Your body shakes violently, blood dripping down like crimson tears from your hands. The overwhelming sense of dread sits with bullet fragment aggression in the delicate make-up of your psyche.

You weren't meant for this.

Not the blood or the terror. Certainly not the body laying out in the hallway.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, shuddering as your throat swells in on itself. Your form had slipped down the wall just across from the door not minutes prior, legs weak and heart pounding like a war call. Now all you can do is stare into the vacant eyes of some random burglar—at the knife you'd stuck in his chest when he'd backed you into Simon's office.

It was a miracle that you remembered where your husband's combat blade had been, seen on some off chance when you'd been cleaning. He tries to keep this all separate, you know.

The blood just keeps slipping out of the corpse. It's a pool now, and you don't know how long you'd been huddled like this until the sounds of rampaging feet and hurried yells of your name bounce off your eardrums.

All you can see is the uncleanable amount of red.

Simon had only gone out to the corner store half an hour ago, getting a quick supper so you both could sit in each other's company. You'd been hesitant to watch him leave so soon after getting home, but he'd sworn he'd only be a few minutes.

None of you had thought too much about the local break-ins. After all, Simon was...well, Simon. And he was home.

S-Simon was home.

There's a loud, barked, curse when the body is discovered, stomping feet that make the entire house shake like it was the epicenter of an earthquake. Your husband's form slashes the front of your vision as he kneels in the blood on the floor. Frantic brown eyes behind his balaclava snap from place to place; taking in the familiar handle and blade in nanoseconds. In his left hand he clutches a pistol, white-knuckled.

But you can't even say anything, because you're as still as stone—breathing in concrete as the gravel shreds your vocal cords and trachea. Reality slips in quick streaks of color as Simon's face flashes into the open doorway.

He sees your wide eyes with a mirroring of his own, bone-deep fear striking in his head with a heated pulse.

"Love!" Simon's rushing to you. Your body can't help but startle back, spine shoving into the wall; fingers still saturated and stained.

Inside your chest, your lungs jerk in a strained whimper.

Your husband freezes, one foot ahead with his widened legs as he fights his mind to rush to you and take you into his arms. Simon puts the gun away with little thought to look for more assailants—all that matters is you.

And you looked terrified.

"Hey," hands reach up to this balaclava, slipping the fabric off as he kneels down slowly to one leg. He tosses it to the floor and you try to focus on the strength of his jaw; those scars and pale hairs as your eyes well with tears. A delicate sob builds. "Hey, now. It's just me, alright?"

Simon speaks softly, hands splayed out and a few feet from you. He wishes to hold you tightly but refrains even as his chest tightens at not being able to calm you. The man can't stand that look on your face.

Your fingers curl into shivering fists, "Simon," you cry, finally able to get a solid word out even if it sounds slurred and ragged.

It's all the permission your husband needs.

Simon jerks forward and takes you up into his large arms; the wide encompassing of his palm on the back of your head and the other circling your waist. He angles you away from the body as he glares into it with hatred and vile curses, hissing venom.

When he found the door busted off its hinges, he'd never felt so panicked. Even now as you release a small wail into his neck Simon's heart races, breath coming in short puffs.

"You're alright, Sweetheart. You're alright. I'm right 'ere." You sag into him, grabbing at his leather jacket with nails digging into the brown material. Simon nuzzles his nose into your scalp, muscles tense, "Breathe, it's over."

All you can focus on is Simon's scent, his words. They're the only thing keeping you from oblivion. Eventually, as your husband rocks you back and forth, you can gasp enough air down to push away the black at the sides of your vision.

"That's right," he whispers, gritting his teeth. "Good girl, keep focusin' on me, yeah? You're doin' perfect." Simon doesn't care about the blood or the screams of sirens in the distance.

For the first time in his life, he doesn't care if someone else happens to see his face.

Your husband pulls his head back and shifts his hold to your cheeks, angling your runny and chilled face upwards. He grits his teeth and his eyes bleed with concern; fear.

"...He do anything?" You can only make out half the words as the sounds all huddle together in a ringing tone, but you shake your head in small flinches. Lips find your forehead—heated and firm. Muttered words. "Did so good, Love, I'm so proud of you. S'not your fuckin' fault, you hear?"

Sniffling, you only whimper once more before lips kiss away your tears; thumbs coming up after to swipe at the remnants. Curling over you, this beast—defined so often as ruthless and deadly—shields you from the image of the man you'd killed in self-defense like a demon of smoke and ash. Holding you as if he can make everything else disappear.

After all, you weren't meant for this. You were meant for your soft skin and your loving eyes. Everything else that Simon tied himself to you for—goodness.

"Simon," you gasp again and shove your face into his chest. For the life of you, you can't say anything else. He knows what you mean.

"I'm here," he repeats. Caressing the back of your head, his hand tenses and softens with leaving adreanaline. "Nothin'll happen to you again. It's all gonna be alright."

You believe him.

Miguel grunted, his teeth clenching over the empty air. He snarled, thrusting further into you, trying to press his face into your neck to squeeze the metal and get closer to your skin.

You had managed, in a way that still impressed you right then, to convince Miguel to wear a muzzle during sex. You had smiled, telling him that "you won't be able to resist, it's impossible for you," because the words 'bite' and 'Miguel' were simply inseparable, whether in everyday life or just in bed. With an air of pride and restraint, he had replied, "I'll resist, and you'll be biting your fingers off."

And now, he was pounding into you, body all sweaty with the muzzle on. The restraint had enough space between the bars and his mouth that he only managed to partially graze the sides if he tried to spread his lips or his tongue.

At first, he had put it on almost like a medal, because he was convinced that he would overcome his cravings and control himself perfectly well. How wrong he was.

