wishes he could hold onto this moment and make it last forever. You look like a polaroid picture the way you’re bent over in front of him, framed by the window behind you and the pink glow of light around you like a halo.

Pink sky.

His smile freezes. He turns his head to look back at the eerie sky behind you. The fractured cityscape of cracked purple and pink, with its warped gravity and jagged skyscrapers that signals the end of the world. The universe is calling time up and it’s going to try to take you with it.

It wasn’t just a dream.

Shit! He’s not gonna let this happen to you. He can’t lose this. He’s not going to fail you. Not again. Never again.

The smile on your face falters. “Where did you go?” you ask and your eyes track his, trying to re-establish contact. “Did I lose you again?”

He shakes his head, putting on a smile to reassure you.

“I’m fine. Just groggy. Slept too long.” His eyes flicker away from the window, and glances at the clock: 7 A.M. the two of you better get going.

There is no more time to lose. He was never supposed to fall asleep in the first place. He’d only wanted for you to get some sleep last night after the broken sky appeared to calm your nerves. The plan was for you to rest for an hour, max two, while he watched over you, before the two of you would check out of this hotel and be gone for good. He hadn’t counted on his streak of sleepless nights finally catching up to him.

“Go pack, Cielito. We better get going soon.”

You hop onto your feet, shoving the handful of your surviving clothes into your backpack in minutes.

His eyes roam over the hotel suite. As pompous and luxuriously decorated as it is, it’s altogether temporary. It’s just a showroom, nothing in here is lived in. It’s nothing like your tiny cramped little apartment in the Heights that is now just a pile of rubble.

He misses your apartment.

The place you call your home, and in another time and another place, it is near identical to the one he used to come home to every night.

The one with janky second hand furniture you picked up from Craigslist adverts. With a table that has uneven legs that you have to prop up with books so things don’t slide off its tilted surface. Or the surprisingly nice sofa you found on the side of the street one summer which led to the infamous bedbugs wars you so dramatically retell.

In front of him, he sees you stop and scan the room and Miguel knows damned well it’s because you’re considering pilfering any free stuff you can fit inside that tiny bag. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he sees you duck into the bathroom.

Then he can hear the clang and clutter of you shoveling everything that isn’t attached to the wall into the backpack.

Miguel doesn’t have anything to pack. There’s no point, he’s been doing this for years now by himself without hoarding belongings. If he needs clothes or personal hygiene products, Lyla always takes care of it for him. Easier than lugging things around with him from dimension to dimension.

The only thing he’s ever kept is his wedding ring that hangs around his neck.

He eyes the small crumpled up ball of paper, that is your poor attempt at practicing origami, perched on the bedside table.

God, the thing looks messed up and ugly.

Reaching out to pick it up in his palms, he stares at it for a long suspended moment, at its warped folded lines and squashed head. Doesn’t understand how you manage to still be so bad at this even with all the time you spend at it. Origami isn’t hard.

He smiles as he continues to stare at it, before pocketing the sad looking Frankenstein-frog.

It’ll be okay to keep one more thing won’t it? A piece of paper doesn’t weigh much.

From beyond the windows, the sky has cracked open, with a menacing glowing splinter positioned right above the hotel. It’s like a billboard sign, pointing right at your location. It feels purposeful.

“You ready?” you ask, as you pop out of the bathroom with an expectant look on your face. “We better hurry up. We don’t want to stick around when the Avengers come by.”

You say it lightheartedly as a joke, but he can see the unease in your smile, the way your eyes flicker towards the window with traces of fear.

His hands curl into fists at his side against the sheets, and whatever smile was on his face slips away at the sight of you like this.

His fangs itch. Screw the Avengers. They are not going to come close to you. He won’t let them.

"Cielo, it's okay. You have nothing to worry about. If they become a threat to you, I'll take care of them," Miguel says.

You scoff with a small laugh, as you try to zip up the overfull backpack, but the fancy complimentary soaps keep spilling from the top.

"What do you mean "take care" of them? What are you Michael Corleone, what're you going to–" You stop mid sentence.

The playful smile drops from your face. Your hands come to a halt above the flap of your bag, and Miguel watches the realization sink into your eyes.

“No. Don’t be silly,” you say empathetically, shaking your head. “You can’t fight the Avengers.”

