Fortunatelyangrycheesecake - Grey's

I forgot that I had Choso x Yuki fics but these panels gave me the perspective of Yuki back

I did it for Kim.

*going to jail*

@tal_cf17 prep on X

Reckless Behavior - Part 2

Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Hange Zoë (Attack on Titan) Rating: Explicit. MDNI Warnings: Nipple play. Vaginal Fingering. Oral Sex. Unprotected Sex. Additional tags: She/Her pronouns for Hange Zoë on this one. Wordcount: 3k Read part one here >>This is smut. Minors please do not interact<<

Levi was a skilled man, but right now he was struggling with the small sphere that refused to leave the confines of Hange’s shirt. Of course, the button was just a scapegoat, the real culprits being his hands, which trembled in anticipation as they revealed new inches of her skin. 

It was conflicting. His mind wanted to savor this moment, to commit every gaze, sound, and touch to his memory. Levi wanted to hold time in his hands, unroll it like a ball of yarn so that each moment would last forever and tomorrow would always be one night away. His body, on the other hand, was taken with desire. The rampant beast that for long Levi had managed to stifle with layers upon layers of ‘It's never gonna happen’ was now thrashing fiercely inside him, threatening to burst its prison of flesh and devour the Squad Leader right then and there.

Levi let his forehead fall to her shoulder, overwhelmed by the dispute between the expectations he had built in his mind and the reality that his own flesh was imposing on him. The captain inhaled deeply, letting the smell of oily hair and old books wash over him.

The aroma had inhabited the captain’s desires for months now. It was difficult for Levi to focus on the Senior Officers’ meetings sometimes, especially after Hange picked up the habit of sitting next to him. A couple of minutes in and Levi's mind would be invaded by the image of himself buried in the crook of her neck. Erwin’s voice would fade in the distance as her panting and soft whimpers echoed in the corners of his mind. Levi thought, in those moments, what he wouldn’t give to know how it would feel to drown in Hange, what she’d look like while he was pounding into her, what she would sound like as she was coming around him.

His heart picked up the pace, fueled by the fresh memory of the delicious sounds Hange had been making for him so far.

He would find all of that out today.

As the thought occurred to him, the final button was undone.

Time slowed down as Levi took in the scene before him. Both sides of Hange’s shirt opened like a curtain revealing the skin of her neck, reddened in the places his tongue and teeth had explored just moments ago, some purplish spots proving his suctions weren’t as soft as he had believed them to be. She looked so fucked out already. Messed-up hair. Flushed cheeks. Red, swollen lips. Hange was the one against the wall, but her eyes were that of a predator that cornered its prey.

Her chest heaved up and down, and Levi was hypnotized by her breasts. Silky skin, lighter than her usual complexion, contrasted with the dark brown areolas that sat atop it. His mouth watered at the tempting sight. Even though they weren’t very big, Hange’s tits looked plump and heavy, like ripe fruits ready to be tasted. 

Levi wet his lips, eyes glued to her hardened nipples,  “Can I-”

“Yeah” She breathed out through a smile, and when his gaze lifted to meet hers, her grin faltered into a pitiful desperate expression “Please, Levi.”

A shiver ran across his skin, raising every hair on his body and making his cock twitch inside his underwear. He dove back into her, hands kneading at each of her breasts, lips locked around the velvety skin of one of the brown nubs. Hange’s fingers grabbed at his hair and her moans were music to his ears. Levi sucked thoroughly on her nipple, then let his tongue swirl around the flesh, before pulling on it with his teeth, which elicited a throaty “fuck” from her. He replaced his mouth with his fingers, moving his lips to the other side to do the same thing.

Levi wanted to protest when Hange let go of the firm grip she had on his locks, but the captain had a mouthful at the moment. Then, she started fidgeting a bit, one leg dancing between their bodies, then the other. When Levi finally let go of the task that was keeping him occupied, Hange was already shaking the remaining pant leg off of her feet. With a final kick in the air, the item of clothing flew away, landing on the floor near the wall adjacent to them. The shirt joined it next. So much for being careful not to wrinkle their uniforms…

But his mind didn’t stay long on the evidence of their rendezvous, not when Hange Zoë stood before him in nothing but panties. Not when she had that gorgeous wide smile that made him go to heaven and back every time he caught a glimpse of it. Levi stepped forward, one of his hands unceremoniously sliding down her stomach and right under the waistband of the undergarment. His eyes were fixed on her face as his fingers explored the outside, feeling the prickling of her thick bush and the way it contoured her slit, then the warmness inside, the frailness of that naked skin, and then-

Fuck.

So fucking wet.

Hange’s eyes fluttered closed and Levi melted away when his fingers finally dove in between her folds.

Her head fell onto his shoulder, her panting occasionally broken by a whimper, as Levi alternated between dipping his middle finger into the pool that gathered at her entrance and rubbing circles on her clit with his coated digit. Her lips were so close to his ear, every little gasp or moan falling into it and traveling straight to his cock, which he’d unconsciously started rutting against her leg. 

It felt so good.

A little more of this and Levi was sure he would make a mess on his uniform, and if the way Hange’s body was starting to wriggle was any indication, she was close too. 

Levi’s wish was to speed up his ministrations, have her come on his fingers, and then in any and whichever other way she’d like, but, for once, reason spoke louder. After all those months fantasizing about this, stroking himself late at night in the communal bathroom over the thought of the faces she’d make during her high, he couldn’t have Hange hiding in his neck when that finally happened. That wouldn’t do.

Still, it was hard to stop.

Levi let his finger slide down from her clit to push at her entrance, and the way her slick walls sucked him in had him lightheaded. Even though the captain was a disciplined man, It took him every ounce of restraint he had to remove himself from her. 

Hange started to protest but her words became mumbles and then silence fell as she stared at the digit disappearing between his lips. Levi’s eyes fluttered closed and he moaned at the tangy scent and the slightly salty taste of her. 

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered, hoisting Hange up by her thighs and diving into a deep kiss. She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms holding on to the back of his neck and his shoulder. 

Hange rutted her hips against his clothed cock, following the rhythm of their tongues, her warmness and wetness radiating even through the fabric.

Levi moved them away from the wall, turning around to let her fall onto the mattress, ass right at the edge of the bed. He pulled her panties down her gorgeous long legs, taking a minute to marvel at the sight of her glistening pussy before falling to his knees. 

He caressed Hange’s thighs, then pushed them down until they were flush against the mattress. Levi thanked the flexibility the Survey Corps training gave its soldiers as he watched her open herself as much as she could to him.

Hange shivered at Levi's kisses on her inner thighs and at the light circles his thumb traced on the sensitive skin near her knees. He made a path towards her hips and lay a final kiss on her slit. Only then he licked a stripe from her entrance to her clit. Levi closed his eyes for a second and he let out a throaty groan as he finally got a taste of her straight from the font.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Four Eyes” he breathed against her pussy. “You’re so good.”

Hange arched her back away from the bed and grabbed his sheets as his tongue prodded at her hole. Then, she was arching in the opposite way, back pressed hard against the mattress, head up, fingers once again tangled in Levi’s hair, holding his head in place as his lips latched on to her clit, soft tongue alternating between flicking it up and down and making circles all around it. She seemed to like the circles best.

Levi sped up his pace, marveling at the sounds Hange was making for him. Her sharp breaths were slowly and steadily being replaced by moans, which grew louder and quicker at each roll of his tongue. As her back started to rise from the mattress once again, and as her hands pressed his head down harder against her pussy, he knew she was close. His eyes shoot up to her, ready to burn the image into his memory. Her face was red and sweaty, eyes shut tightly, mouth agape, lips so swollen and glossy from their kissing. Hange looked like a goddamn goddess and Levi was worshipping her the way she deserved.

Hange's moans became shorter and shorter building up until a drawn-out whimper took over. This was it. Levi pressed his tongue flat and hard against her clit, and her whole body tensed up under him. Her legs shivered and her thighs tried to rise from the bed, but Levi pushed them down with his palms again, his tongue now pressing small firm circles on her clit, dragging out her orgasm 'til the last drop.

Her whine morphed into an anguished cry of pleasure as Levi’s tongue gradually slowed down, still firm against her oversensitive nub. When he finally stopped, Hange was pushing his forehead away from her. He sat back on his ankles to watch her with a cocky smile on the corner of his lips, her arousal smeared all over his cheeks and chin.

“Levi,” Hange panted “I had no idea you could fuck like that.”

“I haven’t fucked you,” Levi stood up, then added: “yet.” 

