after an argument: hc
(part 2: part 1 here!) this ended up taking way longer than i imagined woops
the silent treatment he had been giving you eventually turns into reflection time.
the outcome? he feels like a complete dick.
so he when he sees your sitting on the sofa, he would come and sit next to you, his hands placed awkwardly on his knees
he would sneak peaks at you as if to get your attention because our love can’t directly make the first move after confrontation
finally, you would sigh and face him
to which he would pretend to be really interested in whatever was on the tv.
then he would spill.
“I’m sorry I was such an arse and for the stupid argument. I was acting immature and you don’t deserve that and if there’s anyway I can make it up to you-”
You would interrupt him with a much calmer, “Steven.” and add, “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I was stupid to do anything to risk what we have.”
You could see the hidden fear in his eyes and shook your head.
“You won’t lose me. besides, people in relationships argue!” He isn’t convinced, muttering a string of apologies again.
“I’m not mad anymore, okay? It’s done.”
Steven is relieved. Like super relieved. he physically breathes a sigh of relief.
And he hesitantly reaches out to take your hand
to which you offer a smile and snuggle into his side.
“Wow.” Steven suddenly whispers
“I just love you. And am so lucky to have you, my love.”
to which you smile, because your equally lucky to have him- even when he is sassy.
okay so i feel like he would want to avoid direct confrontation
but would still obviously want to apologise.
so say your asleep and he sneaks into the flat
has gotten a bunch of flowers or something cliché that he debated on getting but decided he needs something romantic to add to his apology.
he doesn’t want to wake you, plans to just leave the flowers in a vase and cook you breakfast.
but he stubs his toe on the side as he walks in and cusses loudly.
of course, you wake up instantly, slightly delirious from your sleep.
he cringed at himself, inhaling deeply before muttering a small ‘nope’.
Marc knows he’s fucked up by the sadness in your tone.
your sit up, noticing the flowers and he follows your gaze and sighs.
“Look, Y/N, I fucked up. And I’m sorry.”
he paces forward and places the flowers on the bedside table
It’s kinda funny to see big, scary Marc Spector be so shy
and you don’t really know what to do
cause your still pissed at him.
“You upset me, marc. I just care about you, is all. when you get hurt, it hurts me. And I’m powerless to it, you know?”
“I know, baby. I know. I got, defensive and it was wrong of me.”
he feels emotional and turns away from you for a moment.
“Just not really used to people caring about me. I just don’t want to scare you off, or risk losing you. It doesn’t give me an excuse, I know. I’m sorry.”
He sniffles, would desperately try to stop any tears.
But you saw him. Saw all his insecurity, all his pain, all his worry.
and you instantly would get up from the bed, wrap your arms round his waist.
“I know, darling. We can work on it, okay? But we don’t have to right now.”
to which you would gently urge him to turn around.
and he accepts your embrace, softly sniffles into your shoulder as you stroke his back.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”
and he agrees.
and you both lie down, you guiding him to rest his head on your chest as you gently play with his hair
both slowly realising you can work on your problems together.
“I’m worried, mate. She could be anywhere.”
“She isn’t answering our texts.”
“Fuck sake, Jake.”
after you left, of course all 3 of them would be freaking out.
Jake would eventually take control- or lose it.
going back to his bottle but slowly
truth was, he was more worried than anyone.
this was his fault
so if anything happened to you, that would be on him.
and he would never forgive himself
he was pacing the room, calling your phone yet again, practically screaming in frustration when he heard your voicemail.
that was until the door opened.
you half expected one of the others to be fronting, or for Jake not to be there at all.
but to your slight dismay, there he was, instantly turning to face you and throwing his phone on the sofa.
you would take off your jacket, not even bothering to face him.
then walk straight to the bathroom for a shower, avoiding contact at all.
“You need to sort this out, Jake. Just say sorry.”
he knew he had too. just didn’t know how to communicate it
and all you wanted, no, needed, was for him to communicate.
you come out the shower and to his dismay, your wearing one of your own night tops and not one of his
and you get a glass of water before going to bed.
but before you can, Jake clears his throat.
to which you would stop in your tracks, slightly turning to him so he knows he has some of your attention.
“Are you hurt?”
“You were gone for so long, I thought you might’ve got-”
“Are you kidding? I was ‘gone for so long’ because you told me to leave, remember?”
okay, tensions were still high
and i have a feeling Jake is stubborn
Jake would stop talking for a moment as he watches you shake your head slightly
“I was angry.”
“well I’m still angry.”
and the atmosphere would be so tense.
one wrong word, and it could all snap.
“What do you want me to do?”
and you scoff.
“Honestly? I want you to be honest. Jake, do you want me?”
“You hardly say it.”
“You hardly say you love me! and maybe I’m selfish but you don’t act like you love me sometimes. I want, I want you to talk to me and be open to me and want me in the way I want you! Because I can’t keep doing this.”
That- he feels his stomach turn in dread, feels his head fill with fire. But mostly, he feels the way his heart breaks slightly.
of course he loves you.
but it was fucking terrifying to admit
you mistake his silence for agreeance and you feel tears well in your eyes
because this is your biggest fear; that one of them could fall out of love with you.
“I’m going to bed.”
the sentence sends chills down his spine in the worst way
and he shakes out of his thoughts, rushing forward.
“No no no, wait. I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t find the words for you, Y/N, but it’s not because I don’t want to or because I don’t care but it’s because for you, I feel so deeply. I can cope with pain, lord knows I can, but this... loving you means the possibility of losing you and I can’t live with that.”
none of them can
and you pause again, putting down the water and turning to him with watery eyes.
“It doesn’t make up for what happened. I mean it, Jake. We can’t keep doing this thing where we fight and then fuck, and then forget about it.”
“I won’t. I will try and make it up to you, Cariño, every single day. And I might not be able to open up like the others do, but I will try. I will try for you.”
and you finally nod slightly, tears falling freely now.
and he sighs in utter relief and it’s overwhelming what he feels for you
he walks over and kisses you fiercely and you pause for a moment before returning the gesture
but the dominance dies down, leaving a gentle, loving kiss, making your head dizzy
and finally, Jake says with as much certainty as you have ever heard, “Te quiero. I love you, mi amor.”
and whilst you know it’ll take a while, your willing to wait.
for them, you would wait an eternity
because they are your eternity.
cliché little ending to make up for the angst of p1 hehe. hope you enjoyed :)
You're my emergency
Summary: You never changed your emergency contact after the breakup. You don't find out about this until the boys show up at the hospital.
Warnings: Angst, but happy ending, mentions of car crashes and injuries.
Word count: 1,290
A/n: I had a moment of writers block for awhile there, but once I found this prompt from @ creativepromptsforwriting 's hurt/comfort prompt list, I just knew that I had to write it! Enjoy 💕
He shouldn't care. He really, really shouldn't. But he does. He shouldn't be speeding on the freeway to get to the hospital right now, but he is.
You broke up with Marc and his alters over six months ago due to them constantly getting themselves into dangerous situations. Actually no, that's not what made you do it. The lying did. Jake and Marc always lied to you about their whereabouts, but never Steven. He told you that he never had a reason to, so you trusted him.
One day, Steven told you the museum was doing an overnight trip for a group of Middle Schoolers and that he would be back in a day or two. A couple of weeks later you found out he actually spent the night at Layla's after a mission went south. That's when you broke up with them. He tried to tell you that nothing happened between them, that he just couldn't come home and have you see him like that, but you refused to listen.
It took you two days to pack your stuff and move in with your Aunt. After that, they hadn't heard from you.
Until now. Technically.
Jake was fronting at the time. He had just finished beating a guy's ass for trying to steal a woman's purse, when the hospital called their shared phone.
"Is this a Marc Spector, Steven Grant, or Jake Lockley?" A female voice asked him. "Sorry about this, you're all listed for the same phone number."
Jake decided to let Marc front, not wanting to deal with whatever it is she wanted them for. "Yeah, this is Marc. What's this about?"
"Right, hello Mr. Spector. I just wanted to see if you were able to come down to St Thomas' hospital for a Miss y/n, l/n. She's been in a car accident and you were at the top of her emergency contacts."
Marc's heart skipped a beat. Then another. Then he was able to choke out a reply. "Of course. How bad is it?" Marc was barely listening to her, trying to get Jake's keys out of his pocket.
Jake took over again so he could drive them to the hospital. He didn't even feel bad when he abruptly ended the phone call. He just had to get to you.
'Should we be doing this, mate? I mean, she broke up with us.. she might not want to see us..'
'We should at least check on her. Make sure she get's home safe.'
'You heard her though. She said she doesn't want to see us ever again..'
Jake gripped the wheel, his alters voices sending a wave of anger throughout his body. "Of course we're going to check on her. She needs us." He ground out. Marc and Steven decided to stay quiet for the rest of the drive.
Marc jogged through countless hospital hallways, murmuring, "room 206..." under his breath until he finally found it. Your room. He raised his hand to knock, but found that he couldn't bring himself to. "What if Steven's right?" He mumbled, knowing his alters would hear him.
Steven stayed quiet, but Jake wordlessly took control of Marc's hand and knocked on the door five times. Marc's breath caught in his throat, panic flooding throughout his veins. "Jake, what the fuck?" He hissed.
"Shh! Listen." Jake muttered.
They all listened closely, waiting to hear your voice after all these months. Once Marc heard you call out a quiet, "come in" he slowly pushed open the door and shuffled into the room.
"Marc?" You asked, confusion evident in your tone. "What are you doing here? How did you know where I was?"
Marc stood there speechless, his eye's slowly running along your body. Your left leg was in a cast, you had a large bruise on your shoulder, accompanied with one ace bandage on your neck and the other wrapped around your head. And these were just the exposed injuries.
He finally met your eyes, noting the expecting look you were giving him. Right, she said something.
Marc cleared his throat, slowly making his way towards your bed. "Um, turns out I'm still your emergency contact. Well, we are I guess." He corrected.
"Right.. Well, you can go. I'm fine. Sorry to waste your time." You mumbled, looking anywhere but at him.
"What? No, no, this isn't a waste of time," Marc hesitantly sat on the edge of your bed, placing his hand on top of yours. "You're not a waste of time."
The look on his face is the same one that's been haunting you for six months. A look of pure sorrow is how you described it to your friends. It's the same look he had when you announced the break-up. "I'm not your responsibility anymore. I'm fine. Seriously, I'm sure you have much better things to be doing." You muttered, looking anywhere but him.
That's when Steven took over for the first time that night. "Darling, emergency or not, we still care about you and wanna make sure you're doing well. Please, just let us take care of you. And when you're all better you can send us on our way again, okay?"
"No, it's not okay Steven! I can't-" You took a deep breath, wincing from the pressure on your bruised rib cage. You then closed your eyes and let the breath go before replying. "I can't send you away again, okay? It hurts too much. These past few months have been hell and I can't go through that again. I just can't."
Steven reached out and brushed a rouge strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather light. "Love, you don't have to push me away. I constantly think about the things that I've done and honestly? I don't like to front anymore so I don't have to feel the weight of my guilt. It's too much to carry. I'm so, so sorry, love. I never wanted to hurt you. And I really didn't want to break your trust either. I know that there's no excuse for what I've done. I just wanted you to know that you're not alone."
You allowed the tears that were welling up in your eyes to finally fall. They slowly made their way down your cheeks, then slipped off of your chin and into your lap. "Steven.. I don't know what to say. You were supposed to be the one person I could count on and you just.." You didn't finish your sentence; you didn't need to.
"I know, I know. I don't deserve your forgiveness. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sure the guys are sorry too, but I'm probably the most sorry." That made you breathe out a laugh, a small smile spreading across your lips.
"Alright, alright. I get it. Thank you." You finally met his eyes, relishing the way his pupils dilated when they gazed into yours. "I still love you. All of you, actually. I just need some time.. Is that okay?"
Steven reached out and grabbed your hand, gently bringing it up to his lips so he could kiss each knuckle. "Of course that's okay, love. Take all the time you need. We'll always wait for you."
You were allowed to leave the hospital two days later. Jake drove you home and helped you settle into your apartment. For the next two months they all took turns visiting and caring for you. Once your leg had healed you went out to celebrated at your favorite bar with Marc.
That night you ended up kissing and officially got back together. Not even a full year later and Steven had proposed to you, which, of course, you said yes. And for the rest of your life, Marc, Steven, and Jake held their place as your #1 emergency contact.
moon knight system + their favorite nicknames for you
content: SFW w/ a little implied NSFW, romantic relationship, all moon boys x reader, nicknames/pet names/terms of endearment
S T E V E N
love, my love, sweetheart, darling, dove, angel, precious, dear, your name
The way Steven says your name makes you absolutely melt. It sounds so special, so real, when he says it. Love is his most frequently used nickname, but all the other ones he uses are soft and sweet. He adds them in his text messages too.
He calls you ma chérie to make you laugh.
M A R C
Baby, honey, sweetheart, babe, my sweet girl/boy, beautiful, gorgeous
Unlike Steven, Marc hardly ever uses your real name. There's a nickname sprinkled in every other sentence. He also manages to make each one feel absolutely filthy, which drives you crazy when you're just going about your day.
Marc imitates Steven's incessant use of adjectives (complete with bad British accent) to mess with you.
J A K E
My girl/boy, cariño (like dear or darling), babe, baby, princess/princesa, sugar, mi amor (never just amor)
Jake's nicknames are unique and amazing in any context. Like Marc, he can use them for evil very easily, but he says them like they're only meant for your ears. They're a reminder how special you are to him. He loves to make you feel loved when he does get to spend time with you.
Jake calls you random Spanish words because you don't know what they mean. Once, he called you mi impresora, and it stuck. You thought it meant "my precious," until he laughed and told you it meant printer.
thanks for reading! leave some asks, I need ideas! <3
Soft Saturday Drabble #2
Moon Knight: Layla x Steven x Marc with GN!little reader
Request: Hey I saw that you were going to do another moon knight boys little fic.
I was wondering if you would ever consider maybe one or two of the boys being readers daddy and layla being their mummy (Sorry I'm for the spelling of mummy I'm british lol)
“What did you dig up today, mummy?” you asked curiously with wide eyes when Layla and Steven returned from the recent excursion.
“Always so curious, my little scarab,” Layla smiled as she kissed the top of your head.
“Which we love, don’t we?” Steven grinned as he wrapped you in a warm hug.
“We absolutely do,” Layla praised as Steven sat down with you in his lap. She unzipped her bag and slowly unwrapped the ushabti.
“Oh Taweret!” you squealed softly when you saw it.
“Very good, little one, you know your goddesses,” Steven praised as Layla placed it in your hands. You cradled it gently as you marveled at the intricate details. “Mmm you taught me, daddy,” you said proudly.
“Can I come next time?” you asked hopefully.
“If you’re feeling a bit bigger, I think that would be ok,” Layla said after she exchanged a look with Steven.
“Yay! Thank you,” you smiled as you handed the ushabti back to her. You felt Steven’s forehead rest against the back of your head and soon his arms tightened around you protectively.
“Papa Marc,” you squealed as you wiggled around in his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Hi love bug,” he murmured as he hugged you close then eyed the half empty soda can, half eaten sandwich and crumpled bag of chips on the nightstand in the hotel room. “Is that all you’ve eaten today, little one?”
You gave a sheepish nod. “How about I order us some real food then we can talk about you joining us on the next dig.” He was incredibly protective of you.
Layla bent down to kiss your forehead. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you come with us,” she said with a little wink.
requesting 45 & 59 w/ Jake Lockley please🥵
TW/CW: 18+ Only, Minors DNI
"Jake, I don't wanna wait. Can't we park somewhere?" You asked as you slid your hand across the console, snaking it across his muscular thigh. He gripped your hand immediately, pausing your ministrations as he glanced over at you with a dark glare.
"Easy, mi vida..." He said lowly as he turned his attention back to the road.
"If I have to pull over, you won't be able to walk for a week,"
His warning sent a shiver through your chest as excitement pumped through your veins. He was daring you, pushing you to do it anyway as he removed his hand from yours to give you the choice.
Did you really want to tempt him with your bratty ways? Could you handle the future bruises on your ass that were sure to keep you from sitting comfortably for days to come?
You drew in a sharp breath as your curiosity couldn't be satiated any longer, slowly creeping your hand further across his lap until it met the rock-hard outline of his erection through his jeans. A deep growl emitted from his chest as you traced your fingers over it, glancing up to watch his jaw clench.
You felt a pang of panic as he suddenly turned the car into a dark alleyway, throwing the gear shift into park as he turned to face you with lustful eyes.
"Get in the back," he demanded as he climbed out of the driver side, meeting you as you shut your door with a hand around your throat. He pushed you back against the leather seats as he undid his belt, sliding his thumb across your lower lip.
"So eager for me, mi amor..." He sighed as you wiggled your hips in anticipation, practically panting beneath him.
He discarded his bottoms, quickly turning to yours to remove them now. His eyes never left yours, until your naked lower half pulled his attention away. His lips turned upward into a mischevious grin as he admired your apparent arousal.
"You're so filthy... All this for me? How cute."
Taglist: @shirukitsune @rosaren2498 @kindnonny23 @booksandbenbarnes @sunnysidesidra @scarlettmoon98 @xcastawayherosx @buginktsworld @rand0m–fangirl @raging-trash-of-mind @natisren @kaqua @irethepotato @dev-angeline @marshmallow–3 @stormkobra-5 @treasureswordsgirl55 @chunkcook @stepasidefilth @brekkers-desigirl @lancaerialcotume @wintergirlsoldier2 @dalia-12-3 @trashpanda99 @chrisevansgirlfriendsposts @darklingbrekksov @dembiscuitstho @xcaptain-winterx @mixerya92 @djarinsgirl27 @moonlighting87 @dd242 @lots-of-love-anon @simping-master-69 @harrys-tittie @love-on-the-murder-scene @loki-hargreeves @whatfandomnow @spectorsvoid @nathandepp @xzombiealicex @allthingsvicf @handswritteeen @sammi-doll483 @love-on-the-murder-scene
Hello! I was thinking of a prompt where the Moon Boys (mainly Marc) takes reader out dancing and the boys get a change to dance with reader. Steven would be a little clumsy and embarrassed about dancing, Marc would be confident but Jake 😳😳😳 bring in Oscar's 'ethnic hips'
ohhhhhh boy, do i love this idea *-* everything about this is tempting so i hope you like it!
"Seriously, Marc, where are we going?" You asked as Marc held your hand. It's not that you didn't trust him, you were just curious.
Both of you were walking down the streets of London. It was a beautiful night, not to warm and not too cold. Marc lightly squeezed your hand and smiled softly.
"I said you have be patient, baby." He said. You sighed and smiled.
"I guess I can do that for you." You said as you leaned against his arm.
Marc guided you around a corner and into a little street where no cars could pass by. There were a lot of people with little jewelry and clothe stands. You were amazed by all the beautiful lights and the music that was playing. A few meters ahead of you were a group of people dancing. The cute thing was that they weren't necessarily following a rhythm. They were just dancing happily on their own.
"Oh my god, this is amazing." You said as you looked around.
"Steven told me about this place and I thought I could take you here to dance with you. So you could dance with us." Marc said and you noticed how he was getting shy all of a sudden. That made you smile as you turned to face him.
"I didn't know you liked to dance." You said. Marc got closer to you until his lips were ghosting over yours.
"It's not my favorite activity. But I think I can take my lady to dance and make her happy." He said before kissing you gently. Your heart fluttered at the thought of your boys stepping out of their comfort zone just to make you happy.
Marc guided you into the crowd of people. There was a very good song playing right now. He grabbed your hands to wrap them around his neck, then placed his hands on your waist.
"Is this okay?" He asked. You nodded and started swaying softly. Marc looked down at his feet, trying not to trip and do it right. You placed a hand on his cheek and gently lifted his head up to look at you.
"Hey, don't worry. Just do what feels right, okay?" You said and he nodded before taking a deep breath and swaying you both from side to side. He seemed to be calming down as time passed by. "That's it. You're doing great!"
Marc let out a breathy laugh and shook his head before kissing your temple. "Only because I have you by my side." He said.
"You're very flirty today." You said making Marc smile.
"A man who loves his girl has to tell her that he loves her." He said.
"You what?" You asked with a playful smile.
"What?" He asked.
"Say that again. Sorry... You what me?" You asked as you placed a hand next to your ear, pretending that you didn't hear him right.
This made Marc roll his eyes and smile. He got closer until his mouth was next to your ear. "I love you." He whispered. You sighed happily.
"I love you too." You said before you leaned closer and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss but full of love and passion. He slowly nipped on your bottom lip asking for access, which you happily obliged. He smiled into the kiss and pulled you closer, if that was possible.
Suddenly, a different song started playing. It was more slow and elegant. You pulled away from the kiss and Marc looked around.
"This seems more like a Steven vibe." He said and then, his face changed. His eyebrows shot up and that smile that you knew too well appeared.
"Hello, love. Having fun?" Steven asked. You smiled and nodded.
"I am. Want to dance with me?" You asked. Steven nodded and gently grabbed your hand, placing a kiss on the back of it.
"How could I possibly say no?" He said before placing a hand on your back, taking the hand he kissed and lifted it in the air next to you both. You had a hand on his shoulder as you started swaying in circles. "And 1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3..." Steven was saying which made you giggle.
"Wow, you really know how to waltz." You said. He chuckled and you could see how his cheeks were suddenly tinted with a light shade of pink.
"Uhm... Not really... I've never danced with anyone before. Well, nobody wanted to dance with me. I didn't have much time to dance, you know, given the circumstances-" Steven was saying until he tripped over his own feet, making you both stumble. "Oh- Bullocks, I'm sorry, so sorry- I-" He started stuttering and blinking way too quickly.
"Hey. Steven, honey. It's okay, don't worry. Just look at me" You said and held him closer. He let out a huge breath and nodded.
"Told you I'm not good at this." He said with a shy smile. You shook your head.
"I don't care. As long as it's with you, we can trip and stumble a thousand times." You said.
Steven smiled and leaned his forehead against yours. You were still swaying around and he closed his eyes.
"What have I done to deserve you?" He asked.
"A couple of smiles and some cool Egyptian facts did the job." You said and that made him giggle. "Plus, the fact that you're really handsome."
Steven had a huge smile on his face and he looked into your eyes. "I love you, darling." He said.
"And I love you." You said before leaning in to kiss him softly. He hummed in satisfaction and kissed you back.
Then, the song changed into a more fast one. With an upbeat rhythm. Steven's head slightly tilted back and his face changed into another smile that you knew very well.
"Mí turno." (my turn) Jake said with a cheeky smile and he pulled your hips against his. He started moving his hips, guiding yours with his hand.
"Ok now, this is something I do not know how to dance-" You were saying until he grabbed your hand, spun you around, and pulled you closer by your hips again. Your back against his chest and his mouth next to you ear.
"Just listen to the beat. Let go, mí amor. You have no idea how long I wanted to dance with you." Jake said and your breath hitched. You nodded and he placed a small kiss on your neck before spinning you around, swaying his hips back and forth and side to side. He was really good at this.
"Lead the way then." You said just above a whisper, but he heard you. He has a wild smile on his face and he brought you closer to him.
The both of you danced and swayed around. Jake spun you and wrapped his arms around you, guiding your hips with one hand to copy his movements. When he spun you around again and pressed your chest against his, you let out a breath. His hand was getting dangerously low down your back.
"Que mujer hermosa." (what a beautiful woman) Jake said, making you blush and look to the left. He took this as an opportunity to bury his face in your neck. "Don't hide away from me. You're beautiful and I can't believe your mine. Solo mía." (Only mine)
You tilted your head to the side and placed a kiss on his temple. Jake lifted his head and smiled at you. A smile so soft and gentle only meant for your eyes to see.
"Te amo." He said and your heart fluttered for like the billionth time that night. You placed your hands on his cheeks, making him lean into your touch.
