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juneknight · 9 days

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Honored you read and enjoyed it, it’s my biggest guilty pleasure fic 🤭

Death to Dignity

I'm so late, but this was written for @romanarose's dead dove december. I've never written anything like this before, and it was a fascinating exercise. I'm aware that even my most dead-dove is soft, no need to rub it in.

About this: an intruder (Marc) breaks in to your apartment.

Warnings: the majority of this reads as rape, entirely non consensual. However, this is consensual-non-consent, and I did include a little scene at the end where Marc begins to give aftercare and he and the reader discuss their play. Guns, gun kink.

Immersivity: Reader is an unnamed, undescribed cisgender woman. If any detail hinders your immersive experience, feel free to point it out.

He finds you in the shower. The roar of the water must have disguised the sound of the bathroom door opening, because the only hint you have that there is an intruder in the house is the brief sight of his shadow on the other side of the shower curtain before it is ripped open. Steam billows out and around his figure: black on black clothes, with a balaclava and leather gloves, creating an image that nightmares are made of. You scream, shrinking back against the tiled wall. There is nowhere to go. Your fight or flight or freeze system vacillates between all three and then settles on fight.

You reach for a shampoo bottle and throw it at him. He bats it away with his hand, hissing in pain. Next comes the conditioner bottle, which he ducks to avoid altogether.

Then he pulls out a gun—a compact thing, seemingly small in his hand—and any thought of fight shrivels and dies on the shore of your brain like a fish out of water. The shower still sprays down as he aims the gun low towards your feet, excellent trigger discipline. Behind his mask, you can see that he raises his eyebrows. Your move, that look says.

Slowly, you lift your hands a little. They are shaking, and not from cold.

“Alright,” you say, voice shaking. “I’m sorry—please don’t.”

He nudges the gun toward the shower head. You reach out and turn off the water, and a chill rushes over you even as the humidity lingers in the air. You become acutely aware that you are naked, literally in your most vulnerable state. As if your minds are connected, he seems to take notice of it as well, his eyes (dark, so dark) raking over your bare figure. You cross your arms over your breasts, and you see the corner of his mouth quirk upwards, like your modesty amuses him.

With only a gesture of the gun, he instructs you to get out of the shower. You do so gingerly, shivering. Your brain feels numb, thoughts passing through and through, anesthetized with horror. He hasn’t killed you, and it’s because he has some other purpose.

You don’t think it’s money.

“C-Can I d-d-dry off-f?” your teeth chatter. He rolls his eyes and grabs a towel off the rack, tossing it to you, but first he makes you step out of the cramped bathroom and through the little kitchenette, dripping on the linoleum until you stand at the foot of your bed. A window is open, letting in a chilly London breeze. Is that how he had gotten in?

He puts the gun away, at last, and then crosses his arms. He backs up a little until he is against the table where you take your meals and shifts to perch on the edge of it, crossing his arms like watching you towel off your naked body is a show for his eyes only.

Face burning, you try to keep it perfunctory: scrubbing the cotton over your arms and legs and belly, squeezing at your hair to keep it from dripping down your neck. You wrap the towel around yourself when you are finished, and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. You glare. Something about the gun being put away (in a neat little leather holster sitting at the man’s trim waist) has made you brave. Yes, he has a gun—but the gun isn’t pointing at you, is it?

He points to you, snapping his fingers and gesturing for you to drop the towel.

You grip it tighter, fingers going numb with the force you use to hold it in place. If he wants it, he’ll have to come and take it, you think. But the sight of his eyes hardening as he slips off the edge of the table has your heart pounding. To your horror, you can tell that it isn’t just from anxiety. He comes to you until you are only a foot apart. You can smell him: clean, masculine. His eyes are brown, not black like you had mistaken them for in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. His mouth is full and pink; a pretty mouth, if it were on anyone else. You try to put together an image of his face based on these mosaic pieces, and the compilation makes your knees wobble.

At your dumb silence, he takes an edge of the towel and tugs, barely using any force. It flutters from your grip down to your feet, and he snorts a little in soft laughter. He holds out a gloved hand, palm up. Your brows furrow as you look down at it. It seems innocuous enough…and when you slip your hand into his, he gently leads you around the edge of the bed towards the bedside table.

You are so distracted by the sight of the full glass of water sitting there (which wasn’t present when you climbed into the shower) that you don’t anticipate his next move: lifting your hand to the headboard where a set of cuffs are already waiting. He snaps them around your wrist, causing you to give out a panicked shriek. When you pull at the cuffs they don’t give; they don’t even shake the sturdy headboard. All they do is bite into the soft skin of your wrists. You’ll take off your fucking hand trying to get out of them.

Your free hand goes for the glass of water, and you hurl it at him. The glass strikes his shoulder and falls to the ground, shattering, water splashing the both of you and all over the hardwood floor. Exhaling angrily, he reaches out for your free hand with less tenderness than he had used to guide you, gripping it with enough force to hurt as he shoves you onto the bed, pushing you toward the other cuff. The two of you struggle, but all it takes is the gun muzzle brushing against your temple for all the fight to go out of you. He cuffs your other hand. Bound like this, your arms are spread wide as you face the headboard, kneeling on the mattress.

Resting your forehead against the headboard, you begin to cry a little. You know what is coming. But it doesn’t explain the way your heart pounds with more than fear. God why did he have to be so handsome? Couldn’t he just get women the normal way? You feel a shameful heat between your thighs, one which grows when you tug at your cuffs and realize just how thoroughly bound you are.

You are jolted from your thoughts by something slapping against the headboard beside your face, falling to rest down by your knees. His gloves.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, walking his fingers across the length of your arm towards your shoulder. He kneels on the bed behind you, body throwing off a heat that you are strangely grateful for. His voice is low and soothing, a pleasing timber that you feel all the way in your bones when he speaks. “I don’t wanna use that gun. But my therapist says I have impulse issues. Don’t give me any more impulses. Just be a good girl for me, yeah?”

You nod your head, face burning hot, ashamed at what those words do to you. Despite your assurance that you’ll be good, as soon as his hand cups your breast, you squeal, jerking away from the soft touch.

He clicks his tongue, hand finding your throat to grip it tight. His other hand presses a finger to your lips, the message clear: quiet. You nod just as your head begins to go light with lack of air. When he lets go, you struggle to take in frantic breaths in a quiet manner. But it must please him, because his hands come to rest softly at your hips. They drag up the sides of your body, firm enough to be just on this side of ticklish. He takes your breasts in his broad hands, palming them. The sound you make—breathy and desperate—makes him breathe an incredulous little laugh against the nape of your neck.

“Dirty little girl,” he mutters. “Getting hot for me? You don’t even know me. I held a gun to your head five minutes ago.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, jerking away from him—but it is a futile effort with your arms outstretched and bound. You shift closer to the headboard, hoping to make his fondling of you more difficult. Every effort you make to thwart him just seems to amuse him more than the last, until his every teasing touch is hardly about arousing you. It’s about pissing you off.

It’s about breaking your fucking spirit. You burst into tears and he comes to rest flush against your back. His hard cock against your ass makes your thighs clench even as it disgusts you. Why was everything about him so arousing? His voice, his eyes, his mouth, his body lined with lean muscle pressed so firmly against your back…it feels like he was made to arouse you.

His warmth is so nice, you find yourself leaning into him without meaning to.

“Shh,” he hushes softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” you shriek angrily.

“But it’s simple, too. I’m going to do whatever I want to you—and I think you know what I want,” he says, letting his hips rut softly against the curve of your ass. “All you have to do is be a good girl. No struggling. No trying to get away. No trying to hurt me. No hurting yourself. You follow my rules, and I’ll fuck you so sweet, baby, I swear it. Can you do that?”