His reply made her giggle, but as Hange sat on the bed and glanced at his pants, her eyes widened in silent panic.

Levi looked down to find his briefs and part of his open fly damp, with whitish stains starting to form in the drier parts. His blood froze during the split-second he believed he had cum in his pants just from eating Hange out, but, to his relief, it was the result of her rubbing against him earlier.

Given his natural clean-freak disposition, Levi would’ve thought something like this would annoy him, instead, it made his cock throb under the soiled pants.

“Sorry, Levi! I’ll get them cleaned when we-”

Levi took a step forward to hover over his colleague, one hand pushing her torso back to the bed, his knee nudging one of her legs to the side so he could shove his middle and ring fingers into her. Despite the abruptness of this intrusion, he slid in without resistance. Hange gasped and he cursed as her walls clamped around him. 

“Looks like you’re ready,” he said, making a hook movement with his fingers as he pulled them out. Levi removed his shirt and hung it on one of the pegs behind his door. He used his ruined pants to wipe his hands and face, then discarded them next to Hange’s clothes on the floor.

There were no barriers between them now, no secrets, Levi thought, as he stood naked between Hange’s legs. Her hands traveled up his abdomen, soft palms tracing his muscles, making him shudder under her light touch. She pulled him closer for a kiss while retreating to lay further back on the bed. When they reached their destination, she shifted her weight to the side, showing him what she wanted.

Levi obeyed, laying on his back as she positioned herself above him, legs on each side of his hips, wet pussy lips hugging his dick, pressing it against his stomach.

Hange started out slow, rolling her hips back and forth, the sway of her body so fluid it had Levi hypnotized. He tried to get a hold of her breasts, but Hange caught his wrists, trapping them behind his head. She lowered herself on his chest to lay little pecks on his lips, which soon became deep kisses. She moaned in his mouth each time his tip poked at her clit. 

Hange freed one of her hands to play with Levi's chest. He watched unblinking as she dipped her thumb and index finger in her mouth before trapping one of his nipples between them. She twiddled with nub and Levi couldn’t hold back his moans, the sensation completely overwhelming. 

“So sensitive,” she smiled down at him, and the sight was so divine Levi wondered if maybe he’d died and was in heaven. He was so entranced he didn’t have time to react when Hange guided him to her entrance and sank down.

“Fuck! Han-” his words melted into an incomprehensible mewl.

An eternity fantasizing during the Senior Officers’ meetings wouldn’t have prepared him for how fucking fantastic it felt to be inside Hange. She was impossibly tight and yet it was so easy to slide in and out of her. Hange didn’t give him time to get used to her grip, setting a steady pace from the get-go. Levi would occasionally snap his hips to meet her thrusts, and every time he did so her pussy clenched around him, making him see stars.

The best part was feeling all of this while watching Hange’s face contort in pleasure, her usually innocent big brown eyes, now half-lidded, shutting hard whenever he hit some secret spot deep inside of her. When her lips parted to let out a moan, he couldn’t help but capture them in a kiss, swallowing her sounds. The feeling of her tongue gliding through his somehow made the pleasure he was feeling skyrocket. If heaven felt like this, he didn’t care if he died tomorrow in the expedition.

His soul just about left his body when out of nowhere Hange tightened more than he thought possible around him. Levi looked up in confusion, only to find a mischievous grin on her face. She did that on purpose and oh fuck-

Again.

And again.

Hange kept this up, bouncing faster and faster on his cock. Indescribable pleasure built up in him, the sensation so intense and overwhelming that Levi didn’t even have it in him to moan. So he panted, louder and louder, quicker and quicker, until, with a final long squeeze Hange tipped him over the edge, and then he was shuddering, spilling all he had inside of her. 

They lay side by side for several minutes, first catching their breath, and then breathing silently. The mattress shifted when Hange propped herself to get up, but Levi got a hold of her wrist before she could leave the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going, Four Eyes?”

“To clean myself up” she replied, moving to leave the bed, but Levi wouldn’t budge. “What? I thought my tidiness would make you proud” She joked, getting an amused puff from him, but his hand remained in place.

“Stay. Please.”

Hange lay back again, facing him, and Levi sighed in relief. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer to bury his face in the crook of her neck, his nose drowning in her hair. His lips found the shell of her ear to plant his confession “I wanna go again”, to which she replied with a chuckle and a light caress of his hands. A truer confession, however, would be that he simply didn’t want this night to end. 

“As much as I’d like to, I gotta be able to ride my horse tomorrow”

Right.

Tomorrow. 

His thoughts must have been made transparent by his expression because Hange’s playful demeanor changed to a serious one. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling in silence for long minutes.

“Do you think we’ll ever see this thing through?” She said, finally. 

He tilted his head to the side, and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Titans. The walls. These expeditions” Hange elaborated, looking at the ceiling again, “I know these things take time, generations even, but I can’t help but wonder if we’ll see an age without Titans in our lifetime.”

“No.”

She smiled weakly at his honest reply and the expression looked so out of place on her face. Levi’s heart felt suddenly heavy. 

“I thought you liked your research.”

“I do, it’s just- wouldn’t you rather have a choice, Levi?”

He would, but having grown without the luxury of taking anything, not even sunlight, for granted, he knew better than to entertain false hopes. He should be honest.

“Maybe we have a chance,” is what Levi found himself saying, instead. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll kill every last titan outside of the walls or you’ll find some secret poison or come up with some incredible weapon that will wipe them out. Maybe tomorrow will be our last expedition.”

She smiled a strange smile, melancholic and complicit, her eyes reflecting exactly what he was feeling. It was a conversation without words.

Thanks for lying for me. Thanks for lying with me.

Hange turned on her side, this time with his back to him, and pulled one of his arms close to her chest.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Hiiiii I love your Steven x reader fanfic u really deserve all the followers, it’s really well made.

Well I wanted to see if I could request a smut, since I’ve fell practically in love with the character of Steven, I wan te d to ask if u could write a fanfic where he is really submissive and shy, and the fem reader is more like dominant and teasing with him.

Nothing more, I will let you do the rest, I know u will amaze me either way. Thank u so muchhh

Devotion || Steven Grant x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> Word count: 2.8k

-> Steven’s late night routine of solving the Rubik’s cube has become somewhat of a guilty pleasure of yours. [ I hope that you enjoy this fic that I wrote! Thank you so much for your support and love on my previous fics, and entrusting me to write this idea. Big thanks to @foxilayde for beta reading and editing, I love you! ❤️]

Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!

TW/CW: Can you tell I have an Oscar Isaac hand kink? Sub!Steven and SoftDomme!Reader. Fingering, use of the word ‘Mistress’. Yet another relatively mild fic for me!

Shk, shk, shk.

The sound pulls your attention from the poetry book that you borrowed from Steven’s shelf of miscellaneous works to keep yourself busy. It wasn’t often that your concentration was compromised by noise, after all, you had been sitting beside the fish tank. The buzzing of the filter and the trickle of running water pushed to the back of your mind as you read through each sonnet.

Usually, when you participate in something you enjoy, such as reading, you find it hard to shake your undivided attention. Steven once commented that “bombs could blitz London for the first time in almost eighty years, and you would still insist upon finishing the page”. He certainly wasn’t wrong- there is a discipline to your leisure time. It’s not often you can carve out a moment of peace for yourself.

The sound of Steven solving a Rubik’s Cube over and over though? That is something you simply can not ignore.

Perhaps it’s obscene for you to find such a mundane thing so intensely *erotic*. You can’t help but be captivated by the way his nimble fingers rotate each layer of colored blocks with such practised speed. His gaze is intense as he navigates the cube, though you know he doesn’t need to study it so closely: Steven’s skills are such that he can solve it without even looking.

Despite your best efforts, you can’t control the urge. Your eyes leave the pages of poetry that had captivated your attention, and instead focus on something a lot more aesthetically pleasing and less mentally taxing. Your pupils seem to drag your vision towards the scene in front of you entirely against your will. To the shk shk shk.

Upon seeing it though, you can’t exactly say you regret yielding to your compulsions. Steven’s head rests back against a navy blue pillow, sprawled across his bed in a white cotton T-shirt and grey boxers, bathed in the silver moonlight that leaks across the mattress from the window that he had left open in order for you to read- despite you insisting that the light from the fish tank was sufficient enough. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks absently at the ceiling, his mind clearly elsewhere.

The sight is stunning, but your eyes zero-in on something even more engrossing. Steven balances the edge of the Rubik’s cube on the meat of his right palm, holding the little puzzle and solving it single-handedly. The joints of his fingers bend and crease as he reaches across the width of the plastic cuboid; tanned knuckles turning a pale shade with the stretch and the pressure as he turns the selected row to its desired position.

