Fortunatelyangrycheesecake - Grey's

THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach. 

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility. 

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do. 

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man. 

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you. 

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—). 

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like. 

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year. 

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it. 

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives. 

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him. 

but you damn well managed to. 

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair. 

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit. 

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately. 

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class. 

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there. 

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours. 

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed. 

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are. 

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know. 

but you knew for a fact that it was personal. 

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance. 

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively. 

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow. 

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply. 

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class. 

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious. 

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test. 

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you. 

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well. 

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak. 

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class. 

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild. 

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another. 

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages. 

you smile, waving at the screen. 

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.” 

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying. 

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had. 

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip. 

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help. 

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.” 

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you. 

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong. 

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself. 

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again. 

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that. 

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this. 

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest. 

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know. 

damn right it’s personal. 

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation. 

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off. 

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over. 

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger. 

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on. 

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair. 

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet. 

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you. 

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums. 

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.” 

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from. 

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo. 

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction. 

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently. 

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you. 

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest. 

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom. 

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue. 

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly. 

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now… 

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun. 

you could so easily forget what you came here for. 

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn. 

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest. 

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together. 

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two. 

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh. 

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief. 

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips. 

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan. 

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core. 

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin. 

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside. 

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips. 

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you. 

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again. 

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat. 

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive. 

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock. 

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds. 

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly. 

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.” 

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of. 

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees. 

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper. 

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face. 

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants. 

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved. 

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside. 

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth. 

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would. 

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones. 

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man. 

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo. 

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time. 

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over. 

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt. 

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core. 

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you. 

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs. 

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else. 

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear. 

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt. 

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn. 

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him. 

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you. 

he notices you looking. 

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk. 

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip. 

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him. 

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head. 

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better. 

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair. 

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized. 

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers. 

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this. 

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth. 

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle. 

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back. 

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening. 

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts. 

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out. 

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. 

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you. 

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade. 

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go. 

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin. 

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt. 

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips. 

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you. 

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom. 

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.” 

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you. 

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts. 

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you. 

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you. 

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer. 

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release. 

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got. 

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“ 

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you. 

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure. 

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you. 

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of. 

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy. 

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows. 

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.  

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips. 

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?” 

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession. 

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles. 

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

chosoyuki week day 6 - blood

At long last. Vindication.

About that, kris

Do not repost my art!

Steve helpfully offering his hand to everyone boarding the boat, only to get ignored or unnoticed every single time. that’s it, that’s the post

Hello! I was wondering if you could write some kind of scenario about a headcanon where Murdoc is afraid of singing, even in front of just the band? As a child, he was forced to sing and was exploited for his voice by his father so nowadays he gets extremely anxious whenever somebody asks him to sing. (Only if you want to, of course! I really enjoy how you write all these headcanons, by the way! You have some writing skills! :)

(Thank you so much!! I’m so glad you like how I write them!!! Sorry that it took so long to write and that it is so long to read… I really liked writing it!!! I hope you like it!!)

Contrary to popular belief Murdoc can sing. He is a decent singer and enjoys singing by himself. Murdoc absolutely refuses to sing in front of anyone else. He can’t, he won’t. After his father forced him to get up on stage and humiliate himself every weekend as a child he swore he would never sing for anyone again and so far that had been the case. 

Murdoc had sung along sarcastically to a few lines of his favorite songs on his radio show, but that was the most anyone had ever heard out of him. Unless that is you can find the few surviving VHS tapes that were taken of him as a child at his father’s favorite bar. Sebastian had filmed the tapes hoping that he could later sell them on the off chance that Murdoc had gotten a few seconds of fame. Murdoc had gone back and taken the tapes before Sebastian could sell them, now they haunted him. 

A very few of the tapes had survived. Murdoc would take them out and rewatch the tapes in his Winnebago where no one else would see them. Murdoc would go over all of the mistakes he had made as a child and the jeering from the crowd off-screen. 

He never forgot the performance where an unruly bar patron had dumped a plate of fish and chips over his head before proceeding to pour the rest of his now flat beer on poor sniffling shivering little Murdoc. The on-screen Murdoc had just stood there clutching his bass looking towards his father and older brother, his eyes pleading them for help, as the man cackled and cracked a few jokes. Murdoc shook his head and sent a few chips falling to the stage floor. He had won the prize for best comedy that year.

The tape suddenly cut to a shaky scene where Murdoc’s brother was holding the camera. Sebastian was holding a handful of five-pound notes in one hand and he leaned his other elbow on Murdoc’s head. “This is the most money this brat has ever made me! I’m almost proud of ‘em!” Sebastian looked down at a faintly smiling Murdoc as he exclaimed “Almost.” Little Murdoc’s smile weakened further but he remembered his exact thoughts from that moment. “I know how to make ‘em proud of me now! He’s almost proud of me!” Presently Murdoc sat shaking in his chair on the edge of his seat thinking “That was the only time he ever said he was proud of me. No almost proud of me. I wasn’t good enough that time.” Murdoc sat shaking and shivering his eyes glued to the screen. 

The tape suddenly cut to static, the VCR spit the tape out at his feet. Murdoc slowly sat back in his chair like he had been shocked out of a trance. He shivered and put the tape back in its case. He wouldn’t dare anyone find those tapes. Murdoc would rather have to battle Satan to the death in the deepest pits of Hell than let his bandmates find those tapes. Murdoc always wanted to scream or throw up after he watched those tapes. His father was long gone by now and he didn’t need the tapes, but he couldn’t throw them out. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I wasn’t good enough that time” Murdoc sat in silence thinking “I’ll never be good enough for him and if anyone finds these tapes I’ll never be good enough for anyone! I’ll be a bloody laughing stock! I’d have to be a circus clown!” 

Murdoc took a few sharp breaths and sighed looking at himself in the mirror with a worried look on his face. “Alright Murdoc alright, no need to panic, alls well, ya gotta get a hold of yourself! The old geezer is dead anyway it’s not like he can do anything to ya now. Ya gotta calm down before your thoughts get the best of ya.” Murdoc stood up slowly and wandered down to the other end of his Winnebago where he kept a few stacks of records. He rummaged through the fourth stack until he found what he wanted. 

Murdoc hummed the tune of the first song as he was about to put the record on, then came a knock on the Winnebago’s door, Murdoc froze, and 2D’s voice called “Murdoc are ya alive in there! If so Russ says you better come eat dinner seein’ as you didn’t eat anything earlier an we don’t wanna have to come in there two days from now to try an decide if we gotta take ya to the hospital or leave ya on the couch. Russ says if you don’t come now he’s gonna come get ya because you’ve been in there all day!” Murdoc sighed and grumbled, “Alright fine quiet beatin’ on the door I’m comin’ out…” Murdoc stashed the tapes away in a small cabinet under the bed, he didn’t notice the edge of the last tape still sticking out, before he slung open the door. Stu jumped back with a yelp. 

Murdoc descended the three worn out rusty steps and slammed the Winnebago’s door shut locking it. “Why do ya always lock it? Nobody’s gonna go in there. Nobody wants to go in there!” exclaimed. Murdoc turned to him with a tired look that transformed into his regular annoyed grimace. “Because its mine an I’ll do what I like with it. That’s how it is Dents. Now let’s go.” Murdoc and 2D proceeded to take the elevator up from the garage basement to the main floor. Stu thought Murdoc was just bored, but really Murdoc had mastered the bored-when-in-reality-I want-to-fling-myself-in-traffic look which he used quite often. Murdoc is a master actor and the band was none the wiser. 

Upon entering the kitchen Noodle and Russel looked up. “It’s about time you decided to rejoin society.” Russel gave a light-hearted laugh. Murdoc smirked, “Yeah thought I’d grace ya all with my presence!” Noodle shook her head with the same smirk she had learned from Murdoc. “We thought you were digging a bunker down there or a tunnel to the underworld!” Murdoc let out his usual cackle “Yeah sure Noods its a tunnel to Hell, but ya gotta make an appointment first!” The group finally calmed down and sat down to dinner. 