As soon as he realised that he wouldn't be able to kiss your lips again, that had been a problem. But to admit at that moment that he didn't like it would be to admit defeat a little too soon. However when he realised he couldn’t bite you ? Now that was a problem.

His hands came to grasp your body more tightly than ever. The lack of grip he had with his teeth resulted in his fingers digging into your skin, which turned red under the pressure.

His fingers were pinching, his hands grabbing everything they could get their hold of that he couldn't bite. He took one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb starting to play with it, but when he lowered himself to lick it, he was instantly stopped by the distance between his tongue and the metal. He frowned, but eventually resisted using just his fingers.

Then he realised he couldn't trace your belly with kisses and light nibbles. But the real weight of his little wager began to sink in when, on reaching your legs, he realised what a mistake he'd made. The soft skin of your inner thighs, where the traces he had left the previous time he had fucked you were beginning to fade, was beyond his reach. The very idea that he couldn't make sure it was newly marked, right here, right now, was driving him crazy.

And then, when he got to your pussy, disaster. It was already so wet, glistening with your own desire for him. He was already salivating at the thought of tasting it, of getting drunk on it until he fell off, of hearing you moaning as he made you go from orgasm to orgasm.

But he couldn't, the cool metal dampened by Miguel's breath on the muzzle sending a delicious shiver down your spine when he tried to kiss you there.

He grunted quietly, frustration really beginning to set in, and started to work his fingers instead of his tongue. You breathed a sigh of relief as he came back to you, wanting to nestle into the back of your neck, wanting to kiss it, to feel your cheek pressed against his. But once again, he was stopped by the meagre metal frame. This was where deprivation became sincerely complicated. He hadn't noticed until now how much power his mouth had over your pleasure. He still had control over his words and his voice, but everything else was forbidden to him.

He bit his own cheek as he thrust in you, the first thing he wanted to do with the moan you let out was to swallow it, to relieve himself from the taste of your voice, your whimper and all the others that were to come.

The idea occurred to him to suggest removing the muzzle, thinking that the argument of "but it ruins our common pleasures" would do the trick. But he stopped himself, setting off at a frantic pace, his frustration reflected in the depth and power of his thrusts. All those delicious noises you were making, he wanted them for himself, in his own body, he had caused them and they were rightfully his.

So he tried to press the muzzle aside, hoping that by contorting his lips he would be able to kiss your shoulder, but he couldn't.

"Cariño," he breathed at last, slowing slightly, "What do you say I remove this stupid thing, hm?"

The little flash of satisfaction lit up your eyes like lighters.

"What is it ?" you whimpered, looking up at him through your lashes. "Can't handle yourself ?"

His nose wrinkled under his frown, his lips forming an angry pout. But he had to retain some pride, so, reluctantly, he replied:

"I can handle this perfectly."

He turned you over, your head on the cushion, ass up for him, resuming its previous rhythm as your cries were muffled into the pillow. He'd thought maybe if he heard them less he'd be half as tempted to want them for himself, but the urge weighed.

And the noise that his pelvis made against your ass was pushing all the right buttons.

His fingers dug into your skin again, the desire to bite and kiss you becoming more and more unbearable. Perhaps in another position he would be less tempted?

So you moved into cowgirl, your pelvis undulating against his as his hands gripped your ass and your thighs. But seeing you like this, your teeth biting into your lips from time to time, prevented him from thinking straight. It was his own teeth that should have done that.

"You look frustrated," you noted as you leaned over him.

You had taken care not to kiss or bite him either, but you allowed yourself the small temptation to kiss his neck, and Miguel's desire was growing by the second. Then, with a mischievous smile, you came back to face him.

"I wonder why," you smiled, licking from bottom to top the surface of the muzzle in a slow, almost lazy gesture.

It was too much, he couldn't take it any more. So with a sharp jerk, he grabbed the strap of the object of all his torment and pulled on it, the strap ripping immediately.

He pounced on you, hungry, his lips attacking yours, swallowing your every moan with monstrous satisfaction. Inevitably, he lunged at the crook of your neck, biting down harder than he was used to into your flesh. He consumed everything in his path, insatiable.

"I'll burn that thing," he said between a kiss and a bite, thinking of the pleasure he would take in destroying the muzzle.

He's not jealous. Not of some stupid barely twenty asshole. Not when you don't even know he's flirting. And yet...

And yet he's angry, upset, fuck. Jealous is not the right word. Possessive. That's a better fit for it. König stares down the cashier, glares under the shadow of his hat. His hand uncurling from its clenched fury to press against the small of your back, pull your attention back to your task.

You look up at him with big shining eyes, his perfect, pretty, treasure. All smiles because of a petty compliment from this nothing man. He eases up on his glare, smiling down at you with all the warmth you conjure in him.

"Is there a problem with your card Schatz?" He asks innocently. You drop your gaze to the card reader, tapping the screen with your finger.

"Did my card not go through?" You ask the cashier, König returns to his glowering as the stupid boy looks up at him. Apparently just noticing the giant shadowing you. He pales, straightening from where he'd leaned over the register, and quickly punches a few buttons to pull up your total on the machine.

"Uh, no," his voice cracks, he clears his throat, "No, I must've forgotten to finish the sale. You should be good now Mrs- uh-" he glances up at König again.

"No problem," You tap your card against the machine. Singular focus keeping you from questioning the end of the cashier's rush. At least he's smart enough to know who you belong to, not that it makes up for the way he spoke to you.

"Do you need any help to your-"

"She'll be fine," König cuts him off with a growl. The cashier nods quick enough to give himself whiplash.

"Of course Sir."

