steven grant would stand up for you if someone was being rude to you and he may be a little awkward in the way he goes about it but, god he just tries to make you feel safe and valued and he knows how it feels when people are rude all the damn time so he won’t tolerate it when you’re around.
YES OKAY LISTEN—
He might be a little bit of a pushover when it comes to people being rude to him (and when I say that I mean he kinda tolerates it. Like, he’ll respond, but it takes him a lot to reach his breaking point, ya know), BUT THE SECOND SOMEONE IS RUDE TO YOU?? THAT BOY WILL NOT HESITATE.
Except you don’t realize this until one specific incident. To set the scene, you’re in the museum, waiting for Steven to get off work, with two fresh coffees in your hand. And then as you’re walking around, this guy comes around the corner, bumps into you and spills your coffee all on his suit.
And even though, it’s technically that motherfuckers fault, and you are apologizing profusely, this bitch starts to yell at you.
So obviously I think the one thing the moon boys cannot tolerate is anyone being rude to you. They’re pretty good at deescalating a situation with just their words (Jake, not so much but that’s a topic for another day), but if someone is full on screaming at you, that’s where the fucking line is drawn.
So the second Steven sees said pissed off man, and then you, who’s nearly on the verge of tears (cause you’re an angry crier), he’s moving faster than he ever thought possible.
Then somewhere along the line of calling him a ‘fucking knob’ and trying to tell him in the most intimidating way to ‘learn some bloody manners’, the guy gets dragged out by security. And once he clocks out, after you give him his still full cup of coffee (as yours was the one that got demolished), he’ll press kiss after kiss into the side of your face, handing you back the coffee, mumbling “I’d rather you have it, love.”
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.
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: 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)
[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).
Pairing: Jake Lockleyx F!Reader
Warnings: Explicit AF. Rough smut. Gore. Public Sex. Oral. Marc has srs issues with him. squirting.
Summary: And then he’s lunging for her, pinning her underneath him, tongue already in her mouth as he rips the blankets and sheets down and there is nothing between them.
A/N: title from kings of leon's closer
Jake’s jealousy can be venomous at times. It can overwhelm him - shudder throughout his body while he tries to swallow the fact that Marc and Steven are the ones appropriate for the daylight. Jake does not do well with normalcy. He doesn’t fit into cafes or restaurants or long walks around a park.
The jealous can be subtle. It can infect and nip and pierce. It grows until he unleashes on something or someone. Not her. Never her.
But, the people that Khonshu wants dead?
He doesn’t return to her often. He’s a moment - a flash of a man in between sleeps. Sometimes, she’ll wake up with him hovering over her. There will be the ripe smell of death. Jake's head is cocked to the side and the remnants of whatever fight he’d been in burns across his face. It’s like injury looks good on him. It’s like violence is his second skin. It belongs there.
“What is it?” she murmurs as she feels his hand on her. He pets her arms and shoulders. He squeezes her wrist.
“Didn’t mean to wake you.”
When Jake says this, she knows he’s being truthful. Steven will pretend like he didn’t intend to disturb her sleep when he absolutely did. He doesn’t like to go under alone. Marc will just lie on top of her until she kicks him and then he’ll fuck her to exhaustion.
Jake enjoys the simplicity of watching her. He enjoys the quiet after whatever hurricane of violence he has doled out earlier that night. Of course, he’ll also bury himself inside her if he has the opportunity.
“It’s okay, Jake,” she says before he lunges forward.
He pins her underneath him, tongue already in her mouth as he rips the blankets and sheets down and then there is nothing between them.
“Was it bad?” she asks against the bite of his teeth.
“Not now,” he growls. “Later.”
She knows that he will tell her. He will confess like she’s his priest though he is his own God’s servant.
He’ll probably go into detail. It is nothing for him to kill. He shrugs his shoulders and jokes about how he’s going to get the blood out of the roof of Marc’s car or remind her that they’re gonna need a lot of bleach for the downstairs bathroom.
“He’s a fucking monster,” Marc declares one night. “He-He isn’t right in the head.”
