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machiavelliann · 11 months ago

Text

baby, it's violence

(gif by @nightofthecreeps)

Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, Marc Spector x F!Reader Wordcount: 7.2K Warnings: Explicit AF. Rough smut. Serious GORE. Oral. Anal. Pain Kink. Semi-public sex. naughty vibes in cathedrals. Mental health strugs. Face-sitting. Choking. Summary: It’s not alright. You will never be alright again and how are you supposed to tell him that? That you had died and were then reborn and it had marked you in a way that felt permanent. Marc understood. Marc remembered and that’s why Marc is who he is for you. Your shared trauma circulates between you like a throbbing vein that redirects to a single heart. Steven is outside of it. A/N: I don't know any spoilers for future episodes so all of this is just my imagination. Title from Grimes’s Violence.

There’s a darkness in you.

So. Fucking. What.

You’re on the wrong side of the law most days. You’re stealing, looting, killing the people you’re told to - forced to (even if they deserve it, which they do). It's not on you. It's on them.

Bastet is your companion. She is your Goddess. She also shares Khonshu’s sense of Old Testament justice and that kind of violence can make anyone crack eventually.

A person who starts a fatal fire gets burned alive. A man who blinds a woman with acid because she refused him receives a nice eye-gouging. You can still feel it on your fingers even if you’ve washed your hands thirty times.

Then there is Marc. Then there is Steven. Then there is all the ancient magic twining each of you together like some fucked up family entity.

Tune in at 9 for How I Met My Avatar.

It’s possibly wrong to be fucking both of them, but there is no one else who understands. There is no one else and you’re so lonely. You feel like you’re drowning on dry land. It’s like having constant heartburn and acid reflux and you were grateful that it wasn’t just you who became an avatar for a pissed-off God. You are grateful that Marc had been there with you. Both of you dying and bleeding out in that barren chamber at the center of the tomb. He had looked at you as it happened, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist and you had wondered if you both were headed for the same place - if there was a place at all or if you’d have your hearts weighed or if -

Your memory blanks out at that point. There had been an explosion of white-hot light and then you felt everything at once.

***

It’s Steven’s gentle concern that unnerves you. His soft hands that should be rough with callouses. There are hideous feelings inside your chest, which you can’t just bury. The desire for blood as you adapt into a weapon to be yielded. The weight of Bast’s previous avatars and thousands upon thousands of years since the creation of the Gods themselves.

Steven brings you to Russell Square park to get you out of your head, which is terribly ironic. The trees are effulgent. They are dusted golden as the sun streams through the dense leaves. You watch the shrubs and the hedges dotted with white blooms, expecting something to burst out of them. Steven has you sit in front of a fountain, the milky froth from the water spraying upward as it hits the stone ground with a continuous thwap.

“Isn’t this lovely?” He asks with his hand wrapped firmly around yours. His stare weighs heavy on your profile. His anxiousness burns the side of your nose.

“It’s nice,” you offer, which he seems to take as a victory.

“We could go grab a drink? That sounds good, yeah? One of those really fancy cocktails you like…you know with the smoke?”

You chuckle. Genuinely. “You want to get me drunk so I’ll be easy, huh?”

His expression immediately dissolves into something frantic - offended. “Never.” Except it comes out like neva-a and the whole thing just makes him that much more endearing to you.

The issue is that he cares too much. He holds your hair back when Bast doesn’t like the food you eat. None of those greasy burgers, girl. They taste like oil and they clog the flow of our blood.

You don’t point out that she seems fond of hot Cheetos because there is no arguing with an entity as old as time.

You cradle the toilet bowl as you empty your guts. The bile curdles sour in your throat and rubs it raw. Steve simply strokes your shoulders and the curve of your spine. He makes these soft, mouth sounds to ease your discomfort.

“You’re alright,” he tells you. “You’re alright, darling.”

It’s not alright. You will never be alright again and how are you supposed to tell him that? That you had died and were then reborn and it had marked you in a way that felt permanent. This is a husk. This is not my body. This is not my head. Marc understood. Marc remembered and that’s why Marc is who he is for you. Your shared trauma circulates between you like a throbbing vein that redirects to a single heart.

Steven is outside of it. Steven knows only sensation and occasional memory from that time in the tomb. He thought them nightmares- not real and thus not able to harm him.

But - Steven is kind. Perhaps you needed that in order to recall exactly why you’d wanted to stay in this world to begin with. Why you had been so ready to let Bast possess you and had run headfirst towards that white light instead of retreating.