In the low lighting, the veins in the back of his hand are a pale greeny-blue colour against his olive skin and they stretch down to the joint of his wrist. His metacarpal bones protrude under his skin with certain movements, before disappearing back into his flesh upon his return to a less strenuous hand position.

Upon completing the puzzle, Steven’s stunning coffee-colored eyes glance down at the cube. He pinches opposite corners with his thumb and forefinger, rotating the game with his middle fingertip on an axis to assess and ensure that each of the colours are settled in their relevant groups. When satisfied, he undoes all of the work, scrambling the rows, this time with two hands, and beginning again with his head settled against the pillow as he stares at the beige ceiling.

“Steven?” You sound his name. It feels odd in your dry mouth, as though the syllables don’t fit between your lips. There’s a pulse thrumming in your chest and between your thighs as you feel your composure begin to slip.

Steven doesn’t hear you, your voice barely surpassing the volume of a whisper. Instead, the shk, shk, shk of the cube rows falling into place answer you in your expectant silence. The pad of his thumb strokes down the ridge of the cuboid with gentle precision and it’s enough to push you over the edge.

“Steven.”

The springs of Steven’s mattress creak slightly as his body jolts upright, shocked out of his concentration. There’s nothing on earth that could prevent him from focusing on you when you use *that* tone of voice with him. The kind that ramps up his blood pressure tenfold and straightens his spine to attention.

“Yes?” He responds cautiously, not entirely sure what he had done to deserve that timbre of voice. His eyes settle on your face, searching for some understanding of just how he had turned the atmosphere in the room without even realising it.

“Are you intentionally teasing me?” You ask him, tone even once again as you close the book that had settled in your lap. You don’t bother to bookmark the sonnet Steven had ‘interrupted’, the poem abandoned amongst the pages as you return to its rightful place on the bookshelf. Like a child with a Christmas present in April, it no longer held your attention. You’ve been gifted something far more fun to play with.

The panic that settles into Steven’s expression makes you feel as though your blood is fizzing beneath your skin.

“Tea- No! No, I wouldn’t dream of it, I- Have I been doin’ something wrong?” He stumbles over his words as he tries to justify a crime he didn’t even know he was committing. He drops the Rubik’s cube blindly on his bedside table, unintentionally showing his utter devotion to pleasing you. You know that Steven would throw himself at your feet and praise you until his knees bled if that was what you desired.

Standing with effortless grace from your chair, you’re careful to articulate that preeminence throughout the subtle movements of your body as you pass the floor towards the bed. The barely-there sway of your hips that makes Steven’s eyes follow the motion with his eyes left and right like a pendulum is how you know you’ve got him.

“I think… you got tired of me not paying attention to you, so you decided you were going to show me how quick those fingers are. I think,” you reach his side of the bed and bend slightly to rest your hands on the duvet. “You were trying to show off.” You point out with a playfully accusatory tone. Steven sits up in bed, staring up at you with painfully innocent eyes.

“No, I- just the puzzles, help me stay up…” Steven is quick to try to correct the record, motioning haphazardly around the room when he trails off, as if wordlessly filling in the gaps left in his answer: that staying awake keeps Marc at bay.

“Oh, they help you… stay up, huh?” You teasingly muse, eyes dragging down the length of his body in an attempt to make him even more jittery. It works.

“Oh no- bollocks- not like that!” You love seeing him struggle to form the words, to explain himself. You know it’s because he’s thinking of all the things you could do to him if he said yes. His words won’t leave his throat because pictures of you have infested his mind make him slow to form coherent sentences of explanation.

“Then what? Tell me, Steven. What is it like?” You whisper, quickly shifting the mood of the room again by taking hold of Steven’s face. His chin is cupped by your palm, perfectly manicured fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his cheeks and forcing his lips to purse. He looks adorable this way, owly-eyed and cheeks flushed as he hears your voice drop an octave.

His cheeks radiate heat and his eyes are cast low, down in his lap, as he finally answers. His voice is soft, words a little slurred and mispronounced with the awkward grip you have on his face, pushing the inside of his cheeks into the sides of his teeth. “‘S whatever you like, Mistress.” It takes you a little by surprise, the readiness Steven has to submit to your will, so much so that a long moment of silence washes over the two of you.

In the quiet, Steven doesn’t move an inch, eyes stuck to his lap as he impatiently awaits your answer. His body is board-stiff like his spine has been glued in place, and his face burns a light mahogany. It’s hard not to become engrossed by the image, to want to take a photo of the way his lips are smushed together in your grip. He’s so pretty like this.

“Mistress can think of a much better use for your fingers. Don’t you agree, Steven?” You ask, loosening your fingers and brushing your thumb against the curve of his cheekbone, allowing him to nod in earnest. You’ll forgive him for not responding verbally, for not using honorifics. This time. His eyelashes flutter as his iris’ flick back up to your face. He looks at you like you’ve offered him a winning lottery ticket when you release your grip. “Get to work, then.”

Steven reaches for you swiftly, nodding his head with enthusiasm as he anchors his hands on your hip bones. He doesn’t pull you towards him as you had expected, instead he pushes you back, forcing you to take a few steps in order to put some space between you and the bed.

“What are you doing? I asked you to use your fingers.” You question gently, and Steven climbs from the mattress onto the sandy, hardwood floor. He’s on his knees in front of you as he pulls the waistband of your pyjama shorts down over your otherwise naked hips and helps you step out of the discarded clothing. The realisation that you’re not wearing any panties causes him to whimper and the sound causes heat to pool in your abdomen.

Failing to answer immediately, Steven’s fingers wrap around your calf. He massages the muscle while gently lifting your thigh over his shoulder. Your heel is pressing into his spine and his other palm is careful to steady the foot on which you are balanced by resting a firm hand just above the back of your straight knee. “I wanna watch what I’m doin’ Mistress.”

Before you’re even able to fully digest exactly what Steven had meant, he’s sweeping those deft fingers through your hot, slick folds. The pleasure that rips through you so suddenly makes your quiet moan of bliss sound so distant. Your knees tremble as he drags the length of his index finger, tip to knuckle, across your clit, and you find yourself scrambling to grab ahold of his curls in a desperate attempt to steady yourself.

“Ohh~” You gasp breathlessly, head tilting backward as the spark of ecstasy skits down your spine from the base of your neck to the tips of your toes. Steven’s fingers are delicate, his finger joints adding an extra layer of sensation as they pass over your clit with an effortlessness akin to the way his fingers work that fucking Rubik’s cube.

“This good, Mistress?” Steven asks softly as he daintily sweeps the tips of his fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness on his fingerprints before using the lubrication to circle your clit in quicker, smoother circles. He knows how you love it when he calls you that, always using the softest, neediest voice when he speaks each syllable.

You struggle to think of a response, as though every possible answer, verbal or otherwise, has entirely slipped your mind. The hazy defocusing of your vision is disorientating- your eyes are crossing and you no longer know north from south, left from right.

Steven craves verbal validation, you know this well, but you can’t grant him a “good boy”, not with the way his fingers twirl you with a shk shk shk and undo you like a puzzle.

The only thing you have to offer him in return for his skilled efforts is the validating grip of your shaking hands in his ebony locks.

Under any other circumstances, Steven’s face being so close to your cunt without eating you out would be embarrassing. But when you glance down at him, double vision slowly focusing on his expression, you can’t help but note the reverence that blooms in his irises as he gazes at your pussy. He is watching with rapt interest- your clit, your folds, your puffy throbbing flesh, all gleaming with slick in the moonlight.

Steven always manages to make you feel worshipped without uttering a single prayer (though he is on his knees now). His eyes are evidence enough of his utter devotion and admiration. He would never allow you to think for even a second that you were not divine.

“St-Steven,” you gasp as his finger continues its steady, circular motions that pull your pleasure tighter, “Inside.”

There’s a hesitation in the repetitive sweep of your clit.

“In... side- what? In- I don’t…”

His halting voice voice drops slowly like syrup dripping from a pot as you take ahold of his wrist. He’s playing with you, acting innocent, and you don’t have a single fuck to give that he’s flipping the game, flipping you like a cube in his palm, You tilt his hand by pushing on the meat of his palm with your thumb, angling his fingers just right where you’re soaking, where his fingertips slip inside of you to feel the source of your need.