"All good to go!" You chirp, oblivious to the aggression pouring off of König. He fixes a smile for you when you turn back to him. "Ready?"

"Of course, hummelchen, lead the way." König nods, you grab the handle of your cart and push it towards the exit with a friendly wave at the cashier. He doesn't wave back.

When you get your groceries loaded in your car König stays hovering nearby, eyes fixed on the store. You frown and touch his arm to get his attention.

"You good?" You ask, his eyes snapping to you as soon as you speak.

You were stretched out on the living room couch enveloped in a weighted blanket könig had gotten you some time ago. You're eyes watched the screen and you blinked slowly, revising a draft for work. Typically you wouldn't sit up so late, but you were behind and needed to finish this report by the morning. The quiet you resided in suddenly was disrupted by the slight rattle of a key in the door. You furrowed your brows at the sound looking towards the door. To your knowledge, your partner wasn't supposed to be home for another week. The door opened slowly and in walked könig still in his sniper hood. You squinted wondering if sleep deprivation was finally getting to you. König put down his bag his eyes smiling as he saw you peering over the couch at him. "I wasn't expecting to see you up" He said softly his voice a bit gravelly. Now sure it was him a smile grew on your face as you closed your laptop finding your way out of the swaddle of the heavy blanket to spring over to him. He enveloped you in a hug letting out a soft slightly suppressed laugh. " missed your smile Spatzi."He breathed out. In response, you hugged him tighter worried that he would disappear if you let him go. Finally, you backed away looking at him you couldn't stop smiling. "I didn't think you'd be back for another week" You chirped looking at his eyes through the holes in his sniper hood. "Ja, that was the plan but we finished earlier than expected." He responded taking off his hood and beginning to unclip his holsters and slip off his arm plates. You watched quietly as he removed his remaining gear. Feeling your eyes on him he smiled patting your head affectionately. "I missed you," You said benignantly putting your hands on his cheeks and leaning up to kiss him gently. König smiled at your touch kissing you back his hands moving to hold your waist. You're arms wrap around his neck not wanting to lose his touch. "Ich glaube, wir haben viel aufzuholen." König purred

Translations!

Spatzi - little sparrow

A distressed sob left your mouth, feeling his mouth pull away from your cunt, preventing you from any pleasure— trying so hard not to move your hips, yet you wanted to feel something, for him to continue eating you out like his life depended on it. Your pussy clenched needily, against nothing upon feeling his hot breath on your wetness as he laughed quietly at the broken German language you had just spoke.

“That’s not how you say it, schatz.” he said, his voice mocking yet soft, his face wet with your slick and that sight alone, made you moan wantonly, pulling against the restraints that had you tied to the headboard.

“König, please-“ You begged, your voice whiny and high-pitched as you continued pulling against the restraints, wanting to touch him, to do something to alleviate the discomfort in between your thighs. Your skin felt like it was on fire, goosebumps rose from your skin as you fell apart with each passing minute.

“Nein, nein. auf Deutsch.” he corrected you, tsking slightly. His grasp on your thigh, tightened even more, preventing you from moving any more than you already did. “Do you want me to repeat it again, meine kleiner schatz?” He added in, smiling softly under his mask, his eyes gleaming in the dimly lit room.

“Ye- Ja.” You whispered, nodding fervently.

“Bitte, ich möchte, dass du mich mit deinem Mund fickst.” And with each word he spoke, he placed kisses on your swollen nub and your eyes rolled back with a sharp intake of air, the ministrations leaving your cunt aching, needy and embarrassed with how reactive you were to his touch.

You took a brief pause and exhaled shakily, your chest moving up and down with each breath. You opened your mouth again, speaking the words he asked you to say again, your German broken and basically nonsense.

“Nein,“ He chuckled softly, shaking his head side to side, looking up at you through his lashes with pretty eyes from in between your thighs and again— he repeated the words, this time even slower.

Your breathing was heavy and coming out in short pants, your mouth opening and closing but no words came out. His words weren’t really registering in your mind, making it even harder to repeat the words. “B-bitte, ich möchte, dass du mich mit deinem Mund fickst.”

“Braves Mädchen… meine sehr gutes Mädchen.”

as you were making it fit, you were whimper and sobbing mess and miguel could feel how tensed you were, how he was ripping his way up. “honey. escúpele” he demanded as you’re half way in. you spit on the palm of your hand and start glazing and rubbing his shaft with the mix of your sticky saliva and arousal. you watched miguel throw his head back off, shutting his eyes. fuck he’s been fantasizing about it for so long. and mind you, you haven’t reached to the base yet. abruptly you feel miguel’s hand groping your mushy hips and dragging you all the way down. it felt so violent the way you took him in one sitting, that you cry loudly at being now fulled by him. “fuck that’s it” he spit, you cry as you clench tightly on him, and fuck he’s having way too much fun, “ahora de nuevo”—he hissed while looking proudly at how well your taking him, such a good girl. you go all the way up again, with one hand on his base trying to keep the control of it, and drop slowly until your inner thighs are crashing with his pelvis, fuck it stings badly, you feel how hard his cock is stretching your walls as well your thighs are starting to cramp and burn as it’s holds your entire body weight. you tried to support your hands on miguels defined abs but he just slapped them away, “don’t fucking try it, put em behind”—you wanted to protest be he’s already giving you that “say it o you’ll regret it” look. you put them behind as you start going up again, and get down giving little semi circular movements, hissing as it starts to hit the right spot. “fuck.. que apretadita estás”- you cry as he’s hitting it, over and over again, your legs burning, the way your hips are loosing the tempo making all the movements messy and desperate for a guidence.