It befuddles her. He can make peace with Steven and yet not with the darker side of himself - a piece of him that is as essential as anything else. His heart. His brain. His bones.
Jake shares his body. Jake shares her.
“He does what’s necessary,” she reminds, fingertips trailing over the hard line of Marc’s brow. “I know it’s so easy for you to love Steven because of his goodness, but Jake handles what you can’t.”
There’s a distinct twitch in Marc’s eye. A glimmer around the iris as he regards her with an unreadable expression. She frowns as he watches her, as a muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks as if he wants to say something - tell her she’s wrong - tell her she’s naive - but then it clears.
It is nothing and everything at once. Marc’s face disappears completely to reveal Jake.
“You’re really on my side, huh?” He leans back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. “Trying to convince big daddy that I play nice?”
She rolls her eyes and, in a flash - a pop of a second, Jake’s hands are on her waist. He spins her around until she knocks up against the edge of the table and forces her onto it. Her breasts are crushed into the wood, her cheek flat on the surface. An orange rolls from of the arrangement at its center. A lime bounces out and hits the floor with a thud. His fingers trail down the curve of her spine, skimming the width of her waist.
“I’m going to fuck you now.”
Jake can be blunt. He barely speaks at all unless he finds his head too loud - too messy - then all of it bursts out of him: spilling, frothing, turning to spittle.
I can’t stop.
It feels good.
What day is it? Where am I? What’s on the docket? Where are the knives?
The sex is furious. It is rough and frantic because he never knows when the other two will rip him away. He kisses her with such aggression that she tastes blood. His teeth slip across her throat. He stares down between them as he fucks her, his gaze locked on the place he’s disappearing inside the slick of her cunt.
He can be almost clinical about the act at times. He enjoys seeing how her body reacts to the things he does. It is the same feral look he gets when he’s murdering someone slow. Curiosity etched across his handsome face. His brows lifted in surprise when she whimpers or clenches just as they lift when whoever he’s breaking shudders or screams.
“That feel good, yeah? What if I add a third? Would you take it for me? C’mon, sweetheart….princess…lift your hips a bit higher.”
“No-no, Jack! Don’t fucking die on me too fast. We’re just getting started. Let me try and fit my fist in there.”
He is awful and he is not. He wraps himself around her as a dragon would with its mountain of treasure or its golden eggs. She has never seen anyone kill with the kind of precision he does. He has the same make-up of a shadow, flickering between spots of light, breaking apart into the dark corners of old rooms.
He comes to her with his hands still bloody. He cradles her cheeks - his dark, luminous eyes half-mad and still his. His lashes flutter as he drops his head to crash their mouths together like it’s the last thing left for him.
This. This. This. Just this. Just you and me.
There are times, she’s in danger and it’s not Marc or Steven who can handle what has to be done, but Jake. “Did he hurt you?” Jake asks as his gaze scrutinizes every part of her body. The hood and the mask are gone. His expression is contorted in a rage that she cannot reach or touch. She is the one thing he has and when someone touches her, then God help them. It is so much of Marc’s doubt and guilt that is locked in the fury that burns inside Jake. Jake takes it. Jakes absorbs it all and he shoves it back at the world tenfold.
“I’m fine,” she reassures him. He always thinks the worst.
“You’re not,” he replies flatly before turning around, walking quickly toward the man in question and slicing through his jugular. The blood spurts on his hands, his wrists, it makes a fine mist across the white front of his armor. A quick job because he has other things on his mind.
He doesn’t give the man a second look. He kicks his head away before returning to her. He advances, grabbing her firmly around the wrist and tugging her into the black cavernous space of the alley behind them.
“Jake,” she protests. “It’s too dark.”