“I’ll eliminate them if I have to.”

You drop your bag to the floor, where it lands with a thud and you stare at him in disbelief.

"No. No you're not. We're not killing any Avengers. Jesus! That’s some textbook supervillain shit, Miguel. They’re earth’s mightiest heroes!”

Your fingers wrap around your wrist, fiddling with the smooth surface of the device, as you turn back around and look out over the sky.

"I don’t understand. Why aren’t we just using the watch? You said you were done fixing it. Why do we need to be on the run? I thought that so long as I leave this dimension that will solve everything right?"

A flash of endless white invades his mind. The blank infinite void and your face crumbling underneath his fingers.

Fear grips his spine, and he feels sick at the thought. Has to grind down on his jaw to swallow the bile pressing up against his throat.

"No," he grits out.

"Miguel, what do you mean ‘no’?"

He shakes his head, and his lips itch with irritation, “We can’t use it, Not until we know it’s safe. It’s still untested.”

“Well, yeah? But the only way to test if it works, is to actually use it.”

“Not on you,” he grits out.

“Okay,” you sigh, clearly frustrated with him. “What do you suggest then?”

“We need to test it on someone.”

You tilt your head, brows drawn together in deep thought. “What, like… animal testing? Are we going to find a rabbit or something?”

“No, not a rabbit. Their physiological and genetic make-up is too different. Even if they make it through, it doesn’t give us an indication it’s safe for you. We’d need to test it on someone human.”

Your eyes widen at his answer, and he can see the moment it clicks for you. You take a step back away from him, seemingly without conscious thought, as if some remnant survival instinct is telling you to keep your distance.

“We can’t just grab an innocent person off the street.”

Miguel snaps, veins flashing with heat as his hands curl into fists at his sides, and a blinding white crowds his vision. “You wanna go back to the void!? Is that what you want?”

“No, but what if it doesn’t work? What if they get hurt? Or worse, what if they die and disappear?”

Something cold drips through his chest and he feels strangely numb and devoid of empathy for the thought of those other people.

“Better them than you,” he says.

Your mouth drops with an expression of disbelief as you run up to him.

“No, that’s not right, and you know it! Let’s just use the watch Miguel, we’re running out of time.”

There is a faint phantom sound of a beating pulse burrowed in his brain that won’t stop. He tries to bite down against his teeth to make it stop but it does nothing to mute it.

Fuck, fuck. His head hurts, streaks of white pain lashing against his temple. “We’re not taking any risks,” he grits out.

Something touches his cheek, and the suddenness of it makes him flinch until he realizes it’s you.

You and your soft hand splayed across his face as you tilt him down to meet your gaze.

“The world is literally ending outside because of me. People are going to die if I don’t do this. It’s not up for debate.”

He doesn’t understand.

Why don't you see that none of that is important. That's not where your focus should be. After everything that’s happened. After everything you’ve been through, you need to be prioritizing yourself. It’s the only way you’ll make it out of this alive. Why can’t you see that?

“People are always going to die,” he tells you. “I can’t save them all. But I can save you. You’re the only one I care about.”

Your hand slips from his face and he walks across the room, picking up your discarded backpack from the floor and stretches out his hand towards you.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he says.

You don’t take his hand. Your eyes are glued to the floor, and he can’t read your expression. The jarring beating noise in his head is getting louder now. It aches and threatens to split his skull apart with it.

“I’m not going to leave,” you say, without moving.

A bitter sound crawls out of his throat and it tastes like mud. “I thought you said you wanted to live. You asked me to protect you, remember?”

“I know, but not like this. Not at the expense of other people’s lives.”

God this is ridiculous.

“Let them die! This world would turn on you in a second!” he snaps.

It already did once, and he doesn’t know why you would care about the lives of people who never did the same for you.

You bite down on your lower lip as if gathering courage before you meet his eyes again.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me so far,” you say.

Miguel can feel his own brows draw tight in confusion. You sound so formal and unlike you, like he’s a stranger to you. You’ve never spoken to him like that, even back when he first met you and you didn’t even know him.

“What are you talking about?” he sneers. Some part of him doesn’t want to understand what he’s hearing even as you’re saying the words.

You smile, sad and disingenuous and it breaks his heart all over again, cause he’s seen this smile on you before and it nearly killed him.