the room has been a mixing sounds of grunts, whimpers and sobbing messes, the filthy noises of the headboard slamming and the loud sounds of skin slapping as your crushing down hard and squirming all over him. miguel throwing his head back groaning and mutting the dirtiest praises “fuckk..such. a dirty. slut” “stop crying or i’ll be worse”. he’ll constantly switch his grip between your hips or your bouncing tits, he’ll twisted and squeez it. he fucking enjoying it watching your tired body starting to collapse. your pretty eyes closed, trying to endure all the pain and pleasure coming from all the parts that his hands and cock are abusing. the minutes you been on and on it’s almost miracle that you didn’t faint, as he sees you getting all flustered and sweaty he’ll grab you by the face, “don’t. fucking. stop”—.you can feel now his thumb digging dip in your jaw, making you gasp. you feel your full body start trembling, you try to inhale and exhale but your lower back and thighs went on shock. the exhaustion in your face as you implored and begged for miguel's help. until you just can't help it anymore and drop your weakened body on top of him. miguel inmidiatly will embrace you in warm and intimate hug, lift you up off his lap, stand up while he’s still inside you. he'll leave a trace of kisses from your collarbone up to your face whispering how good you were and now he's gonna take care of you.

pd: the stamina of this guy GOD he’s probably goes on an on all night 🤭

trad:

-spit on it

-now again

The perfume had been an impulse purchase. You’d raised the fragrance strip to your nose, taken a deep breath, and immediately decided you were bringing the biggest bottle on the shelf home. It was the perfect scent, musky and clean with a sweetened edge. When you’d sprayed it behind your ears, on your neck and wrists, you hadn’t even paused to think about the consequences.

The first indicator: Lyla buzzed into your watch to let you know Miguel canceled your meeting for you to deliver a report on the latest anomalies. Not unusual, but shifts in plans without good reason tended to upset him. Something was either very wrong, or he was avoiding you. The second indicator suggested the latter was correct. You’d taken your seat next to him at a debrief, and as if you’d pulled a trigger, he’d immediately hopped to his feet and moved as far away from you as he could to give his long winded speech about not getting distracted while fighting anomalies. Although Hobie and Pav had started muttering in your ear about how it was obviously directed at them, all you could do was think about what you’d done wrong.

“I mean, it isn’t like he’s the nicest guy. He’s moody,” Peter B. says when you air your concerns to him over lunch. You couldn’t bring yourself to eat the empanada sitting on your plate. “You gonna eat that?” At the shake of your head, Peter begins stuffing his face with the abandoned empanada. Around ever bite, he continues, “You probably didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just throwing a temper tantrum. A tantrum that might not even be directed at you.”

You scratch at your temple. Miguel wasn’t close with you per se, but he tended to treat you with niceties that he didn’t necessarily treat the other spiders with. He softened up around you a bit, backed up with testimonies from Peter, Gwen, and Hobie. Seeing Miguel switch up so fast out of nowhere was enough to give you whiplash. “A tantrum about what? I’ve had shining reports and track records with anomalies since he recruited me.”

“You know Miguel, he always needs an excuse for a temper tantrum.” Peter finishes off the empanada, rubbing his mouth. “Maybe bring him an empanada? Cheer him up. See, what I just ate? That just cheered me up.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself. Tapping your fingers on the table, you look over to the lunch line. It’s still going strong, which means there should still be empanadas lying around. “You’re right. He might just be hangry, being such a workaholic.”

“Exactly.” Peter gets to his feet, giving you a soft pat on the back. “It’ll be fine. Just be chill about it.”

Except after obtaining another empanada from the cafeteria and being halfway to Miguel’s office, the less chill you were being about it. You roll your shoulders as you walk through the never-ending hallways. The bad thing about Miguel being such a recluse is that he intentionally put his office as far away from everything else as possible, which gave you just the right amount of time to decide to turn around. Out of spite, you would not be turning around, but you do think about it every ten or so steps as you catalog everything that could possibly go wrong. 

Miguel could throw his desk at you. Lock you out. Yell at you. Start sending you on boring missions fighting an anomaly that was a jar of peanut butter in the wrong place. Stop sending you on missions altogether. Kick you out of spider society. 

He wouldn’t do that, you try to tell yourself as you approach the door, rubbing the back of your neck. You inch the door open. His dais is all the way up, towering above you. You can hardly see the tops of his shoulders in the orange glow of the screens he’s bent over as you crane your head all the way up. 

“Miguel?” you call up, figuring there’s no option to back down anymore. “I brought you an empanada.” You wave the small takeout box in your hand. To both your immense dread and relief, the dais begins to lower. Miguel seems as if he’s just run an entire marathon in an hour. His chest heaves up and down, and there are pearls of sweat on his forehead. “Are you okay?” you ask, brows creasing.

“Am I okay?” he practically barks out a forced laugh at you. He crosses his firm arms over his chest. His eyes are dark and narrow. “No, and it’s all thanks to you. What the hell were you thinking?”

You stand there, squeezing the takeout box so tight in your hand that you’re surprised when it doesn’t simply crack open. Thanks to you? Okay, maybe you’d goofed off with Hobie and Pav just a bit during missions, but it’d never impeded on your ability to rein one of them in and send them back to where they belonged. You doubt cracking one or two jokes is enough to get Miguel hating you. “What the hell was I thinking? More like what the hell did I do? First you cancel our meeting, then you sit as far away as you can get from me during debrief without being in another dimension.”

“I think you know what you did,” he says, voice utterly ragged as he walks up to you. In one blade-thin movement, he pins you against the wall by the waist. You’ve never been afraid of Miguel — not when you first met him, or when he’s lashing out at another recruit. But now, he’s looking at you like something to be preyed upon, his red eyes flashing, fangs bared over the edge of his lips, claws partially out and digging hard into your flesh. “Couldn’t even think today because of you,” he panted.