He scoffs, flashing her a disarming grin. There’s blood on his lip. “Like I’d let anything touch you now…no….I wouldn’t….I”d never…” his words roll and tumble over each other as he begins to speak to himself. Her chest grows tight. Is this how he handles everything? There’s no Marc or Steven for him to vent to…they’re far too weary of him…there’s only her and she doubts even that is enough…
He’s got his gloved-hands on her shoulders as he pushes her back against the brick wall. She thinks he’s going to fuck her - ruin her - splither apart on his cock until things make sense for him, until everything returns to living-color. He doesn’t. He looms over her. The shadows make patterns across his sweat-damp face. A shock of a curl fall across his eyes. He grips the hinge of her jaw and lifts her mouth to his and he kisses her gently - tenderly - soft as the tickle of his lashes against her cheek.
“What are y-?”
“Shh,” he warns before his tongue traces the seam of her mouth, caresses her own tongue in something that should feel dirty, but is not. He draws away from her, peppering kisses across her chin and throat before stepping backward. He appears bigger with the suit - the broadness of it - the packed chest.
He smirks before lowering himself to his knees. He grabs her by the ankle and hitches her knee over his shoulder and then shoves her skirt up and wedges his face between her legs.
She can feel him. He inhales her crudely, his nose nudging against the lace of her underwear before he uses his fingers to tug it aside so he can access the wet flesh of her cunt. “Does seeing me save you get you soaked?” he chuckles, though it’s muffled against her skin. He uses the tip of his nose to trace the seam of her sex, up and down and down and up before he latches to the nub of her clit with his talented mouth.
“Jesus,” she blurts out as she curls inward, as she fists his hair in surprise. He smacks her thigh - a hushed tut tut tut against the swell of her pussy. Each warm breath against her sends sparks driving up her belly.
“Stay open for me,” he mutters before he licks into her. The muscle of his tongue splits her. He thrusts it deep before easing back so that he can lap through the fever-hot slit of her folds. She jerks, shudders, and he loves it. He groans and grunts like an animal in heat. He eats her for what feels like hours - the lewd noises of his mouth working on her, his enjoyment of the whole act.
He finally pulls himself away just enough so that she can see that the lower half of his face is coated in a glossy sheen of her.
His gaze is hungry - unsettling, even - and he takes two of his fingers and plunges them into his mouth, wetting them with his own saliva before sinking them into her. He sits back on his heels as he does it. He studies her face as he pushes them inside with the same brute force he does with his cock. He twists his hand so that his thumb can reach her clit. He circles it tightly while his fingers rock into her - massaging her - stretching her apart.
“Fuck my hand a little, princess,” he taunts. “C’mon - it’ll feel good.”
She does. She can’t help it. Her hips chase his stupid thick fingers that are pumping into her. It’s all too fucking much. His handsome face alight with that slightly maniacal adoration he has for her. There’s blood on his suit. There’s blood in his hair. It makes his teeth white as the coin-silver circle of the moon above them.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs more to himself than to her. His eyes are directed at her cunt and his fingers moving inside it. Her dress is rucked up around his hand so he’s the only one who can see. She can feel it though. He’s making her too slippery - too fucking scorched. She can feel heat behind her nose. Her chest stutters - grows tight. Pressure building building building too damn high as he begins to fuck her faster - fingertips brushing the furthest part of her that’s its own knot of sensation.
“I’m - I’m gonna -”
She can’t breathe. She can’t swallow right. He stares at her, his lips twitching into a half-smile. His eyes so big and round as they jump from her stuffed pussy to her blissed-out, edged-out expression.
“Get it all wet,” he rumbles - his voice deeper than she’s ever heard it - as if it’s coming from the bottom of him. “Do it for me.”
He’s thrusting thrusting thrusting before he rips his fingers free, forcing a slip of liquid from her. She doesn’t scream; she makes a sort of choked-off noise because her tongue has gone numb. She hears it though. The sound of her bursting like an over-ripe fruit, her skin burning with a shame that Jake no doubt finds exquisite.
Don’t you dare look away from me. I wanted you to come like that. I wanted it and you did it like the good girl you are.
“Fucking Christ,” she whimpers - slightly embarrassed and slightly desperate for it again. He strokes her leg that is still hitched over his shoulder. He turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of her knee.