Noodle looked up watching Murdoc then she asked “Stu said you were humming one of our songs. Are you thinking of remaking it?” She smiled and gave a little laugh. Everyone knew Murdoc couldn’t sing. Murdoc looked up from his dinner at Noodle. He looked shocked, a little horrified to say the least. “What nah! He must have been hearin’ things! Stu your hearing things! Ya are hearing things again! B-because it wasn’t me!” Murdoc laughed in an exaggerated tone before saying “I don’t sing Dents ya know that! Ya are ridiculous!” Stu sat down his fork looking confused “No I did hear you! I know it was you! Nobody else was down there but you and me and I wasn’t singing!” 

Murdoc gritted his teeth in a smile “Stu. 2D. Mate, listen you didn’t hear anything. Ya are lying or you were singing one of the two. Now, what was it?” Stu looked annoyed “I told you it was not me! It had to be you! I’m not lyin’ I know what I heard! You are the one lying Murdoc!” Murdoc shoved his chair back from the table and stood up grabbing the collar of Stu’s t-shirt “Now you listen here an you listen good! I. Don’t. Sing! That’s final! Get that in your brain if nothin’ else!” Stu whimpered softly as Murdoc let him go. The band ate the rest of their dinner in silence. 

Later that night Murdoc slunk down to the recording booth in the basement. He had to wait until five in the morning when nearly everyone was asleep. If Stu was awake he was too scared to go down to the basement to venture downstairs. Murdoc had convinced Stu that the basement was haunted more than the rest of the house at night and if he went down there at night then Satan would eat him alive. Needless to say, Murdoc was able to sing alone in peace during these ungodly early hours of the day. 

Murdoc would write new songs and perform them when no one else was around. These few early morning hours were truly the happiest of the day for Murdoc. After tweaking three or four songs Murdoc was awfully tired and fell asleep in the recording booth. 

The next morning Noodle came downstairs to find her guitar only to find Murdoc curled up in a chair clutching his bass and mumbling to himself. Noodle opened the recording booth’s door silently and snuck inside. She reached over Murdoc and pulled her guitar up and over him. She didn’t wake him up, Noodle knew how little sleep Murdoc got. She also knew, like Murdoc had told her as a child, that he slept best when he felt safest and Murdoc thought the safest place to sleep was a place with a locking door. This was why Noodle didn’t complain or find it too odd that Murdoc would fall asleep in the recording booth. 

On her way out of the recording booth, Noodle noticed that the control panel was still lit up. She put the headphones on and hit play on the panel. Noodle was utterly amazed by what she heard. Murdoc could not only sing, but he was rather good at it! 

The first track that he had sang was Tomorrow Comes Today followed by Double Bass, one of Murdoc’s favorites, and Stop the Dams. All sad songs. Emotional songs. Lastly was El Mañana, this was the saddest most emotional version of the song that Noodle had ever heard, albeit 2D’s version was more beautiful, but Murdoc’s version was a very sad song full of raw emotion that left Noodle feeling like her heart had been ripped out and stomped on. 

Noodle looked up over the panel, on the verge of tears as she stared at Murdoc curled up in his chair softly snoring and wheezing as he slept. Next to the recording panel was the key to Murdoc’s Winnebago. Noodle knew he wouldn’t be happy, but she needed answers. Why wouldn’t he sing in front of the band? Why did he make such a show of denying that he could sing? She needed to know and the Winnebago would be a vault of answers.

Noodle made her way over to the Winnebago and slowly unlocked the door, it creaked making her jump, her head spun around to see if Murdoc had heard, but he didn’t head a thing in the soundproof recording booth. Noodle kept up the three rusty steps and into a tiny cluttered room with blackout curtains. She closed and locked the door behind her. 

Noodle had to let her eyes adjust to the low light shining in from between the curtains. She finally could see and started her journey of finding the answers that would unlock an age-old mystery. 

Noodle spent an hour searching through the stacks of records, cassette tapes, and old tapes of the band’s early practices. These were all interesting but were not what she was looking for. Noodle was getting tired of searching and spun around to leave. As she turned her shoe kicked the edge of a tape and sent it sliding from under the bed to in front of the small tv. Noodle sat down in Murdoc’s chair and picked up the tape, unlike the others this one was unlabeled save for the year 1976. Murdoc would have ten years old then. Noodle dusted off the tape and pushed it into the slot at the bottom of the tiny tv. The tv sprang to life and the tape played. A tiny ten-year-old Murdoc stood on stage under the spotlight. He chewed on his thumbnail looking out into the crowd as someone announced his name and the song he would play. 

Noodle leaned forward in he seat watching as a man off stage interrupted Murdoc’s singing halfway through the act. Noodle watched in horror as Murdoc was drowned in fish and chips with half a beer to add insult to injury. Offscreen Sebastian handed the camera to his eldest son before he stomped up to the stage and threated a now terrified Murdoc that if he didn’t finish the song that he wouldn’t see the light of day again. Murdoc shook the chips from his soaking wet hair and tried to adjust the microphone, but the stand broke in his hands. Murdoc stared pitifully from the microphone to his father who threw up his hands in frustration. Murdoc tried to balance the microphone back in the broken stand but it fell to the floor and rolled away to a waitress. Murdoc jumped from the stage to get the microphone. The waitress picked it up and feeling sorry for him told “Just go sing an I’ll hold this for ya.” Murdoc was extremely embarrassed and kept thanking the waitress over and over until she told him to stop. The waitress sat at the edge of the stage and Murdoc sang his heart out for the kind lady, he couldn’t bear to look at his father. Once the song over the crowd laughed and fell over themselves. 

Noodle shifted in the chair uncomfortably. She couldn’t believe how cruel that crowd was. No wonder Murdoc had chewed out a tech guy for grumbling at Noodle when she was singing as a kid. Murdoc didn’t want anyone to do anything remotely like that to her. 

Noodle looked back at the tape which cut to static then focused on Murdoc and his father. Sebastian was leaning on Murdoc waving a small handful of five-pound notes in the face of another man. Murdoc was looking up at his father as Sebastian said “This is the most money this brat has ever made me! I’m almost proud of ‘em!” Sebastian looked down at Murdoc, who slightly grinned up at him with a look desperate for approval, as he exclaimed “Almost.” Little Murdoc’s grin fell from his face and his brother laughed off screen “What did ya think was gonna happen Murdoc! You thought for even a second that ya could screw up that badly and he would be proud of you?! This is too good! This is priceless comedy! This tape will be worth gold!” The tape suddenly cut to static. 

Noodle sat back in the chair, she hadn’t realized how far she had leaned forward. Noodle felt horrible and she had her answers. She stood up stunned into silence. She sat back down and rewinded the tape. She paused it on the scene where Sebastian was leaning on Murdoc. Noodle was disgusted with Murdoc’s father. She thought to herself “No wonder Murdoc only calls him by his name, I wouldn’t call him a “father” either.” 

The door to the Winnebago rattled. Murdoc’s voice yelled from the other side “Where the hell is my key! I couldn’t have left it in there, well maybe I did. Didn’t thinks so.” Noodle sighed with relief. “Ah well, I’ve got a spare!” Noodle panicked and looked about frantically.  There was nowhere for her to hide. Noodle took a deep breath and knew what she would say to him. Murdoc would be mad, that was undebatable, but Noodle knew what she had to say would calm him down, maybe. 

Murdoc fought with the Winnebago’s lock until it finally gave way and allowed him to enter. Murdoc stepped onto the first step and stopped. He knew something was wrong. His stacks of records had been shifted to the right and the cassettes had been turned the opposite way. Murdoc let out a low growl. Noodle took a step back into the shadows and stepped on a discarded cassette case. 

Murdoc put his spare key back in his pocket, slowly let the door swing open, and catapulted himself into the Winnebago at full speed. Murdoc snarled looking like a wild animal ready for a fight, Noodle let out a short scream and tumbled backward onto the floor scooting away until she was under the small wall mounted table. Murdoc leaped from the doorway to directly in front of the table crouching forward and grabbing Noodle’s hand me down shoes she had gotten from Stu. Noodle kicked at him as Murdoc drug her out, kicking and screaming, from under the table. 