"I love you too, Jake." You said and he closed his eyes with a smile on his face. He turned his head to place a kiss on the inside of your hand before looking back at you. "I love all of you."
"We love you too, preciosa. Very much." He said and he leaned into to kiss you with such force and passion, and you loved very bit of it.
Moments like these with your boys, your brave and sweet boys, you cherished with all of your heart.
a/n: hi there :D I'VE GOT TO SAY, I ENJOYED WRITING THIS SO MUCH MY HEART WAS JUST GOING SIDIFNSSLBDLDBDKS 😍 omg i love the moon boys so much.
i hope you liked it!! thank you for sending this request, have a great day! ❤️
Ghost Of You (Marc Spector x GN!Avenger!Reader)
summary: y/n dies at Vormir instead of Nat
content: poor attempt at angst, mentions of y/n’s death, mentions of the blip, steven and jake are not part of the fic, marc is not the moon knight when y/n dies
Pov: second person
After the split of the Avengers, everyone that was on Steve’s team, you being one of them, was either in prison or on the run from S.H.I.E.L.D and the United States government. You were on the run. Those stupid accords had caused you to flee the country, and move to London. Granted, a more secluded country would’ve been more safe, however, moving to London had always been a dream of yours. While in London, you met Marc Spector, the most handsome man you had ever seen in your life. You were wearing your Led Zepplin shirt when you met. The same one you wore when you fled the United States. You and Marc eventually fell in love with each other and got married. A small courthouse wedding that was just the two of you. No guests. It was all you could’ve asked for.
One night while you were laying in bed with Marc, you got a call from an unknown number. You looked at each other with confusion before you answered and put it on speaker phone. You and Marc looked at each other before you finally spoke up, “Hello?” You asked with slight fear in your phone. You jumped a little when the voice responded. It was your best friend, Nat.
“Y/N, I need you to come to Wakanda. It’s an emergency,” She said before hanging up.
“Who was that?” Marc asked.
“An old friend, and I guess she needs my help.”
“Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“No,” you sighed, “but until then, you’ll be just fine.”
The surviving Avengers in Wakanda took you back home in the Quinjet. You just sat there in silence, thinking about Marc. Wondering if he was one of the unlucky people to turn into dust. When you walked up to your front door, it was locked. You ran the doorbell hoping that Marc was there to open it, and he was. You lunged into his arms, crying as you told him everything.
Five years later Nat decided to visit you. Her hair had grown longer and her natural red was conquering the dyed blonde. As the two of you were eating lunch at a small café, she brought up that the Avengers might have a way to bring everyone back and that they wanted you to help. You agreed and immediately headed home to tell Marc. Just like last time, Marc asked, “Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“No,” you sighed, “but until then, you’ll be just fine.”
Little did Marc know, that would be the last time he would see you in person. Steve had delivered the news about your death to him. Everyone wanted Nat to, but she felt like it was her fault that you died. She told you about bringing everyone back. She went to Vormir with you and left with the Soul Stone, but not you. It was nobody’s fault that you died. Marc was understanding that Nat wasn’t the one to tell him. Out of all the Avengers, she was grieving the most. You two were the closest after all.
One morning Marc decided that he was going to clean up the house. He put on your favourite playlist, and started with your coffee mug that was on the coffee table in the living room. It had been sitting there, unfinished, for months. The same mug you were drinking out of when Nat had arrived to London. Marc sighed, as he picked up the mug. Your pink lipstick stain had slowly been fading away over time. He put it away before heading to the garage to clean out old boxes. He found a box that had your name on it, and opened it to see what the box had contained. Digging through, he found old photos of you and the Avengers, and below it all was your Zepplin t-shirt. Marc wiped a tear from his eye as he remembered that you wearing this shirt when you met, and how you told him it was the same one you wore when fleeing the states. Marc dropped the shirt in his lap and sat on the garage floor for what felt like hours before he heard the faint sound of your favourite song coming from the living room speakers. It was A Man Without Love by Engelbert Humperdinck. He got up and headed to living room to slowly sway with the song. It reminded him of you. The lyrics, and the fact that it was the song that was playing when Marc proposed. That was why it was your favorite song.
“Every day I wake up, then I start to break up
Lonely is a man without love
Every day I start out, then I cry my heart out
Lonely is a man without love”
You played the song so often that one day Marc asked you to turn it off. He had started to get sick of it, however now, he felt as if he would never get sick of it. He turned it up and danced around the house pretending that you were singing the song, and dancing with him. That night, Marc decided to sleep in your shared bed, instead of on the couch like he had been for the past few months. He took your Zepplin shirt, placed it on your side of the bed, and put on A Man Without Love.
Within the next week, Marc visited your grave for the first time. He finally had some closure over your death. He placed down a bouquet of lavenders as he sat down, telling you what he had been up to.
“So I drown it out like I always do,” he said through tears. “Dancing through our house, with the ghost of you.���
“And I chase it down with a shot of truth, that my feet don’t dance like they did with you.”
Steven Grant the type of guy that makes you feel like God the way he makes love to you.
Marc Spector the kind of man that makes you see God the way he fucks you.
Steven being in a relationship with his s/o
Steven being him <33
Warnings ~ 18+ , Kissing , fluff , Nsfw , a bit smutty , romantic relationship , nicknames / petnames / terms of endearment.
Note ~ These are headcanons for steven being in a relationship with you eeeeee , sorry i havent been posting hehe i got alot of things going on and got a new laptop.
•When ever he is with you he will be the most careful , you burn your self he is going to literally rush to you 'Love are you okay?' and 'Stay here i will go get a band aid.'
•He is very loving I mean it too , he is not very rough physically and verbally because he never can do that to you.
•He has alot of nicknames for you ALOT like sweetheart , love , angel , precious , dear , you name and alot other names , and love is his most frequently used nickname
•Always is going to get you gifts and I mean always you help or not you're always going to get something , its really sweet and then it gets so cute with him trying to tell you something.
•Steven is the sweetest man alive that it he is and you can't argue.
•He is a shy one doesn't really talk or fight back , but you do and you will destroy the person to treat him badly.
•He gets clingy when he gets jealous you tell theres no reason to get jealous but still , sometimes its a bit annoying but usually its him looking like he gonna murder someone he gets a bit grumpy too , which never really happens to him.
•He is switch some times soft dom other times is a sub.
•When he is a soft dom is like 'Love you can come more right , you've done it before.'
• 'Love are you going to come , I love when you come on my cock'
• 'Ah love you look beautiful , so beautiful.'
•When he is a sub is like 'L~ Love please let me come , I'll make you feel good I promise'
•He starts begging he sounds needy and pathetic.
•He has a praise kink you can't tell me otherwise HE HAS A PRAISE KINK , and when you praise him he gets hard.
Hellos i hope you enjoyed that hehe , so i hope you guys are doing good and don't forget to reblog , like and share helps us a lot , anyways give me some requests :)
Fit to Burst
CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS
Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant
Summary: Marc decides to teach you a lesson when you mistake him for Steven.
Rating: really fucking explicit
Warning/content: Marc's dirty filthy mouth, Steven's over-eager mouth, Marc is wee bit jealous, cunnilingus, overstimulation, refraction period? — we don't know her, established relationship.
Word Count: 3.5k (I have no excuse, pure self-indulgent filth)
[Tag List and Masterlist]
“Does that feel good, love? Think you can come for me again?”
You don't know how many orgasms he's pulled from you already. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. You can't tell if it’s Marc or Steven fronting right now. If it's Marc who is talking to you, or Steven, taking you apart inch by inch, one devastating orgasm at a time.
Love. He called you love. Steven calls you love. This must be Steven.
Steven’s lips come to the inside of your thigh, pressing gentle kisses meant to soothe, but the sandpaper brush of his stubble makes everything inside you that more wound up, your nerves raw like everything is going to splinter.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, and the soft caress of his breath is searing against your skin, wreaking havoc on you. The low rumbling of his voice, so uncharacteristic of him, is dipped in hunger and greed, and it skitters up and down your spine until it's difficult to breathe. It's a perfect counterpoint to his surprisingly skilled mouth and fingers on you, to the heat spreading under your skin and building to an explosive pitch between your legs.
“Want you to come all over my mouth, yeah?” he says, with none of his trademark shyness, before he dives back in, tongue laving at your slick folds.
You can’t help but give him what he wants.
You come, your cunt clenches down, spasming around the thick girth of his fingers where he has you stretched open. Everything else disappears for a moment, your body weightless with pure unadulterated bliss. You are so disorientated that you are almost certain you are floating in zero gravity. You can’t even hear your heartbeat anymore. Can’t feel it thump against the cage of your chest. For all you know it might have stopped entirely. All you’re capable of feeling is an abstract tingling sensation that buzzes pleasantly in your veins.
Then you hear his voice, soft and adoring, from somewhere above. His fingers slip out of you, and you whine--even overwrought as you are, you feel empty at the loss.
There’s a gentle palm with soft-worn calluses stroking down the side of your ribs. Comforting kisses press your thighs, as he murmurs quiet praises about how good you are for him and how pretty you look like this.
You can’t help but snort a laugh at that last bit, not sure what he’s on about because you’re sure you look anything but right now. Your hair is soaked with sweat and clinging to your temple; your face, sticky and clammy. You’re certain you must look a complete mess as you lie here in a shambled heap on your bed. Your vision is so blurred you can barely see the white of your ceiling, but you're still able to make out the man above you, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon in the sky.
“Think you can give me another one, love? Jus' one more, yeah?”
Fucking hell. This man…
He doesn’t even give you a moment to gather yourself. You barely have a chance to nod before the saliva-slicked thumb gently presses down on your clit again. For all his sweet cooing and gentle touch and care, he is always merciless in his pursuit to make you come like there’s a prize for him at the end of it.
"Fucking finally," he huffs under his breath, and if you weren't so completely out of it, you'd tell him it's his own fault for dragging that last orgasm out so long.
As cliche as it sounds, you’re so blissed out of your mind you can’t tell anymore, where the pleasure begins and ends. All you feel is clever fingers already curling inside you again; a greedy hand cupping your breast; a hungry mouth nipping at the hollow of your throat. He’s everywhere, and you spread your legs wider, open yourself up, so he can have every single inch of you.
The bed shifts, and you blink rapidly, trying to clear the watery edges of your vision. After a moment, your eyes finally refocus on the man in front of you.
He’s kneeling above you, cock in hand, as he gives it a slow lazy stroke that makes your mouth water. A slick sheen of sweat graces the muscular line of his shoulder, bathed in amber gold of your bedroom light.
“You alright, baby? Want me to keep going?” The look in his eyes is as gentle as ever he checks in on you to make sure you’re okay. Makes you feel precious and cared for.
The only thing you can do is nod.
“You say stop if it gets to be too much,” he rasps out as lines himself up against you.
The first thrust is deep and consuming, and you cry out as the perfect stretch of him has white sparks burning behind your eyelids. You’re so worked up, everything makes a little bit less sense; mind almost a little bit numb. You can barely think straight and you think to yourself ironically, this is probably why they call it being cockdumb.
And it's not being made better by the way that he’s running his fucking mouth.
"So fucking perfect,” he murmurs into your ear, rasped and breathless as he nips on your ear. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock. So wet and warm. Fuck, you're so tight right now. Always so tight after you come for us."
He stays there, buried inside you to the hilt to allow you some reprieve and to accommodate around him. You can feel his eagerness to move in the way his cock twitches excitedly inside of you. Can tell he’s resisting that very urge when he grips the bedsheets tightly with his fingers until they go bone-knuckled. It strikes heat and pleasure all at once into the pit of your stomach. It’s so good; too much; and it teethers on the edge of the overwhelming.
A warm hand comes to cup your cheeks. He’s consoling you, brushing away the hair in your eyes, and the touch of it grounds you. “Does that feel good, baby?”
His eyes are ridiculously gorgeous, deep and rich, you find yourself easily lost in him. All you can see is his sweet half-smile, one corner of his mouth curling upward just for you. All you want to do in your overwrought state of mind is to please him, to praise him on how good he always makes you feel, so you do.
"So good. Feel so full. No one fucks me like you do, Steven."
From above, you see it, the moment his expression changes. Gone is the indulgent softness. The curl of his full lips turned into a scowl. Those deep rich eyes bleed into sternness fixed with a dark glower. You realise a bit too late that Marc is the one inside you now, not sweet Steven.
You try to think back. When did his voice change? His accent? His eyes are narrowed instead of wide adoring affection. Everything about his body language is different, must have changed before this, and how stupid is it that you didn’t notice until now? As much as you hate to admit it, you're just a little bit out of it; a little bit come dumb from how the two of them have made you come again and again.
The next thing you register is the emptiness inside you as he slips almost entirely out of you; until only the blunt tip rests inside you. There’s a look in his eyes, a flash of something determined and almost dangerous, as he adjusts his hips against you.
There’s no warning as he thrusts all the way back inside, in one long and slick stroke back inside you. Deep and hard. It strikes something absolutely fucking devastating in you until it steals away your breath and makes you cry out.
“That's right, baby.” He leans over with his lips to your ear, voice low and dark and demanding as he rolls his hips, and then grinds deep within you. “Say it again. Who fucks you like this?”
Everything’s sharp and bright inside you; the rush of pleasure that comes with every thrust mind-numbing. You don’t know how Marc expects you to give him an answer; can’t even stutter out the ‘you’ that’s right on the tip of your tongue. Instead all that comes out is a pitiful sob.
"No? Still not good enough for you?” Marc demands.
You thought at first, with what little brain power was available to you, that he was jealous, and maybe there’s some of that in there too, but there’s something else. Something almost teasing that makes you think he’s not even all that upset about your mistake. The bastard that he is, he just wants to capitalise on the opportunity to push you to your limit.
“Our girl is so greedy, isn’t she?” he continues mercilessly, ”Always wanting more. How about—" two hands come to rest on the inside of your thighs, lifting you off the mattress until your legs are hooked over his shoulders as he presses the delicious weight of his body on top of yours, folding you nearly in half. "How about this?"
His voice is pure savage glee, a kid that gets to play and pull apart his toy in whatever manner he wants. Your fingers twist into the sheets, trying to grab on tight because it feels like you are falling off the edge of the very world. Then Marc rolls his hips into you at the devastating new angle and it knocks the breath out of your lungs, tipping you past that very edge.
It doesn't matter that you're ready to repent. Doesn’t matter that you’re trying to moan your explanation in between insistent, merciless strokes. "That's not— fuck, ooooh shit, Marc, I didn’t mean—"
That man is not letting up, and with how hard you came just mere minutes ago, he's already got you so keyed up that you can feel that all familiar pressure and heat settle against the line of your spine with an alarming speed.
There’s a brief hesitation in his rhythm, like his concentration was broken for a moment, and you catch him glancing at the mirror. You wonder if Steven's there telling Marc to stop. Steven’s always looking out for you; would do anything for you, and that includes taking care of you in bed. But when you turn your head sideways, the mirror shows you the same perfect reflection of reality it always does.
If Steven's there, you can't see him. Instead, all you can see is the image of yourself being split open by Marc. How Marc towers over you, with his lean stature. The firm muscles on his back sloping down to the generous curves of his ass like he was a carved marble statue meant to depict the ancient Greek deities themselves. Those thick raven curls furl with heat and sweat against his forehead. He’s so fucking beautiful it’s unfair.
“You looking for Steven to save you?” Firm fingers grip the edge of your jaw, forcing your gaze back towards Marc. “Well too fucking bad. Steven’s not here. You’re stuck with me.”
Alright, nevermind. Definitely jealous then.
Marc’s next thrust drives a strange squeaking noise from your lungs, and you’d probably be embarrassed if you weren't so far gone.
"What was that,—” Marc taunts, huffing out a dark laugh between thrusts, “—did you want me—to stop?"
His voice is unbearably smug, and you almost want to tell him to stop just on principle, but fuck that. You don’t want him to stop. Even though it's so fucking much that it borders on the unbearable. You shake your head frantically. You never want him to stop.
“That’s what I… thought,” Marc grits out, thrusting hard on the last word.
He’s driving up against something perfect and molten inside of you, and heat rises up in you like a tide, seething under your skin. You think you might actually be going to come again, but the sensation is immense, nearly unbearable, and you clutch at Marc, whimpering as it threatens to swamp your already overwhelmed and overstimulated system.
“It’s alright. You’re alright, baby,” he rasps out, not even slowing down. “You can take it, can’t you? Take it for me like a good girl.” Then he tilts your hips up even farther, and that’s it. You’re done.
Fierce, electric heat explodes outwards, crackling rapturously through your limbs, submerging you entirely until you lose track of reality for a minute.
When you come back to yourself, Marc is still thrusting into you. The rhythm of it is soothing, drawing out your pleasure in a way you’ve never known before, like you've hit a plateau rather than travelling up and down a mountain. Distantly you note that everything is a slick mess. That you are soaking Marc’s cock with how wet your cunt is for him. You can feel it leaking out of you with every press and retreat of him inside you, dripping down over the curve of your ass onto the bed sheets.
Then, out of nowhere, Marc does stop.
The sound you make is damn near inhuman. Fuck, why?? Why is he stopping when all you need is more of him?
Your eyes flutter open to see Marc staring at the mirror, his full attention focused on his reflection. On Steven.
You don’t know what Steven is saying to him, but whatever it is, has Marc chuckling.
He turns away from the mirror with a toothy grin full of mischief, and he leans back down towards you, pressing his mouth close so he can whisper in your ear like it's a secret; like Steven can't always hear him no matter how quiet he's being.
“He wants me to fuck you harder. Stretch you all the way open on our cock. Make you come again.”
You have no way of knowing if that’s true or if Marc is just saying that to get a rise out of Steven. You can’t exactly hear Steven’s end of the conversation. But it doesn’t matter, because Marc’s doing it.
You don’t know if you want to escape the sensation or demand more of it. But you can’t do either. In fact, you seem to have lost control of your body completely. All you can do is shudder and whine under him as Marc follows Steven’s alleged request and pushes himself hard and deep inside of you—oh God, just like that—again and again.
The pleasure twines and spreads slowly though your heavy limbs until you're completely drunk on the sensation of Marc's cock driving into you. He’s reduced you to a heap of bones, flesh and skin without any sentient thought left in your brain. Until you have lost all other sensation to the point where you almost miss the way that Marc is murmuring a string of filth into your ear.
“That’s right, baby. You’re not done yet.”
You can’t look away from him, the way that sweat is dripping down his collarbone, the mesmerising rise and fall of his chest as his breath is rasping in and out of his lungs.
“Gimme one more,” he says. “You come on my cock one more time, then I’ll fill you up. Make a mess of you, and Steven can clean you up with his tongue.”
This man is the devil.
You don’t know what that makes you when you’re so aroused by the picture he’s painting for you.
You’re exhausted. Every inch of you feels tender. You have been strummed and plucked and pushed over the edge again and again until all of you has become one single raw overwrought nerve. At this point you’re not even sure you’re physically capable of coming again. But still, white heat sparks and cracks and invades your numb limbs until you’re thrumming with it.
He's rutting into you, hips in an uneven jerking place, grinding as if he needs to get deeper, as deep inside you as he can to stake his claim and never leave. And fuck, you wish he could. You want him to fuck you like this forever and never stop.
Your cunt flutters around the thick girth of him involuntarily, and it does something to Marc too. He gasps and swears, hips stuttering forward into you, and it's almost enough.... almost... almost...
"Marc..." your voice breathy, pleading, barely recognizable to your own ears.
"Fuck," Marc huffs out. His hips stutter in its pace. If you didn’t know any better, from the way he closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if to gather himself, you’d think his trademark control is slipping. But then he seems to rally himself and pulls back, almost all the way out.
You clutch at him. If he stops now, if he dares to deny you, you swear to god, you will actually kill this man, or failing that, die on the spot in protest. Your fingers digging into the firm meat of his shoulders, sobbing his name. You need—more, need everything, need him, need to—
“Shh,” he hushes you with a soothing coo, comforting fingers brushing back the sweat-slicked hair clinging to your forehead. “I'm right here, baby. Let go, I've got you.”
His tone doesn’t match his actions. Marc thrusts back in, driving so deep you can fucking taste it, and you dimly realize that you're screaming as the pleasure streaks outward, tearing your world apart.
It’s a flickering light that is dimming and finally dies out from the surge of electricity. Your brain completely loses all higher functions and all that is left is the rush of heat that spreads all over you. It pours and pours until you’re lightheaded and the whole room spins with it. Everything feels blissfully tight; too much and just enough. Then you come.
When you open your eyes, you see those gorgeous dark eyes rolling back, baring the long line of his throat and it’s a beautiful fucking sight. The sharp edge of his jaw, pink pouty lips all shiny and slick from you. You swear those thick sweat soaked curls glisten in the dim light. He’s so ridiculously gorgeous, you can hardly believe he is real.
Marc isn’t far behind you. His cock pulses, spilling warm heat inside of you with a strained moan. Every muscle in him goes rigid against you.
Then Marc collapses onto you, arms wrapped all around you as he lands on top of you on the bed, his firm weight resting on top of you. Both of you are a boneless and sweaty tangled heap against the mattress. His firm chest is pressed against you, so close the beat of his heart is hammering against your skin.
In the silence of your bedroom, your harsh, panting breaths echo as if you just finished the most harrowing marathon of your lives. There’s a gentle hand stroking the plane of your back. It’s so gentle, the touch of it so adoring that you’re not sure if it’s Marc or Steven, but you don’t think it matters much at all.
As you come down, your senses slowly flicker awake. You can feel the soft gentle comfort of a reassuring touch running along your thighs. A warm hand petting you over the wideness of your hip bones, soft stroking caresses to coax you back down from your high.
Eventually, your breaths slow, and he pushes himself up, and away from your chest with shaky arms, until you can see his soft gorgeous face that is practically glowing as he smiles down at you. Utterly boyish, utterly charming.
Steven, you realise. Steven’s back…
“You alright there, love? Was Marc too rough?” His thick brows knit together in worry. An expression of guilt bleeding into his handsome face.
In your exhaustion, you find yourself still breathless as you try to answer him, “Yeah. No, I’m alright,” you pause, and lower your voice, feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy. “I… I liked it."
At your response, that worried expression breaks out into a beaming grin that makes your heart leap and skip several beats with unadulterated fondness.
“Good. That’s good, yeah.”
Steven is a fucking sight onto himself. Your eyes trail downwards, from his chest, that’s glistening with sweat down to his torso and— bloody fucking hell. Your eyes widen at the sight. You don’t even know how, but Steven’s already hard again or maybe he just never went down for the count at all. His other hand is fisting his cock, a slick mess of white lines of cum that’s dripping down the aching length of him as it twitches and jumps with undeterred eagerness.
“Then, um…. Sorry to ask, but do you think…” It’s Steven’s turn to look down bashfully, then back up at you. His cheeks are flushed with a deep pink; hair, a tousled mess with a pleading expression in his eyes, that you cannot possibly turn down.
“Do you think we could go again? …please?”
Dear fucking God, these men. Steven may be all sweet and polite about it, but deep down he’s just as greedy and demanding as Marc. Maybe worse.
You’re not sure how you’re going to survive these two, but you’re going to enjoy the ride.
Dedication and Credits:
@krissology for chasing her dreams with such boundless courage and gumption, I'm forever proud to have a friend like her who is so absolutely fucking fierce and fearless. She's one of the most talented writers I've come across and she is publishing her debut novel Forget Me Now, available for pre-order here. Go support this brilliant human being, you won't regret it.
@thirstworldproblemss to my most beloved and brilliant co-writer, who stays up with me all night and all day to prawn like no one has prawn ever before. I never have more fun than when I am in a google doc with you, screaming about the beauty of this man and writing out the exact same suggestions to each other at the same time.
@frannyzooey for succeeding to make me cry on a Tuesday afternoon in the office with her kind words and support. You're someone that I'm endlessly proud to call a friend, for your humour, your kindness and your warmth. You are just one of the best humans and I hope you wake up everyday and know that and if you don't, I will remind you everyday.