“You only promised me three months until the universe collapsed. It’s happening now, so our time is up.”

His heart sinks at your words. So this is how it ends up again huh? You’re not going to let him save you.

He can’t even imagine it. Or rather, he can. Can imagine all too well the myriad of ways you could die. All the ways that he could fail to save you again. Knows he wouldn’t survive holding your broken body in his arms a second time.

“Cielito,” he says quietly, tipping your face up to his with his fingers on your jaw. “Please.”

The unease in your eyes is still there and he has to look away. Drop his own eyes, and just stand there feeling like his chest is caving in and taking the universe with it because…. because….

“I can’t… do this.” The words come out in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose you again”.

“Then let’s use the watch. Now. No test bunnies,” you try again, eyes sparking with something like a glimpse of hope.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he knows you’re doing your best to convince him. Because up until now, everytime you’ve asked him something he’s always said yes.

He's never known how to say no to you.

“You might die.”

You give him a strained smile, as you look up at him and his chest aches at the sight of how sad and scared this one is compared to every other one you’ve thrown his way up until now.

“That’s a risk we’ll just have to take,” you say.

Images of you flash before his eyes, crowding his vision. Of your body, broken and mangled and wrong. Your lip split open and blood trickling down your nose. Of your broken bones and missing eye.

No.

Not this time.

Sadness gives into anger. It burns and simmers in his veins until it roars with an unquenchable flame.

“I’m not gonna let that happen.”

He steps forward towards you and at his advance, you retreat, walking backwards until your back hits the wall. You jolt in surprise at the contact, too focused on him that you’re not paying attention to your surroundings.

You have no survival instincts. You wouldn’t survive two minutes out there alone without him.

“Wait! Wait. Miguel, what are you–”

Your arms raise in self defense to fend him off before he so much as touches you. But it’s no use. It doesn’t matter that you’re using everything in you to try to push him away. Doesn’t matter that you’re summoning every ounce of force against him. It doesn’t make any difference.

He barely exerts any effort, circling one hand around both your wrists, and locks them there against the wall to hold you in place.

If you refuse to let him protect you, he’ll have no other choice but to make you. He parts his mouth, holding you firm against him as he bares your throat to him.

One bite. That’s all it’d take. He could keep you safe while he does what’s necessary, you wouldn’t even know what happened by the time you fully wake. It’d be so simple.

Would be.

But there's a familiar sound that invades his ears. The rhythm of your heart pounding painfully hard and fast. The very same sound that haunts him when he's awake and into his sleep.

He looks down at you, your eyes are wide, brimming with tears. There’s fear there.

You’re scared... of him.

His stomach sinks. This wasn’t supposed to be the way it goes.

He just wanted you safe. Happy. Alive. Why won’t the universe let him keep you alive.

“Miguel, please.” Your voice is small, trembling on the words as you barely get them out. “Don’t do this.”

He stops.

Releasing his hold on you, he lets your hand slide back down against the wall.

Fuck, what was he thinking? What was he doing?

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I–”

He stands in front of you, unsure of what to do or what to say as he gazes down on your frightened expression.

There’s a tremor in your shoulder and the wet sheen of tears threatening to spill from your eyes. All he wants is to draw you into his arms, to hold and comfort you to make it better. But how can he do that when he’s the cause of it.

He keeps his distance, staring down at you. He doesn't know what to do.

"Miguel–" you start.

Before he hears the rest of your sentence, there’s a strange sound that Miguel picks up from a distance breaking his attention.

A low hum of an engine, that makes his entire back tense. It’s the sound of something flying through the air. Not large enough to be another helicopter. But whatever it is, it’s moving at the speed of a fighter jet and approaching your hotel.

Everything in him roars to attention as he tears his eyes towards the window.

There is a small silhouette that grows larger as it approaches in the distance against the broken skyline.

Then it's here.

A plated armor of shiny gold and metallic red that hovers in the middle of the sky against your city view of 62 floors up.

A man covered in alloyed iron from head to toe.

Guess that’s why he calls himself Iron Man. Not very imaginative is he.

Miguel can feel you tense up next to him. Before you have a chance to get any funny ideas (like give yourself up) he puts a hand on your shoulder, cautiously nudging you back to stand behind him. He steps forward until his body blocks you entirely from view.

