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softlyspector · 1 year

Text

Moonlight

Summary: You really like to read in Steven's flat, and Steven likes having someone to come home to.

Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader

Word Count: ~5.5k

Warnings: smut (P in V, f receiving oral, Steven loses his v card), lots of fluff, brief anxiety

A/N: This is a part of the Moonbeam collection - the reader's first times with Steven, Marc, and Jake. This is bonus content to Moon Struck! This can be read alone, though I recommend reading the series, of course.

Thank you for reading! Please, please, please let me know what you think!

There’s an exhaustion lodged between Steven’s shoulders as he unlocks the flat’s front door. He feels like he’s been hit by a lorry, or maybe a bloody train.

And when he finally wrenches the door open, it’s to find himself staring at Marc in the mirror against the wall. He looks exhausted too, rings of purple circling the skin beneath his eyes.

Steven opens his mouth to say something - maybe ask why the bloody hell both of them are so tired all the time - when he hears the creak of a floorboard.

He hastily closes the door behind himself and moves toward the other side of the room, glancing around until he spots you already settled in one of the cloistered windows, a blanket wrapped around your legs and a cup of tea at your elbow.

Your brow is furrowed, your finger rapidly sliding back and forth over the page. Your duffle bag, ribbons and leggings and tulle spilling out where you’d left the zipper undone, is sitting in a heap in the middle of the floor. Like you’d dropped it in your haste to get to the window seat and your book.

“Did she walk here alone?” Marc asks from the reflection of Gus’s tank, his mouth a hard line where his gaze has settled on your abandoned bag, trailing slowly over to your place in the window. There’s a thread of concern in between the irritation lingering in Marc’s voice.

Steven ignores him, dropping his keys on the kitchen table as he shrugs out of his jacket.

“Love?” Steven asks, a bit amused when you have no reaction to his question, the heaviness weighing on his shoulders lightening by the second. “You alright?”

One thing Steven hadn’t expected about you is your love of books.

He’d known, of course, that you liked to read.

But he hadn’t known - until you came over to the flat for the first time - how you devour books. How you consume them whole in a day or two. Complicated anthologies, histories, romance novels, fantasy series, poetry collections.

You reread all of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in two days.

You sift through complicated and unnecessarily thick tomes on Egyptology in a week.

You buzz through a couple of romances in the span of an hour.

When asked about it, you’d only shrugged at him over a cup of earl gray, a spike of warmth radiating through his chest because he’d been the one to put you onto tea in the first place. “I got very used to reading quickly, between rehearsals and school and all. I became very good at reading fast.”

And you are, and it's impressive.

The books in his flat become fair game for your habits, and Steven feels something in himself go soft anytime he gets to watch you slowly draw yourself out of one world and into another.

Steven thinks you look beautiful like that. He likes that you feel comfortable enough to take his books without asking, that you perch yourself in an armchair or in the window and lose yourself there. It's a stark contrast to how you dance, graceful and flighty, like you’re walking on air.

You do not read in an elegant way.

When you read, you hunch over and scrunch your brows, you bite your lip and clench your fingers, you mouth the words as you read and make the facial expressions of the characters as you read along.

You disappear, you travel to another dimension.

Steven would give anything to have you in the flat always. He loves the way you read so loudly, even though you make no noise. He loves the pulsing presence of you, how alive you are, how comfortable.

He’s acutely aware that his thoughts are a bit mad, that he could chalk up the feelings to all the times he’s felt lonely and alone. But he doesn’t want to.

He wants to think about how he’s not alone now. How there’s you and Marc and him and that’s good enough. It’s more than enough.

“Dear heart?” Steven asks now, trying to catch your attention without startling you as he moves closer.

You don’t glance up until Steven presses one hand to your shoulder. You jump, shoulders hiking up and breath freezing in your lungs. “So sorry, love!” Steven apologizes immediately. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You alright? Someone’s a little lost in a book, eh?”

You press a hand to your chest and smile at him, panic still fading from your eyes. “No, don’t apologize. I just get so into it-,” you lift the book helplessly and shrug.

Steven can only smile, thrilled that you’re at home to greet him at all. He could get used to it, really, having you to come home to. “Of course you do, love,” Steven says, fitting his palm against yours to tug you up from your perch.