“Poor baby,” he husks. “Was that too much?”
She glares at him. She knows that he did it a bit out of spite.
Does Steven make you squirt like that? I highly doubt it.
Marc’s too stiff - too locked up.
You can let go with me. You can let go because I’m already gone.
Jake inches forward, lifting the skirt of her dress to savor the quivering, puffy flesh between her legs. His slippery tongue is like a lighter zapping her skin with tiny flicks of flame.
“I can’t,” she murmurs - flinching - trembling to pieces and she should know better. Jake fucking loves that - loves when she’s docile and pushed to the edge and brought to a climax that vibrates throughout her hull.
“You can,” he encourages as he licks her again - the tip of his tongue flicking her clit and making her twitch. “You can take it. You can always handle me.”
There’s still a dead man at the corner of her eye - a man he’d brutally murdered for her. All acts that he would do on repeat because it’s what he knows. Sex and death and her. He nuzzles into her thigh - his mouth making soft, coaxing noises.
“Let me, princess,” he croons. “Let Jake help you feel good.”
summary: marc made you a promise during your most recent encounter. one that he intends to keep, no matter where you two are.
a/n: *gif is not mine, it’s from pinterest* a couple people asked for a part two to my most recent fic, ‘it’s worth it, it’s divine’ and of course, after I got this idea, I had to. this fic can also be read on its own, you don’t need to read the other one to really know what’s happening (although both have smut and we’re all thirsty bitches so)
warnings: +18 content, like this, is pure porn, multiple orgasms, over-stimulation, oral sex (f receiving) honestly that’s all this fic is, fingering, size kink, lots of dirty talk, marc calls reader ‘baby’ again cause that’s his new brand, body worship, public sex, mentions of sexual acts from the other fic, more canon divergence
word count: 3k
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“Fuck, Marc, just—oh my go—“
A large hand places itself over your mouth, robbing your body of any breadth.
“Shh, you don’t want them to hear you, do you baby?”
You shake your head aggressively, feeling him smile against your core.
Then, for the second time in ten minutes, Marc gives his full attention to you, and goes back to what he was doing…
Eating you out in the hallway.
A sudden nudge of his nose makes you gasp, though it’s stunted as you bite your lip, nearly drawing blood. Your mouth is already raw from his earlier assault, but he’ll stop if you make any more noise. So all you can do is hold on.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
It hadn’t even been a full week since you last saw him. Since you two had sex against Hathor’s statue and you rode him until you both came beneath the glittery night sky; since you had the most mind-numbing, earth-shattering orgasm of your life.
You hadn’t seen him since neither of you really interacted with each other outside of the pyramids. But today was yet another impromptu Council meeting.
This time, apparently, it was because of Khonshu’s doing. Khonshu wanted to talk, which meant that Marc was going to be there, standing before all of you as though the two of you hadn’t fucked each other’s brains out a couple nights before.
Not that he was subtle anyway.
Hathor, of course, found it to be incredibly amusing. So much so, that she wouldn’t stop talking your ear off as Marc’s eyes and devilish smirk consistently found yours during the briefing.
It’s not that you were ashamed. Not at all. Fuck, if you could’ve, you would brag about that entire night to everyone you knew.
Everyone except the Ennead.
Because you’re positive Horus would be less than pleased to hear that Hathor’s avatar got dicked down in the main room, much less by the avatar of the god they hated the most.
So you kept quiet and averted Marc’s gaze as much as possible. But your lack of reciprocation did nothing to quell him. In fact, it only seemed to egg him on more. Making the entire meeting incredibly difficult to sit through.
You could feel his stare on you the entire time, even when Isis and Osiris took turns berating him. Even when Khonshu spoke through him, somehow his gaze never left yours. It was this feeling that limited your involvement in the conversation. Luckily Hathor didn’t try to make you talk, because you certainly wouldn’t be able to. You wouldn’t be able to speak to him without thinking of the look on his face as you sat on his cock. You wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about the way you screamed his name and begged him to let you cum.