The way he talks to you…God help you. Your forehead rests briefly on the headboard, tears of resignation in your eyes. Is it worse for you if you agree? Does it make you complicit somehow? Shouldn’t you fight and struggle and scream? But all the fight feels leaked out of you. You just want to go to sleep. You just want him to leave.

“Alright,” you sniffle.

He loops his arms around you in the mockery of a hug. It shouldn’t comfort you. It shouldn’t. “Good girl. Don’t worry, baby, daddy’s gonna make it good for you.”

His hands return to your breasts, and this time he softly plucks at your nipples, soothing the ache of neglect. It feels like there is a live wire connecting them to your clit, and every soft pinch and twist makes your breathing stutter, clit swelling in anticipation of his touch. You try to think of other things, to distract your frantic mind, but everytime you begin to be successful, he would change the angle of his hands or alter his speed, rudely dragging you by your ankles back to the present.

He plays with your breasts for ages, softly slapping them just to see you jump. His laugh rumbles through you from where his chest is pressed to your back. When your breasts feel nearly numb with being fondled, he lets his hands fall to your hips, massaging, and then to your cunt. He finds you soaked, two fingers stroking through your swollen folds and brushing over your clit.

“Fu-uck,” he groans. “You’re wet. If I had the time, I’d use my mouth on you—suck and lick your soul out through your pussy, I can promise you that. But you’ve got my cock aching to be inside you. Should I prep you? Or do you think your little pussy can take me?”

You don’t know which is worse—his prolonged touch, or the risk of him doing damage to you. Is it a trap? Will he do the opposite of whatever you ask for? Your brain whirls in panicked, aroused circles. In the end, the threat of pain outweighs the impending humiliation. “Just—just a few fingers—”

“Has it been a while?” he asks mildly, like you are two lovers about to have sex for the first time, like he isn’t your rapist, your nightmare come to life. While he talks to you, he teases your clit with light strokes that have your thighs trembling.

“Yes,” you admit, face hot.

“You don’t fuck yourself with your fingers?”

“I do,” you admit. “But—”

“How many?”

“How—?”

“How many fingers do you shove in this tight little pussy?”

“I—two? Sometimes, sometimes three?”

He reaches out to your hand, shackled to the bedpost. He finds your three middlemost fingers and encircles them with his own. You realize that he is testing the girth of them—and whatever he is testing them against makes him scoff lightly in derision. “Three of these skinny little fingers? Yeah, you’ll need prepped if you don’t want my cock to tear you in half.”

“No, please,” you groan, pulling away from him as best as you can. He hushes you, looping an arm around your waist to drag you back against his body.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’ll prep you, I promise. I don’t want it to hurt.”

You aren’t sure if you believe him. How could he not want it to hurt? But then he is softly feeding two of his thick fingers past your folds and into your entrance. You weren’t lying that it had been a while since the last time you had sex, but you couldn’t have expected the stretch of his digits, the way your cunt already seemed poised to flutter and clench on his fingers, molding your walls to the shape of his insistent intrusion.

“So-o-o fucking wet,” he sighs happily against your neck before kissing you there.

You want to snap at him, to assure him (and yourself) that this is only physiology. Stimulus equals response. You could get turned on from plenty of different stimuli—the seam of your jeans against your clit or the hem of your dresses brushing against your thighs—that didn’t mean you were sexually attracted to the inanimate objects. Anyone could have made you wet, you told yourself. Anyone.

He’s just—really good at it. You grit your teeth against a moan when his fingers flex softly inside you, stroking tender, swollen places that your own fingers struggle to reach. His hand loops beneath your outstretched arm to wrap around the base of your throat: a threat, a tender caress all in one. When you flinch away from his pleasurable touch, his fingers flex and tighten around your neck. Experimentally (and feeling like a traitor to yourself) when you arch your back to give him more room to work, his fingers relax and stroke softly. You hate him. You hate the way he makes you feel—-like you are an animal being trained, a creature held hostage by your own Pavlovian response.

“Please stop,” you whisper, head tilting forward until your forehead can rest against the headboard. “Please stop being gentle.”

His teeth tease your neck, the spot sensitive from how he has been lavishing it with gentle attention. “Is that what you really want?”

“Yes,” you say, tears dripping onto the sheets beneath you, unsure if it is a lie.

“Well it isn’t about what you want,” he says softly, fingers nearly cruel with their gentleness inside you. He pulls them out and smears your wetness with such care over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk toward the touch helplessly. “It’s about what I want. And I want you just like this. Wet, and shaking. Scared shitless and about to cum. Not sure if you want me to shoot you with my gun or fuck you with it. That’s how I want you. So get used to it, princess. Lean forward.”

He withdraws his hand from between your thighs and presses it between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward until your breasts rest against the headboard, arms outstretched between either bedpost, back arched obscenely. His hips rut forward against you softly as he helps you gently into the position that pleases him most. Then his hands are gone altogether, and you are forced to listen to the soft sound of rustling clothes as he takes his cock out.

You jump a little the first time his erection brushes against you, burning hot and soft where it grazes your thighs. He shifts, pressing your thighs apart wider so that he can slip his cock between them, and it’s the first indication you get of how large he is. You believed that most men overestimated their size, and had hoped such would be the case when he made fun of your small fingers earlier, but such wasn’t going to be the case now.

Your rapist begins a steady rhythm of rutting against you. His cock finds the wetness of your cunt, though he keeps his hips tilted to make sure that he doesn’t yet slip inside you as he drags himself along your most sensitive parts, mimicking sex. At the apex of his thrusts, when you glance down, you can see his cock head peek from between your legs every time it brushes against your clit.

“Oh my fucking god,” you mutter, shaking like a leaf in something close to terror and anticipation.

“Soaking me,” he mutters back, ignoring you. “Gotta lube up a dick this big if I don’t want to tear you in half, don’t I princess? Luckily, I’ve got a fountain right here.”

The head brushes against you, and he eases his way in, helped in no small part by how wet you are—and how wet you’ve made his cock. Slowly, he breeches your entrance. Most shocking to you is the way he listens to your body. Whenever his size borders on uncomfortable, he slows his entry and reaches down to stroke your clit, coaxing your body to relax. You’ve had lovers in the past who didn’t demonstrate this much awareness.

When he bottoms out, he is so deep that his head brushes against some unbearably sensitive part inside you. Your forehead thuds against the headboard, your back arching as you try to decrease the stimulation. He just hushes you—with all the infuriating gentleness of a man hushing a wild horse—and for a moment it fucking works. You relax, your cunt relaxes, and instead of being just that side of too much, it feels so fucking good. And then you remember (who you are, who he is, what he’s doing to you), and it’s too much. You find that you aren’t broken in—not yet, at least—and you can’t let him have you like this; so easily.

Tossing back your head, pain blossoms bright and sharp as the back of your skull connects with his forehead. He shouts an expletive, and you know by the way your own vision swims that you must have gotten him good. He pulls out of you, hands falling away from your shivering form as he touches tenderly the growing bruise above his eye, blinking away the blurry vision. You hunch forward, instinctively trying to distance yourself from him, invigorated from your own audacity but also terrified—

“Are you fucking stupid?” he hisses, wrenching your head back until your neck gives a crack and you cry out in pain. His hand finds your throat and he grips tightly, tighter, until it is impossible to draw in a breath. Your body revolts, causing you to struggle against your bindings and his hold. Then the gun appears and you go still all over, horror prickling along your scalp. He brandishes it in one shaking hand (is that rage that makes him shake? Pain?) as he hisses in your ear: “Quit fucking playing with me! Good girls get fucked, bad girls get their brains splattered on the wall.”