Chocolate || Steven Grant X Reader
-> Rating: 18+￼￼
-> Word count: 6.1k!!!
-> After weeks of pining for your coworker Steven Grant, sharing chocolate over a late shift causes sparks to fly.
Gif credit belongs to @paper-n-ashes !!!
TW/CW: long ass fic. Handjob, p in v sex, unprotected sex. Relatively tame for me 👀 Not proof read, ain’t nobody got time for that.
His voice fades out as you gaze into his eyes, sparkling in excitement as he explains the mummification process to you for what must be the fifth time since you joined the museum staff a few months ago. They’re as deep and dark as the chocolate bonbons that had been pushed across the desk towards you. Melting, oozing a happiness that makes them appear even sweeter. The kind of sweet delight that made you buzz for hours on end and eventually fall into a sugar coma.
The crisp cold of the London air permeates through the stone walls of the museum's halls as if echoing Steven’s earlier sentiments that ‘even the summers in London are freezing’. It even seeps through the stitching of your cardigan as you sit in the storage room of the gift shop, helping your colleague sort through the miscellaneous gift-shop inventory, goosebumps rising on the skin of your arms as the draft floats under the heavy-set wooden doors.
However, you can’t feel the cold at all, the warmth that settles deep behind your sternum from hearing Steven talk excitedly about his interests is enough to combat the chill. It’s truly endearing, the way the exhausted man with such a mild temperament comes alive when he notices you listening to his ramblings- or rather tried.
“... and so Apep swallowed Ra’s boat, causin’ an eclipse!” He concludes with such vigor it jolts you from your trance and back to reality to find that you had been sitting with a small Anubis toy in hand for god knows how long, staring dorkily at the poor man who just wanted your attention. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, so enraptured by his storytelling that you manage to escape his scrutiny, or rather his disappointment that you hadn’t been as enthralled with his knowledge as he perhaps thought you were.
It wasn’t always this way. Upon your arrival to the museum at the beginning of spring during the new economic year, you loved his enthusiasm, the way he had toured you on his induction day despite the rambling of your boss Donna, insisting that he would never be a tour guide as long as he struggled to maintain a consistent timecard. While it wasn’t the most romantic of experiences, Steven so eager to explain how the Egyptians would push a hook through the nose of the nobility and Pharaohs, removing their brain in the process, but it certainly endeared you to him.
Drawn to his polite and mild temperament, you found yourself spending more time with him than you could really afford. Somewhere between traveling one more bus stop in order to continue the riveting conversation about the latest mummified crocodiles archaeologists had unearthed on the banks of the Nile and staying an extra thirty minutes after your shift to help Steven with the work that he had managed to rack up after three days away with little to no explanation as to where he had been, you found yourself struggling to maintain your focus on his narration.
Boredom wasn’t the cause of your affliction. No, worse than that. It was finding yourself tracing the bow of his upper lip with your line of sight, contemplating what it would be like to kiss it. Considering how soft his ebony curls would be to pass your fingers through, and how his long lashes would tickle your skin as he pressed his own lips to the expanse of your skin. Perhaps it was an understatement to claim that you would pray to every God and goddess, Egyptian or otherwise, for an opportunity to brush your fingertips against the grain of the shadow of his beard on his chin, It consumed your every waking moment, not unlike Apep swallowing the boat that Ra traveled upon so he could ride from the East and raise the sun.
You use the pause in conversation in order to switch the topic onto something he was less keen on, needing respite from the way your mind kept falling into the depths of desire, twisting like a pit of vipers in your stomach, before you managed to embarrass yourself beyond measure. “Where are these chocolates from, Steven, they’re very good.”
The bonbons that sat on the tabletop between you both were encased in a crimson-red love-heart box. You hadn’t allowed your own to go into cardiac arrest when he had entered the office holding it, convincing yourself that it couldn’t possibly be for you. Steven had never shown enough interest in you beyond his co-worker or friend to truly indicate that he would be willing to buy such a gift for you.
“Ah-” Steven stumbles over himself, a little eraser in the shape of a scarab beetle falling from his hands and clattering to the table. He’s swift to grab it again, shoving it into a basket after scanning it with a shaky hand. “It was in the- uhm, the reduced section in Tescos… I just thought they looked good and that someone might want to share!” His voice is so insistent, promising that there wasn’t an ulterior motive. It doesn’t ease the way your chest stains under the weight of your disappointment as to pick up another circular chocolate, noting the colorful sprinkles on top.
“That’s kind of you,” You say quietly, cheeks tingling with heat at the knowledge that you had been correct in your suspicions all along, that he could never really want you. It was no secret that women found him attractive, some other co-workers making that very clear on a ‘work night out’ in the local pub, in which they rambled about the way he had shamelessly flirted with them and how charming he had been. While you certainly hadn’t experienced this side of Steven, your own Steven shy and jittery, you envied those girls that held his attention in a way you seemingly failed to achieve.
“Yeah, it’s just… Sharin’ is carin’ an’ all that!” He laughs nervously, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and suffocating you. Were you really that inept in the way of seduction that he felt uncomfortable around you, yet somehow seemed to flirt blatantly with every other woman that worked in the building?!
You exhale shakily, focusing more on the items in your basket as you worked through them, scanning the barcodes and setting them in their pile with a little more force than you intended thanks to your renewed exasperation with yourself. Perhaps the dark circles under his eyes had nothing to do with the lack of sleep he consistently commented on, and rather had everything to do with the boredom he felt spending so much time with you.
“You feelin’ alright?” You hear him question cautiously, having noted the short fuse you seem to have developed within a matter of two sentences.
“Peachy,” you mumble, throwing another toy in the basket with a huff. You know you’re probably coming off as rude, and it’s cruel to give the poor, nervous Steven something else to worry about, but you can’t help feeling a little ridiculous, pining over a man who didn’t like you. He probably knew that you were, and thought poorly of you because you couldn’t control your feelings for him despite him showing not even a small amount of affection for you.
Deft fingers take out another chocolate as he watches you, holding onto it for a moment while he seemingly thinks of something to bring the mood back up again.
“… Have I ever told you the story of Isis and Osiris?” Steven asked, his voice quiet as those mahogany eyes gaze at your face, no doubt scanning your expression for any refusal to listen. But how could you? How could you turn him away when he was looking at you with a level of desperation you’d never seen on him before, wanting to please you, to make you happy again.
You shake your head silently, eyes settling on his face as he sat back in his chair to ready himself for the story. The chocolate pinched between the pads of his thumb and forefinger is melting under his body heat, caving in slightly as the solid chocolate began to liquefy down to the middle.
“Then I’ve done you a disservice! How could I not ‘ave told you the greatest love story in mythology?” He asked you with a nervous grin, pushing aside the toys he was supposed to be sorting through to one side in order to begin his theatrics.
Despite your efforts and your utter frustration, your lips stretched into a smile at his enthusiasm. How could you not? It was endlessly charming. He’s sitting up, his free hand laying his palm across the tabletop and fingers splayed wide. They’re tanned, large. The veins on the back have a blue tint, protruding and appearing more intense under the lighting. Perhaps if you stopped staring, you would have noticed the years of built-up scarring across his knuckles.
Immediately, your mind begins falling into the bad habit that it had developed over the time you and Steven had spent together, producing utterly obscene images. His palms cupping and grasping at your breasts, thumbs torturing your nipples. His fingers pushing into your dripping cun- No no no STOP! Stop it!
How ridiculous it was, that you were so invested in a man who wasn’t at all interested in you. So overcome with need for him that you couldn’t even focus on his voice without wanting him to bend you across the tabletop-
“Well,” Steven begins, the chocolate he continued to pinch beginning to cave in from the heat between his thumb pad and fingertip, “Isis was married to the King of Egypt, Osiris, and she supported him with his rule.” His eyes are set firmly on your face, ensuring that you still wanted to listen to him ramble. It meant you simply couldn’t allow yourself to drift into the realm of daydreams, because he would notice as soon as your eyes glazed over.
Seeing no disdain for his voice, Steven continued, a grin spreading across his face as he allowed himself to get excited about his storytelling.
“Isis helped the women of Egypt with skills, teachin’ them how to weave and bake and brew beer. Both she and Osiris were loved, and this caused Isis’ brother, Seth to get jealous, and so he hatched a plan.” He’s sparkling, his keenness rolling off him in waves. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t seem so stark, and he didn’t stammer as he spoke, driven by his love for Egyptian myth.
“Seth trapped Osiris in a wooden chest, which he covered in lead and threw in the Nile. With Osiris out of the way, Seth became King of Egypt- Oh, bugger“ he paused, finally having noted that the once circular chocolate bonbon was flat between his fingers, coating his fingers in sticky, melted chocolate.
He was swift to rectify the problem, lifting his thumb to his mouth with a mumble of ‘sorry’ and ‘pardon me’, wrapping his lips around it and sucking the chocolate from his skin. You watch as his upper lip drags across his knuckle, Steven’s eyes closed as he relished the taste of the chocolate against his tongue. It was torturous, like someone had lit the touch paper in your abdomen and the fire was spreading through your veins, crawling up your spine. The pink of his tongue slips from his lips, pulling across his fingerprint and collecting the chocolate left behind.
As if he knew your mouth was watering as you watched him, his bronze eyes lift to find your own. Looking through his lashes at you as he slipped his finger into his mouth too, cleaning his fingerprint with his deft tongue. You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole in your chair. Was- Was that meant to look so erotic?!
“Mhm, so as I was sayin’,” he continued as though he hadn’t just single-handedly flooded your panties, oblivious to your internal struggle. “Seth became the King of Egypt, and Isis was devastated.” Despite your best efforts, his voice was fading out, and you found yourself just staring at the man in front of you. You studied his dark hair that fell in tight ringlets in front of his forehead, his deep, emotive eyes, and his sharp cheekbones. He was just stunningly handsome, it was no wonder he felt so confident flirting with girls he actually liked.
It was during this assessment of his face as he continued to talk about Isis’ revenge that you noted the chocolate spread on his lower lip. Utterly exhausted from trying to push away the filthy daydreams that flashed into your mind's eye, you let them run ragged. You’d sacrifice yourself to the Egyptian Gods if it meant you could run your tongue across the expanse of his lip, tasting the chocolate against his skin. Though, you were entirely sure that he would taste much sweeter-
“There somethin’ on my face?”
You startle immediately, eyes so wide you can feel your eyelids strain. It’s like ice water had been thrown on your blazing body, a panic settling in now that you have been caught. When your mind catches back up with your line of vision, you see Steven gazing at you with an innocent look of confusion, his brows pulled up in the middle.
“Ah- y… Yeah, you have chocolate on your lip,” you admit weakly, pointing vaguely at his mouth with a shaky hand. Steven laughs nervously, shaking his head in his embarrassment.
“Silly me! Can’t even feed myself properly!” His comments are strained as he wipes the pad of his thumb across his mouth in an attempt to remove the sticky residue. The veins in the back of his palm are prominent still, catching your eye. Your brain stills entirely. It’s infuriating, watching him struggle so much to remove the stain, somehow managing to miss it entirely every time he passes his digits over his lips.
“Steven,” you whisper, a little breathless now as you feel your blood boil under your skin with arousal.
“It’s alright, I got it. Stubborn bugger!” He laughs again, the sound lacking humor in his mortified state.
“Why can’t I ju-“
Scraping the legs of the chair you had been sitting in across the hard flooring, you stand in a violent fashion, stunning Steven into silence when you reach across the tabletop and grab his chin with a firm grip, forcing him to look up at you.
“Sit still,” you insist, desperate to ease your devastatingly hot arousal by taking away the distracting variable. Swiping your tongue over the pad of your own thumb mindlessly, you apply pressure to the affected skin and clean the chocolate from his mouth with a few passes.
Steven sits perfectly still for you, almost stiff in your palm as your fingertips dig into the soft flesh of his cheeks as you hold him in place. If it wasn’t for the heat radiating from his skin, you’d think he’s been mummified into this position.
Glancing up from his mouth into his eyes, you feel your heart stop at the view. Steven is looking at you through his lashes with almost a needy look. There’s an intense longing to his eyes that almost has your knees buckling, his jaw slack as he gazes up at you. Rose spreads across his cheeks, a pink tinge that explains the feverish feeling to his skin underneath your hand.
“Steven,” you whisper, heart in your throat as you gaze back at him. Surely you weren’t imagining the tension prickling in the air between the two of you? You couldn’t describe it in any other way other than a gas leak. The invisible, volatile gas lingering in the air, laying in wait for the slightest drag of friction to light a spark and ignite the museum and everything in it. It was suffocating, burning your lungs.
Did he look at the other girls like this? The ones that bragged about how charming he was when he flirted with them in the entrance hall or wooed them on lunch break in the form of a compliment about their hair. Did he look at them with such a clear and defined need for them to climb across the table and kiss him?
Trembling fingers ease their grip on his jaw, slowly pulling away to slump back into your chair. Your heart is thumping so loud it’s like thunder in your ears, drowning out the shaky exhale that you release as you finally break eye contact with Steven and turn your attention back to the task at hand- whatever it was, you can barely remember why you were even here anymore.
“S-Sorry to interrupt,” you stumble over your words a little, motioning with a flick of your wrist for Steven to carry on, refusing to look up from the ankh necklace that you had blindly picked up from your basket. It was a cheap metal, not at all heavy, with a simple pendant. Though the Ankh was a symbol of life, you needn’t wear the charm as proof of living- the pulse of blood that you swore you could feel through every single extension in your veins made your condition evident enough.
Much to your utter dismay, Steven didn’t continue talking, the pressure in the air pulling your lungs even tighter. He just gazed at you with hooded eyes and parted mouth. It was utterly disarming, the way his tongue swiped across his lip as if to taste the area you’d touched.
“Steven, I really didn’t mean to be rude-“
“You can’t just be doin’ that,” he spoke on an exhale, sounding positively wrecked.
“I know, I’m sorry, I really di-“
“No no, you can’t be doin’ that and leavin’ me like this!” He insists, in a pleading tone, pitchy and almost whiney. You don’t know what to do as you stare at him, and you swear you must look like a fish out of water due to the way your mouth opens and closes as you try to form a sentence in response.
Maybe it’s the combination of pining after Steven, a late night, and scanning barcodes for hours on end, but you swore you could feel the dynamic between you shift significantly. As though it was no longer Steven that held the power to change the kind of relationship the two of you shared. It was as if he had relinquished that power to you, and now he waited for you to make the move you had been silently begging Steven to make for many weeks now.
Silence drags between the two of you like nails on a chalkboard, the lack of sound devastatingly uncomfortable. Steven’s muscles are bound tight, seemingly ready to spring from his seat but awaiting your orders with an expectant expression.
It’s not clear to you what exactly snaps the tension between you, but all of a sudden you find yourself leaping into action. You push aside the baskets of merchandise you’d both been sorting through, which clatter to the floor and empty themselves as you climb across the table clumsily. With shaky hands, you take Steven’s face into your palms, catching a glimpse of his wide eyes just before you press your lips to his messily.
A moan rips from Steven’s throat and into the kiss, a broken, wrecked sound. The soft, plump flesh of his lips settles so perfectly against your own and yet the way they move against each other is clumsy. Nervousness shared between the both of you makes it hard to time the kiss just right, noses bumping and teeth clacking against each other, yet you’ve never experienced such mind-numbing relief.
Stumbling swiftly to pull away, to lower yourself from the table, you find your body moving itself without the receptors of your brain even having thought it up. Your leg hooks over the expanse of his thighs, settling your hips in his lap and resting the weight of your body against the muscles there. He fumbles with the syllables of your name like it’s a foreign language as you wind your fingers in his hair, taking a firm grip of it and pulling his face towards your own.
Inexperience coats his every action like thick honey that Steven can’t shake, but it emboldens you. Somehow this new position bridges the awkwardness of your first kiss, and your lips mould against his in a much smoother, precise way. You’re able to part his mouth, sliding your tongue against his and tasting the cocoa that had settled there. Judging by the hum of pleasure that ripples in his chest, Steven can taste it also. His scalp is warm underneath your fingertips as you wind his ebony locks around your digits, getting a firmer grip of the strands as you push his face impossibly closer to yours. This proximity isn’t enough. It can’t ever be enough.
Tearing your mouth from his before you lose yourself to it, your exhale sounds pitchy and wrong to your own ears. Almost as though it had pained you. Regardless, your lips busy themself on his jaw, pressing firm kisses along the length of the skin stretching across the bone there before trailing down his neck. Goosebumps seem to litter his skin in the wake of your ministrations, his head tilting backward slowly in an attempt to expose more of his throat to you.
His pulse is heavy as you take the skin above his jugular between your teeth, sucking the skin there so perfect hues of purple and red blossom throughout his tan. His palms settle shakily on your thighs and he digs his fingertips into the flesh so it dips to his will, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he unsuccessfully swallows down a raspy ‘Fuck’.
It’s his turn for those deft fingers that haunted your every waking moment to spread through the strands of your hair, stroking across your scalp as you drag your tongue along the expanse of his skin, moaning as his scent imprints itself permanently upon your brain. The scent of cut grass on a rainy day, clean and soft. You’re quick to blow a soft flow of air from your lips across his skin, the area in which you had focused your tongue growing cold under the draft you produced.
“O-Oh god, god darlin’- darlin’ that feels so good,” you can faintly hear him gasp over the rush of your blood through your ears. Tracing the buttons of his shirt, feeling each of them catch on the knuckles of your fingers on your hand's journey down his chest, you hum in agreement, sucking more marks into the junction of his neck and shoulder.
His skin is released from the pressure with a pop upon the sensation of your pinkie brushing the coarse leather of his belt. A weak moan falls from your mouth, eyelids heavy as you watch his head crane to the side to follow the movements of your fingers.
“Steven,” you whisper, tracing the cold brass of his belt buckle as you maintain eye contact with him, “We need to be quick.” You’re breathless with the speed in which this little make-out session is progressing. The wanton desperation that has lingered on your end for so many weeks was making it hard for you to think clearly and maintain a level of decorum. Your hands seem to move of their own accord, hips grinding achingly slow against the tense muscle of his thigh without thought.
“Y-Yeah? Oh- Oh god yes,” he practically wails, hands pushing aside your own as he unhooks the leather strap from the brass tong shakily. “Yes, we do.” Both of your movements are almost feverish as Steven lifts his hips from the chair, accidentally grinding his hardening cock against your aching, clothed cunt while you pull his belt from the loops of his pants.
Whimpers bubble in your throat, chest tight as you swiftly throw his belt to the floor and struggle to make quick work of the button on your own pants. Your hands are so shaky, the bones in your fingers almost like jelly as you flub getting ahold of the pesky metal circle.
“F-Fuck, Steven I-“
“Come ‘ere,” his husky voice soothes the impatient panic bubbling under the surface of your skin. Your hands busy themselves in his curls one more as you watch his fingers easily slip the pesky button from its loop, easing the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t stop there, pinching the zipper between his forefinger and thumb and dragging it down. The sound is as loud as gunfire in your ears, your heart thrumming violently against your sternum with the adrenaline of the moment.
The exhale that seeps from your lungs is shaky as you use your knees on the edge of the chair to sit up and slip your pants from your hips, thumbs dragging over the flesh of your hip bones and tracing the lacy material of your panties. You find yourself praising Isis that you’d chosen a nice pair to wear today as he stares down at them, a mixture of lust and anxiety swirling in the coffee color of his iris’.
It’s your turn to unbutton his pants, somehow managing to ease your own nerves to open them up without a hitch before undoing his fly. Your breath is a little heavy with excitement as you palm the bulge. Once again, Steven’s head dips back with a low groan as you slip your hand inside his boxers to wrap your fingers around the velvety skin of his cock. His hips jut slightly against your touch, the grip his fingers have on your thighs almost bruising now. There’s precum beading at the tip, you can feel it smear underneath your thumbprint across the silky smooth head.
“Oh-ohhhh fuck,” Steven chokes, hips jerking up under your touch to gain further friction. You can feel his cock twitch underneath your palm, can hear shuddering inhale and exhale of his lungs as he attempts to ease the taut muscles in his thighs. You can make him feel even better. You want him to feel better-
Sinking slowly from his lap to the floor, you settle your torso between his thighs as you continue to ever so lightly stroke your fist over the length of his cock. He’s so pretty, the rosy skin is such a deep red it’s almost purple.
“Darlin’ where are you goin’-?” His lazy, slurred question cuts suddenly into a gasp, his head snapping up from its relaxed position to show his startled expression in response to the flat of your tongue tracing the slick precum leaking from his flushed, swollen tip. You swear you can see his dark eyes, almost black as a result of his dilated pupils, roll all the way back into his skull as you take him hot and heavy, further into your throat. His hand immediately jumps into your hair, gripping tightly in an attempt to steady himself against your ministrations out of concern that you’re working him far too quickly.
Your cunt pulses needily between your thighs, toes curling in your shoes as you focus your attention on sucking his cock. He’s deep in your mouth, head pushing against your palette as the tip of your tongue traces the ridge of his veins on the underside of the soft flesh. His cock twitches again when you moan around his length, the vibrations shooting down his cock and settling at the base of his spine with an unintelligible moan.
“I c-can’t, darlin’, I can’t! I can’t-‘ The fingers wound deep into the strands of your hair pull you off his cock quickly, the rapidly increasing pressure threatening to burst forward in his shuddering abdomen. Your own intake of oxygen is heavy and unstable, the sight of him gazing down at you with utterly fucked out eyes almost enough to drive you to the edge.
Quick to your feet, you drag your eyes over his sensitive body. The leaking tip of his flushed cock, the hardening nipples underneath the fabric of his shirt, it all makes your cunt flutter around nothing as it begs to be filled. It’s impossible to hold yourself back now, body moving on its own as you straddle his lap as you had before, settling your palms on his shoulders to steady yourself.
Much to your surprise, nervous Steven doesn’t need direction. He appears to also be working in his own form of autopilot, eyes hypnotized by the way your eyelids flutter when his digits slip between the soft flesh of your thighs and trace the inside with a gentle touch. You could be imagining it, but you’re certain his fingers are a little shaky as they stroke your slit through the crotch of your panties, stopping just shy of your clit underneath the lacy fabric.
Whimpering at the lack of friction just where you need it, you grind your hips slightly into his fingerprints. Steven is quick to gently shush you, hooking his fingers into the crotch of your panties to pull them to the side. The cold air against your soaking folds causes you to grip at the material of Steven’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric with creases you swore he’d never be able to iron out.
“A-Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Soft Steven, lovely Steven checks in with you. Ensures you’re not engaging in something you’re uncomfortable with. It makes your heart yearn for him, more than you have these past few weeks of locking yourself in the bathroom and gazing into the mirror with pained expressions after his fingers brushed yours when taking a pen he’d asked to borrow, or when you would hold your mobile to your chest at the end of a phone call that was about as something as mundane as his shift hours.
“Steven, I want nothing more-“ you strain, reaching behind your own hips to take ahold of his cock and line the weeping tip up perfectly. It catches against your clit first, causing your body to jolt in shock before you sweep him through your dripping folds. Steven grabs ahold of your hips, seemingly at a loss as to where else to hold you. His eyes are flickering all across your bare skin, unable to settle on the best spot.
A chorus of gasps sounds between the two of you as you slowly roll down onto his dick, harmonizing almost like a symphony. He stretches you deliciously, not too big as to hurt- he’s just perfect. Perfectly filling. It’s like you lose all sense of direction, unsure of up from down, left from right. Your hips must stutter and still from the shock because through your haze you feel Steven thrust upward and into you to bridge the gap until he’s bottoming out in your slick pussy.
“Oh- Oh fuck-it feels so good, Steven,” you groan, finally sitting down on his length with your full weight. Your quads are already shaking from the overwhelming pleasure that simmers between them, but the desire to chase the feeling is enough to get them to lift despite the effort it takes.