That’s when you notice it. Miguel O’hara, boss of spider society and the grumpiest Spiderman, has his hardened cock pressing into your thigh. You gasp as you think back to that morning, the spray of perfume on your skin. Pheromone perfume. The cashier had mentioned it as she bagged it, now that you think about it. You look back at Miguel's fangs, feel his claws pressing into your skin, think about all of the times that the lights have been too bright or the smells have been too much. “Oh,” you breathe out.

“Understand, yet?” he snaps, a scowl arcing across his lips. “You smelling like that, all I could think about was bending you over my desk and fucking you until my name was the only thing on your tongue.” With that, your stomach practically drops out of you, your body going hollow with desire. Your breaths don’t feel like enough to fill up your lungs as Miguel kisses you. 

It’s a sort of kiss that bruises. It’s all teeth against teeth, tongue against tongue, and skin against skin as he starts shredding at your spidersuit. One of his fangs cuts against your lip, barely digging in, just enough to draw blood. “Fuck, Miguel,” you whine against his mouth as he lifts you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and you can’t help but buck your hips into his. His head goes back, a low groan caught in the back of his throat. “Please,” you gasp when he latches onto your neck, sucking what’s sure to become a hickey into your skin. 

“I’m not giving this to you yet. Todavía no, cariño.” He finishes tearing your suit off of you, leaving you exposed and it in tatters on the ground as he carries you onto the dais. “You’re going to be patient how I was patient for you.” He backs you up against his desk, the small of your back pressed hard into it when he tears your bra off of you. You yelp, his hands going up to squeeze your tits.

When Miguel brushes his thumb against your nipple, he says, “Necesitaba esto.” You moan, head hanging as you watch him touch you. Small brushes and tugs. He leans down, pressing kisses to your neck, chest, stomach. It’s when he takes your nipple into his mouth that your knees almost give out, your thighs burning against each other. Your moan is fragile, spotty. He spins you, slamming you into the desk. He traces small circles into your sides, each touch needling across your skin. 

“Miguel,” you whine, gripping the edge of his desk. “I want you inside of me.”

“Shh, not so fast, hermosa. You take what I give you.” He slips a finger through your wet folds. You shudder as he circles your clit, drawing pathetic noises from you. “You wanted this, didn’t you? When you bought that perfume. Knew it’d drive me fucking insane.” Without warning, his middle finger slips inside you. You clench around him, and he laughs at your desperation.

“More,” you cry out, biting into your cheek to try to keep yourself quiet. For once, Miguel listens, stretching you out with a second finger. He finds the right spot, and you’re sure that he knows it from how you buckle into the desk, eyes rolling back in your head. He curls his fingers, almost striking it again, and then—

He pulls his hand away, licking it clean. He looks smug.

“Miguel!” Whining, you press your forehead flush to the desk. You’re heating up, and if he doesn’t touch you again soon, you might just burst into flames. “Please, please. Miguel, touch me. I want you — need you.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Te deseo,” he murmurs, running a hand down your back. His suit’s tech slowly vanishes, shrinking down his body into nothing. Your breath stops as you turn your head to look at him, all tan skin and sharply toned muscles. He’s just as big as you imagined, and it feels that way once he finally presses his cock inside of you. 

You moan as he starts slowly sinking all of himself into you.

“Feels… feels good,” you sigh. He continues tracing those circles into your sides, hands rising up your body. He stops at your tits to flick your hardened nipples. When you clench around him, a flimsy groan leaves his lips, which only makes you tighten more. It’s a sound you never thought you’d get to hear.

Once you’re used to him, he starts fucking into you. The obscene noises of his cock sliding in and out of your cunt, his hips meeting yours, and your moans rising in the air are enough to drive you insane. “So fucking tight for me… so good for me.” He places himself on top of you, head dipped nose pressed to your neck as he inhales the perfume that started it all. “Sabías lo que estabas haciendo,” Miguel pants as his breath fans across your warm skin. You whine, raising your body to meet his own. It’s enough for you to see stars. “Wearing that shit in front of me. Could smell you from across the goddamn street. Like you were asking for someone to come and fuck you.”

Sweat stings your eyes as Miguel says, “Such a slut, bet you knew deep down I could smell you the whole time. Bet you wanted me to.” He lands a hard smack on your ass, and you yelp, squeezing around him. He rams into you, relentless with his thrusts. “Taking my cock so well, like it was made for you. So cockdrunk,” he sighs, head tilting back as he fucks you.

“Yes!” you whimper as he pulls out before slamming back into you. “‘M close, Miguel!” Your moans are getting louder, needier. You swear you hear Miguel whimper above you as your cunt tightens.

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” Miguel’s thumb starts rubbing your clit, other hand still at your tits. He smacks them, squeezes them. It’s a combination of it all, him hitting your g-spot until your vision blurs, his hands roaming your body, heady words hanging over your head, his warm cum filling you up, dripping out of you, that makes you come. You shake from the intensity of your orgasm, cunt still desperately clenching, as if it’s trying to keep its hold on his cock. He groans, “Good girl. Feels so good.”

It’s why you haven’t tried to pull him away yet, why you haven’t stopped him from drinking jet juice like it’s water. You know you probably should but…he’s just having so much fun, and you can’t bear to be the one that ends it. He’s definitely sloshed, laughing at the dumbest things and stumbling around like a baby that’s just learning how to walk. It’s been pretty amusing to witness, if you’re honest.  