He relaxes his grip a little, just in time for your breath to catch. More tears drip down your cheeks, and you only shake harder when he presses the barrel of the gun to the hollow of your throat. He drags it down, down to your sternum, right between your breasts, right over your fucking heart.

But then—oh God help you. Then he shifts, the cool metal dragging over the curve of one breast until he’s teasing your nipple. Pleasure and horror mingle in your belly at the touch.

“Oh, that’s why you’re being such a bad girl,” he teases. “You’re not scared of the gun. You like it.”

You can’t even shake your head in the negative. Your own depravity astounds you. Your body is stiller than a statue as he drags the barrel down the softness of your belly. You know where he is headed. Your mouth forms the shape of the word no, but you don’t even have the breath to whisper it. He lets it brush your clit, and the pleasure is nearly painful. You’re terrified. Horrified. Desperate. So, so turned on.

He begins to drag the barrel of the gun along your seam the way he had his cock, the irregular shape of the barrel stimulating your clit and swollen folds. He crowds your body against the headboard until you can’t hunch away from him and lets his free hand—the one not masturbating you with his gun—to your thigh, pressing against it, coaxing you to open wider.

“Fucking filthy,” he laughs brightly. “I can’t fucking believe this. You’re a dream, you know that?”

You open your mouth to tell him off, but all that comes out is a desperate whine. Your teeth click with the force of shutting your jaws against any further sounds.

“You’re gonna cum on it,” he growls, continuing his ceaseless motion, the metal warm from your cunt and slick from your juices. “Aren’t you? Go on, then. Cum on it. Cum.”

You try to hold it, you really do, but it becomes inevitable. Tears dripping off your chin and onto your chest, your body stiffens, legs trying to squeeze shut as your cunt bursts with pleasure, soaking the barrel and your own thighs. His shaky breaths are panted against your neck as he mutters a stream of obscenities. He works you through it until you are weak and wrung dry, then lifts the gun to your face. You flinch only a moment before you realize what he wants—for you to lick it clean.

You’ve already degraded yourself enough. What’s this one further step? Your dignity is dead. Opening your mouth, you hesitantly drag your tongue along the wet barrel, tasting something bitter beneath the sweet tang of your own cum.

The hand holding the gun is shaking. You can feel where his bare cock brushes against the small of your back leaving trails of precum. Clearly you are not the only one affected by this use of the gun. He wrenches the gun away from your mouth, and for a moment his body presses firmly against your back as he shifts upward—and places the gun into your shackled hand.

“Hold on to that for me, would you?” he says. “I’ve got to fuck you or my dick’s going to fall off.”

It’s the final blow: holding a weapon which might have saved you if only you weren’t bound. There’s no possible way for you to maneuver it (as tightly shackled as you are) to face him. He’s defeated you in every possible sense of the word, and this only adds the gravest insult to injury. Then his cock is nudging through your tender folds, and all you can do is grip the handle of the gun for dear life.

He bottoms out, and there is no hint of pain—not after your spectacular orgasm. You are even more sensitive than you were before, privy to every detail of his cock: its seemingly endless length, its substantial girth, flare of the head and the way it thickens toward the base. Despite his frantic words and the way his hands grip your hips too tightly, he fucks you slowly. Controlled. He wants you to feel every last inch of it. And God, you do.

The man never picks up the pace, though he does work his hand back between your legs to stroke your clit in time with his thrusts. Once wasn’t enough for him. He wants to feel the way you clamp down on his cock, and you are too tired, too beaten to do anything but let him punch the air out of your lungs.

He huffs out a breath and changes the angle he’s fucking you, slows his thrusts. He’s about to cum, you realize, likely very close to the edge if the way he holds his breath is any indication. But he wants you to cum first, his fingers methodical and merciless on your clit and the other hand coming up to encircle your throat once more, cutting off your air with just the gentlest squeeze.

Just as you cum, he loosens his grip, and the release of air comes out as a throaty groan that has him burying his face in your neck. You nearly drop the gun, your body shakes and jerks so hard against your bindings. He sinks his teeth into the meaty part of your shoulder and thrusts deep into you, filling you with the warmth of his seed.

Marc isn’t even soft before he slips out of character. The balaclava comes off, leaving his curls a riotous mess. Above his left eye is a dark bruise forming from where you head-butted him. He might even have a black eye in the morning.

The first thing he does is take the gun from your shaking hand. It isn’t loaded—you had known that all along—but you are grateful for its loss anyway. He sets it on the nightstand and unlocks your cuffs, pulling you back against his chest while you fight against your own stiffness to straighten your legs out.

“You were incredible,” he says, sounding terrified. “You never said the safeword—-unless, fuck—did I not hear it?”

“Never said it,” you slur, shivering.

“Does anything hurt?”

“Legs do.”

He kneels up on the bed with you in his arms and lays you amongst the ruffled pillows and blankets. His hands are warm and broad where he kneads your thighs and calves, even down to your toes which had started to tingle from loss of circulation. The whole time you stare at him, at his eyes which are so different to you now than they had been from behind the dark cloth of the balaclava.

“You were so…” you don’t know how to finish the statement.

Marc dips his head in shame. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

“‘M thirsty.”

He looks up and gives a weak smile. “Someone threw the water I poured for her.”

“I wondered what that was doing there.”

“I was trying to be proactive,” he says, slipping off the bed. He glances back, keeps his eyes on you even as he dashes to the kitchen and pours another glass of water to bring back to you in bed. You feel the loss of his body keenly, and ache for him to be back. Your hands are shaking too badly to hold the cup, so he holds it for, helping you to drink.

“I don’t want to do that ever again,” he says firmly.

You look up at him with wide, startled eyes. “Why not?”

He blinks, unsure how to answer you. He thought it had been obvious—the character he slipped into, the way you had cried and even the way now that your body trembled in misplaced adrenalin and hormones. It had been too much. It had gone too far. Hadn’t it?

In your own mind, you can’t help but wonder what fault Marc could have had with it. Your eyes fill with fresh tears, a headache forming from all the ones you have cried tonight. “You—you didn’t like it? Did I do bad?”

“No,” Marc says, taking the glass from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. “Fuck, no. I, I liked it too much, didn’t I? Feeling you helpless underneath me—knowing that I could do anything I wanted to you. What the hell does it say about me, that I liked raping you so much?”

“We were playing,” you say, scalp prickling with horror at him using that word. “It wasn’t like that, Marc, not at all. I knew I could have stopped you, but I didn’t want to. We were pretending.”

“I know. I just—” he blows out a breath and goes quiet. Looking down at you, his face softens. He wipes some sweat off your brow and leans down to kiss your forehead so very softly. “I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too,” you whisper, shutting your eyes against his soft touch.

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juneknight · 10 days

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OP here!!

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

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juneknight · 11 days

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I missed these two so so so so so much 😭🤍 Khonshu is stepping up his game!

𝓡𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ khonshu was unfamiliar with the concept of self-care, but it would seem that he's unexpectedly well-versed in others. pairing(s) ☽ khonshu/reader | promises kept!verse word count ☾ 2.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my fourth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for promises kept on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ this took a turn I didn't anticipate. khonshu kind of got away from me, tbh. have a flirty old bird I guess? (@angel-of-the-moons I feel like you might enjoy this one.🤭) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

What are you doing?

The rumbled words emerged from the shadows hemmed up in the corners of the bathroom more like a disinterested observation than a question.

“Would you care to take a guess?” you offered, opening your eyes and glancing towards the dimly lit silhouette having knelt in front of the door.