Rising back over the curve in his cock, you lift yourself back up until only his tip is pressed up against your head. You don’t mean to, truly you don’t, but you pause before you sink back down. Like this, you see the almost pained look in Steven’s hazy eyes as he gazed up at you through his lashes that were damp with pleasured tears. You never want to go without seeing that view for even one day.
“God, please darli- Yesss, oh yes!” He chokes as you rock your hips for him to slip straight back into, his voice cracking under the pressure that builds at the base of his spine. You find that slow and steady pace that tortures you both, pleasurable but teetering on not enough, teasing the embers of a building orgasm but not stoking the fire.
The slippery sound of your cunt being filled over and over echoes and brunches off of the stone museum walls, the air that had held a chill seemingly warming at your shared exertion. You can barely hear Steven’s whimpers, your pulse thrumming so loud in your ears that you’re convinced he can probably feel it thudding in your walls.
There’s tension in your forehead, no doubt from your eyebrows arching in bliss as the ridge of his head catches up against something so incredible that you’re drowning between your thighs. Your movements are stuttering at the way a familiar simmering feeling begins deep inside your abdomen, but Steven doesn’t want you to stop. His hands take a firm grip of your hips, forcing them down as he begins to thrust up and into you in that same lazy pace you had set.
The legs of the chair you’re both sat in strain under the pressure of Steven’s movements, but neither of you seem to notice as he continues to brush against that part of you that just obliterates any coherent thoughts. You’re not exactly sure what part of his body you’re holding onto, so far away from comprehension, but you know you’re holding it in a bruising grip, one that leaves a perfect impression of each of your fingertips that could probably secure a conviction if they were used as evidence of your activities.
Despite the slow, even pace, Steven looks entirely fucked out. His curls are messy and falling into his perfectly pink face. His tongue darts out to wet his chapped lips mindlessly, eyes settled on the way you take his cocks so well. At this angle, he thinks he can see the tip nudging up against your stomach from the inside. That’s all he needs to increase the speed and strength of his thrusts.
It winds you, the brutal pace that he sets, and the gentle smolder is exacerbated into a churning, broiling sensation that rips through you within seconds. Your thighs are tight against his own as you sob out wordlessly, desperate in your attempts to prevent your orgasm from coming too fast. You’ve waited so long, you don’t want this moment to end.
Oh, but Steven is so eager to please. His fumbling fingers are quick to blindly search for your clit as he rocks violently into your soaking wet cunt. It sparks through you like white-hot lightning when he catches the sensitive bundle of nerves, and your reaction must make it obvious he’s found what he’s looking for because he focuses all of his attention on that one spot that has your vision going white.
His cock sinks deep inside you, head continuing to spear that impossibly sensitive spot inside you as he traces your swollen clit with imperfect circles. You barely notice it until it’s surging forward so quickly that you don’t have the time to brace for it. The wail of Steven’s name that escapes you would probably wake the mummified dead on the floor above when your body tremors with a pleasure so annihilating that you’re gushing, flooding around him and streaming tears from your eyes. Your toes curl almost painfully, gripping onto him so hard your knuckles go white.
The extra lubrication and easiness in which Steven is able to sink into your sopping heat must tip him over the edge alongside you, because even through your blinding relief you can feel his back arch slightly as he settles as far into your cunt as he can possibly go, emptying his load with a pitiful groan that melts all of your nerves. He’s slurring your name with each of his final thrusts, keeps going and going until he can’t take it anymore and he’s too sensitive to move.
Boneless, you slump against his heaving chest with a sob. The silence that follows is almost deafening, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to breathe evenly to steady the erratic slamming of your heart against your ribcage.
Massaging his fingers through your hair, Steven lets out a nervous laugh that causes you to burst into a fit of giggles through your exhaustion. Maybe it’s delirium that makes you find humor in the situation or the relief of so many months of pining for this one man. Regardless, it’s freeing. Your body feels lighter, though that could just be you floating after what is easily the best orgasm you’d ever experienced in your life.
“… Oh fuckin’ hell,” Steven is breathless, speaking over your laughter to point at the corner of the ceiling. “The fuckin’ camera.” Of course. This whole museum was covered in CCTV. Though, you hadn’t considered that when he’d practically begged you to make out with him.
“Oh well,” you breathe, sitting up to look him in the eyes and brush his curls from his face with a gentle stroke and a cheeky grin. “I’m sure J.B will love the view.”
🏷 Taglist: @polaroidpetal @mylifeisactuallyamess
while we untangle
Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader (implied Marc Spector x F!Reader)
Warnings: Explicit AF. SMUT. Wounds. Oral. CUM eating. Sry.
Summary: Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever.
A/N: wow i wrote this instead of working on wys because i hate myself. title from Rufus Du Sol's No Place. i know vague shiz about moon knight but this is my current headcanon of marc being aware of steven and steven just doing his best (lmao). idk if this is really spoilery.
Steven doesn’t quite recall when he started dating you. He does not remember how it happened. You just appear and he simply goes with it because you’re soft and warm and you call him by his name.
It’s a little like magic. He falls asleep and wakes up and you’re there.
“Hi,” you murmur by the side of his bed. His body is aching. His shoulder is screaming. He feels his bones bunching up against the thin shell of his skin.
“What?” He shakes his head. “Who-?”
Their first conversation (that he remembers) is just fragments of words. It is a series of cut-off questions.
Who? What? Where?
You lean forward so quickly he nearly misses it. A flash of your hair and your eyes glittering like fish scales in the blue dawn light. You touch his jaw and use your other hand to comb his sweat-damp curls back from his brow. He wants to say something because he feels naked in front of you - this stranger in his sweats and one of his t-shirts.
Who are you? Who are you?
Instead, he says: “I’m sorry…I didn’t expect guests. I would have cleaned…”
He would have. He would have made an effort. You smile at him and that’s when he notices the gash at your hairline. The strange bruising along your collarbone.
“Did we…?” he finally asks because why else would a girl be in his apartment - at his bedside. Your lips quirk and you shake your head.
“I’m - do we know each other?”
He really shouldn’t press his luck. Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever.
“In a way,” you hum as you stretch your arms above your head. Your joints crack and that cut on your forehead beads with blood. A few hours later, he will notice that it’s gone. He will notice that marks on you never last longer than a day.
“In a way?” he echoes. He is lost in this conversation just as he is lost in most conversations. Everyone seems about five feet ahead of him at all times.
“Yes - in a way, but,” You shoot your hand out and grasp his own tightly. He notices his palm is covered in raven-black grease and you don’t seem to mind. “I suppose we should meet formally.”
You tell him your name and he repeats it - rolls it around over his tongue like a smooth marble. His accent is thick and often too chewy in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he even uses the term “accent” because shouldn’t it just be his voice? His tone. His.
He feels like he’s trying to shove himself through a narrow hole. Nothing fits.
He starts waking up with you - coming to with you - in weird places. One time, he’s restocking mugs etched with incorrect hieroglyphics and the next thing he knows he’s coughing up blood on a rain-soaked street. It’s thundering. The clouds spiderweb with lightning. There’s the smell of wet leaves and garbage and a neon Exit sign is blinking above him.
“Marc! Help me out here.” You’re a few feet away punching the hell out of a man in back. There’s a splash of blood. It splatters over your nose and chin. You’re in this tight suit that shimmers grey-blue in the rain. Weird. When your eyes meet his, you suddenly grimace. Your expression flits between seemingly concerned and incredibly irritated.
“Who’s Marc?” He rubs his forehead. His teeth feel loose in his mouth. “Wait - where are we?”
Wait. Wait. Wait. He’s always colliding into a disaster or conflict before he can confirm what it is. Where - when - what -
“Fuck,” you growl and then the man you’re fighting socks you right in the temple. You stumble to your knees. Steven doesn’t really think - he doesn’t have to - he rushes forward in some hopeless attempt at protecting you and - well - everything goes black again.
He wakes to the tinkling music of a Carnival. He’s got his hands wrapped around a pole with chipped gold paint. There’s a thousand colors blurring into a mosaic of blues and pinks and purples and reds. Yellow as buttered popcorn. Green and copper as scarab beetles. He can taste sugar on his tongue. Cotton candy. His stomach aches.
He looks down and sees the white mane of a wood worse. It’s uncomfortable between his legs. He blinks. He shakes his head.
He turns to find you sitting - riding - next to him. You’re straddling a unicorn, which oddly seems fitting since he’s about 67% certain you don’t exist. There’s an unreadable expression on your face. A strange transformation. You go from cheerful to anxious and he feels as if he has interrupted something. You bite your lip and reach for his hand. You thread your fingers together as the carousel picks up speed - as it circles and whirs like a cyclone.
That terrifying, obnoxious jingle of music.
“Hi Steven,” you tell him, which he doesn’t understand. Why are you greeting him when you’ve obviously been with him for a while. Are they on a date? This must be a date. Did he drink? He swears it was 4 PM last he checked, but the sky is black-navy. Violet and midnight.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he clings to the pole with one hand as you hold onto the other. He leans his too-hot temple against the wet-cold surface of it. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know what else to say.
His eyes flutter open and it’s day again. The midafternoon sun peeks through his heavy blinds. You’re sitting next to him - hunched over like a curled C. One of his heavy mythology books in your lap. You’re reading about Isis and Osiris and he wonders if all his pieces are scattered over the Earth. It would make sense. It would honestly be a relief. An explanation.
There’s a white bandage around your arm with old blood staining half of it. It’s practically brown. He sniffs a metallic tang in the air along with the harsh scent of antiseptic.
He lifts himself up gingerly. More soreness. More agony in his back and the constant headache that thumps at the center of his forehead. He leans into you out of reflex, his chest brushing your shoulder. He touches your arm - drags his finger down the bandage.
“I didn’t do that did I?” He can’t trust himself. He doesn’t know anything. He loses days and nights and you are the only constant in his life. The one unmoved variable.
You twist around to look at him. You’re visibly exhausted. He wonders when you sleep because he’s never seen you do it.
“No,” you assure him. They’re so close that your breath fans over his lower lip. They’re dating and they aren’t. “Dating” is the only word he has for it because he wakes up and you’re in his room or literally in his bed. Sometimes you haul him to a restaurant or coffee shop.
Eat, Steven. You’re very pale.
They’ve never kissed though. They’ve never done anything beyond you looping your arm through his as you take him around London. He hadn’t realized it until now, but every errand they go on has been for his benefit.
You need more shampoo. You need another jacket. You need to get your haircut. Do you want another fish so he has a friend?
You let him talk to you. You let him vomit his words all over you because he has no one else. His mum’s voicemail. His mirror. His mind. One minute, he’s spilling his guts to a living statue and the next he’s spilling his guts to you.
And you respond. You nod and agree or disagree or drop your chin into your hand and listen intently. You laugh when he says something he actually meant to be funny.
“You’re such a weirdo,” you tease in between sips of coffee. It makes his lungs expand to the point he can finally get a full breath in. He is wide awake.
He shifts on the bed. The springs squeak. His sheets are scratchy and he notices there are granules of sand in the folds of linen. Bloody hell and all that.
There’s a wrinkle between your brows as you watch him watch you. You don’t avert your gaze like so many others do when he makes them uncomfortable. He can’t help it. He forgets himself sometimes. You’re different. You meet his stare straight-on.
His voice is low and urgent when he finally asks: “Why do you take care of me?”
You suck your lower lip between your teeth. It turns a color and he has to stop himself from swiping it with his tongue - from digging his thumb into the flesh. “I promised someone I would.”
He should question that. Who?
You know who.
The voices have returned. Swelling and shivering at the back of his head. They distract him. Solid. Tempting.
You know her mouth. You’ve tasted it before just not as you. You’ve had her. You’ve felt her. She’s ours.
He doesn't know what to do. He’s aware of his own awkwardness. He’s aware that he often misses social cues even though a large part of him seems to understand them. He just can’t get there.
“Steven,” you whisper like a secret - like their secret - every fucking letter deliberate and compassionate.
He wants to feel this.
He surges forward and kisses you. His body does it before his brain even catches up. He grips the hinge of your jaw and crushes his mouth to yours. You squeak in surprise before relaxing - before allowing him to cradle your cheeks between his hands and continue.
It feels familiar.
His lips move against your lips. His tongue traces your tongue - teasing and caressing and it subtly changes from sweet and careful to frantic and dirty. Your hand is on his chest - right where his heart thumps. He scrapes his teeth over your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. He makes a demanding sound and pulls you closer.
He senses that he’s been at this threshold a thousand times previously. He has to move forward. He knows the steps. He needs to take you - plant himself inside you where he’d be safe. He’s been safe.
His hand palms the crown of your skull. He tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You respond gracefully - your own fingers now locked in his t-shirt. They trade kisses in his dusty room with all of his old books and white-noise sound machines and cheap cutlery. You sigh into his mouth - your breasts crushed against his chest. Your heart. His heart. Pound for pound. Sharing a rhythm. How much would they weigh? The bandage on your arm chafes the inside of his bicep.
You shiver and it surprises him - the fact that he’s capable of arousing such a sensation out of you. He wants to go further.
He wedges himself between your legs. He doesn’t know entirely what he’s doing and yet he does. He’s had to have done something like this before. Maybe, at school. His twenties? He should know though no distinctive memories come to mind. No images of teenage lust in a backseat or fumblings in a dark theater.
Still - he appears to be getting it. Gestures before thoughts. It’s like the act itself is already written on his bones - taped somewhere in his mind with instruction.
At some point, they get naked.
You are spread out on his pillows and he uses his hands to open your thighs. He watches your cunt - shiny and pretty in the afternoon light. There are bruises on your hips - along your ribs. He wants to ask, but doesn’t.
You already know, Steven. You saw her get them last night. Fighting. You have some too.
That voice that’s like his voice, but not.
He slips his fingers against the seam of your folds - nudging between them and watching the effect it has on you. He thrusts to the knuckle before twisting his hand so he can press his thumb to the peak of your sex. You’re so wet and hot and each jerk of his fingers makes you tighter. The repetitive clench of your walls as he eases you through it. The push of slick more erotic than anything he’s ever even dreamt of.
“Oh,” you moan softly. “Oh - shit.”
“I-I think - is that alright?” he stammers - his chest tight - his cock so hard that it juts against his stomach.
You nod furiously. You open your arms to him - come come come - be with me. He goes - capturing your mouth - tongue warm as it slides over yours in a desperate, messy tangle. Your hand circles his cock, grasping him tenderly. You stroke him slow as he fucks into your palm. He kisses you. He kisses your throat - your breasts - your cheeks. You lead him - let him in - and then the head of his cock is rubbing right up against your pussy. It’s furiously hot - making slick sounds as it slips through the seam of swollen flesh.
You stare up at him, lips twitching and kiss-bruised. He keeps his eyes fastened to your face as he sinks in too quickly. You stretch around him - nails digging into his shoulders. Your mouth parting. Oh - it’s like this.
You feel like home. You feel like him. He knows this. He knows the wet clutch of your sex around him. Vice-like. Murderous. He rocks down and you glide with him. He draws back until he’s nearly out of you before snapping forward - punching a moan from your lungs. A push and pull. He tilts his hips and you follow - knowing the ebb and flow of his movements like you’ve done this before. You fist a hand into his curls as you nip his jaw. There is the loud liquid suck of your body greedily accepting his cock again and again. It’s so crude that he can’t quite believe it.
“Steven - fuck,” and now he is acting without thought. He is allowing the insides of himself to take over. It’s like a dance that he is watching from a step away, but oh he feels every second of it. He savors the soaked clasp of your cunt. The smell of your sweat and your hair and your lush skin as it slaps against his.
You shove him away and he groans as he rears back on his heels. His pleasure is dismantled. It is interrupted. You rise up on your knees and kiss him hungrily - nearly swallowing his tongue before you turn around. You get on all fours - your grip taut around the bed frame. His gaze traces the lines of your body - the curve of your ass that hitches into his hip bones and fitting snug.
You know what to do. You’ve done it before. Our girl likes it like this.
Ours. Ours. Ours.
That voice unbearably deep and vibrating with power. It’s like heartburn in his chest - bubbling up his throat.
This is for you, Steven. Trust us. Trust us.
He takes himself in hand and guides it back into your spread, dripping cunt. He bottoms out and you respond beautifully - a fragile wisp of a sob as you blossom around the length of him. You bury your forehead into his pillow. You bite the blanket.
Steven has never been able to keep quiet, but now he is out of words. He grunts low, rumbling noises and sometimes: oh god - fuck - so good -
He hopes that it’s enough for you to realize that this is everything he’s ever wanted. This true connection when he’s always felt like he’s living behind glass. He’s grateful.
He reaches around to pluck at your clit - something he wouldn’t have known to do or hadn’t done before and yet he does. It’s imprinted. The second he touches the swollen nub of it, you seize up like you’ve been electrocuted - pleasure ringing through your veins and limbs and he meets it by grinding deeper into you and there are filthy words flying from your lips in heaving, breathless whimpers and Steven blushes bright red because he can’t quite believe he’s done this with you - even as his cock spits inside you - even as he fills you to the brim without wasting a drop. When he eases himself out, there is his own pearly seed sliding down the backs of your thighs. It seeps between your swollen folds, dripping onto his comforter, which he will never wash again -
He touches it with his fingers - mesmerized. The voice in his head is throaty and smug: do it, Steven. I know you want to. She’ll love it.
He listens. He flips you onto your back - mouthing at your throat and tits before he travels downward. He forces your knees apart and buries his face between your legs - lapping and sucking and devouring what he has done to you. You arch up - hips jerking against his face. His nose hooked enough to deliberately scrape against your clit as he licks from your fucked-open pussy.
You cry out, yanking at his curls until it stings and he’s sure he’s missing patches of hair. He won’t let up. He latches and remains there - his hands now under your ass as he lifts the bowl of your pelvis up - like a platter - like an offering to the Gods - overflowing with nectar - a ritual -
He’ll repeat it. Day in and day out. He will perform this.
His skin burns with arousal. A fever. You know it’s him doing what he’s doing as he feasts - as he suckles his own come from your sex. He does not know this and yet he does. Another lifetime perhaps. Another yesterday. All of his memories are wrapped in plastic and yellowed with age. Opaque. Potentially not his. But this is clear. This he is sure to remember.
He knows. He knows. He knows this and there aren’t any lost hours between them. It is one long day and one long night of this tryst where he doesn’t wake up with a broken jaw or bleeding gums. He does not question your presence or why his fish die or why you care enough to keep him alive when no one else seems to notice him. He’s Steven and you call him by that name.
pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, mentions of Steven Grant x F!Reader
word count: 4.1k
rating: Explicit 18+
warnings: Improper use of contact details in a workplace, brief mention of injuries, mentions of alcohol, oral sex (f receiving), protected PIV sex, brief overstimulation, some scratching. Anything I haven't flagged appropriately, please let me know x
an: My understanding of Marc and Steven's 'system' is that Marc is conscious of Steven's life, while Steven, as an alter, is not conscious of Marc's. This is an expansion of Marc's (maybe slightly selfish) attempts to assist with Steven's romantic life, based on the detail that Marc had apparently tried to set up a date for Steven without him realising. The reader is not aware of their disorder, and Marc doesn’t tell her, but she is aware that he is not Steven when she gives consent.
You stop by Steven's place one night after work. Somebody else answers his door.
Standing outside the door, you consider, once again, that you are not supposed to be here.
You weren’t supposed to work late tonight. You were supposed to leave with everyone else; get home early, get a good night’s sleep for once. You felt good about the decision—so good, in fact, you’d felt the tension melt away from your temples, leaving you free to sink comfortably into the embrace of the stack of didactic labels and exhibition programs spread in front of you.
It wasn’t until the clatter of a vacuum cleaner startled you back to reality that you’d finally looked up from your screen to find the entire office around you had faded to darkness; the rest of the archival team long gone.
In your frustrated subsequent rush to leave, you’d nearly missed it. Just barely managing to juggle your bag, your thermos and your keys, the little white rectangle on the floor leading out to the museum’s exit had looked like a piece of litter; nothing worth paying attention to. You couldn’t say what it was that had made you stop and clumsily crouch to pick it up.
It’s lucky you did. The black lanyard clipped to the top had been camouflaged by the carpet. Turning it over, you’d met the dark, sleepy-lidded gaze of Steven Grant. Of course. Out of every single staff member, he would be the person most likely to drop his ID card.
He’s also the person most likely to hold the door open for you, or stop and help pick up a folder full of dropped papers, or to dash out into the street to give you his umbrella—this being the most recent example, having only happened a few weeks before.
You’d developed something of a crush on him; drawn in by his sweet nature and earnestness—his animatedly bright love for the exhibits that of a first-time visitor, not a man who sees them day in and day out. And, secretly, you’d stifled more than one undignified snort at his cheesy jokes; though nobody else had seemed to find them funny.
You’d shoved it down, trying not to feel too wounded by the nervous, stunned way he’d waved before skirting around you in the halls at work, or stumbled over his words, hurrying off with his shoulders hunched after you’d wished him a good morning one day as you passed the gift shop. He didn’t seem to want to talk to you. And that’s fine. You’d left him alone, even as you still harboured your soft spot for him.
Sweet, absent-minded, gentle…and on his absolute final warning. You’d overheard as much just this morning when Donna was tearing him a new one for inexplicably missing an entire week’s worth of work, while he’d stammered some flimsy apology about being sick in bed.
You should just leave the ID card on the counter of the gift shop. He can pick it up in the morning. Never mind that Donna will probably be in earlier than he will, and find it first…and drag him over the coals again.
You’d stood there, deliberating, chewing your lip, remembering the way he’d looked that afternoon as you’d slipped silently into the break room to make a cup of tea. Slumped sleepily over the table; a library book in one hand, a falafel wrap in the other. Wearing colourful, mismatched socks; a dark, loose curl hanging across his forehead.
Now, outside the door, you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Looking down the street, you feel cold and nervous. Should you ring the buzzer again? Maybe it’s broken. Maybe he doesn’t even live here anymore. Maybe he’s moved and forgotten to update his records.
Then a click, and a quiet beep. Bewildered, you test the door to the building, and find it’s been unlocked.
Okay. You take a hesitant step forward, then pause. He’s inviting you up. Right? He unlocked the door; he must be inviting you up. The foyer is empty as you step inside, brutally self-conscious.
“Oh, God, Steven,” you mutter to yourself, shut safely in the lift. “Please don’t report me to HR for this.”
By the time the doors open on his floor, you’ve almost convinced yourself to turn around and head straight home. It’s sheer force of will that gets your feet moving, one in front of the other, until you’re at his door. You just need to slip the ID under the gap and leave him to it.
You kneel to do just this, when the door swings open. You’re face to face with a pair of knees, and your gaze travels upward, your face tilting.
He leans his weight comfortably to one side, his arm propped against the doorjamb, a faint smile playing around his lips as he looks down at you. You swallow.
He looks…hot. There’s no other word for it. You can’t tell what’s changed, exactly…he looks no less exhausted, but he seems to be wearing it remarkably well. The shadows underneath his heavily-lidded eyes accentuate their darkness; their depth.
Gone is the hideously baggy jacket he was wearing at work, as is the novelty-print button down. Instead, a dark, form-fitting shirt stretches tight across his chest, pushed up to bare his toned forearms.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You open your mouth, close it again. You hurriedly stand, awkwardly straightening your skirt back down over your thighs. “Um. Hi, sorry, I wasn’t going to disturb you.”
He grins; a flash of white. “You’re not disturbing me.”
You blink, confused. His voice sounds…off. Is he making fun of you? Is that an accent? He’s still considering you, his expression open and vaguely amused. You can’t remember why you’re here. Has he always had such high cheekbones?
“Would you like a drink?”
You stare at him, stupidly. “Huh?”
He tilts his chin, gesturing back into the flat behind him, but his eyes don’t leave your face. “I was about to make a drink. You want to join me?”
This is not the response you’d expected. You swallow again, feeling a little hot. “I. Um. Sure.”
He steps aside to let you in. His flat is dim and cluttered; books and decor piled haphazardly on every surface. It’s not an entirely unpleasant overall effect, you consider, peering around. The warm lamplight makes it feel cosy; almost like a tiny jazz bar.