“Oh-… Ohh. Yeah- You mean…”

You swear, you swear you see a self satisfied smile behind Steven’s eyes as he works his fingers inside of your cunt ever so slowly, teasing the give of your walls around his digits. He can feel your cunt flutter around him, your quads trembling under his palm where he continues to hold your unsteady body upright.

Hips rocking forward onto his knuckles, you whine softly in a wordless attempt to tell Steven ‘yes, just like that, you’re doing so good’. Spurred on by the little noises that leak from your throat, he curls his fingers inside you, searching for that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes, the spot that he knows is going to buckle your knees.

“Like this?” He asks softly, looking between your eyes and your glistening cunt. You know he doesn’t need to ask, the bliss is written across your expression in the form of your mouth pulled into a weak ‘o’ shape and your eyes rolling back into your skull as the bone of his knuckle presses up against your clit weakly. He’s being cheeky. You’ll remember this.

For now, though, you’re entirely helpless to the swell of your orgasm that he raises so easily from your cunt. The slip of his fingers through your folds, the wet punctuating rhythm is violent in your ears as you teeter on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm. Breathing raggedly at the ceiling, your head tilts back, bending your body in a half-heart arc and your toes curl into the delineating sand.

“S-Steven-“ you gasp weakly, thighs beginning to shake as he eases the orgasm out of you with such practised elegance- that it feels like a complete separation from his nervous, innocent personality. It’s moments like this, with his thumb pressed to your clit, and deft strong strokes twisting inside you, that you thank Marc for Steven’s subconscious skills because you’re cumming.

You’re cumming, and it’s blinding. White flashes across your eyes, almost like tv static as the image of Steven watching you come apart between your knees blurs before you, then doubles. It’s impossible to tell in the throes of your orgasm, but tears are building and spilling from your eyes. Steven’s fingers are drenched as they work you through each wave, the wet sucking sounds of his fingers guiding your cunt through the gates of heaven bounces off the walls of the moonlit flat.

Realisation that his free hand had been the only thing to keep your feet steady sinks in as the roiling pleasure fades to a simmer. Steven presses his palm to the small of your back, no doubt stopping you from falling backward in your rapture. Perhaps you should expect nothing less, but the small action makes your heart swell at the knowledge that he’ll always look after you.

“Hah…” Your chest heaves as you chase air with the expansion of your lungs. Each dose of oxygen adds to the afterglow that seems to settle so deep in your body and coats your bones like honey. “Aren’t I more fun to play with than some puzzle cube?” The joke makes Steven grin, his eyes crease in the corners the way they only do when he hears or sees something he truly finds funny.

“More easy to solve, too.” he chuckles, stroking his knuckles down the insides of your thighs in a gentle action to ease you down from the clouds he had catapulted you to. He looks so pretty for you like this, on his knees with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose-

Wait. What?

You slap his shoulder playfully, limbs limp with exhaustion. “Take that back!”

He kisses the top of your thigh tenderly, “Only joking, mistress.”

The way he runs his nose softly along the top of your thigh is a stark contrast to the bulge in his boxers and the wet patch in the fabric where his cock had leaked precum: the side effects of taking you apart and putting you back together again.

“I think it’s my turn to play with you.” You murmur softly, caressing the curve of his cheekbone and pushing your fingers through his curly locks with a smile. “On the bed, baby. Let’s see if Mistress can’t make you cum one-handed too.”

END

🏷 Taglist: @polaroidpetal @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @crystalchrysalis19 @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart

RED FLAGS ║ PART 4

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)

Summary: Steven disappears and you fall into a rabbit hole trying to decode Marc’s secret message. Or alternatively: Marc needs to communicate better. 

Rating: really gratuitous and detailed sex, writers are clearly super horny.

Warning/content: anxiety, spiraling thoughts, worrying about safety of a partner, clumsy sex-shanigans, the writers being way too obsessed with how freakin' beautiful Steven is.

Word Count: 8.1k

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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You can’t believe Steven’s gone.

Flinging the quilt aside, you leap out of bed and dash into the loo. Against all logic, you’re hoping that he’ll be standing in front of the sink with a  spare toothbrush in his mouth, ready to wish you good morning through a frothy toothpaste smile. 

He’s not. 

There’s no one here but you. 

Your home is a cramped studio flat with barely enough space for a bed, small sitting area, and an even smaller kitchenette. If Steven were still here, he’d be in plain sight, but somehow you find yourself turning cushions like some kind of madwoman. Inspecting every corner of the room, as if Steven might be hiding behind your washing machine like a goddamn leprechaun. 

There’s nothing. No note left on your kitchen counter. No clothing left behind. No promised breakfast. There’s not even a text message on your phone letting you know that he had to leave early for work. 

With shaky fingers and your heart beating painfully loud in your ears, it takes you three tries to unlock your phone and select Steven from the list of contacts. You lift the phone to your ear and hold your breath, staring blindly at the mess you’ve made of your flat as it rings and rings and rings.

Finally, there’s a click and then Steven’s cheerful voice in your ear, and for the briefest of seconds, relief rushes through your veins. 

“Hiya, this is Steven. I’m not in right now, but leave me a message, and I’ll ring you back as soon as I can. Laters, Gators.” 

You stare at the phone in disbelief. Bile rises until you can taste it, sharp and burning, on your tongue. 

Steven going missing out of the blue on you is hardly novel, but his random disappearances have never made you feel like this before. Experience dictates that Steven will come back safe and sound in a day or two (or a week or two). Right now, however, that knowledge does nothing to dull the panic clawing at your throat, and it takes you a minute before you realise why this is so much worse than all the times that have come before. 

In the past, the worst case scenario was that he’d ghosted you. One more wanker who’d decided to dump you without so much as a courtesy text. But now you know better. Steven wouldn’t do that. He’s not disappearing on you by choice. He’s gone because someone else, Marc has taken over. And taken him away.

Now, you’re pacing the length of your flat, nearly in tears, the worst case scenario something you cannot even begin to fathom. 

For all you know, this Marc person has decided that you’ve gotten too close to the truth. Maybe he came to the conclusion that it’s too dangerous to have you around Steven. Maybe, last night was the last time you’ll ever get to see him. 

Back and forth you go across the room, wearing down the carpet pile as your mind spirals with worry. You pop the band on your old wristwatch in and out of place as you go, nails digging into your wrist as you tug at it until you slip and the metal pin jabs your wrist. 

Then you spot it: the writing on your hand. The long string of numbers, ten digits in all, that Marc had written on the centre of your palm last night. 

In a mad scramble, you dig up a notebook and quickly copy them down for safekeeping. You spend the rest of the day trying to decipher their meaning. 

Your first thought is that it’s a phone number, but when you try dialling it, you get an automated message that no such number exists. 

Your next theory is that the numbers might be coordinates. But when you attempt to plot them using an online grid reference finder, the results are meaningless. Depending on how you input the digits they point you to a handful of different locations—China, Romania, the middle of the Celtic Sea—none of which mean anything to you. The majority of the number combinations you try do not exist at any known map locations.

Panicked by your failure, your mind scrambles for other possible explanations. Thinking that it might be a mathematical equation or a password of some kind, you pull out your calculator and another notebook, trying to make any sort of sense of the only hint you've been given.

By the time you leave for work Monday morning, your desk is starting to look like a landfill. The wooden surface is littered with crumpled up paper and sticky-notes filled with nonsensical scribbles of numbers and letters that were the results of randomly adding, subtracting and dividing the ten numbers on your hand. If anyone walked in on your flat, they would think you’re a particularly unhinged conspiracy theorist. 

In all fairness, they wouldn’t be too far off, because you’re beginning to feel a bit like one. Haring off on one pointless wild goose chase after another, halfway to plotting out your suspicions on the wall with pins and string.

More days go by, and you spend every waking moment (and many moments you should be sleeping) trying to solve the mystery. It becomes a consuming obsession. You’re distracted both at home and at work, your poor coworkers forced to pick up the slack while your mind stays firmly on the puzzle of Steven.

Your lack of sleep leads to increasingly wild theories. You’re convinced that those ten digits are somehow the key to everything. An unfounded belief based on nothing but your own desperate hope that if you manage to crack the code, a congratulation banner and confetti will fall from the sky with a big bow-wrapped present containing Steven as the final prize. 

Unfortunately, you’re not the best at puzzles, and the galling irony is that the most qualified person to solve this riddle is the very same person you’re desperately missing. 

By the time you leave work on Thursday, you’re frustrated, exhausted from sustaining a near-frantic level of worry, and no closer to finding a solution than you were at the start. Steven is still out there somewhere, and you decide that you’ve waited long enough. Maybe even too long. He could have had his kidney harvested and be half-dead in an alley for all you know. Hurt and dying, while you’ve wasted time grasping at straws.