So you kept your eyes to the ground, trying to both tune out the goddess's comments and the meeting at play to the best of your ability.
And then the Council was dismissed. Horus hadn’t even finished his sentence before you were out of your chair and heading for the hallway.
Why are we walking so fast? Don’t you wanna say hi to your friend?
Hathor’s voice was playful as she thudded behind you, laughing to herself as she went on and on about Marc.
You’re the only person I know who runs from someone who gave them a mind-blowing orgasm, ya know, is what she said to you.
You never responded to her, far too focused on navigating the halls as quickly as possible until you were free.
But then he cut you off.
And so here you were: your head thrown against the wall with Marc’s face stuffed between your thighs and that familiar tightening sensation returning like a blazing fire.
“Marc…” you call out to him. He chuckles, misinterpreting it as a moan. You move your hips against him (ignoring the twinge of pleasure that radiates down your legs), to get him off of you so that way you can reason with him.
You need to tell him that you want him. So fucking bad. But you can’t have him here. Especially with the other avatars still congregating in the next room.
“Marc, honey.” With a huff, Marc stands up straight, face and chest incredibly close to yours. The air around the two of you grows thin, and suddenly, you feel light-headed. “The other avatars, they’re still here. We can’t—you can’t…”
His hand tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear before settling his palm on the side of your cheek. “Baby, I’m sure they’ve done much worse things.” He leans down, nipping and suckling at the hollow of your throat. “Besides, they won’t know if you don’t make any noise. I made you a promise…” A finger comes up to your lips and separates them; the pad of his thumb dragging your bottom lip down. “And I am a man of my word. Now…can I go back to my meal? I promise to make you feel just as good as last time, baby.”
You whimper along with a barely-there nod; body involuntarily folding into his. He grins. “Wonderful.”
And with that, he falls to his knees again, yanking your shorts and underwear down from your knees to your ankles. He holds them until you step out of them, before neatly folding the garment beside you.
He starts just underneath your breasts, leaving scorching kisses through the fabric of your t-shirt as his hands run up and down your bare legs. They leave goosebumps in their wake as he slowly edges to where you want—need—him most. He descends down to your cunt, nudging his nose into every curve, slowly mouthing at your hip. His palm splays across the expanse of your thigh, kneading the flesh there.
He’s slow this time around. His desire is not as rushed or hungry. There’s a different sort of passion to his actions.
Puffs of his hot breath hit your pussy, until he’s widening the space between your thighs and kissing you right at the junction of your left thigh.
“Mhmm, missed you.” He mumbles to himself before moving in. His lips wrap around your clit, slowly massaging the little bundle of nerves until every one of them has been turned on. He hums at his own ministrations, and the vibration stings the base of your spine. He toys with you, the ashes he left in his wake a couple days ago reigniting in an instant.
Your hand shoots to his scalp, fingers carding through his hair mindlessly. A feeble attempt to make yourself busy as his mouth does its work.
All thought of the Ennead walking in on this leaves you as he laps at your dripping arousal. He acts like a man on death row like you’re his final meal and he’s going to enjoy it in every way he can. He’s messy; all tongue and teeth and feather-light kisses that make your bones shake. His shoulders hold your body in place against the wall as his head dips and moves in the low glow of the hallway light. You’re nearly off the floor; only his body, and your tiptoes supporting you, as he pulls your hips forward to meet his mouth.
The noises are obscene. A mix of grumbles, hums, and breathy moans echo around you until all you can hear is the sound of him enjoying the taste of you.
He promised you last time that the second time you came was going to be on his face. And with the way the pleasure sears through you, you guarantee that he’s going to get what he wants.
Your back arches into him as your grip on his hair tightens. You feel the way he tries to calm himself down at that. “You’re doing so good, baby.” Another swirl of his tongue. “So. Good… Can tell you’re close.”
You sigh, head lolling to the end of the hallway. You can hear the faint voices of the avatars—still present and chatting as you are being brought to an impending orgasm. It’s an interesting contrast; knowing that they are blissfully unaware of how Khonshu’s avatar has been bringing you to your climax for the second time in this fucking pyramid.