You plonk your bag on top of a leather-bound collection of translated poetry, digging through it. “I have your ID card. You dropped it. And I thought…well, I didn’t want you to get in trouble again. You don’t deserve the way Donna speaks to you.”
“Thanks, that’s really nice of you,” he says, distractedly. “Just leave it anywhere.”
You drape the lanyard over the back of a chair, and wander off to snoop at his profusion of stuff.
“Old-fashioned? Or G&T?” he says, the top of his curls sticking out from the open door of a low cabinet, half-tucked behind a bookcase.
You turn away from the glowing fish tank in front of you, something tickling in the back of your mind. You step toward him, frowning. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
He stands, and places two glasses on top of the counter. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you said you didn’t. At the Christmas party.”
He nods to himself, as though he’d forgotten, turning and leaning against the counter. You creep another step closer, your eyes narrowed. He’s looking at you with a directness you find slightly disconcerting. You can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the bow of his top lip. His posture, his voice…
He’s not just hot. He’s gorgeous. Exuding confidence. Some shift in his body language; a certain quirk of an eyebrow here, the timbre of his voice there…it’s difficult to believe this is the same guy you once busted crying over a dog video in the break room. He’d denied it, of course, scrubbing his hands over his face, but you’d been able to tell. Even the way he blinks is different; slower, easier, calmer.
It hits you like a freight train. “Holy shit,” you breathe. Somehow…impossibly…this isn’t Steven at all. “Who are you?”
His lips are pressed together thoughtfully, still slightly lifted into an easy little smile. As he speaks, he leans in, tucking a loose wisp of your hair behind your ear. “You can call me whatever you want, beautiful.”
You’re utterly thrown off. “Oh. Thank you. Um. You’re…beautiful too.” You laugh, nervously, swaying toward him. Internally, you cringe. What are you saying? Heat muddles your head; creeps out to the tips of your toes and fingers. You wet your lower lip with your tongue, still staring helplessly at his mouth. “But I don’t understand. Are you…his brother?” I don’t care, you think, dizzy. He called you beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful.
“It’s a little hard to explain,” he says, his face close to yours.
You feel like your insides are liquefying. “Okay,” you breathe, your voice embarrassingly weak, “so expla—”
His lips meet yours, and you let out a strange little squeaking noise. He kisses firmly, almost with an insistence, but it’s slow. His lips coaxing yours apart, the heat of his breath, his tongue, softening your entire body.
Your knees wobble worryingly, and he smooths his hand down your back, holding you against him as you bend weakly in his arms. He walks you backward, across the flat, humming a low note of amusement into your open mouth as you stumble over the lip of a rug.
When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, you drop gracelessly onto your ass, panting up at him. “Is this…are we really doing this?” you manage, your face hot.
The extent of your secret daydreams had seen you cosying up with Steven on a cool afternoon, peeking over his shoulder to see what he was reading, or curling your fingers around his underneath the table at that cute vegan bakery down the road from your place, oat lattes in front of each of you. You never got quite this far.
He leans over you, tilting his head, brushing his lips across your jaw. “That’s up to you.”
Your heart is thrumming in your throat, and you reach for him, wanting to feel him under your fingers. He feels solid enough. Okay. “Okay.” You nod, biting your lip, spreading your knees as far as your tight work skirt will allow.
He lowers himself to his knees, catching first one foot in his hand, then the other, coolly easing off your shoes and dropping them to the floor with a pair of low clacks.
You gawp down at him, positive that your eyes are comically wide. But he just continues smiling privately to himself, coasting his hands up the outsides of your thighs, shucking your skirt up, finding the edges of your underwear.
“Do you…want me to help?” you gasp, feeling awkward, unsure whether you should stand up to let him slide them off. He doesn’t answer, lifting your ass in his palms, rolling your underwear off in a fluid, practised movement.
He knows what he’s doing. Clearly. You don’t need to help him out. You didn’t think it was possible to feel any hotter, but with this realisation, you’re suddenly on fire. Your skin prickles; leaving you feeling slick and overly sensitive.
His nose brushes the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs apart. “Oh my God,” you hear yourself say, flopping onto your back. Warm breath fans over your skin, and then his lips; dragging lightly, the feel of his tongue pressing gently into the soft give of your leg.
As he works higher, your breaths grow shorter. He’s barely even started yet, and he has you shifting your legs, squirming into the bed. His hands gently encircle your knees, holding them apart, and you hear the quietly wet glisten as he spreads you open. You make an undignified little choking sound. “Doing alright up there?” he drawls, his strange accent resonant.
The sound of his voice alone has you squeezing your cunt in anticipation. “Um, yeah. Doing…doing well. Thank you. How about you?” You wrinkle your nose, staring up into the shadowy beams of the ceiling, wishing they’d come tumbling down to crush you. He’s too smooth. You’re embarrassing yourself. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
He laughs quietly. “Yeah, I’m good.” Then his nose meets your cunt, and you lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.
He closes his lips around your clit, his mouth hot and close. His tongue rolls against you, steady and skilful, and you rock your hips unconsciously up to chase his movement, bumping into his nose.
This feels nothing like the clumsy, half-hearted efforts you’ve experienced in the past. This is masterful; attentive, glorious. Better than your own fingers. Better than your vibrator. You’re already seeing stars.
He grips your thighs, pinning you in place while you whimper and gasp. You can feel his jaw working as he drags each little sound out of you; every movement unhurried but deliberate. You crane your neck down to watch; his thick curls tickling at your sensitive inner thighs.
You jolt as you meet his gaze. While the entire lower half of his face is pressed between your legs, you find his attention still fixed to your face; his eyes inscrutable. You have the crazed, ridiculous urge to wave down at him, even as your legs begin to shake and cramp with the tension of holding still. It would be such a Steven move, you think.
He works firmer, and you choke out a tiny curse, grasping fistfuls of the sheets. It might be because your thoughts have drifted, but it’s at that moment you notice the tiny scar just above his left eyebrow. You know exactly where he got it: walking dozily into the edge of a packing crate down in the collection stores. You remember it vividly. You’d even had to write up the incident report for it while he’d dug a bandaid out of the first-aid kit at the security desk.
So…he is? But he isn’t, he can’t be. You’re so confused. You’re too far gone to figure it out.
The pleasure is winding tighter, and your leg jerks alarmingly in his grip as your abdominal muscles tense to the point of breathlessness. Your head swims from lack of air, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath, sucking in a frantic lungful just as time stops around you.
You cry out wordlessly as you come, suspended in the moment, arching up off the bed even as he calmly pins you in place.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…” You don’t even realise you’re saying anything until he’s climbing up over you onto the bed, grinning again, pressing his finger to your lips.
“I know, I know. Shh,” he says, his humour palpable. You can’t seem to get enough air in, and you shake your head at him, your eyes wide.
“Oh my God,” you finish, breathless.
He traces the outline of your breasts through your work shirt, still buttoned to the top. “You want to keep goi—”
“Yes,” you interrupt, already reaching down to yank your shirt from where it’s tucked in under your rumpled skirt. “Yes, keep going, Ste—whoever you are.”
He shifts your hands away, opening your shirt far faster and with more dexterity than you would’ve managed. One-handed, he pulls his own shirt over his head, and you stare at the lean muscle of his torso; scarred and toned and beautiful.
The thought of Steven caring enough to cultivate a body like this seems laughable. His chest muscles flex as he kicks his pants down. So, this is your answer. Your heart lurches uncomfortably. This feels like a betrayal, despite the fact that there’s nothing going on between you and Steven.
And yet, the man now tossing your bra over the side of the bed looks so much like him. You dart a not-very-subtle glance down, and see his cock is hard, flushed, thick. Beautiful. Awestruck and filled with renewed heat, you trace the edge of his bicep with your fingertip. “Do…do you think it’s okay? Doing this? In his bed?”
He shrugs. “Well. Technically, it’s my bed.” He places a strange, ironic emphasis on ‘my’, then stretches up to reach toward the nightstand.
Nothing is awkward about him. Even ripping open the condom, rolling it over the length of his cock, shifting his weight onto his knees over you. Every movement fluid, easy; like that of a man who trusts his body implicitly. It’s unsettling, but it’s unbearably sexy.
He gently cups your face, his thumb stroking across your lower lip. “Still good?”
You nod, and he tilts his hips forward, and you exhale breathily as he slowly eases you open.
“That feels…oh,” you groan, dazed. He sinks deeper, angling himself downward, and you could swear your eyes roll back.
He’s nodding slowly, gently easing himself back before sinking back in, deeper than before. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. God, you’re pretty. No wonder he likes you so much.”
You don’t have time to figure that out before he’s rocking into you again, more smoothly this time. He cups your breast, groaning quietly, and you let your head tilt limply back as he begins to set a steady, beautiful rhythm.
Your bones feel like melted caramel; thick and syrupy and warm. He feels perfect inside you; the ridge around the head of his cock stroking at your g-spot, even through the layer of latex.
Your grasping hands are curling and uncurling in the covers, when you find the edge of what feels like a bicycle chain lock with a buckle at the end. You turn your head to the side to squint at it, shaking it free and finding the other end affixed to the column at the foot of the bed. You blink at it. “Is this…?”
“You should probably ignore that,” he murmurs, covering your lips with his own. He tastes of you, tangy and slippery. You moan weakly into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, reaching up to feel the softness of his hair. The bed thuds hollowly against the bookcase behind it with the force of his movements inside you.
He stays deep. Barely withdrawing; grinding himself inside you. You aren’t sure whether it feels any good for him. But God, it feels good for you. He noses along your jaw, his lips at your neck, gathering your limp body up into his arms to hold you close.
You’d like to be more engaged. Pull your weight a little. Make him feel as incredible as he’s making you feel. But you’re too pleasure-drunk; floppy and lazy and warm underneath the weight of him. The best you can manage is a lifting of your hips to meet his, and he pauses, letting you clumsily work out your own disjointed rhythm. “Can I…? I’d like to…” you trail off, unsure what you’re even asking for.
But he seems to understand all the same. He shifts to the side, gripping your hips and taking you with him as he turns onto his back, until you’re straddling his waist, his cock seated deep inside you.
It’s immediately even better. You gasp down at him, and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, a faint sheen on his forehead. “S’this what you wanted?” he murmurs.
You nod, encouraged, and lift your weight onto your knees before sinking yourself down onto his length. This time, he’s the one who groans. It travels straight to your cunt, and you clench around him, the feeling exquisite.
“Careful with that,” he breathes, his hands on your waist, holding you steady. “You’ll make me…oh, fuck—”
You hadn’t meant to do it again, but it’s hard to control yourself. Everything feels incredible. Grinding yourself down onto him, sheathed all the way to the base, where his neatly trimmed dark curls are already stuck damp to his skin with a combination of sweat and your arousal.
You rock your weight back and forth just a little faster; the movement catching at your breath, and your head drops limply forward as you brace your hands onto his chest.
There’s too much blood pounding in your brain. You feel dizzy and desperate, riding down harder, your inner thighs tensing with the movement. You feel as though you’ve been there for hours, but it hardly matters; it’s good, you think, the softness of your breasts rippling upwards with each bounce, it’s so good, so good…
Too soon, you can feel yourself reaching a renewed peak and, needy with the sensation, you chase it down, your legs cramping with your sustained effort. You can feel yourself growing weaker; trembling with exertion and overwhelming pleasure.
You feel as though you’re racing your own stamina toward your release, whimpering brokenly, grinding yourself down. It’s an awful thought; you’re desperate to continue, but your movements are losing their rhythm; too weak to continue. You can’t bear to stop, but you have no choice.
He doesn’t let you.
Seizing the softness of your ass in both hands, he drags you back and forth against him, forcing you to keep riding, even after you’re too weak to move yourself. You could be a toy in his hands as he pulls you onto his cock; thrusting up into you, gritting out something obscene as his cock twitches inside you.
You can tell he’s growing close, and the thought is enough to nearly push you over your own edge again. He fucks you harder now; your head rocking back on your shoulders, and your cries are softer, more breathless as your entire body tenses.
Your orgasm crashes over you, near-violent, and instead of slowing, he speeds up, forcing you toward immediate overstimulation as his hips smack up against your slick skin. You mindlessly sink your nails into his chest, hard enough to break the skin.
His brows draw together and he hisses, long and harsh, and you’re worried you’ve hurt him, but then he curses, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into the thin layer of latex separating you.
Panting, you unpeel yourself from his hot skin, slumping onto your side on the bed. He reaches over, mindlessly stroking his hand along the length of your side, down to the swell of your hip.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” you say, your attention caught on the way his hair sticks in ringlets around his ears. “I’ve never done that before. Jumped into bed with someone I’ve only just met.”
“Mmm,” he returns, his palm gentle on your skin, dark eyes lazily half-lidded. “Have we? Only just met, I mean?”
You frown at him, bewildered. You don’t know how to answer that.
When you stand, your bare feet hit the cool wood floor at the foot of the bed; weirdly grainy, as though in need of a thorough clean. You shake out your bra before you put it back on, sand skittering out of the cups. He stays reclined, watching as you straighten your skirt and tuck your now-wrinkled shirt back in.
He slips out of the bed behind you, stepping back into his pants, leaving his chest bare. As he walks you to the door, you realise your nails have left painful-looking little crescent moon-shaped cuts in his skin. They’ll probably fade after a few days, you tell yourself, but you feel slightly guilty all the same.
You need the loo, but you’re too shy to ask. You itch to get home and mentally sort through the events of the night. As though in a dream, you turn to leave without saying goodbye. But he catches your elbow, pausing you just outside the door. “He doesn’t know how to show you, or tell you. But he likes you. A lot. Give him a chance.”
It should be a wildly strange thing for him to say, considering what you’ve just done together, but in the context of the entire nights’ disjointed, unreal sense of overall strangeness, you know precisely what he means. Your heart swells in your chest, and you nod, shy, a tiny smile lifting your lips.
“I’ll, um. See you around,” you tell him, not knowing if that’s true.
You wait until you’re back in the lift before you slip your shoes off to shake out the loose grains of sand still stuck to the bottom of your feet.
Our little thing
paring: Marc, Steven, Jake x fem! reader; established relationship.
warnings: none, domestic fluff.
a/n: soft moon bois <3
summary: you have a specific thing with each of them. It's not like you don't do it with other two, but you do enjoy a little act of intimacy that is special to each of them.
a/n: Can we appreciate Oscar in the first gif? I'm looking disrespectfully Also, I believe the third one is Jake.
gif credits: @nightofthecreeps @kingjackless @waititi
Shaving his beard.
"So serious" he smiled at the sincerity on your face. Your eyebrows furrowed in pure concentration, your fingers slowly glided the razor down his left cheek with one hand, your other hand cupping the other side of his face for support and fingers casually resting on his neck. You were sitting on his lap, facing him.
You stopped, glancing at his playful eyes with a glare. "Stop, smiling" you chided him playfully. "What if i cut you accidentally?", you asked, putting down the razor.
When you playfully asked him if you could shave his face one day, he nodded sincerely, warming your heart in a new way you didn't know was possible. It was a subtle act of trust, the way he trusted you with a sharp blade near his throat. And it implied 'I want your touch even when I'm doing mundane things'. Your heart fluttered at the thought of sweet intimacy. Soon enough, it became a little routine for you and him. Everytime he wanted to shave his face, you did it for him.
A sweet little gesture between you and Marc.
"I can't help it, baby. The serious pout on your lips is cute"
"Yeah, yeah. If you don't stop talking, I'm gonna cut your handsome face" you carefully swiped a dollop of shaving cream off his cheek and smeared on his nose.
He wasn't a very playful guy but around you, he couldn't help it. With you, happiness came easily. Every laugh of him was unrestrained, so natural and carefree. You brought out that side in him often.
Few seconds passed. Marc's eyes glinted with mischief. Already knowing him, you tried to move back and get off his lap, but he had faster reflexes. He grabbed your face and pressed his cheek all over face, smearing the shaving cream on your nose, cheek and forehead from his face.
"Marc!" you laughed. You grabbed his chin pulling him closer for a kiss. One, two. And you went back to work. "That's your bribe, now stay still" you fixed him with 'I'm serious, now, babe'
You couldn't help but smile at that. You managed to finish shaving his face, but not without exchanging few more kisses inbetween as bribe.
Him sleeping on your chest.
The moment he walked into the bedroom, you knew something was up. You watched the gloomy expression on his face, which made your heart sink.
"Hey, what happened?" you lowered the book you were reading, closing it and placing it on the table next to you.
"I'll talk about it later. Y/n, love, can I have a hug?"
The way he asked you was soft. His voice was painfully soft.
"Come here, honey" you adjusted your back into the pillows for a better and comfortable position. Your open arms invited him, which he gratefully accepted.
His legs made way to the bed, he lied down next to you, burying his face between your breasts.
You wrapped your arms tightly around him, your fingers stroking his back in comforting manner. "It's alright, it's alright, darling" you began to gently run your fingers into his soft curls. "I've got you" you pressed a light kiss on his head.
You felt him relax under your touch and comforting word. His grip around your waist tightened, you felt him shake and shudder.
Is he crying?
Your heart hammered faster. "Steven, honey...hey, it's alright, it's alright, baby", you threaded your fingers into his hair. You hated seeing him like this.
Whatever made him feel like this...you wanted to rip it off and shred it.
"Bullocks, I must be some sight to see, huh?" he tried to joke but his voice was strained, threating to let out a cry.
Gently taking his face between your soft palms, you placed a kiss between his eyes. Another one on his nose, and one on his lips, shushing him and wiping his tears away with a gentle swipe of your thumb.
His breathing became regular, his body once again relaxed in your warm presence and gentle couch.
You continued whispering sweet nothings in his ear, playing with his hair, until you could hear his steady breathing. He fell asleep. You smiled down at him. You didn't dare to get up with him sleeping on your chest. Very carefully and slowly, you moved one arm to grab the book on the table.
With him finally calmed down from his breakdown, you resumed playing with his hair and continued your reading, occasionally pressing a soft feather kiss on his forehead.
The particular mission was rough.
Jake Lockley wanted nothing more than to run into your arms, have a couple drinks and sleep.
He wasn't the one to openly admit his needs and wants. You were aware of that.
Tonight you wanted to take care of him and make him feel extra special and loved.
You decided to have a warm shower.
"Jake" you kissed his lips. "Walk with me?" you took his hand, leading into bathroom.
A tiny smile eased into his face.
Victory. You cheered mentally. Keeping your eyes fixed on his dark ones, you slowly discarded your clothes. When he wanted to do the same, you grabbed his hand. "Let me take care of you tonight" you whispered in his ear.
"Princesa, I-" you cut him off with a passionate kiss. And began to undress him. "You always make sure I'm adored and taken care of, let me do this for you tonight, yeah?"
He reached out his calloused hand to touch your cheek. You smiled, leaning into his touch.
"Whatever you say, mi corazón"
How can he say no to you?
Your hands rested behind his neck. "Come here"
At your command, he craned his neck, his face hovering centimetres away from yours. "You are cute when you are bossy, Y/n/n"
"Gods, you are so damn handsome"
The hot steam from the water and the water droplets dripping off his hair, face only confirmed your statement.
You leaned closer, brushing tip of your nose against his.
Many men shuddered at the mere sight of him. But with you, he melted. The very source of his love, his sweet, sweet love.
He wasn't used to being taken care of. When you uttered those sentence, it felt strange to him, alien even. But he trusted you. He would do anything for you. He would move the stars if you asked him to.
You squeezed the shampoo bottle into your palm, lathering the shampoo into nice foamy texture. You moved your hands into his hair, slowly and gently massaging his scalp and washing his hair.
He repeated the same to you.
The hot water was soothing to his sore muscles.
"I want to kiss every part of you" you admitted, moving your hands down reaching his chest, peering at him through lashes laden with water drops.
"What's stopping you, mi amor?", with a wanton smirk plastered on his face, he picked you up bridal style and carried you out of the shower and towards bed.
Jack Lockley did not have drinks that night, but he got something way better—you.
Sometimes it was baths, sometimes it was showers, but quickly it became your little thing with him.
Soft Saturday Drabble #4
Moon Knight: Steven Grant/Marc Spector with GN!little!reader
Request: Your little!reader stories with Steven and Marc always make me so happy- 🥺 could you write something for little!reader having a nightmare and Steven and Marc calming them down after?
A small whimper escaped your mouth as you clutched the stuffed alligator in your arms. The same reoccurring nightmare. Her voice heavy and thick, the swirl of purple power radiating off her as one large, taloned hand reached for you. I’m going to make you mine.
“NO!” you yelped as you woke up, body jolting as sweat clung to your forehead and back.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Marc’s warm voice asked and soon you felt his hand rest against your lower back.
“Just a nightmare,” you whispered as your whole body trembled.
“Same one?” Marc asked softly and you gave a little nod before you let yourself rest against his chest. “Why don’t you go get your book and I’ll let Steven out for awhile, we’ll get you feeling better again.”
You swiped under your eyes with you thumb before you moved out of bed, legs trembling a bit as you grabbed your favorite book off the shelf.
“Alright, little dove, we’ll make sure to chase those nightmares away,” Steven said, now at the front, as he took your hand and led you over to the couch. He let you get comfortable in his lap and draped a cozy blanket around you, making you feel safe and secure as he started to read to you. You let out a soft giggle as he did different voices; slowly the jilting nightmares began to fade from your memory.
You were half asleep against his chest when Marc fronted, a warm hand cupped your face gently. “We are never going to let Ammit take you, little one. I promise.”
ruined surprises (moon boys x f!reader)
PAIRING: Steven Grant & Marc Spector & Jake Lockley x F!Reader.
SUMMARY: When (Y/N) goes to work, she accidentally leaves her phone at home. Steven, being as helpful as always, retrieves her phone to hand it over, so she has it during her shift. However, a few things pop up on her phone that have him a little bit occupied.
Having an early morning shift, you were up and out of bed before the sun had even started to bleed through the windows. You were quick to get changed into your work clothes, only taking a small moment to gaze at your boyfriend's sleeping face. He looked so relaxed, and you were glad your movement from the bed hadn't woken him up - you did not want to ever be the reason he was disturbed from the only time where he was truly at peace.
Taking that little moment would cost you your phone, but you were none the wiser as you left the flat without it, leaving it on the bedside table by accident. Your job didn't really allow you to use your phone, as you were facing customers most of the day, but the main reason you would normally have it on you was to make sure that your boyfriend, and his alters, were okay. And they were also your main emergency contact should anything go wrong at work - but that was mostly to keep Steven and them in the loop, thus keeping their anxiety at bay.
An hour or so passed before Steven found his eyes being attacked by the sunlight coming through his curtains. Groaning, he turned and subconsciously reached out to touch you, only to find a cold, empty spot on your side of the bed. Blinking in confusion, Steven sat upright in the bed you shared, his head swivelling around anxiously as he automatically assumed the worse.
"She's at work, remember? They had her take someone else's early morning shift."
"Oh right, yeah... I totally forgot, didn't I?" Steven sighed in relief, thankful for the fact that Marc and Jake were there to remind him when things had changed. Marc more so than Jake, because Jake tended to keep to himself and simply observe.
The familiar sound of your ringtone broke through the air, causing Steven to jump out of his skin before he quickly turned to look at it with wide eyes.
"Oh dear - she forgot her phone!" Picking it up, his eyes squinted as he tried to read the letters on the screen. Tess? Who was Tess? Had he met them before? Before he could figure out if the name rang a bell, the call stopped and your phone screen went back to black.
"You guys don't happen to know a Tess, do you?"
"Hm, no... it doesn't ring a bell. What about you, Jake?"
Jake simply shrugged in the mirror, his head shaking side to side as he wordlessly answered their question.
"Maybe you should open up her phone? See if it's anything important?"
"I can't do that! She'll - she'll kill me!"
"We can always blame Jake?"