In front of him, Stark enters through the open balcony door moving forward until he’s standing some 10 feet away from you. It is entirely too close for Miguel’s liking.

There’s a crackle in the air as a distorted voice sounds through the speakers of the armor. “Step away from the lady, Big Blue,” the quippy voice that is unmistakably Stark’s says.

Miguel throws a glance at the Iron Man, the way he’s tracking dirt and scraping his clanky metal feet across your hotel room floors.

“I’ve been told by an old friend that these strange occurrences and the looming end of the world are related to our lovely Disney princess over here. So we’re gonna have to take her in.”

“Miguel,” you start from behind him, nudging at his wrist. “It’s okay, I should–”

He cuts you off. “And what are you planning on doing to her if I did?”

Even behind an expressionless steel mask, Stark averts his gaze. A reflexive gesture of guilt.

Yeah, that’s what Miguel thought.

At least the man has the decency to feel ashamed.

Adrenaline buzzes through Miguel’s veins, and he feels the heady rush of it as he unsheaths his claws, primed for a fight. “You’re not laying a fucking finger on her.”

“Wait,” you shout trying to push your way past him, but Miguel blocks and drags you back behind him.

“Don’t hurt him,” you shout above his shoulder.

Christ!Miguel can’t believe you’re still trying to argue Stark’s case when the man admitted he's planning on executing you.

“We’ve built a device that lets us leave this dimension. Things will go back to normal when I’m gone,” you continue trying desperately to negotiate with the bastard.

Stark shakes his head. He takes another step closer, and Miguel feels fire and brimstone crackle in his chest.

“I’m afraid we’re out of time” Stark says, taking yet another step. “We can’t take the risk. We have no reassurance the universe will just reset when you leave.”

You finally stop struggling against Miguel at those words.

“Sorry, Sparkles. No hard feelings. But it’s you versus the fate of the entire universe. I hope you understand.”

Miguel wants to laugh. He's heard that sentiment before.

There is a hellish whirring sound of an engine gearing up in warning, Stark raises his hand as the reactor in the metal armor goes glaringly bright. Aimed in your direction.

Miguel leaps, grabbing you by the waist with one arm and curling his other behind your head for protection. The first blast hits the wall not two inches from where your face would have been.

He pivots midair, crashing into the nearest wall of glass, making sure his shoulder connects with the window for impact to make your escape. Glass shatters around you both as he leaps from the 62nd floor.

The cold evening air lashes punishingly against his face at the descent. Your arms tighten around his neck, and the two of you fall through the sky, in the way you two have twice before.

Miguel cuts through air and gravity, soaring downwards.

He has to get you out of here. Has to throw them off and lose them.

Something sharp whizzes through his side, with a whiny little noise.

Arrows, he realizes. His fangs practically itch with annoyance.

What kind of idiot brings arrows to a superhero fight?

He tears through the air, intending to dodge them, but an invisible force wraps around his limbs with a punishing force.

The only thing he can see is a thin red fog infiltrating the nearby air surrounding him. Some kind of weird, dark magic. Miguel doesn’t linger on the thought for long.

There’s more of them, the stupid arrows. One after another, all aimed with uncanny precision despite the increasing velocity the two of you are falling with.

Miguel should be able to easily dodge them, but with his restrained mobility he can’t guarantee it wouldn’t leave you exposed. At this angle and trajectory, they’d pierce right through your femur.

Shit! He can't risk it.

Twisting in the air, it’s all Miguel can do to press you closer and cover every exposed inch of you that he can. One arrow pierces right through his ankle, another his side between his sixth and seventh ribs.

Fuck!

Kicking out his feet, against the cladding of the building, he tries to break his fall as best as he can as he sinks his claws into the concrete for leverage to climb upwards.

But he misjudges the angle. Miscalculates the weight. Gets everything wrong.

Sharp pain streaks through his leg as he tries to gain traction one last time, gripping with the claws of his feet. It doesn’t work. He falls.

All he can do is brace your fall with his body so you don’t get hurt.

He lands with a nauseating thud against the hard roof below. Back first, absorbing all the impact, and the white blinding pain spears through the length of his entire spine.

Fuck, everything hurts.

He tries to get up, but his shoulder is fucked. The muscles burn, and he can’t seem to move properly, must’ve dislocated it on his way down.