“What did I tell ya about stayin’ out of here 2D! You told me yesterday that you wouldn’t wanna come in here anyway! 2D you answer me! How did you even get in h-” Murdoc finally drug Noodle out from under the table and stared at her. “Noodle? W-what are you doin’ in here?” Murdoc let her shoe go and stood up slowly backing away from her. Noodle stood up and looked at Murdoc then at the tiny tv. She had left the tv on with the tape in paused on the scene of Sebastian leaning on Murdoc. Murdoc followed her gaze to the tv. His head whipped around and he gave her a real look of fear, utter humiliation, and anger. “Is that what you were looking for? You wanted to laugh at me with the rest of them? Is that what you want!” Murdoc screamed as he stomped to the tv and ejected the tape, yanked it from the tv, and shoved it at Noodle pushing her backward a few steps. “Well, there ya go! Take the damn thing then! Go get famous on the bloody internet for havin’ the most horrid video of Murdoc Niccals! Its gotta be worth something by now! Go on get out! Shoo!” Murdoc made a shooing motion at Noodle. 

Noodle didn’t move an inch. She watched as Murdoc sat on the edge of the bed and hung his head. After a moment Murdoc looked up at Noodle with a look of pleading “Just leave me alone will ya? Go on and show Russ and 2D if ya want. I was a laughing stock then, I might as well be one now. Serves me right doesn’t it? Trying to hide all of it.” Murdoc sighed and continued softly. “I just wish it was anyone but you who found it. Russ wouldn’t say much and Dents would get a kick out of it, but ya always looked up to me so much as a kid, but you were just looking up to a lie. You saw that tape, I can’t sing, so whats the point of tryin to now.” 

Murdoc stood up and hauled out a box of tapes from under the bed. “Here take the set. The one ya are holding is the last one. Can’t separate the set now.” Murdoc pushed the box into Noodle’s hands and took a step back. “Well, what do ya have to say? Don’t just stand there! Tell me something! anything, p-please Noods. Don’t just stare at me.” Noodle dropped the box of tapes and stepped forward so fast Murdoc couldn’t escape. Noodle hugged him as tightly as she could. Murdoc looked down at her as she mumbled something to him. “You know I can’t understand ya if you mumble at me.” Noodle looked up at Murdoc who still had a worried frightened look plastered on his face. “I’m proud of you.” Murdoc looked bewildered and squirmed trying to get out of the hug. Noodle hugged Murdoc a little more and said “I’m not almost proud of you, I am proud of you and you can sing. I heard the songs you recorded last night.” Murdoc stopped struggling and in a moment he was wracked with sobs.

After about ten minutes Murdoc sniffled and started to pull himself together again. “Alright, all of this, the whole lot. Everything you saw and heard here is a secret. Don’t tell Russ and 2D. Got it?” Noodle nodded “Only if you agree to sing with me every once in a while.” Murdoc sighed and gave a nod. “If you want me to then I will. Ya know I used to sing for ya when you were a kid. You had the worst nightmares and I’d come in and scare off all the monsters and sit with ya and sing to ya until you fell back asleep. I bet you don’t remember that now do ya?” Noodle laughed and smiled “How could I forget! You wrestled a sweater and told me you fought off the monster! It was hilarious!” 

Murdoc and Noodle agreed that in addition to their late night cartoon watching that they would rewatch some of the funny home videos that had been taken of the band’s early years and record a few songs. The rest of the band never saw the songs and Noodle and Murdoc got a kick out of singing funny songs. Murdoc stopped rewatching the tapes he kept under the bed in his Winnebago. He had new tapes to watch now, mostly of he and Noodle jumping up and down yelling random lyrics in the recording booth. 

isnt there a better picture they could have used

five i care about my family hargreeves

venus, planet of love

pairing: steven grant x f!reader

tags: 18+ graphic smut with plot, mentions of marc and khonshu, mentions of therapy and brief panic attack depiction, all the fluffy feels, mutual pining, idiots in love, inexperienced!steven and reader, the l-bomb and lovey dovey sex, aftercare, about 9k word count teehee, friends to lovers

summary: art models are surprisingly hard to come by in london. maybe they just don’t want to work with you. maybe they’re intimidated. steven thinks you’re pretty and marc thinks it’s time to act on it. who knew steven grant would be up for a portrait?

note: first moonknight fic!!! here’s to many more :) feedback and reblogs are 100% appreciated, thanks!

- masterlist - steven grant playlist

“It just looks so smooth, like I want to touch it.”

“What? Her arse?”

The Rokeby Venus stands out as striking against the patterned red wallpaper of the gallery. The painted depiction of Venus is a stark paste of white, sensual and vividly nude as your eyes follow the curvature of brushstrokes on her backside. The soft greys, reds and creams compliment the fleshy paraphernalia of the painting; your starry eyes wander in a mixture of awe and engrossment, while your fidgeting friend beside you finds his gaze on another work of wonder.

“I’m appreciating the art, Steven. Not the arse.” 

The corners of your lips tweak into something in the sorts of regale as you deliberately scribble onto your notepad, the sound of the number-two pencil against paper filling the eerie solitude of the museum. Steven’s attentive stare follows the tiny scrunching of your nose and soon, he finds himself amused at how your expression slowly shifts into unmistakable concentration. 

It’s endearing. 

Especially when he sees the tip of your tongue poke out from between your lips, nestling against the bottom of one of your front teeth. 

Adorable. 

“Oh, you’d loathe the ancient Egypt exhibit then. Not a tad bit of arses there.” Steven finally catches your eye, your head lifting from hunched shoulders to listen to him. His comment draws a quiet chuckle out of you, to which you motion for him to go on. He doesn’t hesitate. “Well, I mean, nudity had a proper place and time then. The Egyptians prided themselves in — in fashion, in jewels and beads, fabric and linens. Really, nudity was practically associated with work or oftentimes, social status. Royalty loved to dress up. You don’t see many naked ushabti, yeah?”

The strewn sentences leave him with a deep exhale, mouth parting as he gauges your reaction carefully. You’ve always adored his bursts of passion. Youthful, exciting, like the first tall flame of a new candlelight.

Steven makes an effort to ignore the image of Marc harshly rubbing his temples in the golden frame of the painting.

“I don’t think Velázquez intended nudity to be the central theme.” You mindlessly tuck the notepad into the tote bag on your shoulder. The movement causes your elbow to brush against Steven’s forearm, and he gulps roughly at the tingling of his skin. “Nor do I think it’s completely about Venus.”

“Whaddya think then?” 

You quirk a brow at his question. “I think… I mean, it’s obviously an allusion to sexuality and the aesthetic of it. But not sex. More like—”

“Beauty.”

You glance at him briefly, voice getting caught in your throat as you lose your train of thought just by looking at him.

“Yeah. Beauty, women, attraction, it’s all very speculative…” 

His side profile is something you’ll never get used to. The singular curl that unravels down his forehead knocks the wind right out of you, the dark chocolate strand begging to be wrapped around your finger and the rest carded through your palms.

Sometimes, you think he deserves a museum exhibit of his own, dedicated to his constant busy mind and to the soft yet simultaneously roughened details of his face. 

Maybe most of the time, actually.

Steven doesn’t notice the stumble in your body language, too swept up taking the painting in for what feels like the hundredth time but really, his mind can’t stop replaying how ‘sex’ had rolled off of your tongue so beautifully, and now how Marc won’t stop fucking pestering him about growing some balls and manning up tonight.

His watch beeps and pulls you both from your respective trances while Marc sends him a hard glare through the reflection of the watchface. “Oh, bollocks.” Steven sighs out, jaw clenching as anxiety takes over the tranquility of his features. 

You turn to him with knitted eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Yeah, think we’ve got to run.” He frowns, gesturing for you to follow him to the front of the exhibit. “Donna’s gonna have my head tomorrow for bringing you ‘round again, love.”

“S’not like I’m breaking and entering.” You playfully smirk at him as you clutch your bag, jutting one foot in front of the other as he hastily takes you through the employee exit and resets the alarm on the door. “And if I did want to rob this place, I would’ve done it by now. No offense.”

“None taken.” He breathes out through a winded laugh, fiddling with the zipper at the bottom of his collared jacket. He treads carefully beside you in the alleyway. “Mind you, as long as you leave the gift shop out of it, yeah?”

The streetlamps cast shadows over your face, but he finds himself gazing at you even through all the darkness.

A lingering stare. An appreciative smile. A mirroring in how you both tilt your heads to the side ever so slightly. But Steven sees the second hand embarrassment on Marc’s face transcend into the golden swirls of puddles on the cobblestone, his eyes screwed shut as a pained scoff leaves him.

Could’ve kissed her right now, Steven. 