The warm, humid room was cramped and ill-suited for more than one person to occupy it at one time, but that fact didn’t seem to have stopped Khonshu from materializing at your side—likely in pursuit of tracking down your exact location since you weren’t in the living room or your bedroom like you usually were at this hour. It was a slow night in London, for once—the police channels had been quiet all evening, so you hadn’t felt the need to be prepared for the moon god’s urgent beck and call. Ru was winding down from school and homework with Lizzie watching her favorite baking show, and your portable speaker played music at the necessary volume to disguise your murmured responses to the lunar deity’s incredulity.

Bathing. In the dark. He tilted his skull. The electricity is not malfunctioning.

“It’s meant to be relaxing.” You raised a hand out of the steaming water to indicate the row of flickering candles lining the broad posterior lip of the tub flush against the wall. “And I can see perfectly well.”

He leaned forward, hands planted on his thighs not unlike a child, and you noticed that his staff was propped against the door frame. You are…self-soothing?

He must have picked up that term recently, as you’d definitely never heard him use it before. “Sort of. More like self-care. Liz offered to keep Ru entertained so I could get a breather until supper’s ready.”

Hmm. Khonshu sank back into his haunches. So you simmer yourself…and to what end?

You chuckled, pulling your legs up and folding your arms across the tops of your knees—modesty was a foreign concept to the ancient being, having associated with a culture that dwelled in the desert and thus rarely utilized complete coverings save to block the harshest of sunlight—and while you’d mostly grown accustomed to his penchant for invading your privacy at inopportune times, you didn’t particularly want to explain the entire premise to him with your chest on full display. “Hot water benefits the human body in many ways—relaxed muscles, improved moods, and the like—not to mention the positive effects of aromatherapy and inhalation of steam.”

Is that why you’re steeping a tea bag?

“It was a bathbomb wrapped in cloth with flowers and stuff in it—that’s why the water’s purple. It’s scented with lavender and chamomile. Smell it?”

How could I not? It has fumigated the entire room.

You shrugged. “At least it’s nice—better than BO, anyway.”

His shoulders scrunched in the only approximation of a frown you’d been able to determine. I see little point in any of this frivolity.

“Have you ever had a spa day, Khonshu?”

The inexpressive dimensions of his skull could not morph to adapt to his dripping dubiety, but it didn’t have to—his once uncanny stillness spoke enough to it.

“It’s nice,” you continued, ignoring his skeptical grunt. “With all those priests and priestesses fawning over you in your temples, I figured you’d have been pampered a time or two over the course of several thousand years.”

We were only allowed to interact directly with our avatars—we oftentimes utilized them as oracles, or spoke to the priesthood through statues, visions, dreams, or signs. Khonshu pushed his shoulders back. They would tend to our sculptures and reliefs as if they were our bodies, make offerings to them, enact rituals in our names, but…nothing quite like this.

“That’s a shame. I think a deep-tissue massage would do you a lot of good.” You reached for the exfoliator and the bar of soap and lathered up the perforated weave in order to scrub yourself so you’d at least look semi-productive. “Maybe some moisturization wouldn’t hurt…last time I saw your elbows, they looked crusty as hell.”

At first you thought you might actually have rendered him speechless, but you should have known better—another cursory peek in his direction revealed that he was merely observing.

I do recall a similar practice, he responded, tapering his beak down towards you, although it was generally utilized in preserving the khat of the mortals that journeyed west.

You rolled your eyes. “Of course. It wouldn’t offer you much of a vast improvement, then, huh? There’s not a whole lot I could do for a mummified bird.”

Khonshu scoffed, but said no more.

You began to wash your body in earnest, starting with your face, then moved down your neck, shoulders, arms, torso, pelvis, legs, and feet. You tried to reach around to tend to your back in the same way, but you winced as the action tugged at sore muscles beneath your shoulder blade—a scuffle with a carjacker the night before had resulted in him collapsed unconscious in the street, and you hadn’t trusted the police not to run him over in their haste to capture him (as well as a glimpse of you in their ever-persistent effort in pinning down the identity of their local do-gooder vigilante), so you’d had to drag him onto the sidewalk with…mixed results. The man had been big enough that he could have carried the car away with him, if the whim had so struck him, instead of hot-wiring it.

Allow me.

You startled as Khonshu’s hand curled over your arm to grasp the porous swatch of sudsy material. You watched, enraptured, as the gauze binding his flesh receded like sand slipping through an hourglass to reveal the pockmarked, ashen skin underneath—but you had only a glimpse before he withdrew with the stretched loofa.

Give me your back.

You twisted adjacent to the length of the tub and leaned forward obediently, deigning not to comment upon it. You supposed that wet wrappings wouldn’t be a pleasant sensation for anybody.

Khonshu imitated your earlier actions, although he was unexpectedly gentler. He dragged the loofa in rhythmic circles from the nape of your neck steadily down, from side to side, to the small of your back—then, to your continued surprise, he placed the fabric on your thigh before cupping his hands in the water and pouring it over your skin to wash away the suds. He then wiped away the rest, the roughened texture of his fingers softened by the soap and water, the pliability of your skin, although you noticed this touch lingered far longer.

You said nothing as he began to explore the typography of your spine and ribcage, seemingly subconsciously. To be such a hardass about almost everything, as well as an unforgiving sparring partner, you had almost forgotten how careful he could be. A foolish notion, really, as you were fully aware of how he treated Ru like porcelain on the verge of shattering—he always had. The methodicality of it lulled you into a trance-like state, your eyelids drooping as you leaned into both of his hands, now working in tandem to press and stroke the tension out of your muscles.

…When was the last time someone had touched you like this? You couldn’t recall. Your ex-husband hadn’t usually utilized this intimate a method of aftercare, even while you’d been trying for a baby. You’d been too busy with Ru and chores during the day to schedule an appointment, although you suspected that a deep-tissue would do you a world of good—Khonshu’s armor always healed your wounds if you wore it long enough, but it still often left you stiff if you’d hyperextended yourself during combat.

Khonshu dug the heel of his palm into that one incredibly tender catch under your shoulder blade. You sucked in a breath and winced, your entire back going rigid against the pain that lanced up into your neck. His displeased grunt was much closer to your ear than you’d anticipated, and you opened your eyes to glance up at him out of your periphery to see that he’d hunched over you.

You did not tell me that you were still in pain, he finally rumbled sternly. Why did you release the armor before you were healed?

“I am healed,” you told him, “just a little sore. It’s normal. I guess it doesn’t stitch everything back together exactly where it was before.”

He grumbled in refutation, but tapped his fingertips against the arch of your spine. Relax. It will only grow worse if you are tense.

“It’s not exactly—comfortable!” you squeaked, jerked forward to avoid the insistent digging of his fingers.

Of all the methods he could have used to steady you, reaching up and curling the length of his hand around the column of your throat was decidedly not what you would ever have expected. Your pulse leapt against the perfectly measured, unoppressive pressure he applied, and—in spite of the copious amount of heat flooding your face—you had to admit that it worked to keep you as still as a statue.

An inexplicable warmth—tingly like the slow creep of magic his armor provided to alleviate your wounds, but far more concentrated (and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have remarked that it almost felt like lidocaine)—wreathed his free hand as he began to knead the tightness out of the problem spot. You groaned softly as he did so, the vibration of the sound resonating through his hand and tickling your throat in turn, squeezing your eyes shut as you twitched on reflex to avoid the pain. Even with his magic’s numbing ability, the injury must have been worse than you’d initially anticipated because it swept right around the curve of your ribs and under—

“Hey!” you gasped, lurching away from those long, beguiling fingers as he followed the muscle to your torso and almost brushed the underside of your breast. This caused the blade of his palm to dig into your jugular, pitching your voice into a broken, if muffled, squeal. “Whoa, watch it—that’s off-limits!”