You watch as the people he’s been speaking with move on, clapping him on the shoulder as they head toward another group that’s taken up residence in the back corner. Once he’s alone, he sits quietly, smiling softly to himself for a moment, before his brow suddenly furrows in confusion. He looks around, an exaggerated frown on his lips as he searches for something. When his eyes meet yours, his smile returns, wide and a little dopey, as he stands to his feet and unsteadily shuffles over. 

You chuckle when he plops down onto the chair beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders as he leans in so close, his nose bumps against your cheek. 

“There you are, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice raspy from all the cheering and screaming. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

An involuntary shiver runs through you at the roughness of his voice, conjuring memories of the other times he’s sounded like this for you (his forehead pressed to yours, breath puffing against your lips as he pushes into you again and again—). He pulls you closer, his lips brushing your cheek as his other hand falls to your knee. 

“Maker,” he groans, kissing his way over your jaw toward your ear. “Baby, you smell delicious.” 

You tilt your head slightly to better accommodate him, your chuckle a little throaty. “I do?” 

He hums, pushing his nose against the side of your neck and breathing in deeply.  

You chew your lip, eyes darting around the room as he resumes kissing you, this time on your neck, the hand on your knee slowly inching its way up to your thigh. 

“Poe,” you warn, squirming a little in your chair as you halt his hand’s upward progression with your own. “We’re in public.” 

He grunts, nosing aside the collar of your shirt to nip at your collarbone. “So?” 

Your chuckle morphs into a whine as he worries a mark there with his teeth, arousal pooling in your gut at the mild sting. He groans into your neck when your fingers find their way into his hair, curling around the soft, thick strands. Gently, you pull him off of you, his eyelids heavy, mouth slightly agape as he stares at you. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the way he looks at you, so much unabashed love and adoration, so much want. Unable to resist, you lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. 

 As you pull away again, you say. “C’mon, flyboy, let me take you home.” 

The two of you say goodnight to everyone before stumbling from the cantina, Poe’s arm laid over your shoulders. Your arm wraps around his waist in an effort to keep him upright, only to have him lean heavily against your side, humming contentedly as he buries his face in your neck again. You manage to get him to the door just outside the living quarters hall before he starts trying to grope you, hand slipping not-so-stealthily toward your chest.  

“Stop it,” you chuckle, rolling your eyes as you swat his hand away. 

He snorts into your neck, his mouth once again exploring the area. “Stop what?” he asks between kisses, lips dragging over your skin. “‘m not doing anything.” 

You hum skeptically, pausing to key the entry code to the door. As you wait for it to slide open, he pulls your earlobe between his lips, his teeth nipping at the edges. Your breath hitches in surprise, and he must hear it because he smiles. You drag him into the hall once the door opens, silently thanking the Maker that everyone seems to still be out celebrating. 

Poe’s quarters aren’t far, and normally take just a few minutes to reach, however, what should be a quick trek is hindered by the fact that a certain drunk commander can’t seem to stop touching you. You fend him off without issue, though, biting back your laughter at the terrible pick-up lines he’s throwing your way. 

“You do know that I can’t carry you, right?” you tease, snorting as he knocks you into the wall with his weight again. 

He chuckles as he attempts to right himself, but only succeeds in making you even more lopsided. “I’m sorry, baby, I can’t help that I am trapped in the gravitational field of your smile.” 

You scoff, shaking your head fondly as you turn the corner to the hall that (blessedly) houses Poe’s quarters. “You’re an idiot.” 

He laughs again, and you grunt as he leans into your side yet again, his breath puffing against your cheek. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” 

It’s cheesy, but the truth of the statement makes something warm lodge itself in your heart all the same. 

You’re almost there, can literally see his door as you both plod awkwardly down the hall. He’s quieter now, but you’re so focused on getting him into his room, you don’t think to ask why.  

Without warning, he leans into you again, throwing you off balance and pinning you to the wall with his hips. Before you can scold him, he covers your lips with his own, stealing your words as well as the breath from your lungs. He tastes like a Keshian spice roll, sweet and a little tangy, and you melt into him, your fingers curling into his shirt to keep him against you. His tongue is warm, insistent, as it slides hungrily against yours, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.  

He sighs, grinding against you clumsily as he devours your mouth. His hands are everywhere; on your face, your hips, your ass, his strong fingers gripping and pulling, manipulating your body like he would his ship. You whine as he slots his thigh between your legs, pushing it up against your core, mumbling something about wanting to see you fall apart. You moan at the friction, canting your hips as he pulls his mouth from yours to groan into your neck. Your fingers weave into his hair as you both continue to grind against each other, the pleasure building steadily in your gut.  

“Poe,” you sigh breathlessly, eyes flying open when you remember where you are. “Baby, your room is right there.” 

He grunts in response, his mouth latching onto your neck.  

You open your mouth to respond, then promptly choke on a moan when he shifts his leg, the movement pressing the seam of your pants against your clit.  

“Maker, I love all the pretty, little sounds you make,” he slurs, voice raspy as he pulls back to meet your eyes. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” 

The greedy look in his eyes sends another jolt of pleasure through you, your breath hitching as you cant your hips, seeking your release.

“Poe,” you whine, telling him that you’re close (so close), that you just need a little more— 

He shushes you softly, pressing his forehead against yours, his own hips still rutting lazily against you, and when you come, he kisses you, swallowing your moans.  

The first thing you notice when you come back to yourself is that Poe’s rock-hard cock is digging into your hip. When you open your eyes, he’s watching you, his smile soft, eyes heavy-lidded, still blown wide with lust. 

That’s when you remember where you are. 

Shit.  