You do your best to be quiet; to keep your sounds to a minimum so as to not alert them. But then his tongue flicks your hole before it slips in and you're slapping your free palm against your mouth.
Your eyes are screwed shut as your hips gyrate at a much faster speed. “Marc…” you whisper, freeing your face of your hand as a particularly loud moan tickles the back of your throat. You hold it there. Desperately trying to keep your release under control. Except he makes it so very strenuous.
Because he’s dangling you over the edge. So close, that just one more stray movement would have you tumbling over the cliff, a mess of sweat and cries as you fuck his face.
“You’re holding back, baby. C’mon. Cum on my face. Wanna taste you for real.” You let out a low grunt at his words. He can still feel you holding your orgasm in, which seems to only frustrate him. And it’s that action alone that makes his hands tighten around your hips as his tongue moves in you faster. A desire to toss you over the cliff and watch as you unravel.
The feeling is all-consuming. You need to cum. So, so badly. But you won’t. You can’t. They’ll absolutely hear you if you do.
But then you feel his hips against the lower part of your leg and you realize he’s grinding himself on you. Marc dry-humps your bare leg, loudly groaning at the friction of his jeans and your trembling body. He’s getting himself off as he eats you out, and it’s that thought that has you crashing.
Your jaw falls slack, movements coming to a halt as you hold him against you. You white-knuckle the fist full of curls as you quiver beneath the weight of his body. Thankfully, no noise escapes you. Just the occasional squeak as your mouth stays open in a silent moan. You came on his face; the same way in which he promised you; the same way in which he wanted.
But he keeps at his pace. Keeps licking and sucking at you, even after your high has gone.
“Fuck, baby.” He moans. “That was good. You’re so good for me.” He bites at the curve of your hip bone, before soothingly licking at it. “But I think you can do better. Think you can be louder. What do you say hmm?” You squint at him through half-lidded eyes and a hazy mind. “Think you can give me a couple more?”
“Couple more?!” Your voice shrieks, the sudden attention of what he’s demanding rattling around your brain. And then you realize how loud you were, and you practically melt into the wall out of embarrassment.
You let out a loud sigh. “Fuck, Marc. Someone’s—you kept your promise. Please. You—you made me feel good, please. I promise.“
He clicks his tongue against his cheek as he shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think I did. I think…” he palms you then, the heel of his hand pressing deeply into you. “I think I need to make sure that you feel good.”
His fingers tease your throbbing entrance mercilessly as he awaits a response. Though you come up with nothing as you rack your brain for something. Anything. Part of you knows the dangers of you getting in trouble by a far-too-curious Council member, and wants to protest Marc’s efforts. But the other part of you—the part that is still incredibly turned on by the way he pats your folds like an instrument—knows you never wanted him to stop. You wanted him to pull every ounce of pleasure he possibly can from you.
And that’s when you make your decision.
Looking down at him, you inhale deeply, hoping it’ll give you as much confidence as possible. “Give it to me. However many you can just—please…fuck me, Marc. Fuck me.”
He’s stoic for a moment. A brief flicker of shock until his face contorts into a wide grin. “Are you sure, baby? I don’t think I can stop if we get goin’.”
Raising an eyebrow, you bring your hand to the back of his head, eagerly pushing him into you. “I want to cum on your face.”
“…God, I thought you’d never ask.”
Figuratively and literally, he dives back into you. Your lips are swollen and puffy and you’re nearly numb as he continues to eat you out. There’s hardly any build-up this time. Instead, he’s just licking everything, everywhere until you can hear your wetness. It’s dirty—fucking filthy as his head bobs between your thighs.
The stimulation is blinding; boiling beneath your skin to the point where your heartbeat feels like it’s coming from your throbbing pussy. He paws at you, desperate to taste every inch of you. Desperate to hear every sound possible come from you. He flattens his tongue; swirls it around your aching bud, nips, sucks, and shoves it back into your entrance. He falls into a rhythm; a mix-up of different actions that make you want to cry. “Fucking shit, Marc. More, please. Wanna’ cum.”