You’ve decided to finally file a missing person’s report with the police when you exit the tube to find a new text notification on your phone.

+x xxx xxx xxxx He’s safe.

You stare at the message for a long time, too overcome with relief to immediately make the connection between the numbers on your hand and your phone screen. When the epiphany hits, you feel like the dumbest person alive. Ten numbers… It wasn’t a puzzle or some obscure treasure hunt to lead you to Steven. It’s Marc’s bloody mobile number. It’s an American mobile number and he didn’t include the fucking country code 

He’s safe. Steven’s safe. 

Wiping what is close to the beginning of tears on your sleeve, you pull the phone closer and type out a message in reply. 

You Is Steven okay? Where is he? 

There’s no answer. 

Not that evening or the day after. And the relief you felt at first slowly drains away.  

The text is a consolation prize. It’s not Steven wrapped with a bow and wrapping paper. This is not the answer you needed, but, you try to remind yourself, at least it’s something. 

Steven is safe. 

You repeat it like a mantra in your head, and it gives you some comfort… for a while. Soon it's overtaken by an intrusive voice asking a question that you don’t want to hear. 

But what if he isn’t?

Any residual consolation you were feeling gives way, and anxiety overwhelms you as you imagine all the terrible scenarios that could have befallen Steven, each more horrifying and improbable than the last. 

You can't shake the paranoia that the matching numbers are just a coincidence. There's nothing in the text itself that says it’s from Marc. Or about Steven. It could just as easily be a timely telephone scam. 

Is there anyone who hasn’t received a random automated call informing them that someone they know has been in a car accident? There are thousands of these calls a day in the UK, scammers hoping to find some dimwit waiting for a call from a loved one. 

Maybe today, you’re the dimwit. 

You can count the hours of sleep you’ve gotten since Steven disappeared on one hand. 

You need to sleep, but even as exhausted as you are, you just can’t. Instead, you're having a staring competition with your ceiling, and so far you’re winning. 

You’re worrying yet again about Steven. You wonder where he is. If he’s really safe. What he—or Marc—has been doing all this time.

A full week has gone by, and you still haven’t heard anything from Steven himself. You haven’t had any further communication from the unknown number that may or may not be Marc either. 

Marc. 

Rolling onto your side, you stare off into the darkness of your flat. 

The concept of Marc is still an enigma to you. As far as you can tell, he’s entirely distinct from Steven. Not only are his mannerisms different, but he calls himself by another name and talks about Steven as if they’re separate people. 

There is another person inside of Steven that is markedly not Steven. 

In the complete darkness of your flat, your sleep deprived brain tries to make sense of what that actually means, but you can’t. There’s so much you don’t know.

Rolling back across the bed the other way, you reach for your phone. 

Midnight is not the ideal time to do research, but what does it matter? You’re not likely to sleep regardless. 

Your first pit stop is Google, but that does you no favours. As always, no matter what symptoms you put into the search bar, WebMD is determined to convince you that it’s cancer. 

Instead, you end up trawling through NHS’ homepage well past midnight, ending up in a wormhole of health issues until you land on the symptoms for Dissociative Identity Disorder: 

They may feel the presence of other identities, each with their own names, voices, personal histories and mannerisms.

The main symptoms of DID are:

» memory gaps about everyday events and personal information

» having several distinct identities

And there it is, written in plain Arial font. The conclusion you’ve been trying not to jump to. The inescapable reality behind all those red flags Steven’s been waving in front of your nose from the very start. 

You stare at the words on the page, reading and re-reading them. You don’t know what to think or how you feel about your discovery. The only thing you do know is that you are wholly unqualified to handle any of this. 

As far as you know, you've never met anyone—anyone else?—with DID. Your only previous exposure to the disorder has been through movies like Psycho, Split, Basic Instinct… Movies that depict the character with a mental health condition as a psychotic murderer or one in the making with sensationalist glee. 

You don’t believe that of course. You know better than to expect sensitive and accurate representation from Hollywood blockbusters. That’s a bit like reading The Sun and expecting truthful and unbiased news reports.

The problem is that knowing all of this doesn’t solve anything.

All you do know is that you miss Steven. You’re scared—terrified for him—and want him back with you. 

Fuck Marc for taking him away.

The devil himself must have heard you, his ears burning. Your phone pings out in the silence at that moment, interrupting your thoughts. The screen flashes, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before you can read the incoming message. 

+x xxx xxx xxxx Steven will be back tomorrow. Don’t mention me. 

You stare at the phone as you reread the text once and then again. There’s no ambiguity this time; there can’t possibly be. 

Back. 

Steven. 

Steven is coming back to you. 

You barely have time to rejoice over the fact before those last three words hit you. Their meaning settles heavily in your gut, burning at the lining of your stomach until you think you might be sick all over your duvet.  

It’s a warning. The wolf is at your door. 

And just like that, the curtain’s pulled back, and you see Steven’s disappearance for what it is: a sick display of the power Marc holds over him. Over you both. A demonstration of how your life with Steven continues only at his whim. Those three words are an order and a stomach churning threat all in one. 

Mention Marc, reveal his existence to Steven, and he will take Steven from you.

For the first time, you understand why Steven has always been alone, and anger burns in your blood. Steven is being held hostage in his own body, and he doesn’t even know it. And you’re being blackmailed into lying to the man you love. 

You want to tell Steven the truth immediately. You want to scream it from the bloody rooftops. 

But you don’t want to lose him.

Selfish as it may be, you want to keep Steven in your life for as long as you can. At the very least, if you’re together, maybe you can protect him from Marc. Make sure he’s safe.

Isn’t that better than telling Steven the whole truth only to have Marc take him away from you? The only thing that would achieve is to relegate Steven back to a life of loneliness.

No. It wouldn’t do any good to tell Steven now. You can’t go in blindly when Marc has such a strong upper hand. You need more information, a plan, or at least some kind of strategy before you risk doing anything that might result in Steven being spirited away from you again. 

With your ear pressed to your pillow, you stare at the text, struggling to keep your eyes open. You turn the brightness up so far that it’s painful to look at, blinking away sleep until you’re unable to fight it anymore. 

A knock on the door wakes you. 

Squinting one eye open, you find the room flooded with light, bright and blinding. Your mouth tastes like harsh cotton, and your throat is sore when you swallow. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep last night, but it’s five to eight now according to your alarm clock. Your shoulders are stiff and aching, body protesting the lack of rest.

Sleep concussed as you are, you fumble towards the door, relying on memory rather than sight to navigate your surroundings. You don’t even make it to the middle of the room before you trip over your ottoman. 

Pain shoots out from the nub of your toe, and you barely manage to stop yourself from face planting. With a curse and a pending bruise forming on your foot, you hobble the rest of the way towards your door and unlock it. In your struggle, you don’t even bother to check the peephole to see who is at your door. 

You slide the door open, scarcely paying attention. At first, all you see is a much-too-loud novelty print and flowers wrapped in cellophane in the open doorway. Your brain stalls for several heartbeats, before you drag your eyes upwards. 

It’s Steven.

Sporting messy hair and an ill-fitting jumper, at least two sizes too large, he’s standing in front of you, hugging a fresh bouquet of flowers to his chest. 

“Hiya,” he greets you with a small wave of his free hand, a besotted smile on his face as though everything in his world is just as it should be. 

You blink. For a second, everything slows. You’re not sure if you’re ready to allow yourself to believe that this is real. If this is a dream, the disappointment of waking up with him not here will break you. 

“I got us some breakfast,” Steven says and steps inside, clumsily closing the door behind him with the side of his shoulder, “and there were these tulips at Sainsburys. Pink, your favourite.” 

He's here. Steven's actually here.

His face beams with pride as he looks up at you. “I know you said to stop getting flowers unless there’s an actual special occasion, but I thought spending the morning together after our first official sleepover is pretty special, and more importantly–” 

Your stomach drops. 

He doesn’t know. Steven clearly still thinks it’s the morning after. Doesn’t realise that a whole week has gone by since he spent the night here. 

Putting the flowers down on your kitchen counter, he turns to face you, holding up a wax paper bag with a delighted smile. 

“Et voilà! Croissants au chocolat for the lady. I’ll just pop them in the microwave real quick—I know you like them hot—and then I’ll make us some tea, yeah?” 