Your toothy grin is all in one airy and lighthearted. Despite Marc’s unmistakable jabs, he’s proud of at least one thing: 

Making you smile.

“Of course, silly.”

No one really expects a friendship between an art student and a gift shop-ist from the National Gallery to work in a manner that is so effortless, so easy, as if it were like clockwork.

Except, the hour hand and the minute hand will never line up. 

Because you’re semi-convinced that Steven doesn’t harbor any sort of attraction towards you, nothing more than feelings of friendliness and a dash of awkwardness. But then there’s that other part of you, the part that notices the stolen glances, how he looks at you all doe-eyed and regardful even when you have nothing to say, how he remembers your breakfast order every single day despite having trouble with his own, how your number is the only other emergency contact in his phone besides his mom who hasn’t called him back once. Hell, you’ve even been friends long enough to earn an alligator emoji beside your name. What a rarity.

Just friends. That’s all it could and should be. 

Steven thinks you’d never date a bloke like him. Marc is sold on the idea that you have feelings for Steven, in which the tension, he states, is painfully and terribly obvious. It’s difficult to watch, even from that other dimension. And Khonshu, well, that guy just thinks that the three of you are all bloody idiots. 

You try to push down the odd fluttering of your stomach when Steven opens the door to your car for you. He always does. You’re used to the chivalry, the old-fashioned kindness, but something about how he’s doing it tonight — hand hovering over the small of your back, then over your head as you dip into the driver’s seat while he watches you intently, wrinkles smoothing over his tan skin and eyes softening.

You look up at him before he shuts your door. “Tea at mine?” 

“Only if I get to make it this time.”

You scoff in offense, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he comes around to the passenger side then buckles himself in. “What was wrong last time?”

“Honestly, Y/N?”

“Yes, honestly!” You slightly turn up the radio, raising your brows at Steven as he immediately changes the station.

He sputters through a chuckle before he can even finish his sentence. “Tasted absolutely rubbish, I tell you!”

“Piss off!”

Abruptly, you both laugh heartily at that, shoulders bouncing as Steven recalls the memory of how awful it not only felt in his mouth, but how awful the brew looked in general. He finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from your face. Unable to stop replaying your sweet giggle that he drew out of you over and over again, and how his name falls from you like a bubbly chant as you reach over the console and slap his arm. Unable to stop his fingers from twitching against his thigh because he just wants nothing but to reach out and tuck that annoying wisp of hair behind your ear and tell you how much you truly mean to him.

The moonlight looks pretty on you.

Steven likes the comfort of your flat more than his own. There’s something remarkable about seeing a bed without ankle restraints and chains, or having sand stuck to the soles of his feet as he pads around the kitchen for once. Just you, him, an ugly red sofa, and the mess of unfinished canvases on your floor. Your lips twitch when he reaches around to help you get something off of the top shelf in your cupboard, his large palm gently pressing against your upper back when he pulls away to hand you a porcelain cup. 

You pour from the teapot. Steven adds an acceptable amount of milk. One long sip. Sigh of relief. Another sip. Then, smile at each other behind your delicate cups.

Like clockwork.

His kind voice feels warmer than the tea in your hands. “I enjoyed today.” Steven admits, leaning back against the counter and crossing his ankles as he speaks into his cup. 

You study the sincere tenderness in his dark irises. “I did too.” For a moment, the silence is nice. It’s comforting. You’re a safe haven, even as he fidgets nervously, drumming his fingers against the cool surface as you reluctantly look away from each other. Yet the longer you linger in the quiet, the louder the thoughts in your mind get. Your pinched voice comes out rushed and unsure. “Are you still seeing that therapist?” Steven tilts his head, unable to recognize your tone. 

“Seeing her? What do you mean?”

“Like, um, the sessions and stuff.” You chuckle softly, waving a dismissive hand at that with widening eyes. “Not in — in that way. I mean, are you?”

Why is she asking?

“Oh, goodness. No. Absolutely not.” Steven‘s dark eyebrows shoot upwards. His hold on the porcelain teacup tightens, knuckles tensing. “Why’s that?” 

You blink rapidly. “Just wondering.”

“We weren’t compatible. Professionally.” He sends you a close-lipped smile. It’s demure, and for some reason, nostalgic. “She had this — this big, caged bird in the room with us. Like a bloody parrot or something.” Then, he shrugs, eyes darting across the room with what seems to be an amused smirk as if you’re supposed to understand this implied sort of inside joke. “Wasn’t very soothing. Probably gonna find someone else in the time being, you know, hopefully with a… nicer therapy animal. Preferably one that doesn’t repeat everything that I say.” You nod slowly, taking another sip while he clears his throat. “And you? How’s your project coming along, dear?”

You snort. “Haven’t even drawn a single thing.” Your shoulders deflate as you sigh dramatically. “Due in a week, not a single idea in mind, canvas still as empty as ever.”

“You’d think it would be easy to find a model. Plenty of nudists in London.”

“Yeah, well, none of them want to be painted.”

“Then they must be intimidated.”

A tiny clink fills the air when you set the cup of tea onto the table behind you, arms crossing over your chest as you tuck your hands by your hips. The flat feels chilly beneath the illumination of the kitchen lamp. Steven feels too far away. But at the same time, he’s here. Here, in the tiny room, by the stove, dark circles beneath his lower lashes like he hasn’t slept in years, muscles straining against his jacket.

“And why would they be intimidated?”

If Khonshu could swallow him whole, this would be the perfect time for it. If Marc wanted to take the body, he’d let him. But the alters stay out of it, and for once, Steven longs for their interference. He can’t escape the way you stare at him, innocently chewing on your bottom lip as you await his response patiently. You don’t prod, just let time pass. Steven doesn’t know which is worse. The fridge rumbles. The shower next door shuts off. The cars outside whizz by. The moon peeks out from the blinds. There’s a wailing siren in the distance, but nothing is louder than the heartbeat drumming against your chest as Steven swipes a wet thumb over his mouth and gazes out the cracked window above your sink.

“Because — well, you’re a talented painter. You’re good, good at what you do and you — you’re intentional.” He locks eyes with you in the midst of his ramblings. “You’re purposeful in how you study people, how you look at them, memorizing every flaw and every detail between. You capture beauty, um, that — that I can’t even see and I don’t know how…” He lets out a nervous laugh, jaw clenching under the weight of gritted teeth. “I don’t know how anyone can just sit there and watch you paint without melting on the spot.”

Keep going.

“Steven…”

“You intimidate because you’re beautiful. And beauty makes people nervous, Y/N.” He clasps a hand over his heart, not because the words strike him deeply, but to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.

You collect your weight from the table, using your heel to slowly push yourself towards Steven and stand in front of him. You curiously toe at his white sock with your own, avoiding his gaze as you uncross your arms from your chest and entangle them behind your back with a frown.

“Do I intimidate you?”

Khonshu isn’t even in the kitchen anymore, and Marc is speechless. He can’t even watch.

At first, Steven’s voice comes out as small. And had you not been watching the parting of his lips, it easily could’ve been mistaken as the wind knocking against the walls. “Yes.” 

“Is it because you think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re more than that.”

“Honestly, I don’t think I am.”

Steven chuckles, shaking his head. His pupils are heavily dilated, darker than normal. “Trust me, you are.”

“Prove it.” You pick a stray thread off of his shirt, goosebumps erupting across his soft skin as your cold fingertips leave him. His eyes follow the motion before they flicker back to your face. “Sit on that sofa and let me paint you.” Steven can’t pinpoint the emotions behind your words. Close to playful. Far from joking. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious, but you’re grasping at paintbrushes with a glowing smile and quickly tying an apron around your waist that leaves him blushing shamelessly. 

“You do not want to paint me.” He awkwardly huffs out, raising his hands at you before you’re pouting at him. “Y/N, it would just be a waste of canvas.”

“And why would I not wanna paint you?” 

You pull your hair up into a ponytail, ignoring how Steven’s gaze trails up your exposed arms and the curve of your shoulders. You inhale deeply, and just from the way your throat flexes in the shadows, Steven suddenly brings himself to sit on the mass of pillows atop of the velvet couch. He watches you drag an easel out from your closet, placing it right by the footrest and the swiveling stool across from him. There’s a cart filled with discarded jars of scotch, tubes of different paint mediums and a wooden palette marked with an array of clashing colors beside you, an attest to the acrylic staining the Persian rug beneath your feet.