You stumble into him, your book clutched to your chest. Steven catches you and finds you very close when he looks up, your breath fanning sweetly across his lips. “Hiya,” he murmurs, eyes falling to your mouth, “Alright there, love?”

“Yes,” you nudge your nose against his, your skin warm against his forearm. “Quite alright. Now that you’re here.”

Steven closes his eyes when you lean in to kiss him, your book falling out of your hand and narrowly missing his toes. Your hand moves from his forearm to the front of his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric.

He’s never sure what to do with his hands when he kisses you, when you kiss him. He represses the urge to reach up and clutch at your shoulders. You weave your fingers through his, tug his hand up to rest against your waist. He tentatively raises his other hand to cup your cheek, sure that must be okay.

You hum happily and lean into him, the tips of your fingers skimming along the column of his throat, the curl of your palm against the nape of his neck.

Steven draws his hand on your waist around your back, curling his fingers into the back of your shirt.

He only forgets to breathe a little bit, and so when you pull back he gasps for breath. You’re smiling at him, thumb stroking slowly over his cheek. He reaches for your hand, gripping your wrist lightly. “How was rehearsal?” He asks, only half paying attention to the words curling off his tongue. He finds the warmth of your skin against his much more interesting, the curve of your lashes against your cheek fascinating. “Would you like to stay here tonight?” Steven continues, not waiting for an answer to his previous question. “We can order take away from that place you like?”

You release him, stooping to pick up your book. “Yes.”

Your eyes are bright, your smile wide. Steven trails his hands down your arms, cups your elbows gently, trying to avoid the inevitable moment when he would have to stop touching you, when he notices the title of the book in your hands. He frowns and takes the book from you, flipping it around to better see what you’d been so engrossed in.

It’s a book about dissociative identity disorder. A quick skim of the few lines below the title tell him it was written by a system and aimed at people who might have someone with DID in their lives.

“Oh,” you say, your voice rather small and worried, reaching for the book but not daring to take it back from him, your hands hovering awkwardly in the air. “Sorry,” you cringe a bit. “A system recommended it online as helpful-,” you stop and swallow before pointing to the words embossed on the front, “And it was written by a system as well so I figured-,” you clamp your mouth closed, biting your lip. “Sorry,” you repeat.

Sorry, you’ve said, like it was something to bloody apologize for.

When he meets your eyes, there’s uneasiness lodged there, but Steven can only smile. “Why in the world would you be sorry?” He shakes his head and sweeps a thumb over the title of the book, “This…you…you’re bloody unbelievable you are.”

You look flustered, reaching out to take the book gently back. “Oh, I’m not really sure about that, Steven,” you dismiss him with a shake of your head. “It’s just a book. It’s what anyone would do. I just…this is all new for me. I wanted to know more and I didn’t want to do something wrong.”

Steven reaches for you, cups your face between his palms and tilts your head so you can’t look away from his eyes. He stares into those eyes that he knows so well, shining with affection. “It’s really not, love. Not just a book, not something that everyone would do.”

You frown, like you don’t quite understand, how good you are, how not everyone would do something like this. You lean forward, and kiss his chin, “I’d do anything for you,” you say, like it means nothing at all that you would.

Steven goes a bit warm and mushy round his insides at that. “And I would do anything for you, dear heart.” You lean into his hands, circling your arms around his waist, “You know you can ask us as well? It won’t upset us.”

You nod. “I just realized how little I knew and if there was anything I could or should do to make things easier on you then I wanted to do it.” Your eyes are wide when they meet his, “Trying to be supportive.”

He smiles and releases you, eyes trailing to your open bag, your things spilled across the floor of the flat, when he notices Marc’s silence for the first time. “Oh! By the way, Marc is concerned about you walking alone. Do you have someone who can walk with you?”

You shake your head, “Tell Marc not to worry. I’m perfectly safe.”

Marc snorts at that, silence finally broken.

Steven wonders at that silence for a moment, at the way Marc paid such close attention to you. He wonders what Marc thinks of you and your choice in reading.

“Safe until something happens,” Marc grouses.

Steven ignores his acidity, “He’s just worried. Could tell him a million and one times and he’d still find something to fret about.”

You fidget, leaning further into him, glancing down at your book. “He’s not upset with me, is he?” Before Steven can reassure you that, no, everyone is quite aware when Marc is upset about something, you continue, “I wasn’t trying to be intrusive or to poke around where I don’t belong…I hope you know that and I hope Marc knows that too.”