Steven is in your home, standing in the kitchen, smiling at you and spoiling you rotten, like he hadn't just disappeared off the face of the earth for a week. Because as far as Steven's aware, he’s been here with you all night after falling asleep watching animal documentaries. 

Right now, in front of you, he’s acting out the morning-after the two of you were supposed to have but a week too late, making you the breakfast he promised.

Your throat closes, and a liquid burn rises in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You can feel the threat of tears behind your eyes.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Steven drops the bag of croissants onto the counter and rushes over to you. “Did something happen while I was gone?” 

“No. I just–” You take a shaky breath, trying to collect yourself. 

Breaking down now won’t do either of you any good. You can’t tell him what’s wrong. Not without risking him being taken away forever. 

“I’m happy you’re here," you say, trying to fake a smile. 

You’re a rubbish liar. Always have been. It’s no surprise that Steven doesn’t buy it for a second. 

"Those are obviously not happy tears, love. What's going on? Have I done something wrong?"

His hands draw up to cup your face, one thumb skimming gently over the single tear that’s escaped onto your cheek. He tilts your chin up until you meet his gaze, and it’s like something clicks behind those sharp eyes. 

"It's because I wasn't here when you woke up, isn't it?" he asks gently.

You bite your lip. It’s such an oversimplification of what’s happened, but you don’t know how else to explain it to him, so you nod. A half-truth at best, but at least it’s only a lie by omission.

"’Course it is,” he soothes. “That would bother anyone, yeah?"

You let yourself collapse against him, hugging him tight around the middle as you bury your face in his chest. He lets out a quiet oof, but you refuse to let go and despite his obvious physical discomfort, Steven doesn't protest. He wraps his arms reassuringly around you, blanketing himself around you in comforting warmth.

“I’m sorry, I should have left a note. Don’t know why I didn’t. I was so sleep deprived that I don’t even remember leaving this morning. I must’ve thought it was only going to take a second, but the next thing I know, I’m in the dairy aisle and this lady with a stroller is looking at me funny."  

One large, gentle hand smooths over your shirt at the small of your back, and you shiver pleasantly at the warmth of the doting touch.

"I'm sorry," he says again, voice soft, "I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Closing your eyes, you take a second to let the comfort of his words and his arms around you seep in. You tilt your head upwards, pressing your nose to the hollow dip of his throat, right below his Adam's apple. He smells faintly of stale air and alcohol, covered up by the unfamiliar scent of cheap hotel soap. Your chest squeezes painfully at the reminder of his double life, one that neither of you know the details of. 

Even with Steven here in your arms, you cannot escape the reality that you’ll always have to share him with something you cannot understand. 

You don't move, instead, you press your mouth to that same spot on his throat, feeling his pulse beat steadily against your lips. 

He's here, the beat says. He's safe, he's alive. 

Nuzzling into the delicate skin, you’re rewarded with a keen gasp that makes the small hairs on your neck rise. His fingers flex against your waist with that familiar trademark hesitation, before settling there, hardly even resting against you. 

After all this time, it’s like he’s still scared you’re going to tell him no. As if your relationship is some kind of practical joke on him, and if he reaches for you first, you’ll laugh in his face. 

He was too afraid to mention the first night in case you’d get upset. He thought you were going to break up with him when you said you two needed to talk. It’s almost funny in a macabre sort of way that Steven doesn’t realise just how deep you’re in it over him. If he only knew of the sleepless nights you’ve suffered. How you’ve been sick to your stomach over missing him. Willing to bargain with the devil just to get to keep him. 

You kiss him again, trying to use his closeness to drown out all the things you can’t say. Pressing your lips to that sweet little spot where his jaw meets his throat. You do your best to savour the hint of stubble that tickles against your bottom lip. 

Steven shivers and then pulls back slightly, ducking his head to close the distance between your lips. A barely there touch, then Steven’s thumb catches behind your ear, timidly guiding you closer. 

That one kiss continues into several small chaste kisses, each press of his lips soft and devoted like he’s thanking you for letting him. It’s so pure, the kind of kisses that have your toes curling in delight and your ears tingling. But it’s restrained in a way that you’ve not got the patience for right now. 

Not after a whole week of his absence. Not when you’ve spent those seven days unsure if you would ever get to see him again. You want so much more than this. Can’t bear the fraction of a moment when his lips are not on yours when he breaks up his kisses to allow you to catch your breath. 

You want all of him all at once.

Your hand clutches at the collar of his shirt, pulling him in closer. His breath stutters, mouth parting slightly, and you take the opportunity to lick over the swell of his bottom lip before you bite down, trying to be gentle. 

It must be the reassurance Steven needs, because he groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening. His hands dig into the plump flesh above your hips, kneading it with strong fingers, and there it is, that eagerness and hunger for you that you’re heedlessly in love with. The duality of Steven Grant. It's desperate, sweet and almost aggressive. One hand moves to grip the base of your neck, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, eliminating the last of the physical distance between you.

It’s exactly what you need, and for a long, hot, breathless moment, you’re not thinking of anything except him. When he finally breaks off the kiss, you lean after him, chasing his lips. 

“Bed?” he asks, the word a low rasp against your seeking mouth. 

You nod eagerly and grab for him, recapturing his lips and giving him a tug in the right direction.

It’s clumsy and desperate as you let Steven manoeuvre the two of you through your flat. You’re blindly walking backwards, guided only by Steven’s outstretched hand fumbling against the surfaces of the wall to make sure you don’t bump into furniture. 

You kiss him like you’ve been held under water, deprived of air and his beautiful mouth is oxygen filling your lungs. Every step is an uncoordinated mess that nearly has you tipping over if it wasn’t for Steven holding you upright. It’d be far easier if you only let go. Would only take seconds in your tiny flat to get from the kitchen to the bed. But you’re not willing and Steven is only happy to indulge you. 

His mouth is warm and slick, hands large and firm. The warmth of his body against yours, comforting and alive. It’s all you can focus on as you forget your surroundings. Until something heavy and blunt pushes back against the inside of your calf. 

The surprise makes you lose your balance. You fall backwards, the whole room tilting as you’re sent sprawling. When things stop moving, you find yourself flat on your back, less than half a foot away from your bed. You’re still staring up at Steven’s shocked face and outstretched hands when you realise what (literally) hit you. 

Bloody cockblocking ottoman. 

The pitched dark hunger disappears from those brown eyes in an instant. Instead they’ve gone round and doelike with concern as Steven rushes forward, falling to his knees in front of you, and draws your leg into his lap.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more careful and watched where we were going. Bloody stupid of me, I practically pushed you. Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine, Steven. I’m fine. You didn’t push me. It’s alright,” you tell him. 

But his eyes are already darting over your lower leg, and his hands quickly follow, gingerly rubbing your ankle and feeling up over your calf with great care, making your skin prickles under his fingers.  It’s a credible imitation of Florence Nightingale, but as sweet as it is to have Steven tend to you, it's not the sort of attention you want from him right now.

"Leave off the fussing, please?" you ask him softly. 

“Should we–maybe I should get you on the bed yeah? You might be hurt and–”

Leaning up, you place kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, the swell of his lip, hoping to distract him. "I need you, Steven. Don't stop. I don't want to stop right now."

His eyes are still wide and worried, as his hand smooths over the bend of your knee in comfort. “You’re sure you're alright? That I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure.” You grab his collar and lean back, dragging him on top of you as you lie back onto the floor.  

Steven follows, letting you pull him down without a hint of resistance, and clambering forward until he’s completely above you. His large frame looms over yours on the floor, thick thighs straddling your waist, and you’re reminded all over again that one of your favourite facets of Steven is how cooperative he is. Always so eager to please you, and you have zero compunction about taking advantage.

“Take this off,” you order, tugging at his jumper impatiently. 

He nods hastily. “Right, right.” 

Ever so good at following your orders, Steven’s hand immediately reaches for the bottom of the garment. He grabs the hem and pulls, revealing a tantalising sliver of golden skin above the waistband of his trousers. You’re so focused on the slowly widening swath of his bare stomach, that it’s not until he pauses, a clumsy snarl of fabric tangled around his head and shoulders, that you realise he’s attempted to take off his jumper and the shirt beneath all in one go and gotten himself stuck. 

Honestly, you’re not even surprised. On any other occasion, you’d be smiling at his adorable ridiculousness, but it's been a week. One hundred and sixty-eight endless hours since you’ve gotten to hold him and touch him like this—uncertain if you’d ever get to—and now each additional second of delay feels like an eternity.