“Because I’m just me. Just Steven.”

Your eyes pop out from over the canvas.

“Well, I think ‘just Steven’ is perfect.” 

He winces, lines creasing together on his forehead. “So what do I do now? Just — just pose, or…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, teeth making indents on his bottom lip. “Do I smile? What do — what do your models usually do?”

“Well, most of the time, they’re usually half-naked and tend to be as still as a statue.”

“Oh.”

You peer back at him again, gaze full of sincerity and concern as he self-consciously situates his position on the couch. “But you don’t need to follow the naked part. Just the latter, okay?” 

“Alrighty then.”

He can feel the warmth of your smile radiating even from six feet away. “Relax your jaw. Don’t look so scared, the more natural the better.”

His pupils dart around the room, taking in your flat as if it’s the first time he’s been here. He can’t look at you. He can’t. Not when you’re concentrating on him like that, scouring the details of his features, the lines and moles that mark his face, the exhaustion, surveying the slump of his spine like that was meant to be beautiful to you.

Would you capture all his flaws and blemishes then turn them into compliments?

“I told you I’m intimidated.” Steven quips, squaring his shoulders when he sees your paintbrush take the first glide across the blank canvas. 

“And I told you that there’s nothing to be intimidated about.”

“You know, I quite hate it when you get down on yourself like that.” He glares at you with a heavy shrug. Even when he’s clearly upset at you, Steven has a certain calmness to him. 

He’s the striking resemblance of lightning without the explosiveness of thunder. 

You don’t say anything, just swirl a mixture of colors onto the battered palette as you return back to the painting. He can see your tongue prodding against the inside of your cheek, rumination coating your mind in the same manner that hues of beige, black and pink coat his portrait. Steven lets the silence talk. He lets you bask in the quiescence for the sake of your art, for the sake of peace and his embarrassing desire to get this over with. But at the same time, he doesn’t want this to end.

Sure, he hates the fleeting eye contact. But come tomorrow, you won’t be staring at him like this — won’t smile at him with such tenderness and intention, won’t let your gaze wander for longer than a best friend would. Come tomorrow, you’ll have breakfast together while an ABBA record echoes from the living room, then you’re driving him to work with morning road rage and leaving for a nine a.m. lecture as if domesticity didn’t have an effect on you like it did on Steven. 

There, you won’t study him like he’s the most interesting creature on the planet. But come tomorrow, he’ll continue to read you like you’re the rarest text of Egyptian lore. 

“You intimidate me too, you know.” 

Could you hear the cogs in his brain? Was this an answer to all of his speculations? Curiously, Steven turns his feet towards you. His ears perk up, full brows raising at your unanticipated statement. “What?” 

“Yeah.” You sigh out tiredly. 

“Now why would I do that?”

This time, your face is completely blocked by the easel. You make it purposeful so he can’t discern your expression, even as the brush moves in slow and heavy strokes against the canvas. 

“I suppose for the same reason you find me intimidating.“

The sound of wet paint dabs onto the surface and drowns out your shallow breaths in the midst of Steven’s surprise.

“You find me… pretty?”

The scoff at the end of his question makes you cringe. Maybe you’ve said too much. Maybe you’ve stepped a line, or maybe he thinks this is all too odd. 

Your lips flutter upwards solemnly as you repeat his exact words from earlier. 

“I think you’re more than that.”

His heart could absolutely burst from his chest right now. He’s helplessly pinching at the bridge of his nose, unsure where to put his hands and why his hair suddenly feels so flat against his head. The couch beneath him is stiff, uncomfortable against his arse as he realizes that he’s been sitting in the same spot for too long. And now, Khonshu is simply leaning over your shoulder to look at the easel, thrumming with critique and amusement as the God towers over your hunched frame on the stool.

“Damn it.” Steven groans, placing a fist over his chest as he fidgets erratically. His eyes narrow, lips pursing together as he tries to blink back the chaos in his mind and fights off the urge to hand the reins to Marc. “God, I think I’m having a panic attack right now.”

“What?” You immediately place your brush down, peeking around the side of the canvas as Steven tries to even out his breathing. The stool nearly clatters to the floor when you stand and take long strides to his aid with wide eyes. “Do you need some air? I can — I can open a window, or — water? Water would be good?” He nods feverishly, tearing his gaze away from you and directing it to the stained carpet. You rush over to the sink, flicking on the tap and clumsily filling up a mug that Steven had given you from the gift shop. “Okay. Here, here.”

The dinosaur pun on the front isn’t so funny anymore when water sloshes over the rim as you hand it to him. He takes loud gulps as you cup your hand below his chin and catch the excess from the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — are you okay? What happened back there?”

You called me pretty, he wants to say. You don’t think I’m awful-looking, he wants to say. You think that I’m worth a second glance and worth all those lingering stares that I thought were parts of my imagination, he wants to say.

But instead, he saves those remarks for another time, and settles on one that seems fitting for the moment.

“I got intimidated.”

And you laugh. It’s brief and small, yet large enough to mend the brokenness of Steven’s haywiring brain when you set his mug down on the footrest and look down at him from where he sits awkwardly on your couch. The overhead light creates an unconventional halo behind your crown of hair, your shadow embracing the sunken essence of Steven’s face as he quietly admires you.

You send him a lopsided smile, dimples creating crescent moons around your lips and the bulb of your nose as anxious fingers twitch at your sides. “I’m no Venus.”

“Goddess or planet?”

He draws another chuckle out of you.

“Goddess, I think.”

“Well, Y/N, gods and goddesses are fairly overrated anyways.”

You bite your lip. “And if I’m a planet, then what does that make you?”

Steven lets his stare drop from your face, curls dropping against the shine of his forehead as he dusts away the lint on his pants. You study his distracted form, leg brushing against his bent knees as your stance hovers over him. He sighs shakily at the sensation, but then your fingers shift to wrap around the roughened hands that are interlocked together in his lap, thumbs hesitantly ghosting over his knuckles with a shyness he’s never seen on you. 

The notion causes him to ever-so-slightly lift his head. Those big, brown eyes meet yours in the humming of your living room, and the hand that’s wrapped around his own slowly travels up to the underside of his jaw. You can feel his muscles move beneath your gentle touch when his warm cheek leans into your palm, staining his skin with paint. 

“Must make me the idiot who sits in the observatory all day, all night, watching in awe through a telescope.” He closes his eyes when your fingers trace his skin, shifting higher and higher until you languidly card your nails through his dark curls. His head tilts back submissively with the soft action, nose pointing up at you as bliss falls upon his features. “Sounds a bit creepy now that I say it out loud.”

“You know people say that Venus is hellish, right?”

His eyelids flutter open, long lashes tickling you. “You’re pretty hellish to me.”

“I’m offended.”

“Don’t be.” He whispers, resting his hand against your outer thigh. 

Both of your heads follow the motion, as if his body had betrayed what he was trying so hard not to do — touch you, feel your heat against his, let his touch wander where his mind shouldn’t. But he can’t rewind time, and he certainly can’t stop how his palm stretches over your upper leg until it rests upon your hip. 

“Steven…” You stroke his cheek with amorous yearning, smudging the space underneath his eye with a shade of pastel pink. 

“Don’t — don’t say my name like that, love. Please, don’t.” Air escapes from his nostrils, his words fall from his lips in a longing tone laced with subtle desperation. But nothing is subtle anymore. Not with how he looks up at you like you’re the brightest star in the universe, staring at you like how you stare at famous masterpieces in a museum or even the works of art that never get noticed, but when they are, everything just makes sense. “You say it like…”

Now this all makes sense.

“Say it like what?”

“As if it’s more than my — more than just a bloody name.” Steven’s eyebrows furrow deeply, yet somehow he looks softer. 

“More than just Steven with a V?” He laughs at that, a deep rumble that vibrates through his belly and throat as his eyes never leave yours. “Hey, I like saying your name.”

Your fingers against his bottom lip bring him back to this painless reality, and the tension isn’t so unbearable when you stain his sun-kissed skin blue in the dull light above the sofa.

“No… not that.” Both of your hands cup his cheeks, ears tucked into the spaces between your curling digits as you caress his chin with your thumbs. Your pupils lull him into hypnosis, and he finds himself unable to stop gazing at the constellations in your irises. “You say it as if you like me.”

Fucking hell, Steven.

His hands tighten around your hips, anchoring you. 