"Ni se te ocurra!" Jake glared at Marc for even suggesting that, and it was obvious he was holding himself back from slapping him on the back of his head.
As they started to argue back and forth, Steven bit his bottom lip in thought before he found himself opening up your phone. He knew the pattern you used, and he had never thought about using it to open your phone before. But the random name in your phone, and the fact you had forgotten it at home, made Steven worry about your safety. His head had a tendency to make up the worst kind of scenarios, especially now that you were involved in his life.
A text from Tess popped up on your screen, prompting Steven to press on it and open it up. From there, he could see your whole message history between yourself and this Tess.
"Tess just sent her a text. It says: 'Y/N, sorry I tried ringing you, I forgot you had taken that extra shift today. I was just wondering if you were still looking to meet up?'" Steven frowned as he spoke, his words a little unsure until he finally managed to grab his glasses and put them on his face.
"It just sounds like she has plans to meet up with a friend. Nothing to worry about." Marc tried to be reassuring, but it was obvious Steven was nervous for you and your safety.
"Scroll up a bit - see if she has anything to hide." Jake spoke up, quirking a brow from the mirror as he crossed his arms. While Steven would normally ignore Jake's suggestions, he could not help but follow suit and start slowly scrolling up to read your messages.
"Woah... woah woah woah!" After each 'woah', Steven's eyes grew wider and wider, to the point you could easily confuse him as some kind of humanoid Pug.
"What is it, Steven?"
"I bet it is something saucy."
"Please get your head out of the sewer."
"We all share the same head, hermano."
"No no, guys, shush - this is serious!" Steven rushed to the mirror, holding the phone by it so they could see the screen as well. It showed an exchange between yourself and Tess, where you were getting advice on how to surprise your boyfriend with some sexy lingerie. There were even Pinterest pictures of various options, which honestly would make all three of them drool at the sight of you.
"Wait... this actually is saucy. How the Hell did you know?"
"Guys... we ruined her surprise for us... she's totally going to hate us for this." Steven whined, throwing his head back as he felt guilty all over again.
"No no, Steven, we're fine - everything is fine! We can just pretend this never happened!"
"If anything, hermano, she will still look sexy as Hell - even if it isn't as much of a surprise as she may have wanted it to be."
"Jake's right. She may not even surprise us until a few days from now, anyway, so we may actually forget? Maybe this Tess, or whatever her name is, is just wanting to meet with (Y/N) today to help her pick out some lingerie?"
"Is it not a little weird that she's talking about this stuff with a friend we have never met before?" Steven frowned in thought, as did Marc and Jake. Steven did have a point, but the message history seemed to only really focus on the lingerie. How had the two of you even met? Steven scrolled all the way up to the top, only to let out a long sigh of relief.
"Oh, never mind, this Tess Black works at some kind of lingerie shop, and it's near (Y/N)'s work. Now it all makes total sense." Chuckling in disbelief at his own worriedness towards the situation, Steven facepalmed. "And here's me thinking the worst..."
"Well, at least now we know."
"Yeah, but Marc... she's actually going to kill us if she finds out we were snooping in her phone. Especially if she finds out after making a load of effort to show herself off." Steven can't help but grimace at the thought of you getting angry at them. He had never seen you be proper angry before, and he was almost frightened of the prospect of it happening all because of him.
"Just don't tell her. Unread that message from Tess and just pretend that you didn't see anything. Jake and I will keep our mouths shut as well."
"Yeah, don't worry too much about it, hermano. We've got this."
"Yeah... yeah, we've got this." Steven tried to put on a confident smile, but it was awkward and felt weird on his face. Listening to Marc's advice on setting the message as 'unread', Steven turned off your phone and pocketed it. "Can one of you front for when we get to the shop? I-I don't know if I can keep the truth from her..."
"I'll do it." Jake was quick to answer, causing Marc to quirk a brow and Steven simply nodded before he found his eyes rolling back and he was inside of the mirror, Jake taking his place inside of the host body.
It wasn't long before you had clocked the fact you were missing your phone. You were patting at your pockets helplessly, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips, before you spotted a familiar figure make his way into the store. At first, you thought it was Steven, but when you noticed the cap and the slightly wary look in his eye, you could instantly tell it was Jake.
"Hey, princesa. You lose something?" He grinned at you, waving your phone in your face. Grabbing it, you grinned back at him, thankful that he had been thoughtful enough to bring it over to you while you were still at work.
"Thank you for bringing it. I got worried for a second there that something might have happened at home, and I wouldn't have been in the know." Your large grin turned into a more sheepish smile as you rubbed at the back of your neck.
"It's not a problem, princesa. It was Steven's idea, anyway, he just had... something to think about, so he couldn't front." Jake's explanation, and the pause within it, seemed a little off to you, but you simply kept the smile on your face, none the wiser to the events that had taken place between you leaving the flat and Jake coming into the shop, your phone in his hand.
"Well, I better get going so you can focus on your job. I'll see you later though, yeah?" Jake lent down to give you a surprisingly gentle peck on the side of your face.
"Of course, see you later." You nodded, gazing up at him lovingly. "Just make sure that your calendars are free tonight, okay? I have something special to show the three of you." A sly smirk makes its way onto your lips as you lower your voice into a hushed whisper.
"Oh I'm sure you do, princesa. And we can't wait to see it."
steven grant x reader (mentions marc spector x reader)
The suit, the suit is amazing. Honestly it is. But you can’t help but be the slightest bit annoyed when it erases the marks you leave all over him. Lucky for you, Steven’s more than happy to let you have another go.
This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Steven Grant of the show Moon Knight (with mentions of Marc Spector). This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18 (or the age of majority in your locale). As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon level violence.
Warnings Include (but are not limited to):
Mentions of canon-level violence
Cute pet name for reader
Possesiveness kink (use of the word ‘mine’ a lot, not jealousy)
Spit as lube (kinda, you’ll see)
P in V penetrative sex
Unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy)
Riding (female on top)
Please read at your own discretion and consume your fanfiction responsibly.
You had a love-hate relationship with Khonshu the moon god.
While others might balk at your open animosity towards a deity with his power, you felt it was perfectly justified given how much he fucked up your life and your boyfriend’s life. Well, technically boyfriends, plural. It was a little confusing sometimes, being in a relationship with both Marc and Steven, and them being part of the same system, but oh if they didn’t make it worth your while every chance they got.
But no, sometimes you couldn’t stand Khonshu, and this was one of those times.
You’d spent the entirety of your lazy Sunday afternoon sucking hickeys and leaving little love bites on Marc as you wasted the day away drinking cheap wine and watching horrible television. Beautiful crimson scratches decorated his back that night once he was finished with you.
You put in all that work, painting his skin so beautifully with the evidence of your love, only for it to be gone as he stood before you now.
Now, you were grateful for Khonshu. He’d saved Marc’s life all those years ago and it’s true that without him you would have never met either of them, and it is his armor that protects them when they’re fighting evil, or whatever. And you were grateful for the armor itself. You’d seen Steven shishkabobbed, Marc stabbed and shot, and the armor allowed them to come out completely fine, better than fine really.
But did it always have to undo your masterpieces?
Every time one of them would call up the suit, its healing properties would magically undo the constellation of marks you’d worked so hard on, usually just hours earlier.
Steven played with the hem of his sweater, watching as you worked in the kitchen of your shared flat. He could tell something was bothering you. It was in the way your brow stayed furrowed even after you’d scrubbed away the stubborn spot of dried cake batter from the counter and how you were silent, rather than humming a song from one of the fifty different playlists you had for cleaning.
Typically he wouldn’t disturb you. As a neat and tidy person himself, he understood wanting to work alone for a bit, finding calm in the monotony of cleaning. But something was eating at you, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
He made his way around the bar and came to stand behind you at the sink where you were wiping out coffee mugs from breakfast. His arms wrapped around your middle as he leaned in to the side and placed a chaste kiss to your left temple.
You sighed, a further sign of your irritation.
Steven took the dripping mug from your hands and set it in the drying rack before taking a step back from you. His lingering hands on your waist pushed and pulled, prompting you to turn and face him.
“What’s wrong, dove?” he asked, head tilted like a confused pup.
You were chewing on the inside of your cheek before you answered a simple, “Nothing.”
“I know when you’re hiding something,” he pushed, hands reaching out for your hips once more, his thumbs running in soothing circles over your lower abdomen.
You looked at his cocked head and raised eyebrows and sighed in defeat.
“It’s stupid, that’s all,” you turned back to the sink and reached in for something else to watch.
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Steven said from behind you.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“How can it be stupid if it’s bothering my dove?” he asked, moving your hair aside so he could kiss the back of your neck.
His sweetness made you smile and roll your eyes a little.
You turned back to face him, wiping your hands dry on a nearby dishtowel.
“No, no, it’s just that…I hate it when…” you trailed off, wringing the towel in your hands.
“Hey, hey,” Steven leaned down until he was eye level with you, “You know you can tell me anything. What is it?”
“I just hate it when that stupid suit undoes all my hard work,” you confessed with a pout.
“The suit? What are you talking about?”
Your hand reached up and traced down the side of his neck, and his eyes widened in recognition. His face contorted as he stifled a chuckle and he managed to frown a bit.
“I’m sorry, darling. I know how much you like marking me.”
You wrapped your arms around his waist and leaned your head into his chest. He allowed your weight to push him back into the counter behind him. When you opened your eyes, you realized his exposed collarbone was right there and you took a moment to appreciate the fact that he never replaced his old stretched out jumpers.
With your arms still wrapped around him loosely, you moved just a bit so you could kiss your target before nipping at it lightly. Steven tensed underneath you as you began to work at the spot, sucking a fresh mark into the delicate skin.
Once you were satisfied with that one, you moved up higher, nose nudging his jaw as you searched for the special spot that made him putty underneath you. You knew you had it when he moaned in your ear, the sound making your core throb.
“Shit,” he whispered as your teeth sunk into the spot, leaving a pretty little mark.
“Love marking you Stevie,” you hummed, pulling him down so you could nip at his earlobe a little bit. “Want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” he sighed shakily. You could feel his cock hardening in his sweatpants up against your thigh, and you couldn’t help but grind against the growing bulge as you tangled your hands in his curls, still damp from the shower, and pulled his head back to give you full access to his jaw.
You finally pulled away after kissing and sucking down the hard line of his jaw, satisfied with what you’d done so far, and admired your work.
“God, Steven, you’re so pretty,” you breathed, running a hand over the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving. Your thumb traced his bottom lip before you cupped his jaw and pulled him into a kiss.
Steven was an amazing kisser, despite his self-proclaimed lack of experience. Marc liked to claim it was muscle memory. But Marc’s lips and Steven’s were entirely different. Marc’s kisses were hungry and desperate, and yet somehow incredibly precise. Steven, on the other hand, he was soft and sweet. His mouth could be hot and needy, too, but he was always more gentle, more sloppy.
As you pulled away from him, you captured his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging on it just a bit before releasing him completely.
“I want you now,” you murmured into the hollow of his throat, letting your hand come up to play with the gold chain that always hung around his neck.
“Then you can have me,” he smiled down at you.
Keeping as close to him as possible, you tugged him around the counter and pushed him towards the couch. There was no way you were making it all the way to the bedroom, not when he was just so beautiful and all yours.
You straddled his lap almost instantly, pulling his face down so you could pepper it with kisses and making him giggle. Your heart soared at the sound an you couldn’t help but let out a little giggle yourself.
“I love you,” you grinned at him, pressing your forehead to his.
“I love you too,” he pecked you on the lips, once, twice, then the third kiss turned into something much deeper.
Your hands wandered up and down his chest, coming to a rest at the hem of his sweater for a moment before slipping underneath and caressing the warm skin there.
“Take it off f’me,” you urged, earning another giggle from Steven as he reached down to pull the worn fabric over his head and toss it onto the other end of the couch. You made a mental note to steal it later, as it was one of your favorites.
Your palms flattened against his chest to push him back against the couch cushions so you could kiss and nibble along his now exposed chest. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your sides and reaching down to knead your ass.
Little grunts of ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘so good’ left his lips as you worked across the wide expanse of bare skin, intent on leaving plenty of marks. Unconsciously your hips began to grind into his lap as you worked, his hands making you feel wonderful things.
“Mmm, “ you sighed, resting your head on his chest for a moment and listening to his steady heartbeat. Your hips were moving more deliberately now, your desperation growing as you rutted into him. “Need to feel you, Steven.”
He swore under his breath as you moved back a bit so that you could pull down his sweats and access his hard cock, finally freeing it.
You hunched over a bit and spit into your hand before wrapping it around Steven’s cock and pumping a couple times. His head was tossed back against the couch as you worked, mouth forming words that you couldn’t quite hear.
When you stood up, he whined, head snapping up to find you and figure out what made you leave him, but what he saw more than made up for it.
You were pulling your t-shirt over your head, revealing the delicate flesh of your breasts and stomach. Steven’s hands explored your body as your thumbs hooked in your short and panties, pulling them down your legs in one quick motion.
Steven’s hands on your hips helped to guide and steady you as you moved to straddle him once more and position yourself over his cock.
The two of you groaned in tandem as he filled you, taking a moment to enjoy the closeness. Your arms were wrapped tight around his shoulders, holding him closer that you ever thought possible.
“God, I could stay like this forever,” you panted, your grip loosening so your hands could roam his back.
“I-I don’t know about forever,” Steven laughed breathily. His hips rutted up against you involuntarily and you bit down on your lip so hard that you were afraid you’d drawn blood.
You began rolling your hips in a circular motion, grinding his hips into you. Both of you were trembling groaning messes, a tangle of body and mind and soul.
His pubic bone ground against your clit so perfectly, your mouth opened in a silent scream. Steven saw this as the perfect opportunity to capture you in another open mouthed kiss, teeth knocking against each other as both of you gasped for breath.
You changed your approach a little, electing to bounce up and down on him a bit. Steven helped of course, thrusting up into you as much as he could. Your hands tangled in the short hair at the back of his head as your pleasure built.
“Fuck, Steven. M’gonna cum,” you whined, dipping your forehead to rest on his shoulder as he took the lead, fucking up into you with all he had.
“Come on, you can do it, dove,” he whispered in your ear. One of his hands left the bruising grip he’d had on your hip to slide two fingers in where your two bodies met. They curled up, rubbing hard on your clit.
You came fast and hard and it felt like every molecule of your being was vibrating on the same frequency. The only thing in your universe was Steven underneath you.
Steven was still chasing his own high and as he became lost in the throws of his own pleasure, he was worried about dropping you or allowing to slide off of his lap, so he carefully rolled you over to rest your back on the couch.
He slipped out of you only for a moment before he was inside you again, thrusting irregularly and you knew he was close. You drew him to your body as his climax built and scraped your nails down his back. The slight sting of pain mixed with the sensation of your cunt squeezing him finally took him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he swore into your ear as you sucked one last hickey on the side of his neck. His heart rate was slowing and his breathing became more steady as he finally pulled out of you.
“Mmm,” you hummed blissfully as he sat back on the couch, a tired sigh leaving his swollen lips. “I got you all marked up again. Now everybody’s gonna know you’re mine.”
He laughed at that, but stopped suddenly, cocking his head as if he was listening for something.
“Marc wants to know if you’re up for round two in the shower,” he said, slight flush to his cheeks. He’d just fucked you raw, and now he was getting embarrassed. Steven always managed to make you smile with how cute he was.
You smiled, lolling your head back to study the ceiling.
Steven cleared his throat, “He says…well he says it’s our turn to leave some marks on you.”
The thought had your thighs rubbing together, wanting to feel their teeth on you, mouth all over.
“I think we can make that happen,” you grinned at him before jumping up and moving towards the bathroom.
“Hey, Marc,” you addressed the alter, “First one in gets to pick the water temperature.”
You watched as Steven’s whole body tensed and his eyes rolled back in his head before he jumped up, chasing after you. Marc was competitive, and you loved to get him worked up so you could get him worked up.
I cant stop thinking about how Marc must’ve come back to the apartment, only to find Gus dead because he hasn’t been fed in like 2/3 days?? So he goes into the same pet shop to buy Steven another fish and even argues with the employee that he NEEDS a goldfish with just one fin but gets told that they’ve all got two fins??
THEN Marc goes on rambling about Nemo but the employee just isn’t having it so he gives up and buys him another goldfish, hoping Steven doesn’t notice (maybe he was even tempted to just chop off one of the fins but he knows it’ll probably die if he does so ,,,)
but of course Steven notices his little one finned wonder suddenly grew another fin 😭 then he goes back to ask the employee if that was normal and she gets all ??? because he gave her an absolute headache the day before and now he’s back and acting all confused as if he never came 😭
It’s been days and I literally CANNOT stop thinking about this 🧍🏽♀️
Keep The Secret?
MAINLY JAKE LOCKLEY X GN READER , SOME MARC SPECTOR AND STEVEN GRANT X GN READER
prompt : marc and steven had gotten themselves sick. luckily for them, they have a wonderful and loving partner who's willing to take care of them(you). unbeknownst to you, another person is taking care of them in their own way. (yes it's jake.)
i finally finished this and it ended up a lot longer than i had planned but i'm pretty okay with it, so, enjoy!
likes and reblogs appreciated, also leave me requests cause im running out of ideas!!
warnings(?) : fluff. maybe angst? but mostly fluff. my knowledge on DID is very limited but im hoping i didn't mess anything up and if i did, feel free to message me about it!!
word count : 2,705
Here you are, preparing all of your boyfriends' pills for them cause they're too tired to get out of bed. Someone had coughed on Steven while on his way to the museum and now they're sick with a sweltering hot fever and a horrid cough. They were constantly switching with each other because neither of them wanted to deal with the sickness and while yes, being sick without fronting is still being sick, it is still much better than actually having to experience a sick body. Sometimes you wonder why or how you had fallen in love with these two idiots.
"Will you both please just stop arguing and drink your medicine?" You demand from your very sick boyfriends who are currently quarreling with each other. A mirror was placed beside the bed where Steven was laying down on, where he is coughing every few sentences that he says to presumably Marc, as he tells him, pretty much begs him to take over for a few minutes so that he can stop feeling so bad at least a little bit. You can't hear Marc but from the way Steven is getting more and more exasperated by the second, he's probably being very stubborn and refusing to switch.
A bunch of toddlers those two are.
You run a hand through your hair and drag it down your face, letting out a groan in irritation. You’ve been by their side for hours now, making sure they’re getting enough rest and drinking their medicine and honesly, If you didn't love these two dorks, you probably would have left hours ago. But if you'd left, they'd just be arguing all day and not resting and that is the opposite of what you want these two to be doing.
After giving up on trying to get the boys to drink their pills, you approach Steven on the bed, pushing him down by the shoulders, forcibly tucking him in, and shushing him when he tries to say something about you treating him like a baby. "Please, love, just go to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up." You tell him, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Steven is quiet for a while but then sighs defeatedly and nods, knowing there's no point in arguing with you about it since he's already tired anyway. His head immediately sinks into the pillows as he relaxes and closes his eyes. You sit beside him, humming a soft tune while running your hands through his hair. His breathing slows in mere seconds.
Thank god. You were starting to get really tired of their bickering and if they were to go on any longer, you would seriously start contemplating using that neck pinch trick Marc taught you to get them to pass out already. Sighing in relief, you lift yourself from the bed and walk over to the small stove to start cooking up some soup for them to eat when they wake up.
However, as you were cutting up some carrots, you hear shuffling coming from the bed. Assuming that it's probably just Steven stirring in his sleep, you choose to ignore it and continue to cook.
But the shuffling continues and it isn't until you hear a creak on the floor that you turn your head to the other side of the room where possibly Steven is leaning against the wall trying to walk towards his desk.
Oh for the love of-
"Steven! I told you to rest, if you needed the pills you could've just-" Before you could finish your sentence, however, Steven had swiftly darted across the apartment towards you, as if he was never even sick. Suddenly there is a dagger that he had pulled out of who knows where threateningly close to your throat.
This is not Steven and you have a very good feeling that it isn't Marc either.
"Who are you?" A slight accent that isn't American nor British comes out of the man, his voice low and more gravelly than the others. Slowly, you place the knife back down on the cutting board and both of your hands come up to your chest, hopefully showing this stranger that you are now unarmed and not here to hurt anyone.
"I'm just here to take care of Marc and Steven. I'm their significant other." There is a pregnant pause after you say this like he's contemplating whether your words could be trusted or not. His eyes dart around the room. First, towards the soup on the stove, then the pills on the desk, and finally the small portraits of you and your boyfriends. He finally lets go of you, making you fall to the floor with how weak your knees felt after all that.
"God fucking damn it those idiots." The stranger says, the accent coming out of his mouth (your usually american and british lovers' mouth) is something that would probably take a while to get used to. It surely took you a while to get used to Marc’s accent. The man drags his hand across his face and takes one deep breath before dropping down to the floor right next to you. "I'm very sorry about that." He leans sideways against the kitchen counter, a charming smile making its way up to his face. You notice that it's different from the way the other boys smile.
There's still a bit of confusion floating around in your head, way too many questions that you just can't seem to form the words to ask him. So instead, you just nod. "I can't really forgive you for threatening my life like that." You can still feel the blade close to your neck, merely only centimeters away from cutting it open and bleeding to death. You rub at the spot to get rid of the phantom feeling and steady your breathing. It's fine. You're not in danger anymore. Plus, you have a feeling this new guy wouldn't hurt you. His posture is no longer tense, now relaxed, and frailer considering the body is still very sick and the dagger was thrown across the room a few seconds ago. Whether it's because he trusts you or if it's because he's too weak to start anything right now, he doesn't look like he would hurt you.
"Care to explain why you suddenly attacked me though?" You dare to ask, to which the man laughs and then coughs violently into his arm. Out of instinct, you reach out to him but stop yourself. He may have the face and the body of your boyfriends but he is still a potentially dangerous and untrusting stranger.
Eventually, the coughing does stop and now he looks as tired as Marc and Steven did before. You can't help the clenching feeling in your chest at the sight of him. As if he can feel your pitying gaze, he turns to you again, his smile now softer. "I'm very protective of them. Thought you were a stranger. Plus my mind was all bleary so I couldn't think straight. Sorry." He apologizes again, this time you can't help but feel bad for him. You don't know why you suddenly trust this man after he'd almost slit your throat open but the care and love were so evident in his tone of voice and it warmed your heart to know that there's someone else close to them to care about those two idiots.
So you return his smile and nod, before getting up to your feet and offering a hand to him. He looks at it incredulously as if he's never seen a hand before. It's adorable but also kinda stupid for him to be this untrusting of an empty hand.
"Come on, get up. You're still sick and in need of rest. Plus I still need to finish that soup." You tell him, waving the hand in front of him for him to take.
He eventually does and you help him up to his feet, letting him lean on you when he nearly falls at the sudden dizziness erupting in his head.
"What's your name by the way?" You ask him as you slowly guide him back towards the bed. He coughs once into his hand and his face turns to look at you, the smirk back on his face before he responds:
"Jake Lockley, a pleasure to meet you."
"Can you promise to keep this a secret?" Jake asks you as you were scooping up another spoonful of soup to feed him. He insisted he didn't need to be fed by you but when you saw him shake as he held the bowl, you pretty much forced it out of his hands and started feeding him. You just wouldn't want soup all over his sleeping pants, that's all.
He flinches at the glare that you give him for even asking that. Keeping something as big as this a secret from your boys? No, absolutely not. Why would he even dare suggest that?
You voice these thoughts to him as you place the bowl of soup on the bedside table and he shakes his head. Jake turns his body so that he's facing towards you, staring deep into your eyes. He moves forward and grabs your now empty hands, holding them tightly in his. The feeling of his calloused palm against yours makes your cheeks flush.
"Please. I swear I'm only doing this to protect them." He practically begs, your hands that are clutched tightly in his are starting to hurt with how tight he's holding them but not enough to be unbearable. You want to refuse. Marc and Steven deserve to know after all. They shouldn't be kept in the dark like this.