Marc doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the silence doesn’t last. “I know,” he confirms at last.

“We know, darling,” Steven relays. “Marc isn’t upset.”

You smile, like a beam of light over his soul. “Okay. Just checking. I’ll order if you want to go get changed?”

Steven presses a kiss to your forehead, closes his eyes and inhales the scent of your skin, the fragrance of your shampoo. He can’t seem to find his voice, in that moment, to tell you how much you mean to him.

Steven is talking again.

You’re listening to him, but mostly you’re watching him.

You love the way he speaks, tripping over words in his ever present rush to tell you everything, hands flying and gesturing in wide arcs.

A tub of melting ice cream as an after dinner snack sits on the side table, the TV still plays in the background, muted and flashing blue and purple and green over Steven’s skin.

You reach for him, his voice stuttering to a stop as you trace a finger along the length of his nose.

“Oh, did I have something there?” He asks, swiping at his cheeks and nose.

“No,” you scoot closer, watching the shift of his shoulders, the long line of his throat. “I just think you’re very pretty.”

Heat rises in his cheeks, coloring his skin a pink that borders on red. “Pretty, eh? What’s that make you then?”

You shrug, looping your arms around Steven’s neck, pressing closer, into the warmth of him. He curls an arm around your back, eyes on your lips.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he says, smiling at you. “That’s what you are. Pretty. Pretty don’t cut it with you, does it? No.”

You grin back and try to hide your smile against his collarbone. “Baby,” you murmur, sliding your hand over his chest. “Steven, I want you.”

There’s a moment of stillness, so complete that you’re worried for a moment you’ve done something wrong, said something wrong. Steven has moved so very carefully with you, so very slowly. You haven’t really minded. You have all the time in the world.

And besides, you made out all the time, heavy petting that left you satisfied and desperate for more, for all of him. The memory of his quick learning fingers against your cunt passes through your mind, the first time he’d touched you like that electric in your memory, like the shock of something unknown.

Steven still hasn’t moved, his body rigid against yours. His arm is curled behind your back, and you can feel his breath against your forehead. The warm press of him is comforting and scary all at once.

Before you have too much time to worry, Steven is pushing you back on the sofa, his lips attached to yours suddenly, fingers digging into your hips, dragging you down. You settle back, Steven’s mouth insistent against yours, warm and plush and so very excited.

You ache for him, and you’ve tried to be patient, not sure what held him back, if it wasn’t something he was interested in doing.

But he’s clearly interested, clearly wants it.

You giggle against him when his nose bumps into yours, teeth clacking awkwardly together.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, “The things you do to me.”

“And what is it that I do to you?” You tease.

You’re only a little surprised when he guides your hand to the bulge in his trousers. His hand leaves yours, slipping inside your shirt instead. His hand is warm, scalding hot against your skin.

His touch is urgent, needy, a whine at the back of his throat when you push him back a little, dragging the tips of your fingers over the outline of his cock. His eyes are dark when you meet them, still sweet but demanding. “Love,” he starts, fingers drifting up your belly, brushing the lace of your bra.

“You can have me,” you say before he can ask, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the strands. “I’m yours, baby.”

Steven’s eyes flutter shut, lips parted. You lift a hand to trace his mouth, laughing when he presses a kiss to your thumb. “Why’d we wait so long?” He asks, eyes flicking back open.

You shrug. “Dunno. I didn’t want to push. I wanted you to be sure,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands.

“Sure. You’re jokin’, yeah? Sure. I’ve always been sure,” Steven mutters under his breath, prompting another laugh from you. “C’mon then, not a second to waste,” he tilts back and tugs you to your feet.

You feel silly when he clicks the TV off and you’re plunged into darkness, the urge to giggle like a teenager bubbling in the back of your throat.

You’re almost happy when Steven trips and you both collapse onto the bed, tangling together quickly, hands and tongues and limbs intertwined, laughter still on your lips.

He tastes sweet, like the strawberry ice cream still melting on the table by the now dark TV.

He shifts with you, your legs crossing behind his back as he grinds down, his hips against yours. You’ve been here before, done this before until you both broke, pleasure filling your veins to the brim.

You’ve wondered what he would feel like inside you, what his skin might taste like.