You’ve a rib out of place, he deadpanned.

“I could have my sacrum detached from my pelvic girdle, but that doesn’t mean I’d let you fondle my ass to fix it, either,” you hissed, trying to pull away, in vain.

Why must you be so stubborn? he groused, pressing his palm into your side directly over the rib in question. His soothing power sank into your body, and you had a hard time resisting the relief it brought. I had no intention of groping you.

You’d thought your face couldn’t grow any hotter, but you were promptly proven wrong. You told yourself that it was strictly the proximity of another person that was causing your uncontrollable reaction, that it had been years since the last time you’d been in such a compromising and vulnerable situation, not that it was Khonshu specifically. (You had always been shit at lying, even to yourself, admittedly.) “I, uh…sorry. Just…wasn’t expecting that.”

I did not mean to startle you. The curve of his beak descended over the slope of your opposite shoulder and the golden, emblematic crescent moon bound over his chest brushed against your back. …Just know that if I ever touched you in such a manner, there is no question that you would be anticipating it, Srit mwt.

You mouthed a curse and dropped your head as much as you could manage with him still holding you in place in hopes to hide your utter mortification. He should not have been having this effect on you. Khonshu was many things, but sexual was not a word you had mentally associated with him at any point.

You remembered, idly, that your research into his mythos had revealed that he was regarded as a god of fertility.

“Uh-huh,” you responded lamely, swallowing and surrendering to him just so that it would be over sooner. You’d planned on soaking for a while after washing up to enjoy the hot water, but now all you wanted to do was curl up in bed and scream into your pillow until your heart stopped drumming itself into a tattoo against the inside of your thoracic cavity.

Then the god of the moon had the the nerve—the fucking gall—to chuckle; a low, raspy noise that carried into your ribcage like a subwoofer ricocheted sound through a vehicle. You needn’t worry. I do not extend such invitations lightly…and I am not particularly inclined to commence anything that could not be completed.

Fuck. Honestly.

You were familiar with the banter the pair of you had shared over the years of serving as his avatar, but you’d never known him to…was he flirting with you, or were you imagining things? Surely not. He despised humans, humanity in general, thought himself above mere mortals to the point that he only associated with whomever he’d selected to be his Fist at any given time (as far as you were aware, anyway).

This was new. It was foreign and unexpected and completely out of character for him. Just when you’d thought you had pinned down his personality, he’d gone and revealed another aspect of himself—like a phase of the celestial body he represented. It didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se (quite the opposite, in fact, if you were to be totally honest with yourself; you’d made somewhat suggestive remarks to him in passing before, mostly for humor’s sake, but he’d never before responded in kind), but it was disarming you in a way for which you never could have prepared yourself.

He had seen you naked before—numerous times, in fact, much to your chagrin, since he couldn’t be bothered to at least knock on something before he appeared out of thin air—but he’d never acted like he’d even noticed your body, nor had he ever cared about the modern concept of modesty. You’d learned to live with it, had grown accustomed to him appearing at the most inopportune of moments. You’d just assumed that he might not even feel any attraction whatsoever, or at least not towards you.

Was that assumption incorrect? Had you misread his body language all this time? Was he just worryingly skilled at hiding any reactions he could have had? You hadn’t a clue—you didn’t know what to think, especially since you swore you could feel each individual crease on his cool, coarse palms against your heated flesh. He was a dominant entity, controlling out of necessity given the nature of his creed, but you’d never thought that it could carry over into a context quite like this.

…Of course, you’d never thought he’d offer to help you bathe, either, but here you were: naked, wet, and as vulnerable as one could be, trying very hard to hide exactly what he was doing to you simply by touching you comparatively chastely in sharp contrast to what the tone of his voice might have indicated.

You cleared your throat, realizing that you’d been quite a little too long. You could almost hear his smug grin—if he were even capable of displaying it in his primary, decayed shape. “...Thanks. For the…for the help. I feel a lot better now.”

Impatient, as always, he tutted. Just a moment.

“No, really, I’m good, you’ve worked your ma—gic!”

The sharp, high noise that escaped you as his hand compressed your rib and set it back in place with a dull click was worse than you could’ve imagined. Khonshu, mercifully, withdrew as quickly as he’d approached, leaving you reeling and dazed. You sucked in a breath, gritting your teeth against the urge to cringe, and probed your side experimentally.

There. That wasn’t so bad, now was it, hmm?

“If you weren’t a literal deity that could smite me from this plane of existence, I would offer you some very choice words on the quality of your bedside manner.”

That has never restricted you before. Khonshu’s spindly form creaked as he stood and straightened to his full height (or as close to it as was possible, given the bathroom’s low ceiling), leaving you shivering in the humid air he stirred in his wake. Although I doubt you will complain that I finished the job that you failed to allow the armor to finish.

“Well,” you started indignantly, “I guess I can count on you to finish everything I don’t, then, huh?”

A beat of silence passed, and that was arguably worse than anything he could’ve said in reply.

You dropped your head into your hands and groaned. “Forget I said that.”

He had the audacity to laugh at you. Should you ever require assistance, he crooned, all you need do is to call my name. I will hear you at any time or place.

You reached a hand back to deliver him a solitary finger, refraining from the urge to crawl into the drain and drown yourself. “I think I’ve had about enough of you tonight, thanks.”

If that’s all you can take, then I worry that you couldn’t—

“Shut,” you ground out, “the fuck up.”

Khonshu laughed as he slipped back into whatever the hell sort of fifth dimension he lived in when he wasn’t plaguing you with his insufferability.

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juneknight · 15 days

Note

In the spirit of missing dorm room Marc: maybe something fun like them going to a costume party, maybe matching, maybe in a couples costume, with colossal tension because of the implications of going matching? Anything that’s fun for you and is written by you is fun to read tbh

The exact moment you realize you’ve fucked up is this one: the bathroom door opens (a rush of steam and humidity flooding out, scented softly of Marc’s shower gel the one you use every now and then just to have his scent on you) and Marc comes out dressed nearly in the full costume that you had thrust into his arms a half-hour ago. The look in his eyes lets you know right away; you’ve overplayed your hand.

Now he knows that you’re in love with him.

“We don’t have to do this,” you backpedal. “Actually, this was a bad idea—”

You bite off your own words, aware of how offensive they might seem, but Marc doesn’t look offended. He has paused to lean against the bathroom doorway—god he looks good, the holster sitting so low on his cocked hips, it’s enough to make you drool—and watch your frantic pacing, the white robe you’ve donned swishing around your ankles. You immediately sense that he’s doing That Thing, the one where he doesn’t speak and lets you dig yourself into a deeper hole.

Well two can play at that game. You flop down on your bed and bury your face in your hands. How’s that for silence. You can barely hear his slow, careful footsteps over the ruckus in your brain, all your internal voice telling you that you had dug your own grave, you had fucking coordinated these costumes and now your feelings for him—for your best, closest friend—were plainer than day.

The bed depresses as he sits down next to you.

“You okay?”

You shake your head.

“You ever coming out of there?”

You press your hands against your face tighter.

His breath brushes your fingertips, his forehead resting against your temple as he whispers: “Is there room for me in there too?”

“I didn’t even think when I bought the costumes, Marc, I swear.”

“You didn’t?”

“No!”

He hums.

“The couple’s costumes were buy-one-get-one-half-off, and so I spent most of time in that part of the shop anyway.” He hums again. “I saw mine first and I thought—wow, I’d look really good in that! Not that you don’t look really good in yours too—” He hums. Goddamnit, he’s doing The Thing again! “Marc, say something, you know I’m prone to nervous rambling, this isn’t fair—”

“I think…we’re going to be late for the party if we sit around much longer.”