“Miguel, are you–”

“I'm fine,” he interrupts, biting down hard to stem the agonized groan that wants to erupt. “It's fine. We’re okay.”

He takes hold of the sloping roof tiles beneath his claws, the building seems tilted at an impossible angle. It must be the after effects of this dimension warping.

Gripping tight, he uses it to leverage himself upright, ignoring the painful sensation shooting through the nerves of his back.

He hooks his claws into the crevice of the cement and begins to climb. It's excruciating, but he manages it, laboriously dragging the both of you up the short length of wall to settle you on a ledge, where you at least have the questionable safety of steady ground beneath your feet.

Fuck, you’re shaking, obviously terrified. He pulls you to him until he can cradle you in his arms and between his legs, and wrap himself around you, hoping to comfort you.

This is so stupid. He should’ve just listened to you from the start. Should have had Lyla transport you out of here.

Shouldn’t have let it go this far. He just couldn’t do it. Wasn’t willing to take the risk. Couldn’t live with himself if his miscalculation would be what took your life.

He didn’t want to risk it.

But he’s running out of options.

Because he needs you to live. This version of you. This you who drives him mad and makes him smile and makes him want to live again. Singular and unique, and he’s going to love you until his dying breath. Just as surely as he loves the other you.

“Lyla,” he calls out and from your wrist, the familiar amber glow springs up and Lyla appears. “Calculate the location for a dimension jump.”

“What destination?” she asks, simple and straight to the point. For once there’s no sass. Even Lyla must understand the severity of their situation. That more than everything else that preceded this moment makes Miguel worry about just how fucked the two of you are.

He takes a second to think about it. Where could he safely bring you? Somewhere you could be safe without a doubt. A dimension without Avengers or interlopers or mad crazy shit like this that would put you at risk. A place that he knows like the back of his hand.

“Earth 928-C,” Miguel orders.

He watches you, tucked to his side, eyes wide and afraid and guilt grips at his lungs. How has he managed to fuck it up this badly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gripping firmer around your shoulders. “You were right. I’m sorry. We should’ve just done it your way from the start.”

“Mig.” Your eyes soften, the worry and alarm melting from your eyes.

It doesn’t last for very long. The scent of sulfur singes the evening air. Then there's a bright flash of red lightning against the sky.

Miguel only gets a split second to catch it in the corner of his eyes, then it’s already flying towards you.

He leaps in front of you, pushing you back and out of the way.

Whatever it is, hits him with the force of a tank, catapulting him into the air. He doesn’t have time to react but his latent survival instinct reacts for him, webbing shoots out of his wrist by reflex, sticking to a nearby wall. It’s the only thing that holds him suspended in the air so he doesn’t drop some several hundred feet below.

There’s a high pitched whistle echoing between his ear drums. He feels discombobulated. Like he doesn’t know left from right and when Miguel pulls himself upright, everything spins. He is sure that he is going to be sick and vomit.

Reaching down to his stomach, it’s strangely wet. Must be the fucking rain, which is… odd, because the material of the suit is supposed to be hydrophobic.

He brings up his fingers into view, and instead of the shin gray of water, his hand is soaked in red.

Well fuck.

There’s gashes in his suit. Deep cuts that’s broken through the skin. He’s bleeding. Heavily.

Shit, he doesn’t have time for this.

Where are you?

He grits his teeth, ignoring the sharp and searing pain as he grabs hold of the cold metal of a nearby banister and pulls himself back up to the rooftop. A groan escapes him before he can swallow it back down.

It’s fine. It hurts. But it’ll heal.

It doesn’t matter. He scans his surroundings, searching for you. What matters is you.

On the far side of the next building, he spots your colorful bright shirt. You’re sitting upright, which means you’re still conscious.

Still alive. Thank god.

Relief floods him until he spots the looming shape of shiny metal above you. Stark.

Your mouth is moving as you look up at the man and even with his super hearing Miguel can barely make out the words you’re saying above the chaotic noises surrounding him.

“Promise me you won’t hurt him, please.”

A cold sliver runs up his spine when he hears you. The realization lances through him painfully. You weren’t arguing for Stark’s case before.

Why is he always such an idiot?

Stark extends one hand towards you, raising the repulsor gauntlet. The blazing reactor in his palm blinds Miguel’s retinas with a sharp pain.