This is something new and when Steven pulls back it’s to frown at you with kiss swollen lips. You touch your own mouth, wondering if you look much the same. He stares at you, fingers threaded through the loops of your jeans. “Darling, I…I’ve never done this before.”

You nod, tilting your head against the pillow. “Okay.”

“It’s like I have…I know what I’m supposed to do, yeah? Like I’ve done it before, I just don’t have the memories of it.”

“Marc maybe?” You suggest.

“Yeah. Probably, yeah,” he nods, distracted.

You hesitate with your next question, not sure what to do if the answer is yes. “Is Marc-,”

“No,” Steven says vehemently, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s just you and me, love.”

“Okay,” you answer, lifting your hips against his, rolling against the hardness pressed into your thigh. His eyes are bright in the darkness, watching you carefully to see if your mind might be changed with this new, slightly odd, information, that the body has had sex before but he hasn’t.

It isn’t strange to you, you might have suspected as much.

And it’s Steven, you want him no matter what.

When you reach for his belt, he snaps out of the fog, dipping down to kiss you again. You moan into him, working at his pants until you can shove your hand down the front of his trousers.

He’s big in your hand, warm and solid and soft, and Steven’s hips jerk forward into your grip when you stroke him slowly.

You move together like that for a moment, Steven thrusting into the fist of your hand, his mouth insistent and demanding against yours, against the delicate skin of your throat and collarbone.

Until he pushes your hand away, fingers tangling into the fabric of your shirt, palming your breasts through the material. He hesitates, not moving the fabric up, and instead works at the button of your jeans, tugging them down swiftly and tossing them away.

Steven stares at you, on his knees in front of you.

“You still look pretty,” you confirm, reaching for him.

Some might say he looks prettier than before, especially with his trousers half unbuttoned and his shirt rumpled and his lips swollen.

Steven blushes again, not giving into your hands, he leans over you, kisses your forehead with a dramatic flourish, then the tip of your nose. You feel the flutter of his lashes as he trails lower, lips brushing over the bow of your mouth, your clavicle, the space between your breasts, your belly, before he lands at your pussy.

He delicately pulls your panties down your legs, situating himself comfortably between your thighs.

That this is his first time, and he wants to eat you out first, sends an unexpected rush of arousal through you.

He’s focused, lost in a task and yet so in tune with you.

It reminds you of all the times he’s lost in one of his interests, singularly focused. His breath ghosts over you and you shiver. Steven’s eyes flick up, a cheeky smile on his lips. “You alright, darling?”

You nod, too afraid of how your voice might crack and crumble if you open your mouth. Steven laces his fingers with yours, and finally lowers his mouth to your cunt.

He learns with his mouth as fast as he had with his fingers.

You aren’t really sure you believe it's his first time, because with a few small directions, Steven has you seeing stars.

You fist your hands in his hair, grip the stands and tug until he’s groaning into you, hips rolling against the bed.

The tip of his tongue sweeps over the core of you, dipping into your entrance and back up to your clit. He groans when you shudder against him, thighs trembling when he sucks gently against that pocket of nerves.

And when you come, he doesn’t stop. It’s always been like this with him before too. He groans into you, and you suspect that if you let him, he’d never move, he’d never come up for air. The pleasure starts to bleed into pain when he coaxes an unexpected second orgasm from you, still lapping at your clit.

You have to push him away and tug on his hand until he molds his mouth against yours again instead. His mouth tastes like you, like your arousal. You like it, you like tasting yourself on his lips. Some instinct makes you swipe your tongue over his chin too, collecting the taste of his skin coated with you. “Bloody hell,” he murmurs, his hand going between your legs. You gasp, legs twitching from the sensitivity when the pad of his thumb slides roughly against your clit. “Can you do that again?”

“Steven,” you murmur against his mouth, heat scorching you from the inside out.

His hands slide inside your shirt when you whine, pussy clenching.

You can tell he’s a bit nervous when he palms you through your bra. This is the next step, another inch toward the unknown for him. “I want it off,” you say, so there’s no room for confusion or uncertainty. “And this,” you pointedly tug on his shirt. “I want to see you, baby.”

Steven sits back, hastily yanking his shirt up and over his head. You start to reach for him but decide instead to sit up, your knees bracketed over Steven’s thighs. “You’re so pretty,” you tell him, peeling your own shirt up and over your head. His eyes go wide when you slip your bra down your arms.