“I do like you.”

“No, like — like more…”

“More than a friend?” 

“Yeah.” His blinks grow rapidly while his face contorts into something of shock and perplexity, teeth on display as he shoots you a panicked look. “Do you?”

“Do I? Steven, I’ve…” An exhausted chuckle racks through you. 

A pathetic noise of protest bubbles out of him when your palms leave his jaw. The cold isn’t so welcoming, and neither is the rest of your flat when you turn your back on him to tousle your hair with pent-up frustration. Meanwhile, Khonshu lingers in the hallways and curiously sorts through your vintage records. Marc wants nothing to do with this and resorts to plugging his ears.

Steven, here and now, is alone — alone with you and a giant, undeniable problem with the word ‘FEELINGS’ stamped right on top of it. He’s been decent about how to deal with emotions. He knows where his heart is, what makes his brain light up and what grows butterflies in his stomach. And even when you pace the room in worrisome, dizzying circles, all of the above outweighs the anxiety that shelters his bones.

“Y/N, dear, will you please sit down?” You don’t listen. He allows you two more laps around the couch and footrest until he beckons to you again. “Y/N.” Another two, then Steven himself is trailing behind your haste steps. “Y/N, what is the matter with you?” He takes the liberty of grabbing your wrist, pulling you back before you can escape once again. He squeezes your arm. Once, twice, till he understands that you’re fully listening. “Stop it, you.”

Normally, he’s the one running. But something about the way you look at him makes him want to stay, something about how your lips part and how you roll your bottom lip between your teeth then let it bounce back to its natural position makes him all hazy-eyed and helpless when your own eyes flicker to his mouth. You don’t know where to look, yet you strive to take in every single detail of him because you’ve never stood this close to one another.

You’re breathless, while his chest rises and falls steadily. You’re stepping on Steven’s toes, but he doesn’t mind. The hand around your wrist travels up your elbow, keeping you anchored when his other one does the same to your opposite arm. “Stop.” He whispers, warm breath fanning over your face as he shakes his head at you. 

“You stop.” Your eyes gravitate to his mouth again, plump lips pouting with temptation as you subconsciously take a step closer towards each other. 

Does he want this as much as you do? 

His knuckles run along your cheek and your droopy eyelids grow heavy at the tender feeling.  Steven’s fingers find that annoying wisp of hair from earlier, and he takes it upon himself to tuck it behind your ear. You try to stifle a moan when his nails card along your scalp, mirroring your gesture from before. But a whimper eases its way out of you, followed by a shaky sigh when your voice denounces you. His movement stills for a moment, but then both of his hands are cupping your face and his forehead is pressing against yours in a manner that is so indescribably intimate, you can’t even believe it’s real.

“You’re so pretty.”

There’s that desperate whisper again. 

Your mouth reaches for his. You can feel him holding you by the back of your neck, lips unmoving and lacking confidence against yours. It’s a short kiss, nothing too heated, but when you try to pull away through mumbling apologies, he can’t help but grab you by the chin and bring you back to him for seconds. 

You gasp into his mouth, the button of his nose resting against your cheek when you regain your self-control and hold onto his shoulders for leverage. “I’m sorry.” You blurt out.

“No, no,” He kisses you again, pupils wide and hands grasping at your belly when realization washes over. “Forgive me, I don’t — I didn’t mean to—“

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?” You smirk. The teasing grin is immediately wiped off of your features when Steven pulls you closer and tighter, almost as if you’d slip away from him anytime soon. “Are you going to do it again?”

“I think I want to, unless you don’t want me to, Y/N.”

“Of course I want you to. I want you, Steven.”

He chuckles in disbelief. “You do?”

“Well, I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

He gets lost in your eyes for the millionth time tonight. His accent draws out thick and frustrated when he finds the courage to pull your lips back onto his. 

“Oh, fuck it.” 

You moan instantly when his fingers undo your ponytail and tangle through your hair, flawed palms grabbing at each other’s clothing like you hadn’t felt the touch of someone else in ages — like you hadn’t felt Steven touch you in a fashion that is so sexual, so passionate and needy as if he’s been needing you all his life.

You kiss down his jaw, reveling in the soft sighing that he casts against your ear when you near his throat. He pinches himself when your mouth latches onto that sweet spot by his shoulder. It’s real. You’re real, with your hot tongue against his neck, with your chapstick molding him into shea butter and beeswax, with your paint-stained fingers dancing across the hem of his jacket like a tease. It’s real when his arms wrap around your frame, and your back immediately arches in response to his embrace while he ponders the skin beneath your shirt. 

“You can touch me.” You whisper against his mouth with swollen lips and nudging noses. He sighs at the consensual phrase, coffee-colored eyes never once leaving the comfort of yours. “S’okay, Steven.” 

“Are — are you sure?” 

“I am.”

The couch creaks beneath him when he reaches over and gingerly holds you by the jaw, thumbing at your earlobe with hopeless adoration. It feels like two teenagers kissing each other for the first time. Awkward tangled limbs. Noses accidentally bumping and twitchy eyelashes poking at sensitive flesh. But it feels so natural, especially when your body reacts to Steven’s affections as if it has always known him.

He kisses you. A lot. 

And he kisses you some more until you’re practically sliding off the couch and resorting to becoming labyrinths of desperation on your rug.

Your shirt rides up as Steven drags a large palm over your ribs, tracing the bone beneath your titillating skin. His head rests on your stomach, lips pecking the area around your belly button and down your hip bone until you’re eager for his mouth again. “You’re unreal, Y/N.” He groans in pleasure when you tug on his hair, smiling when you roll on top of him and straddle his lap. “Two years of my life I’ve spent pining after you.”

You giggle, “Try three. I win, yeah?” 

“Oh, so now it’s a competition?” 

“I’m just saying maybe you’ve been Venus all along.”

He smirks playfully, shrugging from where he lays on the floor. “I think we both know I prefer ancient Egypt over ancient Rome.”

“Planet.” You breathe out, fighting off the urge to close your eyes when his hands finally make contact with your lower back. “The planet, not the goddess.” 

Steven’s arm extends upwards, pushing your hair away from your face when you look down at him with a dreamy gaze. 

“Goddamnit, you’re so pretty.” You sigh in content at the praise. “My Venus.” 

The pet name nearly makes you melt.

No artist in the world could replicate the masterpiece of your skin against his. No artist could etch every detail of you and depict it in a manner so accurate or perfect — every mole, scar, freckle and fold as if you were carved from Venus’ hip at birth. No painting could hold the same beauty of Steven nervously taking your shirt off, unable to capture the quiet chuckles when your head gets caught in the fabric. Venus’ figure can’t compare to Steven’s tawny chest, faint abs rippling under your nails and lips as you kiss your way up to his pecs. 

Surrounded by pools of each other’s clothes, your burning bodies lay beside one another as sensual messes on the floor, rutting against each other gently and needily as Steven hikes your leg over his hip. You grind your mound against his crotch, gasping into his mouth when he holds you there.

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He remarks, gripping onto your waist before he suddenly looks to you for guidance. “I-I really… fuck, I really do want you.”

His touch is featherweight, flightless but not even close to fleeting when he takes the time to voyage the muscled wings of your back. 

“In what way?”

He exhales shakily, wetting his lips. “All of them.” You tuck your head under his chin after pressing a brief kiss to his temple. His voice rumbles against your body. The richness of his accent drops to a deeper octave when you reply in a high-pitched moan, hips grinding onto his front when his fingers find the waistband of your underwear. “Teach me how to take care of you, love.” 

“Touch me. Just touch me like you won’t ever stop.” Steven studies the desperation in your glassy eyes and nods softly, stroking his finger on either side of your cheek. Yet, past the swirls of loving lust in his expression, you recognize that something’s bothering him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” He says almost too quickly. “Yeah, I am. Are you? I just, um…” He laughs sheepishly, stroking the side of your head. “I’ve never done this before.”

“You haven’t?”

“I never… got to that point, really, with anyone.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” You shift closer to him, resting your forehead against his as you look at him through your lashes, “I’ve never had someone inside me.” And Steven moans. Loud, deep, desperate. You would’ve clenched your thighs together had Steven not hoisted your leg higher over his hip. “I’ve done stuff, but… never been fucked. Never been…” You sigh blissfully when his fingers trace the curve of your buttock. “… properly filled up by anyone.”