You peek from your hands. “You still want to go? With me dressed like this? And you dressed like that? But people will think things. Most people who show up together and are dressed in couple’s costumes are…together.”

“We should get together soon, then,” he says mildly. “Like now. Or on the walk to the party. We could get together outside Harrow’s apartment while we wait for him to open the door, but that’d really be pushing it. I’m more of a safe-than-sorry kind of guy.”

You blink. “You. Say that again.”

“You say it, actually. I want to hear you say it.”

Your hands fall to your lap, tugging at the ends of your sleeves. You’ve always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but you hadn’t really believed that until you met Marc. Sure his eyebrows are expressive, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes let you know that he is happy, but there’s something about his eyes themselves—warm and dark and so fucking safe—that can look at you and see inside you and somehow love what they see.

“Marc, I really like you,” you murmur hesitantly.

He has the perfect opportunity to say it, to say the most notable Han Solo line in all of cinema. I know.

“I really like you too,” he says softly. “Let me get the vest on. Gotta complete the look.”

And when he does complete the look, it is a sinful one. Yes as a little girl you had had a huge crush on Han Solo (and Luke, Leia’s plight truly resonated with you). Seeing his image come to life over the blueprint of the man you are (swiftly) falling in love with is a recipe for a cocktail of feelings in your belly. Arousal. Fondness. Adoration. Desire.

“Ready, Leia?” he asks, holding out a hand to you.

You let out a breath you’d been holding since he opened the bathroom door. You take his hand. “Ready.”

#marc spector x reader #drm

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juneknight · 15 days

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The fact that almost all the prompts I received were for DRM 🥲🤍

I want to write some little drabbles tonight for the Moon boys to try to blow the dust off my keyboard, if you have any thots or prompts you want to see come to life, lay them in my inbox and maybe I’ll get the chance to write it 🤍

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juneknight · 15 days

Text

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

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juneknight · 16 days

Text

Fucking your thighs down low enough that you can only hold your breath and wish he’d brush against your cunt… lacing fingers with you and making you jerk his cock off… so selfish.

“Nobody feels bad when a toy doesn’t get to cum—it’s a toy.”

You’re on to something here…

what if he made me watch as he uses my body to get off??

like thrusting his hard cock against my soft tummy while holding me by the hair to make sure i’m watching???

like denying me of everything and making me beg when he covers me in cum ??

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juneknight · 22 days

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Need to say thank you for all the kind words and reblogs I’ve been seeing lately. I’m really bad with praise and never really know how to take kindness, but I see it and I hold it close, especially in these hard times. Thanks for being an awesome group of people. 🤍

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juneknight · 23 days

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This commentary killed me, thank you so much 😭🤍

The Thing About Marc Spector

About this: for A who asked for dorm room Marc making you squirt. I'm LOOKING at you, @spacecowboyhotch. Fem!reader/Marc Spector. College AU. Fingering, some minor dirty talk, squirting. There's some mention of past ineptitude during sex and once instance of mentioned vomit.

You lean against the doorway of the dorm room’s bathroom, eyes squinting in protest of the cheap fluorescent lighting. Inside the bathroom, Marc Spector is thoroughly washing his hands.

“It’s just not possible for me.”

Marc hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m serious. People have tried.”

“I hear you.”

“I’ve tried. I just can’t do it.”

“Alright,” says Marc evenly. He’s already soaped and rinsed his hands once, but he soaps up again, and for some reason the ball of hysteria that has been growing just underneath your breastbone rises up and lodges in your throat at the sight of his thoroughness: washing his palms, the back of his hands, his wrists, between his fingers, under his nails, all while humming happy birthday under his breath the way they likely taught him to in grade school.

The juxtaposition of a grown man utilizing advice he was given in grade school while he prepares to—attempt!—to make you squirt for the first time is…it’s a lot to take in.

You reach out and turn off the water, convinced that it might be enough to give you a nervous breakdown. Marc merely turns to the clean towel hanging from the rack and dries his hands carefully. “I said, it can’t be done, Spector.”

Marc turns to you with raised brows, the most unamused, unaffected look on his face. “You said I could try.”

And then you are laying down on your bed. He has laid a towel underneath you, ignoring your scowl at his obvious display of confidence. Then he stripped you naked and spent a long time just staring at you, fighting not to smile every time he noticed your displeasure at his slow, patient nature.

You can’t help but feel exposed in a novel way though Marc has seen every part of your body up close. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still dressed, that all he’s done is rolled up his sleeves and perched himself on the side of your bed. When he reaches for your thigh, you flinch, expecting his hands to be cold from the water. But Marc took the time to warm the water before scrubbing his hands. Marc always takes his time.

“You won’t be able to do it.”

“You’re just talking to yourself at this point,” Marc murmurs, eyes on your tits. He reaches out and tweaks one of your nipples. You slap at his hand, pretending to be offended, pretending like that one measly touch didn’t have your thighs clenching. He smiles at you, reaches out to pin your hand above your head and then plays with the offended nipple, teasing it gently between his fingers. You let out all of your breath in a warm rush, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, determined not to moan. Not yet.

“That feel good?” he wonders, gently taking the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger, worrying it.

That’s another thing about Marc. Not only does he take his time, but he’s gentle. You’ve seen Marc at his most un-gentle—you’ve seen him beat the shit out of a guy in a bar who was harassing a woman. Once you saw him punch a wall, knuckles cracking through plaster like it was butter. Both of you know that he sometimes has a problem with violence (one that he has been faithfully working to remedy during sessions with an on-campus counselor every Thursday). But Marc has never been anything but infuriatingly gentle to you, even during the most intense sex of your life.

He lightly pinches you, pulling you from your thoughts. His eyes are on your face, watching you carefully as he switches breasts and begins to tease your neglected nipple. You bite back the moan once again—but it is a very close thing. “I asked if you feel good.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Yeah, you always make me feel good.”

His smile grows a little smug. You roll your eyes.

He seems content with this: this soft teasing of you. Sometimes he leans down and laps his tongue over your breasts, suckling on one nipple and then the other, but he never even gives you the scrape of his teeth. He spends an inordinate amount of time dragging his fingers over your skin, starting at the dip of your throat, down your sternum, down to your belly, out to your hips, up the curve of your waist, and up the ribcage, biting back a snort every time you giggle when he comes too close to the sensitive skin underneath your arms.

He hasn’t even touched your pussy and you’re soaked.

“Come on, Marc,” you sigh. “Thought you were going to make me squirt. It doesn’t come out of my tits, you know.”

“It doesn’t?” he asks. “Wow, and you’ve just been letting me try for the last fifteen minutes? Now I feel like an idiot.”

“Touch me already,” you pout, ignoring his humor.

He hums, considering. This time when he draws the line down your stomach, he lets it trace further and further until he is ghosting the tips of his fingers over the seam of your sex. He barely even touches you, but you shiver, and when he pulls away, his fingertips are wet.

“This where you want touched?” he wonders, slipping his fingers back between your legs. Finally, a little mercy from him. You part your thighs for him, groaning when he uses both thumbs to spread you open to his eyes. He whistles softly. “Are you sure you didn’t squirt already? Look at all this—you’re soaked.”

You groan again but for opposite reasons, hiding your face in your hands. Marc laughs and lets you hide, makes a fist with one hand and drags the knuckles up from your entrance to your clit.

“God, you’re pretty,” he mutters. You hear the sound of him licking your slick off of his knuckles before his fingers are back, gently swirling circles over your clit.

“Oh fuck, Marc, please,” you whine.

“What is it? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you inside me. But fuck, I don’t want you to stop doing that.”