For a moment he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. But when you giggle, his eyes snap back up to yours and he reaches for you, settling himself against you, kissing you sloppily, almost distractedly.

You kiss him back before encouraging him to roll over.

“Is this okay?” You ask when you’re settled over him, trailing your fingers down his chest. Steven is more muscular than you expected, though you suppose that’s courtesy of Marc and his lifetime of physical endurance. He’s strong, muscular, but there’s still a softness to him, flesh at his hips and belly that you really like.

Still, the first time you’d seen him without a shirt had been a shock. His choice in clothes did a good job of hiding it. He’s still the most beautiful person you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Ye-ah,” his voice crests in a little crack, nerves breaking through as he resolutely keeps his eyes on yours. “Yes, yes, more than alright.”

“Steven,” you say, taking his hands in yours, which he’d fisted in the blankets. “We can stop.”

“No!” He blurts, hastily shaking your hands off to run his fingers over your ribs and across your belly, and then finally up to your chest. His eyes follow his touch. He squeezes you, and you rock your hips against his, liking the filthy moan that leaves his lips. “You’re so soft,” he murmurs.

You smile and lean over him, to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So are you.”

His thumbs slide over your nipples and you groan. Steven pauses, then does it again, and again, when you bury your nose against him and rut into him again with a moan, pleasure lighting up your veins.

“Love,” he murmurs, desperate, his voice like a question. Steven unexpectedly pinches your nipples and it's like a bolt of lightning through your veins. You arch back, gasping for breath.

You lift yourself onto your knees, forehead still pressed to the side of his neck, so you hand palm him through his trousers. “I want you, Steven,” you murmur again, the outline of his cock in your hand making your cunt clench again.

He’s nodding against you, “I want you too, darling.”

You open your mouth but Steven is rolling you gently onto your back, wriggling out of his trousers and underwear before he’s kneeling over you, looking simultaneously like he might throw up and painfully needy.

It’s an odd cross that makes you laugh and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You’re doing everything right.”

“Up til this part, yeah,” he whispers back. He swallows and you watch the bob of his throat, the tendons straining. “What if I hurt you?”

You frown and kiss him again, keeping a tight hand on him so he won’t move away, so he has to look into your eyes, “You absolutely won’t.” It’s endearing, that he thinks he could in a way that you wouldn’t like.

“But I don’t know what I’m doing, love,” he frets. “What if it’s not good?”

His cock is hard and straining against your thigh, and you reach down to wrap your fingers around him, stroking softly and listening to his labored breathing. “Baby,” you coo, “If you’re anything like you are with your mouth it will be fantastic. You listen, you pay attention, that’s half of it already done.”

You keep up a steady rhythm on his cock, running your thumb over the tip when he thrusts into your hand.

He curses lowly, and then replaces your hand, slowly notching himself at your entrance and pushing into you.

The stretch makes you whine, makes you yank Steven into a kiss before he can overthink the noises you’re making. When he’s fully inside you, buried to the hilt, he pauses for a moment, his lips still working against yours, albeit sloppily and distractedly.

You hitch your knees up around his waist, dragging him that much deeper inside you, digging your heels into his thighs.

He’s heavy in the cradle of your hips, his cock making you feel full in the most delicious way, like you can’t breathe around him.

“God,” he murmurs against your jaw when he pulls back a bit. “I really thought you couldn’t be any bloody softer and here we are.”

You grind up into him, sliding your fingers up and down his bicep before you curl your hand into his hair. “Am I soft?”

“So soft,” he sighs.

You let him adjust to you for a moment, almost amused at the expression of bliss pulling at his features.

Finally, he shifts, thrusting shallowly at first along with the movement of your hips when you cant them upwards again, encouraging him to move.

Steven moves like you’re made of something much more fragile than muscle and bone. It’s both frustrating and endearing.

He groans again, his eyes clenched shut, his damp forehead landing against yours. “Steven,” you breathe out, just so he’ll open his eyes, just so you can see that pretty, deep brown that you love.

Even in the dim light filtering in through the windows, his eyes look blown out, the pupils large and dark, eating up the spilled coffee.

You dig your heels into him, flexing your thighs around him until he picks up the pace a little, his thrusts harder. “So good, baby,” you murmur. “Just like that.”

Steven drops his head to your shoulder, his tongue sweeping over your skin, gathering the taste of you on his tongue.