“You’re going to k-kill me, love.” He glances down at your clothed core, fingers begging to reach for you.

“I’m sorry, I know. I know.” You kiss him, earning a needy groan from the man. “Go on then, touch me, baby.”

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong. Tell me if it’s not what you want.” 

Agonizingly slow, his digits dip down the waistband of your panties, cotton rubbing against the back of his hand as he curls his fingertips towards your cunt. The gentle notion makes you gasp once more, especially when he spreads your folds apart to expose the hood of your clit. His middle finger circles leisurely over the sensitive nub with feathery touches.

“Steven,  fuck… yeah, that’s it.”

His voice hitches in his throat as he gauges your reaction. “Oh, love, you’re — oh, you’re just dripping, aren’t you?” You guide his hand further, the pads of his fingers dragging your slick against your wet entrance. “Y/N, you gorgeous, gorgeous thing.”

“Feels good.” You scratch at his shoulders shamelessly, rocking on the heel of his hand for more friction. Your eagerness spurs Steven further and so he increases the pressure, skimming his fingers over your folds and pressing ever-so-tantalizingly near your hole before he returns back to your clit. “Tease.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing and you’re calling me a tease?” He smirks proudly, repeating the gesture until he’s drawing a moan out of you each time. The outline of his dick protrudes against his boxers, and only then does he realize how hard he is for you. “It’s good, yeah?”

You’ve never seen him so smug.

Yet you like it, and you can’t fucking help but want more of it.

“Shit, yeah. Yeah, it’s — it’s… oh, Steven.”

Your sentence is interrupted midway when he pushes his finger inside you, slow and deep enough to rip a whine right out of your throat from the stretching sensation. He inhales loudly, eyes fixating on your mouth when you hopelessly sigh against his neck. You shift your knee higher up his leg, giving him more access to finger you. He hums at your facial expressions, mirroring them when you suckle dark marks just beneath his jaw.

It brings an innocent smile to his face thinking how he’ll have to show up to work tomorrow with remnants of you all over him. 

Steven mouths at your shoulder, leaving glistening patches of saliva in the wake of his fumbling kisses. You rock against the heel of his palm, mewling as he drags his fingers against your walls and he muffles his own pleasure against your skin.

“You’re so perfect.” He groans, fucking his digits in and out of you. The noises that leave your cunt and his throat are sinful, but nothing beats the image of you resting your head on his arm, his hand cupping your mound while he fingers you on the floor impatiently. “Fuck, Y/N. You’re making quite the mess, aren’t you, dovey? God, your moans are so fucking sweet to listen to.”

“Steven, your fingers...” You watch his wrist snap against you, juices squelching around him. You nearly sob from the intensity. “You get me so wet.”

“That’s good, Y/N. That’s good. I love pleasing you, you know that.” You clamp down onto the crook of his neck, teeth stifling your wrecked moans as he curls his middle and ring finger against that spongy spot inside you. His touch is generous, obviously eager to satisfy you, and accompanied by his weathered hands, you can feel your orgasm approaching soon. “Can I tell you something?”

Your voice comes out broken, mind fuzzy as your cunt tightens around him. “What?”

“Those… those two years, I…” He moans in tandem with you when you nibble at his bottom lip. “I, fuck, it wasn’t just pining, Y/N.”

“I have n-no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I — I think I’m in love with you. And not just because I’m…“ He laughs. “… inside you right now, but I think I’ve been in love with you from the moment you spoke to me and — and fuck, being able to hold you like this only confirms it.”

And just like that, you come undone all over his thick fingers.

“Oh, fuck! S-Steven!”

You cry out into his chest, bite marks tattering his skin as you hold him tight and gracelessly grind against him until you lose control over your climax. Your body shivers from your orgasm, gradually and slowly, which usually never happens from anyone else’s hands other than your own. Steven’s confession hangs heavily in the air even as he coaxes you through your high, fingers scissoring carefully in and out of you. 

Soft praises leave him in whispers, and he shares his affection for you with gentle pecks to your temples. 

A couple minutes pass by until you’re able to catch your breath, or at least, compose yourself.

“Was I imagining that or did you just say you love me?” You look up at him with big eyes, voice hushed and fearful as he wipes the sweat away from your brow with his thumb. 

He gulps, lashes fluttering dreamily when you cup his cheek with a shaky hand. “S’real.”

“Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

“More than best friends?”

Steven adores the childish glimmer of curiosity in your innocent gaze. He chuckles quietly, nodding. “Best friends included and more.”

“I love you, best friends and more.” You rub your nose against his before your stare drifts to his swollen lips. “But the next time you confess shit like that, don’t do it when you’re fingering me.”

He flashes you a weak smile. “Alrighty, miss.”

Although, Steven is unprepared for when you untangle yourself from his arms and settle between his thighs, nails raking over his muscled calves and mouth grazing over the bulging front of his boxers.

Your next words simultaneously fill and take the air from his lungs.

“Do it when you have your cock inside me.”

Marc nearly takes control of the body himself at that exact moment, and Steven immediately thinks he’s going to pass out when you tug his boxers down his hips to free his aching prick. His reddened tip is already leaking with pre-cum, thighs jolting beneath your slow and open-mouthed kisses to his skin. 

“You really are hellish.” He whines when you wrap your middle and ring finger along the middle of his cock, lips suctioning around the base. A long moan drawls from his throat as he rests his head back against the rug, eyes screwing shut when you run your warm tongue along a prominent vein. 

“Am not.” You chuckle, pressing a chaste kiss to the head.

He stifles a groan, forearm coming up to cover his eyes as you take just the tip of him into your mouth. “Oh, my god, Y/N. F-Fuck, yes.” You hum in amusement, the back of your throat sending the vibrations right to his cock. “That’s good. Really fucking good. Oh, fuck.”

You grin widely, but remain careful not to use any teeth on him. “You’re very needy, you know that? But, oh, you’re just doing so well for me, aren’t you?”

The mocking tone of your phrases make him squirm. He’s gripping onto a fistful of the Persian rug, wrinkling it with scarred knuckles. 

“Please.”

“Please?” 

“More. Touch me more.” He shakes his head at you, chin pressing against his chest as he stares down at you with a defeated expression. “Please, love.”

You’d be lying if you say that the way he looks at you doesn’t make you wet. You’re practically a puddle of desire, and Steven is melting jelly in your hands when your head quickly bobs down his thick length. 

He’s sputtering out a string of swear words, cursing more than you’ve ever heard him in your years of friendship. You can tell he’s trying his best not to cum prematurely, not that you’d care anyways, but with how his soft stomach ripples and flexes with each deliberate swirl of your textured tongue, you know he’s struggling.

And just when you’re about to give him that moment of release, you feel Steven pulling you back by the hair. Disappointment flashes over his features briefly when your mouth leaves him, but the boyish longing on his face quickly shifts into attentiveness when he catches a glimpse of the confused glint in your eyes. 

“Everything alright?” Your hands find his face once more. It becomes so natural in this new, sudden dynamic together — touching him, feeling him against you like you’ve always wanted. “Was it too much?”

“No, no, it was amazing.” He assures you, fingers pushing back the matted hair on your cheeks. “You’re amazing. I just don’t — I don’t wanna finish and leave you unsatisfied.”

“You could never leave me unsatisfied, silly.” You bite your lip feverishly, thumb stroking his chin for comfort.

He smiles. The tension of the conversation seems far from innocent now, especially when a near-indiscernible side of Steven appears as the words leave him confidently:

“I want to be your first, though. The first man inside you.”

“Steven…” 

“Only if you want, Y/N. Whatever you say goes, no matter what.” His hands grab yours, sweat sticking to each other’s skin. “It would be nice to have you be my first. And me as yours. I mean, it sounds so juvenile to want no one except you, but it’s the truth.” He lazily kisses across your knuckles, paving his way around the tendons with his lips. “I want to have sex with you, and I want to remember it.”

“Is he here right now?” Steven freezes and his jaw goes slack at the question. He can tell you’re nothing but concerned once your eyebrows knit together deeply. “Is Marc here?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked about Marc Spector without Steven bringing him up on his own account.

“Why? Did you want — do you want him instead?” 

“No! No, I don’t. Not for this.” You smile with brief panic, tracing the bridge of Steven’s nose to put his worries to rest. His frown gradually fades with the soothing motion. “I just want to make sure it’s you. Everything we do here, I want it to be with you.” You ruffle his hair teasingly once he sits up. “No offense to Marc, by the way.”