“I won’t,” Stark promises.

No. nononono.

Miguel leaps before he can think. There is no thought or tactics. His brain is wiped blank, driven by pure impulse and instincts: to protect you. Keep you safe. Keep you alive.

He tears through the air, feet stomping down on the hard iron torso and Miguel grabs the hard metallic throat under his hand, putting his entire body-weight into it as he slams down until there’s a satisfying crunch beneath. Can feel the hard alloy skull hit the concrete with a heavy and unforgiving thud.

A blast goes off, and there’s sharp and bright searing pain that burns along his entire side, but he ignores it.

He slams down again, blindly and without aim. Until the force pushing back against him from underneath stops and goes slack.

The light on the eye sockets flicker. Then the robot suit slumps and powers down in his grip. Miguel lets go, letting the heavy suit fall to the ground, before pulling away.

His feet wobble on the ground beneath as he takes a step back. His line of vision askew and tilted. He can feel his consciousness slipping, and he has to shake his head hard, to snap himself out of it.

He needs to find you and get you out of here.

Everything spins. The skyline seems to swim in swirly lines, and he can’t tell if it’s his consciousness failing him or the reality around him is warping.

From a distance he sees your small silhouette, running up towards him, and all he feels is relief spreading through his chest.

“Miguel,” You reach for him, pulling off your cardigan and shoving the fabric of it onto him, pressing it up against his stomach to slow down the bleeding.

“It’s fine. Leave it.”

“No, it’s not fine! Nothing is fine! You’re hurt, bleeding and–” your voice is trembling, and he can hear the tears pushing up against the surface as your shaking hands fumble in your attempt to try to keep the pressure on him to stem the bleeding.

You’re in tears over worry for him.

You care too much. Always did, and he doesn’t deserve it.

To his left the arc reactor engine whirrs as it reboots and starts back up.

Stark is conscious again.

From a distance, Miguel can hear the faint sound of more jet engines whizzing through the air.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see the silhouette of a woman rising in the sky, bathed in a menacing crimson halo of an aura.

Bastard is calling for backup. The two of you have only a handful of seconds left at best.

You're surrounded.

There isn’t enough time. Lyla is probably not even done with the calculations. There may still be errors. God knows where the two of you will end up this time.

But it’s now or never.

“Cielito.”

At the nickname your eyes dart up to his. The fear in your eyes calms when you hear his voice, and he can’t help the faint smile tugging on his lips despite the situation the two of you are in.

Even though he hasn’t earned it after everything he’s put you through tonight, there’s still trust left in there for him. It is more than he would have dared to wish for.

Miguel cups your cheeks, cradling it in his hands. They're damp, stained with tears that he wipes away with his thumb.

He wished he had some perfect words that could make them stop. Wished he could have done something that prevented them from happening in the first place.

"I'm not going to let you die." He leans down until his forehead rests on yours.

"I love you," he says, and he just wished he'd said it to you sooner. Wished he'd gotten to say it more than once.

There's a lot that Miguel wishes he could have done differently.

“Lyla.” His hand finds your wrist and the familiar cool metal of the device. Then he presses the button and all he can do is hope for the best.

“Get us out,” he commands.

A burst of light erupts all around him. Bright and blinding.

Please let it work this time.

You wake to darkness. Everything is washed in a hue of moody blue.

There’s no one here besides you. Miguel isn’t here.

Your gaze darts to your left and to your right, but you can’t make out anything.

You can’t find him anywhere. Didn’t you two go through the portal together? Why isn’t he here?

Panic climbs up your chest and claws into your lungs, you feel like your chest is collapsing in on itself and you can’t breathe. Did something happen to Miguel?

Miguel was hurt. He was bleeding a lot. It comes to you in scattered fragments. The sharp smell of iron filling your nostrils. Slick viscous liquid, sticky on your fingers. The sound of his choked and bitten off pain as he tried to protect you.

You can’t do this. Can’t sit here and wallow in your fear when there is so little time. You bite down on your tongue, stifling the pathetic sob that wants to climb out of your throat. You make yourself swallow it back down as you force yourself to stand up on wobbly legs, and observe your surroundings.