“God gave me two hands, baby. Pretty sure it wasn’t for this, but—” Marc slips two fingers into you, sliding in with ease, with the practiced motion of someone who has fucked you with their fingers a hundred times. He doesn’t bother thrusting them; he knows that sometimes your pussy just likes something to hold on to.

Your orgasm is just starting to build when you remember why you’re here, what he’s supposed to be trying to do. Your thighs tense, arms tucking in towards your chest even as you keep covering your face. Marc—observant, ever-watchful Marc—notices the change immediately. Now, letting you hide is no longer an option. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and gently coaxes it away, his brows furrowed at the expression on your face.

“What is it? Change your mind?”

“What if I can’t do it, though?” you ask. “It’s every guy’s dream, isn’t it? He fingerbangs his girl, there’s a gush like Old Faithful, he feels like a real man. But what if I’m not a real woman? What if I can’t?”

Marc’s face twists into a look of absolute confusion. “Baby—all due respect here—but what the fuck.”

“I’m serious!” you shriek. He catches your hand when you go to lightly slap him on the chest, giving you a look of paternal disapproval that definitely should not have you clenching your thighs together. You’ll consider the pretext for that in therapy at a future date. His other hand—fingers still wet from being inside you—rises to your lips and taps. You open and take them into your mouth, sucking softly, shoulders relaxing.

“I don’t care if you can’t squirt. I’m a real man, and you’re a real woman, whether geysers are involved in our sex or not. I don’t care about any of that weird, macho shit, baby. I never have. Just let me make you feel good—if you want me to.”

Another thing about Marc: he always knows what to say.

Around his fingers, you nod.

“That’s my girl,” he says, pulling his fingers free. He doesn’t bother wiping them off—not when he’s tucking them right back into your cunt.

He begins those soft, quick circles over your clit again. His eyes move between your face to your heaving tits to where his fingers move and back again, a constant cycle. When you reach up and palm your breasts, you can hear the sound of his breath catching, feel the way his fingers flex inside you.

Slow and so, so soft: he begins to stroke at the front wall of your pussy. Your legs jump. This is always your least favorite part. Popular theory be damned, plenty of men seem to know where the g-spot is, but many consider it a button poised for repeated hammering, like one of those bells you’re meant to ring to get customer service. You’ve always been sensitive. It’s one of the reasons why Marc is so gentle with you. But in the past, men looking to make you squirt have treated their fingers like battering rams and the walls of your pussy like the vault door to Fort Knox.

You force yourself to take a deep breath, relaxinging incrementally when his fingers never increase in force. The soft touches against that most tender spot have your legs jerking every now and then, involuntary spasms as if he’s zapping you with electricity. But with time, you get used to them. With more time, it comes to feel good, especially when he changes the direction of the circles he’s making on your clit. Counter-clockwise. Nice.

But how’s he going to make you squirt like this? How’s he going to unlock that mysterious, mythical part of your anatomy that you’ve read so much about in Cosmopolitan if he’s only whispering into the keyhole?

“Shouldn’t you be a little—more?”

Marc stops. “Is this not good?”

“No, it’s good—great, I just—” he begins to move again at your approval, and the sensation cuts off your words abruptly. You swallow hard, realizing you have stopped touching your breasts and are just cupping them as if for comfort. Trying to mimic his touch from earlier, you gently begin to tease yourself, a whine growing at the back of your throat.

“There you go,” Marc murmurs. “So fucking pretty. Look at you.”

“Ma-arc.”

He hums.

Your chest rises and falls faster. He changes directions on your clit again and you groan, the sound pulled from deep in your throat. God, he might not make you squirt, but he’s sure as hell going to make you cum, and it’s going to be good. He continues a litany of filthy praises, talking about how soft and wet you feel around his fingers, how hot you get him when you play with your own tits, how you’re such a good fucking girl.

But—:“Marc, I can’t do it. I can’t squirt.”

“Then don’t,” is all he says, eyes on your pussy. Your orgasm is welling up inside you, a ball of knots being pulled tighter and tighter low in the pit of your stomach. Your toes keep curling and uncurling. For some reason, you need to repeat yourself, you need to make him understand.

“I said, Spector, I can’t squirt.”

“I said, Then. Don’t.”

The feeling grows, swells, deepens and—

You gasp, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Oh my god, get away from me, I have to pee.”

“No you don’t,” he says, unconcerned with your panic.

“Marc Elias—”

“Wow, going for the full name,” he mutters distractedly, eyes never leaving his hands where they work you over.

And fine. Fine. You warned him—and at least it won’t be the worst bodily fluid of yours he’s had on him, not since your twenty-first birthday when he took you bar hopping and you threw up all over him while he was trying to help you wash your face clean of makeup in the dorm bathroom. If he wants you to piss on him, he’s going to fucking get it.

Your eyes fall down to where his hands are, and for some reason the sight of the tendons in his wrist flexing as he rubs that tender spot inside you is too much. It’s too much for you. The feeling in your belly sinks lower and you realize he was right.

You aren’t about to pee, you’re about to cum.

Marc pulls his fingers free just as your cunt clenches tight. It’s different from any orgasm you’ve felt before—the way it rushes out of you, what it takes out of you, the absolute silence it instills in you as your throat closes tight, eyes wide, entire body spasming. When at last you can take in air again, it’s just to shout, eyes squeezing shut as his fingers on your clit coax another orgasm out of you. Squirt just drips out of you this time, but the relief is so fucking deep. You can barely hear the sound of his filthy praises over the rush of blood in your ears and the constant babble of your own voice which you can no longer seem to control.

When you can take it no more, you reach for his wrist. He stops touching your clit right away, moving his hand to rest gently on your stomach.

There is a moment of endless silence, both of you staring at each other with wide eyes. Marc reaches up with his less soaked hand and smooths his hair back the way he does when he’s anxious or upset or completely mind blown. You can guess which one he’s feeling right now.

He clears his throat. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. Then we’re doing that again.”

“What?”

He stands up, pats you on the side of your knee like he’s patting another guy’s shoulder in the quad, Nice catch, Chad, go long. Marc fucking Spector. That’s the thing about him. He’s kind of incredible.

All he says is: “Fifteen minutes!”

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juneknight · 25 days

Text

not just a thot daughter but a thought daughter. i am plagued by my own thoughts every moment of every day

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juneknight · 26 days

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Oh I love to cry

In Plain Sight: The Indoctrination of Nathan Bateman

summary: nathan lets you in.

pairing: nathan bateman x f!reader

contents: 18+/nsfw/minors dni, hurt comfort, sad!nathan, illusions to alcoholism, family angst, illusions to child abuse, vulnerable!nathan

wc: 1730

an: we’re back and today’s in plain sight saga lets us into nathan’s brain and background.

in plain sight masterlist | planted | little hamlet

Today starts like every other day for you. Days have melded and melted together since your mother’s death, and so today is like any other. One day at a time, that’s what Nathan had said to do. He’s been good to you. Great to you. So understanding and patient and forgiving as you navigate taking care of your sisters through this rough time. He’s been taking care of you. It’s strange to feel dependent on someone when you’ve been independent for so long.

Its stranger that that person is Nathan— he loves you, sure, he can be romantic and witty and kind. But, how he’s taken care of you over the last 3 months has been selfless, he’s been the most thoughtful person you’ve ever met. And while he had committed to growth as a person to win you over, you couldn’t have said you expected him to be so gracious. It’s a pleasant surprise. An indicator you gave the right man the right chance.

You aren’t just expecting him to wake up ready and willing to pull the weight like he has for these last few months. He’s allowed to be tired, to need space or a break to deal with his own shit and you have no issue with that. But, when you come into work today Nathan is nowhere to be found. The house is eerily quiet.