You moan, the feeling of his path his tongue traces going straight to your cunt. Steven’s hips stutter against you, a tight lipped curse muttered against your skin, against your collarbone.

“Just let go,” you tell him, stroking his hair, cupping a hand against the back of his neck, as you slide the other down his back to his ass.

Steven gives a particularly brutal thrust that surprises you, knocks the breath out of your lungs and tears a breathy sigh from your lips. “Yes, just like that,” you encourage. “Harder.” And apparently Steven is a man that knows the difference between harder and faster, because he does.

He snaps his hips against yours more forcefully, the thick stretch and slide of him inside you making your eyes roll back. He keeps the same slow, deliberate pace, letting you feel every long inch of him, every vein. You trail your fingers over his shoulders, rolling your hips with him, meeting him with each pass.

Steven’s eyes are glossed over, his mouth a line as he focuses all his attention on you.

Still, it’s a surprise when he dips his head down and skims his nose along your collarbone and between your breasts, when he suddenly sucks one nipple into the warm cavern of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tight flesh.

Your body seizes, hips jerking as you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.

“You-you liked that, eh?” Steven says into your skin, his mouth so heavenly and hot against you, before he grazes his teeth along the peak of your nipple.

You nod, feeling the tide of your orgasm rising inside you, closer and closer, the crest of a wave that’s about to crash over you. “Steven,” you pant, your chest heaving, “I’m gonna-,”

“Please, love,” his voice is low and husky, he knocks your hand away and thumbs at your clit, the slide of his calloused skin heavenly and much better than your own. “I want to feel it.”

You hitch your leg tighter around him, letting your legs spread further and feeling him sink that much deeper into you. You both moan at the feeling, at the bliss that spins up and out of you.

Steven laces his free hand with yours next to your head, his voice gentle in your ear with a demanding edge that makes your eyes roll back. “Go on, darling. Show me.”

The soft edges of your orgasm start to pull at you, your pussy clenching around him, dragging him deeper inside you. One last hard thrust pushes you over the edge, pleasure washing over you, your back arching up, chest heaving against him as pleasure courses through you sudden and hard.

You cry out, throwing an arm around his neck and dragging him closer, rolling your hips along with his to prolong the bliss clawing through your veins.

Steven jerks messily into you a few more times, whimpering into your mouth at the feeling of you around him when his lips messily meet yours, before he spills inside you.

He’s still kissing you when he collapses against you, your fingers still threaded with his. You tuck your other hand against the back of his neck. “Don’t move,” you whisper. You want to keep him close, inside you. “I love you, Steven.”

“‘Course I won’t,” he mumbles back, like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him, free hand arching over your hip and belly, kneading your breast in the calloused warmth of his palm. “And I love you, dear heart.” He sounds sleepy, but happy. Satisfied.

You hum with sympathy because he hasn’t been sleeping well, and because you like the sound of him happy and content, and knowing you helped him get there. Apparently he and Marc both were having trouble feeling rested recently.

He’s warm against you, tacky skin drying against yours as sleep pulls you down. The cradle of his body against yours like a balm.

Steven’s breathing is even and slow, lulling you nearly to sleep when he jerks against you suddenly, flailing for a moment, before he meets your eyes. “Did you - it was good?” He carefully shifts you, so you’re lying on your side, his cock still nestled inside you.

You cup his cheek, thumbing at the worried line between his brows. “Yes. You have nothing to worry about, baby. So good.”

He preens at the praise, settles his chin atop your shoulder, dropping little kisses to the soft space between your shoulder and neck. You feather your fingers through his hair, stroking softly, murmuring praise into his skin until you feel the tug of sleep again.

“You’ll stay, yeah?” He asks. “Here? Tonight?”

“Yes,” you smooth a hand up his spine, threading your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. You press your mouth to his ear when you roll your hips against his again. Steven groans and you giggle, which only makes him groan again, louder this time. “Maybe I’m not ready to sleep yet.”

He’s heavy inside you, and you can feel him hardening again. “Oh,” Steven murmurs, tracing his hands up your sides to cup your breasts. “Me either, love.”

He sounds only a tad embarrassed, which makes a weird swell of affection rush to the back of your throat. “Good,” you kiss him, his lips immediately parting for you. “Good.”

You push him back, and watch his eyes flit to the apex of your thighs, where his cock disappears inside you. Steven’s mouth falls open, his thumb pushing through the mess between your legs.