Finally, with another sloppy tug and an impatient groan, the tangled mess of clothing gives, and Steven’s bare-chested on top of you. He’s all strong, sleek muscles, as gorgeous and well-defined as those cut from marble on statues of Greek deities displayed in the very same museums that Steven himself tends to. 

It should’ve been obvious from the start. You want to burst out in laughter at your own naivety. Why on earth would a man who works at a gift shop and spends his free time with his nose buried in dusty old books have a body like this? How has Steven never questioned his own physique? Does he think that all men just wake up looking like this without any effort? 

The sun from the window shines soft over his shoulder and arms. The thin gold chain dangles from his long neck, glistening in the light. He is all warm and golden, soft for your hands to freely wander over the bare expanse of his skin. 

Your hand cups the back of his neck, teasing at those ridiculously soft curls with your fingers, before scraping the base of his scalp with the gentlest strength. You’re marvelling at how prettily his eyelashes flutter and the way he sighs with a blissful shiver makes you smile. 

Sliding down, your hand roams over the carved muscle of his shoulder blade, over his back, pressing a line of soft kisses on the column of his neck. They flex under your touch, as Steven keens softly and you take comfort in the fact that if there was ever proof that Steven is here with you, it’s this. The heavy weight of him on top of you. The fast beating pulse of his throat under your lips. The feel of him hardening against your belly. 

Reaching for his belt, you fumble with the buckle until it finally gives with a metallic clank. Then you shove one greedy hand under the loose waistband of his trousers, slipping it into his underwear. 

He’s hot and hard. Flesh smooth to your touch. Your fingers curl around the thick girth, giving him a firm, indulgent stroke, from base to blunt tip, tracing every ridge. Steven gasps and shudders at your touch, slumping forward like he’s unable to support his own weight and pressing his forehead into your collarbone with a quiet whine. 

You close your eyes at the sound of it, feeling him all around you. 

This is what you’ve been missing, what you’ve been desperately needing, all week. Immersing yourself in the moment—in him—as fully as possible, you draw in a deep breath and give him another stroke just to hear him make that noise again. You let his reassuring presence wash over you, try to let it convince you that he’s really here. 

Wherever he’s been this last week, he’s here, right now, with you.

Then suddenly he’s not. 

Out of nowhere, the protective weight and warmth of him is rising away. Alarm crowds your senses, and in a moment of instinctual panic, your hand shoots up, grabbing his arm. 

"Don't go!"

You open your eyes to find Steven still right there next to you. He's frozen with one hand outstretched above the open drawer of your nightstand, a look of shocked surprise on his face.  

Oh God. He wasn’t going anywhere at all, he was just getting a condom. 

Your cheeks flush with embarrassed heat at the realisation.

"Sorry," you mumble, and you duck your chin, "I just–" You don't know how to explain away your massive overreaction, and guilt claws even deeper into your chest as you find yourself offering up yet another half-lie.

"I had a nightmare that you left. Disappeared, and I couldn’t find you.” 

You can’t believe it’s your own voice that you’re hearing. It sounds so small. Ugly in its neediness. If this was any other man, you’re sure they’d be running for the hills by now. It’s a miracle Steven hasn’t. “It’s silly. Sorry.”

Steven frowns with sympathy, worry etched all around his beautiful eyes. "You don’t have to be sorry, love." He closes the drawer, condom in hand. Then he's leaning back down to press his lips to your hairline. “It’s not silly.”

"But hey, listen,” he murmurs, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “I’m not going anywhere, am I? No. Not except maybe down to the shops."

One warm hand comes to cup your face, and he’s looking at you with so much sincerity that it takes your breath away.

"I would never leave you. Never. Not ever, I swear. Not so long as you’ll have me.” He says it with such utter conviction that pain washes over you anew. 

Because it’s not really up to Steven, is it? He may not be able to stay with you, regardless of what he wants.

“You don’t know that." 

The unfairness of the situation, his powerlessness over his own life, has tears pushing hot behind your eyes.

“Then I'll come back, simple as that. No matter what happens. Even if the bloody sky falls down. Even if a fleet of flying saucers brings an army of funny little green men straight out of Mars Attacks to invade the earth tomorrow, I'll still come back to you. Always, alright? I'll always come back to you.”

The lump still sits heavily in your throat, but you choke out an amused laugh at the imagery Steven draws for you. He smiles victoriously in return. It lights the whole room, and you reach for him again, wrapping your arms around his neck because you need to pull him close and kiss him. 

In this moment, you allow yourself to believe. Against all flashing red signs pointing otherwise, you choose to believe that he will keep this promise. That whatever circumstances arise, even if Marc takes him away again, Steven will always come back to you. 

“Okay,” you say, with a smile stretching wide across your lips, and you can feel the dark weight lifting as you nod at him. 

Steven mirrors your smile, returning your kiss and that’s all it takes before the last morsel of doubt lifts. 

His hands reach down, shimmying his trousers down his ample hips. You help him, hooking your thumb at the hem to drag them down the rest of the way, and he kicks them off his ankle. 

Then finally, the warmth of his bare thighs is against yours, and you both gasp. It’s fucking bliss to feel him like this.  Naked and warm, pressed up against every inch of you, his weight holding you down against the floor, the length of him lying hard and heavy against your belly. 

He anchors himself on one elbow, as he rips the foil wrapper, lifting off of you slightly. 

You miss the contact immediately. It’s like the week apart has left you even more attuned to him, hyper-aware of all the places you’re no longer touching. You watch impatiently as he turns to one side just enough to give himself room, rolling the condom down over his cock with gratifying speed. 

His hands are steady, his movements sure, nothing like that first night where both of you struggled to make sense of the stubborn rubber in the near-dark of his flat. By now, the two of you have done this often enough that Steven knows every step of the routine like the back of his hand, clumsy eagerness replaced by practised ease. 

Anticipation and longing beat loud in your chest at the sight of him, eyes dark, cock in hand as he positions himself at your entrance. You reach for him, unable to stand the distance between the two of you, and he smiles fondly at you and leans down obligingly, resting his bodyweight on top of yours like a heavy blanket. 

It’s fucking perfect. Exactly what you need, and your body opens for him, knees falling outward, hips canting up, heels digging into the floor as you arch up, trying to press yourself closer.

He grinds forward, the underside of his cock sliding slick and wet over your folds. Pleasure rises hot and overwhelming between your thighs at the stimulation, and an unflattering high-pitched noise escapes from the corner of your lungs. It’s like your whole body is strung on a thin line of thread. Overwhelmed by the barest contact after a week of having none. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive having him inside you when this already feels like so much. You wonder if he feels it too.

Opening your eyes, you see the boyish grin on his face, radiating with pride. He does it again, angling his hips to thrust up as the blunt head of his cock glides wetly over your clit and oh fucking– 

Your hips jerk up involuntarily, pressing harder against him, and Steven gasps, eyes going wide and dark, that teasing grin wiped right off his face. 

“Fuck, Steven–God. I need–” Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and you don’t know what you’re trying to say—not sure if you want him to stop or do it again—but it doesn’t matter. You never get to finish the rest of your sentence. 

The thick ridge of his cock slips wetly inside you, and the sweet stretch of him, white and blinding, crowds out every other thought in your head. Your cunt squeezes around him at the thick intrusion, and you both moan at the tight pressure. 

He halts, stilling inside you, and dear fucking god, he’s not even all the way in.  

“God, love. You’re squeezing me so tight,” Steven gasps out, “Feels bloody amazing.” The words are soft, but there’s a clear strain in his voice, and his arms are trembling at your sides from the exertion of keeping still. 

He still doesn’t move, and you’re not sure if he needs a moment or is trying to give you one. “I feel like I'm going to lose my mind if I can't be all the way inside you. Can I–”

He hovers above you, and you can feel his cock jerking and straining against you, the only part of his body he can’t fully control. You can’t help the way your body clenches and shivers in response, and he groans, resting his forehead against yours for a long moment as you pant heavily against each other’s lips. 

“Is it alright for me to keep going?” he asks, eventually. 

You try to say yes, but all that comes out is a breathless, choked out sob, as you nod at him frantically. 

It’s all Steven needs. His hips push forward, pressing the rest of the way into you in one long, smooth stroke. The feeling is electric, robbing you of the ability to process anything except the way he fills you, stretching you out as he buries every inch of himself inside you. You can’t think. Can barely breathe. He’s embedded so deeply that there’s no space left in your lungs.

After a long moment, he starts to pull out just as slowly, his eyes fixed on yours. The pace is maddening, a thick, glacial drag that makes you feel every gorgeous inch of him. It leaves you gasping and writhing under him as he continues to retreat until only the tip still rests inside of you. 