Your stomach flips a little, the alarm bells ringing in your head. But then you take a deep breath and center yourself, working that anxiety from a 7 to a 4. Because not everything has to be the fight it used to be, not with him by your side. Not with the promises he’s made to you.

Maybe he’s sat in the kitchen too wrapped up in his laptop to have realized what time it is or that you’ve arrived. When you get to the kitchen, you quickly realize that’s not the case. It's empty– clean as always, but empty. You check the coffee maker, it's loaded but not on and brewing like it usually is. You sigh, setting your bag on the dining table, mentally starting to make a game plan on finding him.

He could be many places in this neverending bunker he calls a home. Sometimes you tease him, calling him a princess locked in some ivory tower. It always gets you an eye roll, some whiny smart ass comment, and when he’s feeling particularly vindictive, some intense tickling. Those moments, like most of the moments you have with Nathan, have you ready to pinch yourself in disbelief. Believing the man you now share a life with used to be your grumpy, narcissistic boss is a mindfuck– but you chose to believe it, you choose to believe him because of how surprisingly easy it is to love him.

Turning back towards the counter, you start the coffee maker and head into the living room. You’re not surprised that he isn’t there, he would’ve said something by now. You head downstairs to the offices and work rooms, stopping in your office first. You find it empty.

The trail begins. You pop your head into every lab, ever office, every closet, nook and cranny. And eventually after expanding your search you find Nathan where you least expect him…in bed.

Curled up under his blanket, an unopened bottle of beer sitting on his nightstand. It’s dark, just the light of his alarm clock.

You step into the room, coming to rest on your knees to get a closer look at him. His eyes are open, glassy and obviously red, even in the limited light. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s like he’s seeing a ghost or maybe nothing at all. He doesn’t even move when you wave a hand in front of his face.

“Baby?” You whisper, voice colored with worry.

Nathan blinks, jumping back ever so slightly to sit up like he’s just returned from another dimension. For just a moment, there’s fear in his eyes and then he’s squeezing them shut, clenching his fist together. When his eyes finally meet yours he looks a little more like himself.

“What are you doing down here?” He asks softly, running a hand over his buzzed hair.

“I got in for work and I couldn’t find you.”

“Shit, what fucking time—“ He looks over at the clock, pinching his nose when he sees the time. “Fuck.”

“Nathan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I lost track of time. Didn’t sleep well. You know the feeling,” Nathan’s tone isn’t unkind or dismissive— it never is anymore, when it comes to you— but it is markedly avoidant.

“Nathan.”

“Honey,” He counters, rising out of bed. He reaches for the beer bottle on his nightstand, and throws it in the trash before start towards his bathroom.

“We don’t do that,” You say, following after him.

He stops just shy of the door, turning around to raise a brow at you, “Do what, honey?”

“Lie.”

“You’re accusing me of lying right now?”

You cross your arms against your chest, and for the first time in a long time, you fix Nathan with that look that initially drew him in. Nonsensical and fiery; confrontational. “I am.”

“I don’t lie. I have no reason to fucking lie.”

“Nathan, get real,” You murmur gently.

“I am real. Would you stop it with the fucking pushing?”

“When…when we first started this, I wanted to hide too. The shit with my mom, with my sisters, all the managing— I didn’t know if you’d still want me if you knew about the massive baggage. But you told me that we’re trying. Trying to be there and trying to love each other the best we can. You’ve done that for me every single day, and even more so since my mom died. I think it’s only fair if you let me do that for you too.”

Nathan looks at you like you’re some foreign object he’s seeing for the first time. Like he’s a lost, terrified puppy who’s finally receiving some care. Maybe it was silly of you to think that because your love was steady that he’d let go, that he’d open up completely. But you want him to, want him to feel utterly safe, to show you all the sides of him. That side that’s looking at you right now, skittish and broken. You love him regardless. It’s your turn to remind him of that, if he’ll let you.

“Say something. Anything,” You murmur quietly, reaching out to lace your fingers together.

His gaze falls to where your hands meet, and then he sits heavily on the bed, pulling you with him.

After a noticeable silence, several harsh breaths from him, like he’s trying to find the air to find the words he says, “Today…I fucking hate today.”

“Yeah? Tell me why it sucks, baby.”

“I don’t—honey, I don’t really…it’s their anniversary. My parents. The Batemans,” He frowns, his voice laced with disgust.

“They weren’t good to you.”

“No, they weren’t. The only person who’s ever been good to me, is me. Until I met you,” He adds, his mouth curling up in a smile.

You squeeze his hand, resting your head on his shoulder. “Why their anniversary?”

“Fuck, sweetheart, really?”

“I just want to understand you. Let me carry it with you, Nathan. You’ve done it alone long enough don’t you think?”

“Alright,” He says, his voice much harder than he means for it to be. He clears his throat, squeezes your hand in apology, and repeats, “Alright. I’m a fucking pipsqueak. I mean small, tiny, maybe like 6 or 7. It’s their anniversary and like a fucking chump, I make them a card. It takes all day. All fucking day, honey and I—“

“You what?” You encourage him gently.

“I was so fucking excited. Buzzing with it. Vibrating. Used their favorite colors, drew us all together like we were one big happy fucking family. And when I…when I gave it to them...” Nathan trails off, shaking his head. He leans further into you, desperate for some safety, some warmth so that he can keep going. Keep showing you like you want.

“They’re scum, I mean who talks to a fucking kid like that? It wasn’t fucking Picasso so it was trash. They shit all over it and I…from that day on it was like I decided to be the bigger asshole. I had to hate them more than they hated me.”

“You deserve so much better than that Nathan. Then and now, and every moment in between. I’m sorry, baby.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” He shrugs, running a hand over his face.

You reach for it, pushing it away so that you can cup his jaw, turn his gaze towards yours. “Then I’ll know for us. You trust me don’t you?”

Nathan’s eyes are misty, and you can tell that he’s fighting to hold his tears in. He nods, smiles a little, “With the codes to the nukes, baby.”

“Then trust me with your heart too. I promise I’ll always cherish it.”

“God, you—you’re out of this fucking world.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” You tease with a grin.

“I was gonna say that. Where’s that patience you hound me about?” He asks, pulling you into his lap so that you’re straddling him. His hands rub at your hips tenderly, reverently.

“Misplaced,” You quip, looping your arms around his neck. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“For my birthday…make me a card?”

“Honey—“

You lean in, eyes wide and round, pressing your mouth against his as you murmur, “Please? I want it. It’s the only thing I want…well cake.”

“Don’t forget obedience.”

“You’ll give that to me anyway. Please, Nathan?”

He knows that the moment you want something, if its in his power, it’s yours. And Nathan can certainly make you a card with his bare hands. It’s one of the easiest, smallest things you’ve ever asked him for.

“Alright, fine, sure thing.”

“Do you have crayons?”

He laughs. “Do I look like a guy who owns fucking crayons?”

“We’re going to Michael’s— get dressed.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“It’s what I do. Showered, dressed. I’ll make some breakfast.”

“Hey,” He calls after you, reaching for your hand as you turn to walk away.

“Mhmm?”

“I love you,” He says firmly, bringing your hand up to his mouth.

“Ditto, baby.”

nathan taglist: @missdictatorme, @runa-falls, @campingwiththecharmings, @toracainz, @steven-grants-world, @clemdango04, @jdbxws, @crispysublimecupcake, @sub-aro, @faretheeoscar, @cupidysm, @whentheskyispinkandabitblue, @nova-ivy541, @sparkypantelones, @veritable-trash, @mangoslushcrush, @thhriller, @tenderhornynihilist, @queerponcho, @redcake333, @reallyrallyauthor

#HOW DID I MISS THIS

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