But when you open your mouth to tell him no, his head drops into your lap, his face now hidden in the fabric of your clothing, and his hands are still not letting go of their tight grip on yours as he lets out another quiet plea. "I just don't want them to know yet. Please." His voice is slightly muffled but sounds genuine enough for you to let out a defeated sigh. Damn him and his pleading voice.
"Fine." You respond. Jake's head immediately snaps up from its former position, his eyes that are staring into yours shine with adoration. You're taken aback by how that look makes you feel. Oh no. Not doing this again.
You shake the thoughts from your head and then clear your throat. The puppy eyes are simply only effective cause they're the same as your boyfriends'. That's all. There's nothing more to it.
Quickly, you take your hands away from Jake's, placing them back on your lap. "I promise to not tell them." His face beams up with joy and it reminds you a little bit of the way Steven would look whenever you pay attention to one of his ramblings and gosh does that make your heart go weak. You regain your composure though after mentally slapping yourself and focusing on the task at hand. "But you will tell them soon, right?" You ask him. "It just doesn't feel right to be lying about all of this."
"I know." Jake sighs, rubbing at his temples and massaging the area to ease the pain of his aching headache. "I know, it's just that I haven't figured out how to tell them without freaking them out." He rests his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. "I've done some things that they might not agree with."
Oh. You remember Marc and Steven telling you stories about them passing out in life-threatening situations and then waking up with people either dead or passed out around them, with their fists covered in blood. When asked, both of them refuse to admit who was at fault. It seems that they were both telling the truth. None of them did that. It was all just Jake. Somehow, this doesn't make you scared of him. He was only protecting the loves of your life, after all, even if you don’t agree with his way of doing it, you still appreciate it.
"I'm sure they'll understand." You say to him. You don't really want to give in to the voice that's telling you to hold him close. You don't. But right now Jake looks so much like a sad kicked puppy, with his head hung low and his fingers fiddle like he doesn't believe the words that you've said to him and you have this very strong and irresistible urge to pull him in for a long and comforting hug. You don't know if it's because the face you're looking at right now is the same one as your boyfriends' or if it's because of this stupid and conflicting feeling lying in your heart that you're sure to talk to Marc and Steven about soon cause there's no way you're not telling them about this.
Ah fuck it, it doesn't matter.
Giving in to your urges, you pull him into your embrace, holding him close to you and rubbing circles along his back to comfort him. You can feel Jake going tense for a second, definitely not expecting that from you, before he relaxes into your touch as he wraps his own arms around you. The hug might have looked awkward with the way you were both sitting on the bed but it's still pleasant, it feels safe, and it's everything Jake could've ever asked for.
The two of you hug for a while, settling into each other's arms without any conversation needing to be had. You stay like that until he falls asleep, probably exhausted after everything and you gently lay him down on the bed, tucking him in and by reflex, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
For the whole time that they were sick, Jake was the only one fronting. When asked about why that is, Jake's response was:
"Ask them when they remember the last time they were sick and were awake for more than half a day and they wouldn't know. That's cause I'm usually the one taking care of the body when we're sick." He had explained one night while downing the necessary pills for his recovery. Jake winced as he felt them go down his throat. "Once we're healthy enough, Marc or Steven are going to wake up and think they'd just slept through the days."
True to his word, when they've finally started to get better, Marc finally wakes up one bright morning, looking around at his surroundings and scratching at his head. You smile at the adorable sight and can’t help but to give him a quick kiss on his lips, morning breath be damned. He asked you what time and day it was as he always does when he wakes up, his eyes widened in shock. He faces the mirror beside the bed and asks Steven if he had been awake at all but by the look on Marc’s face, you can tell that Steven had told him that he wasn’t. Marc turns to you, clearly confused. "How did we even sleep for two whole days?"
When Marc asks this, you start to contemplate just telling him about Jake. You didn't want to lie to them. It wouldn't feel right for you to keep this all a secret from them cause Marc and Steven deserved to know. But it also wouldn’t be fair to Jake if you broke your promise.
It's real stupid of you to have grown so attached to Jake despite only meeting the man once and even knowing that you probably wouldn't be seeing him any time soon. It’s even stupider to lie to your boyfriends about this whole thing just because you wanted to keep a promise. But you had already promised and somehow, you trusted him with this.
So, you just press a kiss to Marc's temple and then hurry off to the kitchen, telling him that you’re getting him some soup. The thought of warm food in his belly is enough to make Marc forget about his question from before.
Jake will explain it to them soon enough.
CO-WRITTEN WITH @thirstworldproblemss
Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)
Summary: Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way.
Or alternatively: You get to use that ankle restraint on Steven and sit on his beautiful face.
Rating: really fucking explicit
Warning/content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations, bondage/restraints, cunnilingus (face sitting), safe sex; unsafe relationship choices.
Word Count: 9.2k (ahahahah please don't look at me)
[PART TWO] [Series Masterlist] [Tag List and Masterlist]
The warning signs were written all over him like a marquee outside a theatre, lit up in gold and bright flashing red neon.
On the first date you were supposed to have, he stood you up, only to call you four days later on a Wednesday night. Closer to midnight than dinnertime, oblivious and confused and asking where you were with a slight panic in his voice.
“Date’s tonight, yeah? Saturday at seven?”
That was the first red flag. The point at which you should have done the sensible thing and told him to piss off and lose your number.
He’d clearly lost the plot, and you’ve never been the forgiving type. You have a tendency to nurse your grudges like little houseplants by your windowsill, feeding them with pettiness that always simmers in your chest aplenty.
But there’s something about Steven. Something you can’t quite put your finger on that won’t let you leave well enough alone. The friend who was with you when you’d approached him and asked for his number, had laughed and rolled their eyes.
“Of course, you’d be into him, he looks like the saddest stray dog at the shelter. The one nobody wants.”
Which is true you suppose. But he’s also charming in a geeky, unconventional sort of way. Surprisingly handsome, even if it’s hidden underneath dishevelled hair better suited to a mad scientist and sleep-deprived black circles under his eyes. He’s got the sort of beautifully defined jaw that belongs on a marble sculpture and gorgeous brown eyes that you want to drown in.
Besides, dating prospects in London can be grim. Even with this colossal fuck up, Steven was still the preferable option when compared with Ben on Tinder, whose profile photo showed him in a tux with his (hopefully ex-)wife standing next to him in a wedding gown. Or unsolicited dick pic numbers 1-3 and 5-12 (you were saving the possibility of number 4 for a rainy day). Or another dreary night home alone in your tiny flat.
So despite your better judgement, you take the tube to Leicester Square, slipping down the crowded alleys of Chinatown and into a tucked away dim sum diner with dimly lit walls washed in cracked red paint.
He’s waiting for you at a cramped table in the corner, still looking like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Hair unkempt and frazzled, much like the man himself. His entire body is bowed and hunching in on itself like he’s afraid of taking up too much space—the whole of him one big apology for even existing. He’s nothing much to look at, not until he looks up and sees you, and then his whole face lights up with amazed delight.
There’s something about his hopeful, nervous smile that tells you this isn’t a ploy or misguided attempt at negging. Not some weird power game to show you that he’s just not that into you. Something about those big round puppy-dog eyes, filled with awe and gratitude for your presence, tells an entirely different story: he’s the one who thought he was being stood up tonight. For whatever reason, this man genuinely seems to believe it’s Saturday.
Those eyes are the reason you don’t bother to act indignant or inform him tartly that today is not Saturday. Instead, you let it go with a polite smile as you sit down across from him.
High cheekbones flushed pink, he seems discombobulated that you’re actually here, reduced to a cluster of wrecked nerves and completely unable to hold down a conversation. And God, it would be cute if it weren’t so fucking awkward. You fiddle with your cheap wristwatch, pulling at the band until it comes loose the way it always does just so you have an excuse to put it back together. The silence between you echoes so loudly that you can practically hear the seconds tik-toking away.
“How’s work at the gift shop?” you ask finally, straining to keep the pleasant smile on your face.
“Not too bad.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but his fragile nerves are etched on every line of his face, and instead his mouth clamps down tight.
Three words. Apparently you get three words only. Then it’s back to silence, and you want to bang your head against the surface of the table. Maybe you should have gone with Ben from Tinder after all?
God, you just need to find a topic of conversation. Any topic. You can’t do this deafening awkward silence anymore.
So you open your mouth and wind up nattering on about the banal details of your day: the delay on the tube that almost made you late; your coworker’s birthday celebration; your failed eBay auction attempts for a particular edition of The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain.
“It was a limited release, sold out at every book store in town, seems like.” It’s a topic that you regret embarking on as soon as you open your mouth. Still, you keep prattling on, sure that you must be boring him to death, because you don’t know what else to talk to him about.
Miraculously, he shows no signs of boredom. Instead, he follows along, taking in your every word with rapt attention. He even manages to stutter out a question or two. Intelligent ones, at that. And he actually seems to care about your responses. You can’t remember the last time any man had listened to you so attentively. It’s flattering and leaves you feeling flustered and flushed.
By the time the date ends an hour later, you’re feeling marginally warmer towards him, though he’s barely managed two dozen words of his own.
It’s absolutely pouring when you exit the diner, and you realise with dismay that you’d not thought to bring an umbrella.
“I’ll walk you to the tube, yeah?” he offers, popping open his own umbrella, and holding it out for you to step under. Carefully keeping it slanted your way when he joins you a moment later.
You're both quiet on the walk, but the silence feels less awkward than it had in the restaurant, a bit friendlier. He’s still nervous and ill at ease and watches you surreptitiously the whole time, his eyes darting furtively in your direction when he thinks you aren’t looking.
It’s not until you reach your station that he finally speaks.
“Can I see you again?”
You hesitate, thinking of the miserable hour you spent sitting in the diner alone on Saturday—the real Saturday. Of the awkwardness tonight. The way you were there together for over an hour, but you still know next to nothing about him.
You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes are drawn to the soaked patch on the right shoulder and arm of his jacket where the coverage of the umbrella missed him entirely. Your own coat is dry, not a drop of water on you.
For the life of you, you can’t explain why you say yes, but you do.
You make plans to meet up again the next weekend, and this time, he actually makes it to the restaurant venue at the proper date and time. You spot him from outside when you arrive. He’s wearing an outdated, ill-fitting suit, and you watch through the front window as he fiddles nervously with his tie.
When he sees you, he lights up just the way he did on the first date. Pure unbridled excitement, as if he can’t believe you actually showed.
This time, when you ask about the museum, he proceeds to word-vomit an encyclopaedia’s worth of knowledge about ancient Egyptian history. His passion and zeal for the subject are incapable of being contained until it spreads and lights up the entire restaurant with it. And even though the extent of your interest and knowledge of ancient Egyptian history had started and ended with watching Brendan Fraser in the Mummy, you find yourself captivated by the conversation.
Once he relaxes a bit, you find him to be disarmingly sweet and harmless, things the men in your past have not been. It’s why you find yourself letting down your guard, and despite the poor first impression, you genuinely enjoy yourself as you work your way through an otherwise unimpressive meal.
It’s also why you end up saying yes to a third date.
He beats you to the appointed location again, and when you show up, there’s a black shopping bag in his lap. He holds it out to you as an offering when you approach the table, watching you like an eager puppy waiting for approval as you unwrap the content. At the sight of the gold-gilded purple hardcover, the limited edition of ‘The Prince and the Pauper’, your stomach flutters, and it’s like being a child at Christmas all over again.
“How on earth did you get a hold of this? It’s sold out everywhere.”
“There was a store in Peterborough that still had one,” he answers, sounding quietly chuffed with himself.
“Steven, that's hours by train. Did you go all the way up there just for this?”
“Nono— I was passing by for a work thing.”
It’s a transparent lie.
You almost ask him why on earth a gift shop vendor for a museum would need to go all the way to Peterborough for work, but you don’t.
“I’m just really happy I gathered up the courage to ask you on a date that first time,” he confesses with an open-mouthed smile, his joy so contagious that it almost makes you miss what he said.
Then you stop and consider it, and your smile turns wooden.
Because that’s not right.
He didn’t ask you out. You were the one who approached him and initiated things.
That’s the second red flag. But you ignore it despite every dating rule in the book that has been ingrained into your skull since you were a little girl.
Instead, your mind turns to Peterborough and what a miserable journey that must have been on National Rail. You can’t help but google it. Two hours on crowded trains, at least half an hour walk to get to the bookstore, plus the return journey.
Who goes to such lengths for a throwaway comment on a first date? You only mentioned it to begin with as a way to fill the unbearable awkward silence.
The gesture is so sweet it warms you from inside out, making your cheeks tingle with heat, even against the February cold.
Later, with the benefit of hindsight, it will be easy to see the idiocy of your actions. But as you sit here now in front of this sweet, eager man, it’s simpler to turn a blind eye to the things that don’t quite add up. What’s that thing your friend always says?
When you’re looking at someone through rose-tinted glasses, all the red flags are just going to look like flags.
After that, it’s lunch dates at the Great Court under the Museum rooftop and breakfast at Cafe Babka before work almost every day of the week. Steven dates you like he is trying to court you, flowers and chocolates and wide adoring eyes.
It’s not a perfect relationship by any means. Steven has quirks. And not just the, oh he’s cute and clumsy and says awkward things when he’s nervous sort of quirks. Sometimes he misses dates without warning. Sometimes, like that first time, he’ll be gone for days. When he returns, he’ll act like he’s just seen you the day before, cocking his head like a confused puppy when you try to ask where he’s been.
On one occasion he disappears for weeks. No contact save for a few brusque texts that sound uncharacteristically professional and put together. Your calls go unanswered. That is until they don’t, and then he’s back. Your sweet Steven with the same shy smile, tired eyes and non-explanation as ever, apparently oblivious to the missing window of time.
It’s nothing serious between you—not to the point that he owes you an account of his time. And yet… If you’re entirely honest with yourself, it bothers you. Of course it does. Because you care, despite the fact that you shouldn’t.
The inconsistencies (red flags) continue to mount: The two of you always meet outside. He never invites you to his place, and he never stays the night at yours. The excuse is insomnia. Always the same line about how he doesn’t want to keep you up and rob you of a good night's sleep murmured on his way out the door. He’s good at deflecting and prevaricating. It’s not until you ask to meet at his, that he refuses point-blank.
He says it with his whole chest. Bitten off like a curse, leaving no room for discussion. It’s so forceful and unlike him that it shocks you.
It hits you all at once like a painful blow. A man who can’t be reached for days at a time. Never introduces you to any of his friends. Won’t let you visit his home. It’s a fucking bouquet of red flags if you’ve ever seen one.
The realisation rolls in hard and fast, punching the air out of your lungs.
“Oh, God. You’re married.”
Of course he is. Probably has a family that he’s hiding from you too. You’re his weekend fun. Meanwhile, he has kids and a dog waiting for him at home. It all makes so much sense now. Every little oddity. All the things that didn’t add up. The disappearances. The gaslighting. The Wednesday that was supposedly Saturday.
Red-hot anger rises to your cheeks, and your ears burn as it claws at the walls of your throat. Fucking hell, you can’t believe you didn’t see it until now.
“No! What? No,” he insists, his hands scrambling to grab hold of yours. “I’m not married!!”
In front of you, those charcoal pupils blow wider than you’ve ever seen them, black eating into the dark brown ring with his panic. But you’re not moved by it this time.
“Don’t give me that crap, Steven. Why else do you never stay the night at mine? Why have you never invited me to yours? Why else would you disappear for days and pretend you don’t remember anything?”
“Sorry, sorry. I can see that I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry. But I’m not married, alright? You can come over. It’s fine. You can come over to my place.”
Crossing your arms, you lean back in your seat, trying your hardest to ignore the onlookers at the cafe whose interest you have peaked with your lovers’ quarrel.
“When?” you ask.
“I don’t know. Tomorrow? No, no. Saturday!”
Like hell you’re going to give him the opportunity to choose a day when the wife and kids are conveniently out of town so he can sneak you in like a dirty mistress.
“Now,” you insist.
“Now? As in today?”
“What’s wrong with today?”
“I need to clean first.”
You’re not doing this.
“Goodbye, Steven.” You rise from your seat, but his hand shoots out, grabbing hold of yours to stop you before you’ve even so much as taken a step.
“Today,” he relents.
He nods, shoulders slumping in defeat as his eyes flicker away from your scathing glare. “Now,” he promises.
“Just a sec.”
The moment his front door is unlocked, Steven shimmies through the opening, blocking your view, then runs forward into the flat. It’s suspicious, to say the least.
He’s running zig-zag through the flat, moving as fast as you’ve ever seen him. Knocking over everything in his path and causing a loud commotion left and right as he shovels armfuls of books, boxes of crumpled up tape and old maps out of sight. It takes you a few seconds before you realise what he is doing. He’s tidying.
Steven wasn’t lying. Not about this at least. Despite what you thought was damning evidence, there is no wife. No kids. Hell, the only pet he has is a sad-looking goldfish with one fin that he’s named Gus (when the much more apt name, Nemo is available).
Also, he definitely did need to clean the place up.
You can understand why he was self-conscious. Now that you see it, you almost feel bad for imposing on him. Almost.
Without waiting for an invitation, you walk into the middle of the flat, looking around.
While the place is a dump, it’s also ridiculously spacious, tucked up under the eaves, with lots of windows and a wide open floor plan. You could probably fit three of your flat in here. And it’s located by Temple, smack in the centre of London. You've clearly chosen the wrong career. Museum gift shops must be where the money's at if Steven can afford a place like this.
The noise around you has ceased, and you realise that Steven has stopped moving. You can feel his gaze following you in the room, eyes darting nervously as he pretends not to be observing your every reaction to his home, looking for approval.
“Sorry for the mess. I don’t get many guests.” He offers the apology meekly, then resumes tidying as you walk around the flat.
There are books everywhere, not just on the bookshelves. They’re on the desk and on the table and on the floor. Dusty hardcovers and paperbacks are crammed into every nook and corner of the flat, stacked in piles and piles on top of each other.
Occupied as you are in taking in the… eccentric decor aesthetic of your surroundings—the oversized fishtank in the middle of the flat; the maps, pictures, and copious notes tacked onto cork boards; the hieroglyphics hanging all over the walls—you fail to watch your step. Your boot connects with something solid, and you stumble, nearly losing your footing. The thing goes skittering off with the sound of metal scraping against the wooden flooring.
Bending down, you peek under the edge of the bed. It takes you a moment to figure out what you're seeing, then a wash of heat prickles in your cheeks. You’re not sure what you were expecting to find, but it sure as hell wasn’t... this.
There’s a padded cuff under his bed. Your eyes follow the long cable that connects it to one of the wooden beams nearby.
It’s always the quiet ones.
Restraints by the bed in a dilapidated attic flat that looks like it is straight out of The Silence of the Lambs is a bright red flag flashing in screaming neon. Yet, there’s no trepidation. No spike of fear. It’s like you have no survival skills to speak of. Instead, you’re more amused than anything else. Intrigued, even. So this is what he was trying to hide: a messy home and a sex kink. You can work with that. In light of the possible alternatives, you’re almost relieved.
“Steven,” you call out, holding out the incriminating restraints for him to see.
His eyes flicker downwards, then widen in alarm. The moment he spots what you’re holding, blood rushes to his cheeks, colour flooding his face until that pale pallor on his cheekbones turns dark crimson.
“It– It’s not what you think.” He’s mortified, and it’s adorable.
“No?” Your lips quirk into a smile. You never can help but tease when he makes it so easy. “You don’t want to tie me up, Steven?”
"What? I mean, no! I mean– Those are for me.”
You quirk an inquisitive eyebrow. “For... you?”
And uhm… Wow. You had not expected that. Though, well, maybe you should have. With his timidness and nervous disposition, you’re not surprised to discover he prefers for someone else to be in control.
“I– Sorry. Not that I– I mean– " He’s stuttering, wringing his hands, completely at loss for how to dig himself out of this latest accidental confession, and there must be something wrong with you, because you find him incredibly appealing like this.
His high cheekbones are flushed a deep red, eyes impossibly large as he bites down on his full bottom lip.
The sadist in you thinks he looks gorgeous.
You walk towards him, and with every step of your advance, he retreats backwards, step by step, inching ever closer to the unmade bed behind him.
He’s so taken by your request, he seems to have completely lost awareness of his surroundings. Despite this being his flat, he startles when the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, awkwardly fumbling his way into a sitting position on the edge of bed.
Still standing, you slot yourself between his thighs. Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t help his attempts to form a coherent sentence at all.
“Show you? Sorry, I don’t—”
You grip his chin between your fingers, interrupting him mid-sentence, and tilt him up to meet your eyes. This close up, you marvel at how ridiculously sharp his jaw truly is, the edge of it so honed you bet it could cut through steak.
“Yes. Show me. Show me how it’s for you. Show me how you use it on yourself.”
He swallows convulsively, Adam's apple bobbing, unable to control the nervous physical reaction to you. But then he nods obediently, and takes the cuff from your hands. He stares down at it for a moment before inhaling deeply, as if to gather his courage, then leans down, and you take a step back to watch him fasten it on.
Fitting the leather around his ankle, he threads the end of it through the buckle, pulling until it’s a tight fit then inserting the prong through the hole to secure it. There’s no fumbling. No shaky hands, even as you stare at him with rapt attention. He does it all with the practised ease of a man who does this routinely.
It has your stomach tied in excited knots to see him in his element for once.
As if by habit, he gives the cable tethering his foot to the wooden beam a firm tug. It rattles against the wood, sending a spike of excitement up your spine, simmering along every nerve ending until it’s enough to make your fingers twitch. You become keenly aware of how your neck prickles with heat.
Then he stops and straightens up, looking up at you expectantly as if to signal the end of the show.
“Where’s the rest of the set?” you ask. When his brows draw together in confusion, you clarify, “For your wrists and the other leg?”
“Uhm, it’s just the one… Sorry.”
Oh for God’s sake. Who on earth only has one ankle restraint to be tied up for sex? It’s truly a ‘one sandwich short of a picnic’ deal going on here, isn’t it? Adorable as he is, you can never make heads or tails of Steven.
You shake your head with a sigh, trying to gather your wits. It’s the intention that counts, you suppose.
You step in close again, and Steven draws in a sharp breath when your leg makes contact with the inside of his thigh.
Maybe you don’t even need to tie down the rest of him to get him excited.
You nudge your thigh forward where it brushes against his, a slow press, testing the waters, and you’re rewarded with his immediate rapt attention. His eyes dart between his legs, gaze fixed on your encroaching knee; his hands hover uselessly in the air around you, not quite daring to touch; and his chest heaves as you continue your slow advance, not stopping until your thigh meets the visible bulge that is starting to strain against the denim.
His mouth parts, the pressure eliciting a sharp gasp, and he stares up at you with wide, dark eyes. Your whole back tingles with excitement. Fuck, he’s pretty.
You let your bag drop to the ground with a muffled thump, wanting your hands free to touch without impediment.
Steven jumps at the sound. He looks from you to your bag on the ground and back again, then shudders and slumps forward like he’s unable to keep himself upright. He presses his face into your stomach, and the warmth of his breath seeps into the fabric of your jumper. It seems to spread from there, stretching down your thighs to the curl of your toes.
It has you wrapping your fingers around the thick column of his neck to turn his face up to yours. You’re not at all prepared for the sight of him, eyes rolling back and those gorgeous long lashes fluttering. His pulse jumps excitedly against your fingers as if it’s trying to meet your touch. It ratchets up another notch when your hands come to his collar and you pop the top button open, easing the tight constraint against that long, graceful throat.
Then you work open the rest of the buttons, dragging down his oversized shirt. You barely have time to admire his naked form, before you stumble across a much more worrying revelation. Black-blue bruises marring his smooth golden skin in large patches across his shoulder. There are barely healed cuts, running parallel down his chest. You trace the lines with your fingers with a frown, and Steven turns his gaze downward, shame-faced.
“How on earth did you get these?”
“You don’t know?”
“I have a sleeping disorder. It’s what the restraints are for.”