Panic slices through you as you wriggle in his hold, trying to push yourself off of the wall (and his thigh). You’re mortified—had anyone seen you? Had they heard? You groan (and not in the pretty way Poe likes), eyes darting around in search of any onlookers. Poe chuckles, nose nudging against yours as he tries to reclaim your attention. 

As you return your attention to your menace of a boyfriend, you can’t seem to stop the laugh that escapes you, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. He laughs too, snorting when you place your other hand over his mouth. You smile at each other as your combined giggles subside, Poe’s eyes crinkling a little by his eyes.  

“Let’s get you to bed, commander,” you say finally, fingers toying with the curls at the base of his neck. 

He nods, a little glassy-eyed as he stares at you with a fondness and affection that makes your stomach flip.  

When you (finally) make it into his room, he attacks you with his lips again, licking into your mouth as his hands clumsily attempt to remove your clothes. He walks backwards, bringing you along with him as he untucks your shirt from your pants. You chuckle as he struggles with your belt, grunting in frustration when he can’t seem to get it unbuckled. He huffs after a moment, abandoning his attempts and slipping beneath your shirt instead.  

Suddenly, he grunts, tripping and falling heavily onto his bed and pulling you right along with him. You laugh softly, pushing yourself up on your forearms to look down at him; his eyes are glazed with want, dark curls splayed across his blanket in a messy halo, eyelids heavy. 

“Slow down, baby,” you whisper, smiling softly as you lean in to kiss him again. 

He melts into the mattress, moaning into your mouth as his hands slide up your back, hips pushing against yours. You grind down onto him slowly, gently, swallowing every sigh and whimper that falls from between his lips. He comes with a choked moan not long after, fingers digging into your skin as his hips stutter against yours. 

You pull back when you feel him sag in relief beneath you, your hands combing through his hair. His eyes are closed, body limp and heavy, and you realize—he fell asleep. You snort, smiling fondly at him before pressing a kiss to his forehead. As you try to slip from his hold though, he tightens his arms around you, murmuring softly for you to stay. 

Unable to deny him anything, you do.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.

Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.

Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.

He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?

In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.

Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.

Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.

Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.

Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.

He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.

Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.

Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.

The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"

Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.

By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.

There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.

Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.

Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.

It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.

"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"

Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.

The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.

Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.

"That was mortifying." He muttered back.

The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.

"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.

He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."

"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.

"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."

Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."

Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.

He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.

It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--

"Steven don't even think about it--"

Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.

"Oh my god, are you alright?"

The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.

As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."

Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."

Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"

Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."

"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.

"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.

"Jesus, Steven."

Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.

"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"

An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."

"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.

"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.

"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.

"Who's birthday is it?"

Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"

"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"

"My girlfriend's."

"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"

"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.

"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."

"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.

Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"

Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"

You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"

Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.

You blushed a velvety red.

"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"

"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."

Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."

He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.

"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."

Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?

"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.

"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.

"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."

Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.

"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"

"Let her respond, Steven."

But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.

"So, uh, yeah."

"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"

Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."

You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"

"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."

You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."

"Thanks."

"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.

"Uh-- and you are?"

"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.

Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.

"It's ... it's a beautiful name."

You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."

His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."

Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.

"Good job, Stevie."

-

Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.

Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”

His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”

-

In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.

Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.

Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”

But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.

Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.

He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.

Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.

“What’s up, Stevie?”

The nickname made him shiver every time.

“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.

When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.

“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.

You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”

It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.

Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.

“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”

Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.

He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.

“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.

Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.

Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”

It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.

He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.

The day passed like most of them do.

The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.

Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.

Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.

He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.

A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--

"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."

The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.

Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."

Your eyes found him, waving a hand.

Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.

"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"

"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."

He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”

Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.

“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”

Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.

“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”

“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.

The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.

“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”

With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."

"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"

"Of course."

Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.

When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.

"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.

The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.

Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.

With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.

"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"

The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.

Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.

Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.

“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”

He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.

The silence was beginning to turn stale.

“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.

“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My train will be leaving soon.”

Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”

“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”

“And you’re very beautiful.”

The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”

Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”

An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”

“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“

A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.

The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.

Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.

He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.

“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.

He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.

In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.

Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.

“Steven?”

The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.

He didn’t.

Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.

Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”

If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.

“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“

He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.

“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“

“Will you go on a date with me?”

You blinked up at him. Once, twice.

The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.

“When?”

Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?

“Now. Right now, tonight.”

The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.

“Don’t you have work?”

“You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”

Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“

He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.

“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.

He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.

They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.

With his experience being limited to the pool of:

A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.

B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,

C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,

It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.

“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.

You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.

“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”

-

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“Ah, let her figure out how antisocial he is.” Peter shrugs, adjusting Mayday’s spider beanie.

“I think she already knows.” Miles says.

“That’s probably why she’s over there. To “cheer” him up.” Pav adds.

“Good luck with tha’” Hobie lightly chuckles, resting back against Pav as he swings his legs up, watching what he’d call a “show”.

“You look like you could use a friend.” You say, finally making Miguel look at you. His expression was the definition of ‘indifferent’. Your smile didn’t fall. “Or maybe an acquaintance you can talk to?”

Miguel’s expression doesn’t shift. You nod. “Imma have you figured out soon…I promise.” Your eyes slightly narrow in an inspection of him. Then he turns back to his food.

“It’s going well.” Pav sarcastically comments back at their table, making Hobie scoff.

“You know…” you say, fingers lightly tapping the table. “There’s things that can help with being moody.”

“I’m not moody.”

“Ah huh!” You softly cheer. “You spoke. Progress.”

Miguel looks exasperated as he shuts his eyes. He just wanted to enjoy his empanada.

“But you wanna know what will help?”

“I’m not…moody.” He repeats a little slower, to make sure you heard.

“Yeah you are. But it’s okay. Cause you wanna know what will help?”

“You clearly want to tell me.” Miguel breathes out.