Then he does it all again.

He’s so different when he’s like this. His eyes focused, any trace of timidness gone. Everything else, all his usual hesitation and fear and doubt, seems to fade away when he’s inside you.  It’s like you’re the only thing in his world—you and the need to make you feel good. 

Drawing two of his fingers to his mouth, he slides them between his plush lips, and you can see his tongue tracing around them before he pulls them out again, glistening with spit for you. It’s entirely unnecessary. You’re so wet it’s leaking down the length of him and onto the inside of your thighs. But the sight makes your heart race all the same. 

Steven reaches down between your bodies, hand resting above the apex of your thighs where his cock is still nestled inside you. His fingers slide, ever so gently over the slippery, sensitive flesh where you’re stretched wide around him.

“Feel that, love?” he breathes into your open mouth, “I’m right here. You’ve got me.”

His thumb catches at your clit as he gently presses down, and it has you spasming from the sharp pleasure. He gasps, jerking slightly above you, but doesn’t stop. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He continues to draws small, persistent circles over and over your clit that squeezes the very air out of your lungs, replacing everything, with a needy heat. 

Your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation. Tears stinging in the corner of your lids. 

It’s still not enough. You want more of him. Need to get closer. 

You press your heels hard against the floor, trying to get better leverage, and grip frantically at his back. Nails biting into his skin, you claw at his shoulder blades as though you’re trying to dig your way in so deep that he’ll never be able to tear himself away from you again. It’s selfish, and you know it must be hurting him, but you can’t seem to be able to stop yourself.

Steven doesn’t stop you either. It’s like he knows that you still need more, and he rolls his hips into you, thrusting deep. His hand grips at the underside of your knees, pulling your legs to wrap them around his waist to let you squeeze your thighs around him, heels digging into the curve of his ass. 

It feels like another way of telling you he’s here. Yours to use. Yours to have. Just… yours.

“Never gonna leave,” he whispers into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the lobe as if to seal his promise. 

Right now you don’t care if it’s a promise that he might not be able to keep. Not when pleasure, bright and blistering, is surging through you with every roll of his hips. It’s too much, bordering on unbearable. You can’t make out what he’s saying anymore, just soft murmurs and vague shushing. 

It doesn’t matter, because his body is telling you all you need to know. 

Because for all of Steven’s calm and reassuring words, his actions don’t match. His actions are telling you a different story—a more desperate one—full of grasping hands, deep urgent thrusts, and bitten-off gasps. It’s like his body knows how long you’ve been apart and what it’s been missing, even if his mind doesn’t.

His hand palms at your ribs, fingers digging deep crevices in your flesh, holding you tight like he means never to let go. 

Mine, it says. Possessive and hungry. 

His mouth, for all its loving dulcet tones and cooing, never seems to leave your skin for long, sliding over your throat and jaw as if magnetised.

Yours, it promises, just as certainly.

He thrusts inside you, his hands find the bare backs of your thighs as he hooks one leg over his arm, and the new angle has him sliding in impossibly deep until it knocks the air out of your ribs. For a long blissful moment, you swear your whole chest cage is going to collapse.

His cock hits somewhere earth-shattering, and you arch up off the floor, curling into him with a shivering gasp. Heat crackles through every limb, swirling and swelling, sweet and insistent in anticipation of your climax.  It settles deep in your belly, raw and heavy, soothed only by each insistent thrust.

He’s so deep you swear you feel him everywhere, buried inside you like he’s trying to stake a claim and never leave. 

You hope he never does. 

Pushing your hips up to him, you chase the feeling of him hitting that perfect spot, as the warm heat of it flutters in your stomach with each deep stroke. It won’t take much, you’re almost there– 

But you don’t want this to end. Not yet. You want to keep Steven right here inside of you for as long as you possibly can. 

You try to relax the tension in your legs, try to push your hips back down to stave it off. But it’s no good, Steven’s hands are still on you, manhandling you into a position where you can’t escape the perfect, relentless press of his cock inside you.

Not yet, not yet, not yet…

But it’s already there, at the tip of your fingers, so close you can taste it on your tongue. A promise of rapture, whether you want it to or not, and you want to scream and cry and fight the sensation that taunts you as it hangs there. But you can’t seem to do any of those things. It’s like you’ve lost control of your body, your hips lock tight, your throat feels tight and– fuck fuck, you’re– 

“Steven, please. Not yet, I’m–”  Your eyes squeeze shut, hands clawing at the carpet, searching for something to ground yourself with. 

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, hand reaching for yours until he finds it and pins it next to your head. He clasps your hand tightly in his, weaving each one of his fingers between yours. “Right here. It’s alright. Let go for me.” 

That’s all it takes. The floor underneath gives under, opening up and swallowing you whole. You feel like you’re floating and falling all at once as you clamour for Steven and hold him close as you fall through the cracks off the edge of the earth. 

Your legs latch around the middle of his waist as you wring out every ounce and drop of the sensation you can. It rushes through you, ripe and overfull, filling every strand of every vein. You’re disorientated, the world narrowing into nothingness. The only thing that still exists is Steven. 

All you can hear is the way his breath is stuttering with effort. 

Can feel the way his even pace falters. Can see the way his brows knit in concentration, his face painted with bliss. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. 

Steven comes with a broken groan. 

It’s so much and so deep and somehow you still want more. Want the feel of him raw and bare inside. Even that thin separation of not even a millimetre of rubber is too great of a separator for you to bear right now. All you want is to feel him spill himself inside you, thick and warm. 

His body goes still and rigid, and then the strength in him gives under, nearly collapsing over you. He stops himself at the last second with a slam of his fist on the floor next to you, bent arms trembling with strain in an effort to keep himself upright. 

It’s a sweet and considerate gesture. He doesn’t want to flatten you with his weight. It’s also completely unnecessary because there’s nothing you want more in this moment. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down the rest of the way. It doesn’t take much of your strength, his elbow gives in and bends further, until he’s flush against you, sweaty and heavy limbs entangling with yours. 

Despite the unbearable stickiness and heat from your exertion, Steven holds you, chest still heaving against yours. His thin necklace slips delicately down over your collarbone, cool where it rests against your overheated skin. The golden pendant is pressed intimately between your breast and his chest.

The morning sun washes over everything inside your flat in a golden hue. Even the dull white of your walls turns into something warm and amber. The only sound permeating the peace is the sound of morning traffic outside. A busted old moped races down the street. Children shouting over a game of tag. The honking of cars trying to get somewhere fast. Outside it is loud, hectic and chaotic. 

But right here, inside the safe bubble of your tiny flat, Steven is warm and heavy over you, the beat of his heart drumming against your chest in a steady pace. 

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you ask. 

He kisses your forehead, uncaring of the way your skin is sticky with sweat, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he squeezes your hand firmly in his. 

“‘Course we can, love. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

~ CONTINUE ~

Once again thanks for everyone coming along for this ride. We're hoping to be posting this on a semi-regular schedule of every two weeks. For anyone who wants to be tagged please sign up to the tag list linked on the series masterlist.

We are beyond grateful for all the comments, reblogs and likes and just interest on this series, and while I can be a bit rubbish at replying sometimes, please know that your words and support inspires us to keep going with this series. 🥰

Dedication & Credits:

It takes a village huh, guys?

All my broken dishes to @the-ginger-hedge-witch because when I told her I wanted Steven to get to rawdog it, she went, "absolutely not, not when Marc is out there whoring around for all we know." (I may or may not be rephrasing but that was the sentiment).

To @radiowallet for listening to my insane and uninformed ramblings about Moon Knight and for giving me a firm guide and steering on how to write our beloved Moon Boys and making sure that everything tracks.

To @write-and-buried for inspiring me with the most absolutely deranged filthy suggestions when my smut inspiration well runs dry. I got really stuck in the sex scene for this one when I decided to in the 11th hour add a sex scene because "it felt right" then proceeding to panic cause I forgot how to write smut and she got me back on track.

And always and forever to my co-writer @thirstworldproblemss who had stayed up endless nights with me discussing the finer details of how twitchy a cock should be, how much it should leak. This series would not exist without her, she turns the rubbish I write into diamonds, she goes through every sentence once-twice-three times and she is always responsible for the best lines in every chapter, her voice for Steven is unparalleled, and I find myself falling more and more in love with this world because of her. I would not be writing this story, and most likely, at all, if it weren't for her and our friendship.

Mona. She/her. 27. Obsessed with Oscar Isaac and everyone knows. Minors DNI!

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