He yanks you down into a bruising kiss. “I always want to come home to you,” he says, his mouth still brushing yours. “Always, dear.”

That feeling swells in you again, one that you don’t know how to name. Maybe it's that you feel exactly the same, that you’d always like to be there for him to come home to.

#steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fic #steven grant

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tinydooms · 3 years

Note

I am so sorry to hear about your situation, I hope you are otherwise doing well. May I please request a prompt for Evie and Rick having a reading day (specifically set right after the first film, so they still are a little awkward around each other but still love and trust one another... I don't know, what ever you write, I love, so hopefully this gave you some inspiration but take it where you please :))

Thank you for your kind words! It's been a hell of a week, but I'm finally feeling better. Here is your fic: I hope you like it!

Cairo, October 1922

Evie woke up from her nap slowly, coming up out of deep sleep to find her Fort Brydon bedroom full of afternoon sunlight. The ceiling fan hummed overhead; the apartment was quiet save for the soft sound. Evie stretched, relishing the pull of her muscles and the softness of the bed beneath her. It was good to be back.

Her stomach gurgled and with a sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Time for tea. Hot tea, and lots of it, and maybe a sandwich or three. She was starving. There was nothing like roughing it in the desert to bring one’s attention to the blessings of home and a fully-stocked larder. Would the men be hungry? Probably. She had left Rick and Jonathan to their own devices after Dr. Wilkinson had looked them all over earlier that day; he had prescribed plenty of water and rest after their long, hot trek back from Hamunaptra. Opening her bedroom door, Evie looked around for the men. Jonathan’s bedroom door was closed; he was probably napping. Rick was where Evie had left him earlier, lying on his cot by the window with a couple of ice packs soothing his cracked ribs, head cushioned on a stack of pillows, a book in hand. He looked up as she came into the room.

“Hey,” Rick said, flashing her that sideways smile. “Did you have a good sleep?”

“Yes, thanks,” Evie said. “What are you reading?”

Rick waved the book at her. “Ah, Persuasion. I went through your bookshelf; I hope you don’t mind.”

Evie blinked. “You’re reading Persuasion?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s one of Austen’s best and I didn’t feel like reading anything related to ancient curses. I’d only read her other one--I don’t remember the title in English--Orgueil et préjugés--the one where they despise each other at first because her family is obnoxious and he’s really shy and arrogant.” Rick lifted an eyebrow at the look on Evie’s face. “I do know how to read, you know.”

She realized that she was gaping at him, open-mouthed. Shame boiled up in Evie; of course he knew how to read. “I’m sorry. I just meant, I didn’t have you down as the type to read social satire.”

She hadn’t had him down as the type to read, period, but then, Rick had mentioned liking Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes, hadn’t he? And there had been a couple of books in his suitcase last night, when she looked through it for clothes to lay out for him.

Rick grinned. "It’s okay, Evelyn. I know what I look like. We’re still getting to know each other.” He shifted, laying the book down on his stomach. “Actually, I really like reading. I’ve made it a point throughout my life to maintain membership at whatever public libraries are available.”

This was new and intriguing information. Evie sat down in the armchair and curled her legs under her.

“What sort of things do you like to read about?”

Rick cocked his head, thinking. “Honestly? I’ll read just about anything as long as I can understand it. I like detective novels and adventure stories, though I think I’m going to go off those for a while.” They grinned at each other. “I read a lot of art history books before the War, and I like a good popular history. I’m not educated; I only went to school through the eighth grade. Maybe if my mom hadn’t died, I’d have finished high school and gone to college, but, well…”

He shrugged. Life hadn’t worked out that way.

“But you read,” Evie said. “My mother used to say that anyone can learn anything they like if they are willing to read about it.”

Rick nodded. “My mom used to say something like that, too. She absolutely refused to let me quit school and get a job in a factory, even though it would have helped.” A shadow passed over his face; Evie saw him push it away. “Would you like something to eat?” he said, rising up on his elbows. “Your stomach is rumbling.”

“Oh! Yes, I’d come out for tea,” Evie said, scrambling to her feet. “Don’t get up; you’re supposed to be resting.”

Rick blinked. “I’ve been resting all day. It doesn’t hurt as bad as it did, you know.”