“Mhm.” You smile. “A hug.”

Miguel shifts his gaze to you, blinking a few times.

From the farther table, the spider gang is still thoroughly invested. “Oh shit, he looks annoyed.” Miles comments.

“What do think she said?” Gwen asks, resting against the table.

“Tha’ he looks like a wannabe gangster.” Hobie says, now rocking his leg slightly back and forth as he watches.

“A hug would help. It helps me.” You are saying, still staring at Miguel, smiling.

Miguel clicks his jaw, before he’s standing, muttering to himself.

“Let me know!” You call to his leaving form with a chuckle.

;;

Later that night Miguel is pacing his office, just back from a mission that went terribly. The anomaly got away. And Miguel is beating himself up inside. How could he let that happen?

You’re walking down HQ’s hallway, looking for something you had dropped. As you scanned the floor, you hear muttering that reminded you of earlier today. Miguel.

You stopped by his slightly cracked open office door. You carefully knock. Miguel swings it open, sighing upon seeing you. “Now’s not a good time.”

You smile. “Don’t worry. I just want to ask if you’ve seen a pen.”

“A pen?” Miguel’s brows furrow.

“Mhm. I lost it.” You reply. “You look stressed.”

“I’m not—“ he takes a deep breath. “I’m fine. And no I haven’t seen your pen.”

“No worries.” You begin to back away. “Let me know if you see it though. It’s got a weird blue design on it.”

Miguel’s mind is whirring for some reason, as he finds himself calling for you to stop and turn back around. “Did you mean it?” He muttered it so quietly that you almost missed it.

You’re now walking back, eyeing him. “Mean what?”

Miguel’s tongue pokes out against his cheek, feeling his entire body drenched with exhaust and self pity. And putting his pride away he says “A hug.”

“A hug?” Your smile has widened. “I thought you weren’t moody?”

“I’m not. I just— you know what forget I asked.” Miguel goes to turn away feeling stupid, but then you’re reaching forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, with a smile.

At first Miguel doesn’t know where to place his hands, but you stay put, just resting your body against his, as your cheek slightly squishes up against his shoulder. Then Miguel slowly—very slowly—wraps his arms around your midriff, and hugs you back.

Miguel doesn’t what to admit that his body has instantly relaxed upon feeling yours against his. Your hand had begun to softly soothe the top of his back. Just drawing in slow circles, that makes his muscles stop their tensing.

And that hug wasn’t the last time it happened.

Now Miguel would secretly search for you. Big on the ‘secret’ part though, because he can’t have anyone else knowing he likes to hug you. No that would cause too many implications and destroy his well thought out ‘in control’ demeanour.

So when he’d find you walking alone—something he noticed you did a lot. And after he’d make sure that you were both in a desolate enough place, he’d softly grab your arm, pulling you somewhere even more desolate before he’s wrapping his arms around you in a much needed hug.

You didn’t mind. Hugs had always been your love language with family and friends alike. Though you were surprised by how often Miguel would now seek you out, just so you could rest your head on his shoulder and draw patterns on his back.

He claimed it was just for relaxation and that you shouldn’t have offered him a hug if you would’ve asked so many questions. So you let him, his own hand having gradually drawn its own patterns on your waist.

He liked hearing and feeling your breathing. Your breath by his ear sent almost cleansing shivers through him. And the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his own made his usually racing heartbeat calm down to match with yours.

He liked the calmness your body gave him. And deep down he knew he now craved it.

;;

You were all in a different universe. Gwen, Miles, Pavitr, Hobie, Peter, Mayday, Miguel and you. Jess had to take care of another mission so Miguel very clearly claimed how he’s stuck with you all, his scowl very present.

It was midway through trying to catch this anomaly when Miguel’s gaze gets caught up in a man and his baby. And as you stopped, noticing his focused gaze first, you identified the man and baby as Miguel and his daughter.

You didn’t know much about Miguel’s daughter. Just that in his universe she had died. And now as Miguel watches a variant of himself with a variant of his daughter he can feel his body tensing.

He’s never had the misfortune of seeing variants of his family before. And now really wasn’t the time to dwell and sink deeper into his mind but he just can’t help it.

“Is he okay?” Whispered Miles to Peter.

Peter shakes his head. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. No one can take him out of episodes like this.”

Because everyone could see that inside Miguel was fuming, so close to exploding that everyone had almost taken a step back.

You stared at Miguel, watching as his chest heaved with a racing heart.

You remember one time he had muttered to you, head in your neck. You weren’t sure if you were actually meant to hear it or not. But he had said how your breathing slowed his breathing. Or something along those lines. Because after he had said that he had drawn you in tighter, keeping his large hands around your body.

So now you edge closer. And this could be a terrible idea, you realise that. Your friends seem to as well.

“Y/n!” Gwen hisses quietly, watching as you edged closer to the ‘beast’ or how everyone else was treating him like.

You all needed Miguel to focus to capture this especially dangerous anomaly. You couldn’t have him trapped in his mind teetering on the edge.

So you continued to walk forward, and as everyone stared in shock, you carefully wrapped your hands around his neck in a hug. You did so very lightly, to give him any room for rejection. You were actually waiting for the rejection.

But then, to everyone’s shock, Miguel wraps his arms around your waist, just like every other time. And he’s found you fit against him so nicely, it felt so comfortable. Your heartbeat was against his now, and the slower tempo made Miguel sink into your neck, his arms now engulfing you.

Shocked now isn’t a big enough word. Because you were hugging Miguel. And it wasn’t the ‘you’ part everyone was surprised by. It was the ‘Miguel’ part. He was clearly eager to hug you back, and they all watched as Miguel practically became putty in your hold.