And that’s another red flag, isn’t it? Practically waving right in front of your nose. But… You let your eyes roam over Steven’s chest. There are other things that you want to focus on right now. Things like the friendlier revelation of just how in-shape Steven is.
He never seemed like the type to go to the gym, more like the type to get winded running after the bus. Your first (apparently incorrect) impression was that a gust of wind could probably knock him off his feet.
But his form tells a different story. Running your hand over the well-developed muscles of his shoulder and down his toned bicep, you find that he’s much bulkier than you had expected, given how small he holds himself to be. Underneath the unsightly button-down, Steven is cut like a marble statue, all firm muscles and smooth flesh. Always full of surprises, this one.
Dipping knee-first onto the mattress, you move to straddle him, one knee on each side of his hips. When you settle your weight onto Steven’s lap, his pink tongue darts out nervously, wetting his lush bottom lip until it glistens with saliva. The sight sends a thrill up your spine.
Flattening your hand against his solid chest, you apply firm pressure, and Steven lets himself be guided by you easily enough, as if he truly believes your strength is a match to his. Allowing you to push him backwards until his back is flat against the mattress.
“Is this–?” Steven starts nervously, “Sorry, are you sure that you–?” His voice cuts off when you lace your fingers with his and show him just how sure you are.
You drag your interlocked hands down your sternum and further to slip up under the hem of your skirt. You watch his face as you press his hand against you, letting him feel how wet you are for him, soaked even through the double layer of your underwear and tights.
He groans when his fingertips find the proof of your arousal, and he stares up at you, awestruck, dark eyes wide and dazed, almost disbelieving.
“Oh. You're...? Oh, fuck.” Then he’s pulling his hand away from yours, scrambling to get it under the waistband of your tights.
You gasp at the feeling of his fingers wiggling into your knickers, and your body jolts forward with a shock of pleasure as they slide down over your clit. Moving down to press deeper, those thick fingers tease at your slick, sensitive entrance, and you can hear how wet you are.
Steven must hear it too, because he groans again, a desperate needy sound. His touch trails back up and over your clit again before withdrawing entirely, and you moan at the loss. You expect him to try to pull your tights off, maybe go for the zip of your skirt, but he doesn’t.
What is he...? Oh.
You watch slack-jawed and burning with arousal as he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, tongue and throat and jaw working clumsily as he sucks them clean. Moaning with something like desperation as he swallows you down like a starving man.
“Sorry, sorry. Had to taste you,” he slurs out around his fingers. The words are distorted and hard to understand, and it should be ridiculous, but instead, it’s just hot. “Can I–”
“Yes,” you answer, not even waiting for him to finish the question, and his eyes light up the same way they always do when he first sees you, like he can't quite believe you're real.
He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, leaving you staring at the way his lips are pinker than before, shiny with a mix of his saliva and your slick.
“Can I– can you just—” He doesn’t finish the request, but his hands move to your hip and thigh, tugging gently, urging you to scoot up his body.
You nod and start to shift yourself to help him, but his hands wrap around you, fingers digging in, then you’re moving.
He drags you forward with surprising strength, your tight-covered knees scraping against the bedding. As he pulls you up his torso, you realise you’re still wearing your boots.
“Wait, my shoes!”
“S’fine.” Steven doesn’t even pause, dragging you the rest of the way up to straddle his chest. Then his hands move to the underside of your thighs, and you yelp as he lifts you up.
You're nearly toppling forward before you brace yourself with a hand on his shoulder, but Steven doesn’t waver, holding you steady, supporting you without apparent effort until he can settle you with your bum on his chest, your knees framing his head.
You stare down at him, more than a little affected by that impressive display of strength, but Steven isn’t even looking at you. Instead his eyes are heavy-lidded, a blissful expression on his face as he turns to the side, craning his neck until his lips can press a kiss onto your inner thigh.
When you don’t pull away, he mouths at you through the material of your tights, biting down and gently worrying the sensitive flesh between his teeth until you’re sure it will leave a mark. You hope it does.
He pauses, then. Unlatches his teeth, and just stays there for a moment. His fast, panting breaths are warm against your thigh, but cold where they ghost over the wet spot he’s left on your tights. The contrast makes you shiver. His hand skates slowly up the back of your thigh, hesitant, like he expects you to scold or stop him. When you don’t, he curls his arm around your leg, pressing it greedily to his mouth so he can leave an identical mark right next to the first one. The action is hungry but somehow still reverent, almost worshipful. The only descriptor that comes to mind is touch-starved.
For a moment you wonder how long it’s been for him, this man who seems to have no family or friends to speak of, alone in a city of nine million inhabitants, and how lonely he must be, lost in the clustered sea of anonymity. Because he touches you like you’re the first sign of life on an abandoned planet and wants to reassure himself you’re real. Devoted fingers fan over your ribs, palming over every inch of skin he can reach, kneading and grasping.
You don’t get a chance to revel in the thought, before he drags his nose upwards against the ticklish inside of your thighs, tongue trailing a wet streak across your tights as he goes. You claw your skirt up around your waist and out the way so you can keep watching him, and you can’t help the blissful sigh that parts your lips when he gets to his destination.
He noses at the damp crotch of your tights, but it’s not enough to actually give you any friction. You can hear him suck a long breath in, his chest rising under you with the extended inhale, and then the warmth of his breath gusts over you as he releases it. He does it again, another deep inhale, and a wash of heat rolls through you at the realisation that he’s smelling you. That’s… that’s just…
You spear your fingers into that messy hair, and drag his head forward, pressing yourself against him. You groan at the contact, and he groans with you, mouthing at you desperately.
“Can you– Can these come off?” he says into you, the words barely intelligible between biting kisses and half-licks. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you forward, helping you to ride his face. “Oh, fuck. Can I taste you without these? Please?”
“Rip them,” you say without conscious thought, and he does.
He leans back marginally, chin tilting down at a sharp angle to see what he’s doing, and his hands sneak up under your thighs to grip the fabric of your tights on either side of the crotch, fingers digging in, pulling until the material gives way with barely a whisper of sound. His fingers fumble at you again, and there’s a moment of unexpected pressure. Your knickers dig into your hip almost painfully before there’s a much louder rip, and you realise he’s torn them too. You have half a second to be glad they weren’t your best pair, then his mouth is on you.
You expect him to be tentative, the way he is in so many other parts of life, clumsy even. Instead, Steven is all enthusiasm and hunger. There’s nothing shy about the way he works you open with his mouth.
It starts with a long slick drag of the flat of his tongue down the seam of your cunt. Leaning back slightly, you brace a hand on his firm chest and roll your hips forward into his waiting mouth. He meets your invitation with a groan that makes his whole chest shudder underneath you, lapping at you with a fervour that you would never have expected from him.
A slow, sweet ache unfurls from between your thighs, spreading and twining steadily outward, until the pleasant warmth climbs its way up your chest, and you smile down at him indulgently.
He’s greedy for you, shifting underneath you and dragging his mouth against your cunt, his hungry moan muffled into your thighs. The bump of his nose nudges against your clit, and white-hot pleasure streaks down your limbs as his tongue curls, licking into you.
The familiar rasp of a zipper fills the room. It’s followed by a slick wet sound attracting your attention that makes you turn your head, twisting awkwardly to look over your own shoulder. And fuck, are you glad that you did. His fingers are wrapped around the girth of his cock, slowly stroking himself up and down, slick and shiny with copious precome dripping down his painfully-erect-looking cock.
"Touching yourself, Steven?"
His hand abruptly stops, whole body freezing in alarm at being caught. He drags his mouth just far enough to resurface with an apologetic murmur. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm—" it’s slurred and drunk, a thickness caught in his throat from your slick.
“Don’t be sorry.” With the way his mouth is working you, he has nothing to apologise for, and you press your hips down flush against his face, shutting him up quite handily. “You look so fucking good like this, keep touching yourself, fuck, keep going. You’re doing so good,” you encourage as your fingers brush away the errant locks that stick to his forehead with perspiration.
The deep groan rumbling from his chest is nothing short of grateful as he grabs a firm hold of you with his free hand. There’s nothing tentative about his touch anymore. His fingers dig into the plump flesh of your hips with a surprising force, holding you down against his mouth, forcing you to grind down on his tongue much harder than you would have on your own out of fear of hurting him.
The strength of his hold is entirely unyielding. It’s depraved with how you’re grinding down on his mouth. Debauched in how he lets you fuck yourself on his tongue. It has you bucking and writhing, the pleasure of it so overwhelming that you lose orientation.
You need to anchor yourself because fuck, your legs are burning from the exertion, giving under and you’re not sure you can keep yourself upright. Your hands grip the nearest surface, clamping down against the wooden shelf above the bed hard enough that your knuckles ache.
And oh crap, you should not have done that.
The books start to slump sideways, collapsing against one another like dominoes. Dazed as you are by the pleasure of his mouth on you, it doesn’t occur to you to try and catch them until a whole mess of books and papers and other clutter tumbles down, spilling across the corner of the bed and onto the floor.
“Fuck! Steven, your books!” You belatedly lurch forward, but you don’t get far. Steven groans into you, a feral snarl of sound, and his arms curl tight around your thighs, locking you in place.
Yeah, okay, the books can wait.
You thread your fingers into his hair, gripping the heated, sweat-damped curls until you’re sure that it must hurt. But the only response you get is an enthusiastic groan, as his mouth moves more eagerly than before.
And God, it’s good. Heat spreads down your trembling thighs, shivering under your skin. The sweet ache of it builds with each press of Steven’s tongue until it feels almost too big for your body. There’s nowhere else for it to go, and for a moment you are almost worried that you are going to burst open with it— And God, you’re nearly there— almost, just a little bit more.
Steven must be able to feel it because he makes a muffled noise of satisfaction against your cunt. His fingers dig into your thighs even harder, his nose sliding against your clit as he holds you flush to his mouth, and that’s all it takes to shove you over the edge.
You come hard, grinding down harshly against Steven’s face as waves of fierce pleasure ripple through you, searing and endless. He doesn’t protest, just holds you even more solidly against his hungry mouth.
His tongue slows but doesn’t still. A soft, lazy drag, working you through it as he fastens his mouth around you, swallowing like he can’t bear to let a single drop of your slick go to waste. And... and... fuckohfuck—he’s not stopping.
Your first orgasm doesn’t even have the chance to fade away before he is somehow, unbelievably, building you up to a second. The piercing sharp pleasure rides on the fine line of too much. He is mouthing and licking every inch that his tongue can reach, even as you’re trembling and convulsing on top of him, not sure if you want to get away or press yourself closer to the overwhelming touch.
You can’t make sense of the space around you, everything narrowing inwards, until the concept of sound and colours no longer make sense to you, your vision blurring. It is all heat and sparks that steals your breath with it. Every muscle in you locks tight, the tension streaking out along your limbs to the curl of your toes until you are sure you are going to snap from it—
And then you do.
You come with a hoarse shout, eyes slamming shut from overstimulation as your world crumbles around you and everything fades into nothingness until your mind is blank with it.
It’s all a blur and you barely register the lazy, soft licks of Steven’s tongue as he’s drawing out your pleasure. Barely able to catch oxygen into your lungs, before you realise he’s still going. And oh fuck, he can’t be serious— “Stop, Steven stop—wait! too much—”
You lurch up, trying to get away, even the gentle touch of his tongue suddenly too much. Grabbing his locks tightly, you use one hand to try to pry him away from you, slapping your other hand down hard against the muscled arm that’s keeping you pressed against his face.
That, finally, is enough to make Steven loosen his hold, and he lets himself be pulled away from you as you raise yourself on trembling thighs, barely managing to scoot yourself back to sit back on his chest.
For a moment you worry that you are resting your weight on him and how uncomfortable it must be for him, but there’s not a trace of discomfort in his features. His face is one of bliss. A sweat-soaked curl falls across his forehead and it makes him impossibly beautiful. Your eyes meet, but his are glazed and distant, entirely lost and still on a different planet.
You move down his body, until your chest is pressed up against his and the drum of his heartbeat is pounding against your skin. You’re sated and exhausted, and grinning from ear to ear as you press your lips against his. He tastes of you, sweet and tart on his tongue as you kiss him, and he kisses back, moaning desperately into your mouth.
He’s still hard. His straining erection pressing against your stomach with nowhere to go. Hot and aching, as it jerks against you, slick and dripping from the precome leaking from him. Fuck, you want him inside of you.
“Get my bag,” you instruct him breathlessly, still coming down from your high, and he looks at you but makes no sign of moving out from under you. “I have condoms in my handbag,” you clarify. “Get one.”
That seems to do the trick, snapping him out of his trance. Within a fraction of a second his eyes have refocused and he’s scrambling towards the end of the bed to grab your bag from where you had haphazardly dropped it. There’s a moment of silent hesitation, then the rattling of keys and lipsticks being pushed to the side as he searches frantically for his prize.
While he’s busy with that, you take the opportunity to finally undress. Two orgasms in and you haven’t so much as removed your boots. Unbelievable.
You make quick work of them along with the rest of your clothes, dragging off the tattered remains of your stockings and knickers just as Steven makes a small triumphant noise.
You hear the rip of the metal foil, and press your knees together at the ache between your thighs to stave off your own excitement. But then it’s followed by silence. You crane your head to see what the hold up is. Steven is holding the condom up to the bedside lamp, flipping it over then over again, apparently unable to determine which direction is up. God, you do not have time for this, not when you want him inside you this badly.
Impatience brings out the worst in you. You know you’re being unfair, not even giving him the benefit of a few seconds in this dimly lit space, before you snatch the condom from him.
“Trousers off,” you order, and he scrambles to comply.
Turning your attention to the slippery rubber in your hand, to the sting of your pride, you’re struggling with it much in the same way that Steven had. It’s too dark in this bloody room, and you can’t see if you’re holding it up or down. It’s truly a humbling moment when you find yourself scooting closer to the nightlight and holding it up for a brighter view until you finally make sense of the thing.
Next to you, Steven is struggling with his one single item of clothing. It’s clumsy to say the least, not helped by the trousers being tangled by the ankle restraint no matter how much he tugs at it. Until he finally gives up and turns back around to stand in front of you and wow— beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Hidden underneath mismatched clothes, and an inability to comb his hair, it was always obvious he was a looker. It’s the moment of reveal in a rom-com where the girl loses her glasses and the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen graces your screen. Right now, he’s all tousled curls, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. You can’t remember the man with the gangly gait, looking like he’s a kid wearing his father’s oversized clothes. Gone is the pale face that hadn’t touched the sun for years.
You beckon him forward with the curl of your finger and he follows obediently, climbing back into the bed until he’s kneeling in front of you. Your fingers curl around the thick girth of him and it twitches and jerks in your grasp. From the way he stiffens, and stills, you swear that he stops breathing entirely as you easily roll the condom down his length.
Raising your knees, you seat yourself into his lap as you’re aligning him against your slick and aching cunt, until the fat tip is resting inside you.
Then you take your time as you ease down on him, inch by slow, sweet and aching inch as he fills you for the first time. Every nerve ending in you is thrumming with electricity. You can’t remember who was supposed to be in control anymore when you feel him, thick and warm, seated inside you to the root of him.
It’s a struggle to move, every nerve in you alight. He feels so good inside you, incendiary, and you have half a mind to stay just like this.
You start a slow grind of a pace that has him groaning in response to you. Tilting your hips up to drag your slick cunt over the length of him before squeezing down on him again.
Lunging forward, Steven’s mouth latches onto your throat, kissing fervently. Tongue lapping against the salty perspiration, teeth nibbling down your collarbone and downwards until he’s mouthing at your breast, sucking at the pillowy flesh. Touch-starved, you think to yourself again.
You try to raise yourself again to keep the momentum you have started but, God as good as he feels inside you, despite the sweet gorgeous ache of the slide of his cock, your legs are numb. The muscles in your calves are screaming out in exhaustion still wrought from the earlier exertion and the torrent of overwhelming pleasure that you can’t quite seem to climb down from. Not when you can barely find the strength in you to sit upright. And as much as you want to keep riding him, you can’t—
"Fuck, I can't-- God, Steven, help me."
It’s all you need to say before his hands are already moving to grip the underside of your bare thighs. He lifts you up and off his cock before bearing you down on him until you are grinding down on his cock. Again and again. He moves you like it’s an easy feat, and you are reminded once again of his deceptive strength.
It doesn’t take long at all before that too familiar heat is simmering deep in the pit of your stomach. Slow at first but insistent all the same as the aching pleasure spreads and blooms along every fibre and nerve of you.
You can’t hide from it, don’t have the strength to chase after it on your own. All you can do is surrender yourself to it, to the pace that Steven has set for you both as he holds you down and rolls his hips up and into you. The sensations course through you, God it won’t stop— he won’t stop. God, please you don’t want him to stop.
And he doesn’t, he plants one foot on the mattress for leverage, lifting you off of him, making you whine at the loss, before he thrusts into you deep and hard, and God—fuckshit, you’re coming for him again.
This time your climax slams into you all at once. The pleasure of it is blinding, until all you can see are glimmers of white sparks in the darkness as if you are staring up into a vast night sky. The world around you slows to a crawl as the only thought you’re capable of is how the blissful high pushes through every single one of your cells, blanking your consciousness until you lose sense of time itself.
Except, there are soft moans close to your ear that send shivers down your back. A firm grip on your hips that tethers your consciousness to this world. A sturdy weight pressed along your thighs. When you come to you find yourself with your back on the mattress. Steven pressed alongside every inch of you.
You don’t know when he took command like this, controlling the momentum. Or when he flipped you over to your back, until your legs were wrapped around his waist, your body still clenching around him as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.
He looms above you, supporting himself on his forearms as he stares down at you, sweat-slick curls bouncing across his forehead with the force of his body driving into yours. Strong, deep thrusts, unmeasured and almost wild, as he bucks into you.
You can see that he's getting close by the way his jaw works then goes slack, but his gaze never falters. Even as his hips stutter, losing their rhythm, his eyes, dazed and feverish, never leave your face, taking you in like he’s worried you might disappear if he looks away for even a second.
Steven gasps out your name, then stills, buried deep inside you, and fuck, you can feel him come. You always thought that was just a thing made up by romance novelists who seem to get paid by how ridiculous and unattainable their sex scenes are, but you swear you can actually feel his cock pulsing inside you.
Watching the pleasure break across his face is a revelation. You’ve always known Steven was handsome. Had thought you recognised the depths of his attractiveness seeing him naked and aroused in the low light, but this is something different. This is Steven transcendent. The desperate need and constant pinched nervousness have been washed away by pure pleasure, and you realise that Steven might just be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.
You’re still recovering from this revelation when he goes limp, collapsing onto your chest, and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He slurs out a “Sorry, sorry. I hope that was alright, yeah?” and you have to laugh a little to yourself as you shush him, running a soothing hand through his hair, overcome with tenderness because yeah, that’s still your Steven. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.
After a long moment, he shifts, reaching between you to hold the base of the condom, and you both gasp as he pulls out. He pauses there, hovering over you, and you grin happily at each other. You feel giddy and lightheaded, your whole body buzzing with endorphins. God. Shy, meek little Steven who could barely manage more than a handful of words on your first date somehow just made you come three times in one night.
He rolls to the side, and you marvel all over again at the solid strength of him. The muscles of his arms flex and stretch under the skin as he knots the condom, tossing it into a bin across the room in an impressive display of skilful accuracy, before flopping over and nuzzling back into your neck.
The cable on the ankle restraint jingles with the movement, bringing it back to your awareness, and you start to reach for it, but Steven makes a noise of protest, hugging you tighter to him.
“The cuff...,” you remind him.
“Keep it on, yeah?” he murmurs, sleep thick and heavy in his voice. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
Maybe it’s because you’re spent and exhausted. Maybe it’s because, with Steven, you have permanent blinders on, but you ignore the statement for the red flag it is and let it go. Instead, you curl into his pleasant warmth, tucking in your legs between his firm thighs and fit yourself into his welcoming arms as you let yourself drift to sleep.
When you wake, it's pitch black. There's no light at all, and you can't see anything in the total darkness blanketing the room.
Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You're alone in the bed.
"Steven?" you whisper.
There's no immediate answer, and your heart thrums painfully in your chest.
You sit up, wrapping the quilt around your naked torso and carefully adjusting it to make sure all the important bits are covered. Perhaps it's silly to worry about your modesty after the events of last night, but the back of your neck prickles uneasily in the silence, and you keep it on regardless.
"Steven?" you call out, louder this time, your voice echoing through the emptiness of the flat.
“I’m right here, sweetheart,” comes the response from the dark.
The endearment rings false in your ears. Steven’s never called you that before, and while tonight might be the perfect occasion to extend the list of firsts between you, there’s something not quite right about his voice too. His pronunciation is off somehow— like an imitation of an imitation.
Another red flag, and for the first time since you met Steven, it has alarm bells ringing loud and clear in your brain.
Keeping your face pointed in the direction the voice came from, you reach over to the end table and flick on the nightlight.
The amber hue illuminates his form as he emerges from the shadow into sight. Black curls fall across his forehead as those familiar pitch-dark eyes gaze back at you, framed by the hollowed cheeks you know so well.
But something’s still not right.
You can’t put your finger on it at first, but it comes to you slowly as you keep your eyes locked on him, heart beating in your throat. His stance is different. His whole demeanour is different. Shoulders straight, chest puffed out with confidence and pride like it’s second nature to him. This is no puppy dog, this is a wolf. In the dark empty space of the flat, his presence looms instead of cowers.
As you look up at him, the alarm echoes through your head louder than ever, pounding at your eardrums until you are nauseous with the clang of it. You can clearly see all the red flags you’ve ignored up until now, easily visible where they were dotted along the path that led you to this moment.
The person standing in front of you might carry Steven's face, but this isn't him. This man is a stranger to you. Your Steven has left the room.
Dedication & Credits:
So after seeing the first episode of Moon Knight, I passed out and entered into a horny fugue of a state that I have yet to recover from. I started writing this on Saturday with my most beloved @thirstworldproblemss and just— I'm unwell.
Ok Christ, the dedications for this one is going to be a doozy. Apologies beforehand to those that make it a habit of reading these.
First and always foremost in my heart and soul (and you can quote me on that no matter what my husband says to the contrary) to @thirstworldproblemss who co-wrote this and made this one of the most fun writing experiences I’ve had in a long long time. There is nothing like hanging out in a google doc together writing with a friend who is like an extension of your own brain— not knowing the scene and then having them go “what about this” and that is exactly what you wanted. There is nothing like waking up in the morning and seeing them staying awake (way past sleepy bussy time) still in the doc, and going to sleep with them still in the google doc. There is nothing like you, and I’m so happy I have you, for everyday the last year (and then some).
To @frannyzooey for her time. You always give so much of yourself to others and you are one of the kindest and bestest people I know. Thank you for being so supportive and keeping me company and talking me through the weirdest and some of the scariest life changes I’ve had in the past few months.
To @jazzelsaur for being such a whore. That’s it, that’s the dedication. WHORE. I love you don’t tell anyone.
To my beautiful comic geek @radiowallet for reassuring me that I wasn't going to fuck it up but also for being one of the sweetest, kindest and best people on earth. Always there with a kind and supporting word, and virtual hugs and being the absolute best person alive, always.
To @songsformonkeys because she was the one who kept whispering like the snake of Eden about how I should be writing Moon Knight fics.
To @the-ginger-hedge-witch for being an absolute rock in listening to me having constant meltdowns about how I’m so horny for this man. But also for being a fucking riot and one of the funniest human beings that has graced this blue planet that we call earth. I will never stop giggling about "yes girl he's married kill him".
To @yespolkadotkitty who after watching the first episode of Moon Knight texted me that “I was thinking CiCi had already written 55 smut fics in her head” and she was RIGHT. But also for her invaluable advice and precious time to make sure I didn’t fuck up the Britishism too much (despite having lived on and off in England for the last oh Idk 14 years of my life (I’m mess what can I say).