“Still.” Evie bustled off towards the kitchen. “You’ve looked after me so well these past weeks, it’s time for me to return the favor. Would you like a sandwich? How do you take your tea?”

Rick sat up, moving slowly. “Strong, with milk and a little honey, if you’ve got it. Thanks.”

Evie smiled at him; he smiled back. She bustled around the little kitchen, setting the kettle to boil and making up sandwiches, and when everything was ready she carried it through to the table and held out a hand to help Rick up. He took it, looking at her in a way that made her blush, and followed her to the table.

“Thank you,” he said, looking from the plate of sandwiches to Evie. “All this, I don’t-- Thank you.”

Evie smiled at him again; again, he smiled back, and for a moment they stood grinning foolishly at each other. It was all so new, this togetherness, this friendship. Funny how one could learn everything there was to know about a person’s character by their actions, and still know hardly anything about them as a person. Evie gestured for Rick to sit, and they fell on the sandwiches.

“So tell me,” Rick said after they had spent a few minutes quietly eating. “What’s your favorite book? Besides the Book of Amun-Ra. I’m sorry about that, by the way. Jonathan didn’t mean to drop it.”

“I know.” A pang flashed through Evie as she remembered the splash the book had made as it hit the water in the crypt’s brackish pool. “But we made it out with our lives, and we have all of the rubbings and sketches we made before we, er, raised him, so it’s not a complete loss. And as to your question…” She sipped her tea, thinking. “Do you mean favorite novel or favorite book? Because I’m not sure I can pick just one.”

“Top three, then.” Rick leaned on his elbow, watching her with the same interest he had shown at Hamunaptra. Evie felt herself blushing. She could get used to this.

“Well, then, I would probably have to say Professor Walter Emerson’s book on hieroglyphics, since it was a huge influence on me when I was a child; Flinders Petrie’s book Naukratis, and well, Persuasion.”

Rick grinned. “Which is why it was here, among all the books on Egyptology.”

“Quite.” Evie brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t bothered to pin her hair up. “What about you?”

Rick sat back, cradling his teacup in his big, strong hands. “I’d say my favorite book is Around the World in Eighty Days. I have a sentimental attachment to it; it was my favorite as a kid. I’ve read it in the original French, but I like the English translation better. But if I had a top three…” He paused to sip, thinking. “I don’t know, actually. I really like Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan and John Carter books, and I like Rudyard Kipling. I read a lot of Dickens after Gallipoli; they had his complete works at the hospital my regiment was sent to afterwards.”

“You were injured?”

“No.” A shadow passed through Rick’s eyes. “I mean, yes, I got shot in the side, but it was more a flesh wound than anything else. No, they sent us to rest and recuperate before going back to battle. It was a good break.”

He put the teacup down and reached for the pot. Evie hastened to lift it and refill. She brushed Rick’s hand as she scooted the milk jug towards him. He had such beautiful hands.

“I’ve never read Dickens,” she admitted, and he gave her a surprised look. “His writing never grabbed my attention,” she added. “I was much more interested in ancient stories than modern ones.”

“You don’t say.” Rick looked amused. “And you, a librarian. Is that what you got your degree in?”

“Library science? No, I did that afterwards. I, er, I studied Classics and Antiquity at university.”

Rick shifted his hands on the table, moving them close enough to tap the back of Evie’s hand. “Tell me.”

“You don’t mind that I went to university?”

The question leaped out before she could stop it, the tiny insecurity that Evie had always carried deep inside her and only rarely acknowledged. So many men were threatened by academic women. Rick looked astonished.

“Why would I mind that you went to university?” he asked. “Everybody should have the chance to go to university. I’d have loved to go to college. And anyway, of course you’re educated, I mean, look at you. With everything that’s happened the last few weeks, we’d all have died if you hadn’t known exactly what to do and how to read those hieroglyphs and all.”

“I know. It’s just...academic women are...frowned upon by society,” she said. “And I know we met in extraordinary circumstances, but I’ve never...You don’t think I’m ridiculous?”

Rick shook his head. “Nah, Evie, I’m crazy about you.”

And the little flame of her worry flickered and died. Evie smiled at him, folded her fingers around his. Rick squeezed her hand and raised it to his lips. They were going to be just fine.

#asks and answers #prompts #my fanfics #The Mummy #Rick and Evie #Rick O'Connell #Evelyn Carnahan #it amuses me to write Rick as a reader #I mean why not?

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