There’s nothing here. Just this dim muted darkness. Just more empty space. There’s no wind here. You’re not exposed to the environment, which means you’re definitely inside a building somewhere. Craning your head upwards, the ceiling stretches high over 20 feet at least and you can barely see where the walls begin or end.

Where the hell are you?

Bringing your wrist up, you press the power button of the watch. “Lyla?”

Nothing.

Oh fuck, you’re all by yourself.

You mash the button with your thumb, pressing a little bit too hard, as you call for her again.

There’s a pinging sound, as the holographic image floats above your wrist.

“Sorry, sorry! That was a rough ride,” she says as she straightens her heart shaped glasses that are crooked on her nose.

Immediate relief fills you at her familiar face. “Lyla, where are we?”

She makes a face. “I’m not entirely sure. I didn’t have time to finish my calculations before Miggy had me pull you through.”

“Where’s Miguel,” you ask, and your voice is sharp and shrill even to your own ears.

Lyla peers up at you, eyes filled with something that looks like concern. “Your heart rate is very elevated. You might be in shock. Do you want me to show you edited photos of Miguel in a bunny suit to make you feel better?”

From a distance you can see a door left slanted. There’s a flicker of blue and amber light from beyond it, and you start to walk towards it.

“Is that a door?”

“Uhm, boss-girl I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know where we are.”

Despite Lyla’s warnings, you keep going, because whatever danger waits behind that door, it’s still better than the alternative of sitting like a lame duck, wasting precious time when Miguel is hurt and in need of help.

You reach the door and peer into the next room. There are holographic screens in the middle of the space raised on a podium.

In the center of it you see him. His familiar broad back hunched over the screens. Dark-blue fabric that stretches wide over his shoulders. You’d recognize him anywhere.

Miguel.

He’s here. He’s okay.

You run up towards him, nearly skidding on your unsteady feet as you begin to full on sprint. “Miguel!”

At your voice, the whole of his back stiffens and straightens up until he slowly turns towards you.

You run up the podium and you feel like you can finally breathe again as you reach him, flinging your arms around his neck as soon as he is within reach. You want to cry with the overwhelming relief that fills up the whole of your chest as his arms come up and wrap around you like a protective cocoon.

“I woke up and you weren’t here, and I thought, I thought…” you’re rambling, words clogged up with the tears you had held back before. Now though, in his arms, the floodgates have opened and there's no stopping them.

“I’m here,” he says.

One hand soothingly strokes the small of your back while his other gently stroke your face, fingers sliding down your throat and shoulder, assessing you.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

His voice turns cold, gritted out with anger between his teeth that makes your spine breaks out in shivers. “Who did this to you?”

You raise your head from his embrace, looking up at him in confusion.

No, you’re not the one bleeding, the blood is his. What does he mean who did this to you?

“What do you mean?” you sniffle. “I’m not– The Avengers they– It’s your bloo–” your words come out stuttering and scrambled. You can barely think. Your heart is beating so hard you think it’s going to burst out of your chest.

Lyla said this didn’t she? You’re in shock.

His eyes soften at your distress, and he gently shushes you as he strokes your cheeks, guiding you back to his chest. His hand rests on the top of your head as he keeps you there pressed up against him, locked in the protective space of his embrace.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says quietly into your ear. His voice is so soft and gentle, in complete contrast to the iron grip of his arms locked around your chest and back.

It feels different.

You stiffen in his arms, and his hold on you tightens. Your blood freezes in your veins. Something is wrong.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna let anything hurt you, Nena.”

Huh?

No, you’re not–

Miguel doesn’t call you that.

He buries his face into your collarbone, mouth pressing to your skin.

You try to resist, try to anchor your hand that’s trapped between your bodies to wedge and push him away, but he only holds you to him firmer.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs into your neck, and you can feel his warm breath gust over the goosebumped skin. The hint of his sharp fangs scraping across your flesh.

Wait, wait–

“You’re not Mig–”

The rest of it is lost in a pained gasp. His teeth sink into your neck. Bright sharp whiteness blinds your vision and excruciating pain sears through your nervous system. Every ounce of strength in you goes with it, your muscles turn slack as you lose control over your own body.

Everything goes dark again.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my most beloved and bestest of clown @thirstworldproblemss. I love you dearly and I am running out of ways to tell you just how much. You're so special to me and I'm so grateful to have you as a friend and collaborator and muse and everything in between.

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#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

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