He doesn’t stop; determined to know every single thing about you. Inside and out. To memorize the way you cum. To know the way you feel tightening around every part of him. To have your thighs shake around his head; to have you gush on his tongue. He continues his pattern, ever-so-slightly increasing his speed with the pitch of your moans. “Fuck, fuck. Marc, I’m—holy shit, I’m gonna cum, gonna—I’m coming! Fuck, I’m coming!”
You nearly fall off the wall into him as your orgasm rips through you. You scream, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he fucks you through your high. You’re gasping in between each wave; each ebb and flow of your release affects a different part of your body until you fall limp and your grip on his body ceases.
Immediately—as though the man doesn’t need to breathe—he’s standing up, body fully engulfing you as he breathes into your neck. He’s huge (you know he is, every part of him). And the fact that your body seems so small in comparison to his, makes you wet all over again. “Want one more, baby. Think you can do that?”
You don’t respond. Simply, you just crash your mouth into his. You taste yourself on his tongue as it explores everything it can. The act is filthy; painfully sexy as you groan through flash images and reminiscent feelings. Somehow you can’t get enough. Your body feels like it’s floating. It’s nearly in complete ecstasy. But you know have another one in you. You’re not fully satisfied. You can feel the desperation for one more release deep in your bones.
You just need one more.
You don’t speak, at least you don’t think you do. You don’t voice your desires into existence. But regardless, Marc knows. Because then he’s dragging two fingers through your slit, collecting your cum before dipping the digits into your aching hole. Your chest heaves almost instantly. Your body opens itself up to him, fully allowing itself to feel everything. To feel the building of your third orgasm.
Fuck, just one more…
He pumps his fingers a couple times inside you before curling them near your cervix, mimicking a come-hither motion. You moan into his mouth, his throat eager to swallow every little sound you make.
“God, baby, just like that.” Your eyes have rolled into the back of your head at this point as he uses his thumb to stroke you while his other fingers pump in and out. In and out.
“That feel good, honey?” He ponders, feigning innocence. You can tell he’s watching the way his fingers fully sheathe themselves in your pussy. The way they disappear, then reappear covered in the remnants of your orgasm and the perpetual arousal; the beginnings of your third climax. And fuck you’re almost there. You’re so stimulated, so fucking horny that he’s already brought you there. You’ve started to ride his hand, wanting to feel him as deep as possible, until you’re sore and bedridden and can’t think about anything other than how hard he makes you cum.
“Fuck.” He growls into your neck. “Gonna cum again, baby?”
You nod, grinding down onto his fingers as quickly as your aching body can muster. The sounds of his wrist slapping against your mound drive you mad; crazy for the way they move inside you. You can feel the bend of his knuckles and the base of his fingers where they meet his palm. They curl and glide with ease as he rubs you in just the right way. His actions are fast. So frenzied and erotic. So deliciously hot that you can’t tell the difference between the heavy pounding of his fingers or the growing knot right above your pussy.
“Harder,” you cry. “Fuck, Marc, don’t stop. M’gonna cum.”
“Open your eyes, baby. Wanna watch you.”
Willing yourself to open them, your fingers go down to his hand buried between your folds. You grab it, feeling the way the muscles flex and ripple beneath the skin as they move with you. Gasping, you arch into his chest, maintaining eye contact as you watch his pupils dilate.
And then the coil breaks. It’s a hard snap that renders the lower half of your body completely devoid of any feeling. Whining, you shove your head into his neck, biting his shoulder as your vision goes blurry. Your climax is hard and goes away just as quickly as it came. Yet your body still shudders. Your contentment lives in the afterglow of your euphoria and allows you to move slowly against his hand until you come back down from space.
Marc presses kiss after kiss—all gentle and loving—into your hair. He doesn’t remove his fingers from your aching pussy, but he doesn’t move them either. Just keeps them there for a moment as he breathes in your scent.