Steven chuckles, “I’ll give him your regards.” 

“Well, he has yet to talk to me.” You shrug casually, grabbing onto his biceps as he pulls you onto his lap. 

“He’s just shy.” He grins against your lips. His palm travels up the swell of your breast until he’s softly kneading the ball of flesh and rolling your nipple between his fingers.

Your breathing quickens, eyes fixating on his hardened erection. “Shyer than you?”  

“Oh, incredibly.” Steven jokes, shaking his head. 

He can just imagine Marc’s downturned expression of disbelief. 

“Tell him…” You nip at his earlobe, moaning against his cheek. “… that I’m already spoken for.”

“Are you now?” He’s abrupty cut off by his own gasp when your arm reaches behind and you wrap a fist around his dick, pumping him slowly in your firm grasp. “Rude. I was talking.”

“Were you? I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

She thinks she’s so funny, doesn’t she?

“Stop a-apologizing and…” He hisses when you twist your hand, grazing the pad of your finger over his slit. “F-Fuck, Y/N.”

“There we go…” You grind against his tip, pre-cum smearing across your folds. “What do you want?”

“Want you to use me, darling. However you’d like.”

“So eager for me, Steven.” You breathe into his mouth, noses nudging against each other as you line his cock up with your entrance. “You haven’t even fucked me and yet you’re practically begging for more.”

“God, you talk so filthy for someone with such a gorgeous face, yeah?”

“I guess I truly am hellish.” 

And yet nothing about this feels like hell. 

Especially once you sink down onto his length, the heavy tip of his cock ready to stretch you out. It’s only slightly painful — a brief sting, the awkward shifting of bones so that Steven can sit back and have your thighs on either side of him, the echoing of your quiet whimpers beneath the soft light as you take every inch of him into your core. Your slick spreads onto his thighs and balls, wetness coating his digit as he instantly reaches for your clit like its become second nature.

“You — you’re really tight.” He groans, looking down at where your cunt swallows him whole. 

You laugh wryly, whimpering when his hips subconsciously rut into you. “And you’re really big.” 

Steven tilts his head back and looks up at you with a hazy smile, raising your chin with his thumb and pointer finger. For a split second, you think it’s Marc — the darkness in his eyes, the sudden dominance dripping from his tone, but it’s a big mistake on your part to second-guess him once he finally thrusts into you.

“Say it again, love.” 

It’s completely Steven — his wandering hands, grasping and grabbing at flesh, grounding you, feeling every crevice and fold of your body like it’s a sanctuary that he’s been dying to enter.

“You’re so big.” Your mouth gapes, eyes widening when you submit to his touch and let him take you. “Oh, fuck. Steven, please.”

“Yeah?” He grunts gruffly into your neck, teeth marking the virginal expanse of your throat. “You like it this way? My lovely Y/N enjoys getting fucked on the floor of her own flat?”  

“I love it.” You meet his strokes halfway, tits bouncing in his face as he leans forward on his knees and wraps your legs behind his back. “Oh, s-shit. Mmm, right there — right there feels so — so good, Steven. Fuck!” 

Steven bites down onto your shoulder when he lays you down onto the rug, cock burying itself deeper inside your cunt while he puts his weight on top of your body. His whiny moans are muffled, gasps and slaps filling the ambience of the messy living room. You’re sure that the neighbors below your studio can feel every force of Steven’s hips pounding into you — hard, slow and full. 

You scratch down his spine, red marks drawing angry lines across his tanned muscles. Juices are running down your inner thighs and cream coats his cock as he fucks you needily. While his skin is stained with paint, your skin is littered with his stinging handprints. He spreads his palms over your ass, carefully maneuvering you up and down his length as you sob into his chest.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re everything I could’ve dreamed of.” Steven pants out incoherently, nipping at your jawline. “This pretty cunt… jus’ wrapped ‘round me. I could get used to this, you know that?” 

Your throat feels raw from your mewling, the exhausted and desperate need to cum written all over your features. “You can have me anyday and anytime. I want you to…” You swallow roughly. “… fill me up, Steven. Take me whenever.” Your tone grows hushed, breathy whispers ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I wanna see how drunk you can get off of my pussy.”

“Holy f-fuck.”

You laugh together, even during the heated moment. “You love it when I talk dirty, don’t you?”

“I just love you. Anything you say, anything you do, it just absolutely riles me up.” His hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you to him till your foreheads are touching and your naked bodies beg even harder for release. “God, dovey. You’re a perfect work of art. 

“Mmm, I-I’m close.” You gasp out, nails digging into his shoulder blades when his cock begins to hit that unforgivable spot inside you. 

Steven takes a moment to pull out of you, running himself against your folds until he dives right back in. His tip prods and prods at your walls, your wetness leaving his prick damp with each deep stroke. 

“Fuck, Y/N. S’good, I can’t — oh, hell, I can’t think anymore.” He whines, arms resting on either side of your head as he pounds into you. 

“Stevie.”

He shushes you tenderly, thumb sliding across the corners of your eyes to wipe away the brimming tears. “I know, darling. I know. I’ll get you there, promise.” His breath fans out across your lips, and you take advantage of your proximity to reel him in for another drowning kiss. 

His thrusts grow sloppy, hips losing their graceful rhythm as he continues to snap into you. He beckons your name like it’s a song on loop, while your tiny whimpers turn into loud wanton groans of lust. He pulls you back into an embrace and sits up again, hooking his arms under your knees so that they’re bent and your ass hovers over his lap. 

The position leaves you vulnerable when you hold onto his torso for dear life, fluids making a mess between your bodies.

“I love you.” You croak out, opening your eyes to gaze into Steven’s dilated pupils. “Best friends and more.”

“And I love you.” You moan in tandem, feeling yourselves near your orgasm. “My sweet, perfect Venus.”

You clench around his hard cock, cumming intensely on his length as he cries against your neck. His hands are everywhere, but all you can focus on is the way your cunt contracts around him, tugging and milking him till he discovers his own high. This time, Steven doesn’t shy away from moaning and allows himself those deserved minutes of relief as you ride out your orgasms together.

“Oh, my god.” 

Momentarily, neither you or Steven move from the rug. He keeps you on his cock, too scared to face the emptiness that’ll come once you leave him. But it seems that you share the same sentiment, sighing against his bicep as you draw circles on the back of his hand. 

He decides to break the comfortable silence.

“I do okay?” 

Steven can feel your smile form against his skin, eyes sleepy and droopy from where your head lays. “You did so good.” 

“You wanna get cleaned up?”

“Please.”

With ease, Steven helps you off of him, already missing the comfort and warmth of your core as you both shakily rise to your feet. For a split second, it’s awkward — your palms shift to cup your naked breasts, while his limbs fumble to fetch you a quilt from the couch till he realizes his own indecency.

But then you share another bubbly laugh and offer the other half of your quilt to Steven, who doesn’t hesitate to cozy up beside you and have you lead one another to the bathroom. You take him under your clothed wing, ankles bumping together clumsily as he finds the light by the sink and quietly flicks it on.

He unravels himself from the quilt first and sits by the edge of your bathtub while he waits for the water to heat up. You watch him lovingly from the doorframe, tired and hair matted, but nevertheless, Steven thinks you look ravishing.

“Come on now.” The Londoner makes grabby hands towards you, taking the blanket from your hickey-covered frame and folding it neatly by the bathroom counter. 

You sit with him in the tub — back to his chest, his back to the tile, your hands interwoven amongst the soapy suds and lavender, chamomile-scented bubbles. 

A soft sigh. A gentle kiss to the top of your head. An adoring chuckle as your lover brushes his nose against your ear and tells you stories of how the sun loved the moon.

Like clockwork.

Steven is everywhere. On your lips, the scent that wafts through your closet, your bedsheets and the Persian rug in your living room, in how you make your tea, in what mug you drink water out of, what songs you play to start your morning.

But most of all, he lingers in the unfinished painting on your easel. Jaw sharp and nose prominent, eyes youthful yet wise, lips pillowy and inviting. 

He is in the shades of brown, pastel pinks and the added hue of orange from how his marked skin glistens in candlelight.

He is your Venus.

Not the goddess, but the planet.

Either way, neither of them are able to truly equate your love for him.