You do occasionally regret it. It’s usually when you are spitting out teeth because a fight has gone south. It’s the resentment and exhaustion that spoil your mood. They shake your foundation until the feelings inevitably fade on their own.

The teeth always grow back. You live.

It’s not like you can die.

***

Once it’s all out in the open it’s a bit easier to manage. You don’t have to keep Steven in the dark because he’s finally put it all together. You don’t have to constantly assure him that he is, in fact, not insane. You do feel a bit bad when you’re stuck in the middle of a fight and Marc’s expression transitions from blood-thirsty to terrified and his posture goes all pinched because Steven has somehow taken over once again. It is you who has to be the one to scream at him to release control and let Marc handle it.

You make it up to him though.

“You know I’m just trying to protect you,” you croon as you straddle Steven’s lap. You grasp the hinges of his jaw and lick into his mouth. His fingers are digging into the flesh of your ass. He is giving you more each day. Can I touch here? Can I lick you here? Can I put it there?

“It’s protecting us, yeah?” His lids are so heavy, his eyes lead-dark and you shove yourself down, grinding against the ridge of his cock until his brows knit together and he gasps oh fuck. He is so easy. The easiest thing you have ever done because he’s utterly desperate for affection. He nudges into your palm like a puppy.

“Yeah,” you smile into his kiss. You feel him circle the base of his cock, his knuckles dragging through the wet-hot opening of your pussy.

“Up, please,” he murmurs. You rise on your knees. You listen to him just like you listen to Marc in the bedroom. It is only the flavor that is different because he is soft padding while Marc is gravel. Marc has you crawl while Steve requests you rise or fall with urgent pleading.

You thread your fingers through his mass of rich curls. You tug them lazily, which makes his throat arch. You can feel it as he traces the head of his cock through the seam of your folds - nudging against your entrance as he holds it and waits - the very air electric with impatience. You stare down at him, mirthful and mischievous. His expression devolves into something closer to Marc’s when he’s had enough of your teasing. Agitated. Wild.

“Please,” His teeth are clenched. His brows knitted together in frustration.

“Please what?” He’s trembling now. Bursting at the seams. It’s like he doesn’t know what he wants or doesn’t know how to ask and you’re just being cruel. His eyes fall on the mirror behind your shoulder for a second or two. It must be Marc heckling him or voicing his very unwanted opinion because suddenly a sharp, ugly noise rumbles from the back of Steven’s throat and he squeezes your waist fiercely.

“Sit on it,” he growls with real grit. There’s the edge of barely trapped restraint behind his teeth. “Would you?” he adds quickly because he is still not ready to take and that’s the beauty of your entire relationship with Steven. The question. The caution. The will you…won’t you…is this alright?

You want to taunt him. You want to slap his shoulder, feigning outrage. Steven. So bossy.

You don't get the chance to.

He grabs your hips and forces you down hard. It splits you in two. The size of him is always a shock as his cock kisses the furthest depth inside your core.

“Fuck,” he marvels. “Fucking hell.”

He plants his feet and hammers upward, punching a squeak from you that pleases him. He sits up so he can latch his generous mouth to the peaks of your tits, he fills his hands with them - testing the weight, kneading the flesh as he circles your nipples with his tongue. His teeth scrape the sensitive skin and your nails dig into his skull. There is Bast vibrating through the dense tissue of your scattered thoughts:

You could pop his head like a grape. It would be beautiful.

You’re not so sure. First of all, you don’t want to. Second of all, you doubt Khonshu would allow it.

“That feel good, yeah?” Steven mumbles against your nipple, his question punctuated by a very solid thrust that nearly makes you collapse forward.

“Yes, Steven,” you reply because it does. Warmth is pulsing between your legs. It’s making your lower muscles bear down, crashing into every lift of his hips.

Steven draws back enough to watch you take it, his big somber eyes glued to the place where his soaked length continuously disappears up inside the clutch of your sex. He has grown more handsome since everything was laid out on the table. His color is high - rosy sweeps painting his cheekbones. He pierces you with every drive upward. His lower lip is pulled white between his teeth as he concentrates.

I want to make it good. I want to make it so good for you, love.

He thinks he’s in charge until he’s not. You flatten your palms across his chest and force him onto his back. His pillows fall somewhere to the side. His sheets are coming off. “Hold onto the headboard,” you implore and he does immediately, fingers curling around the iron frame. You quicken your pace, circling your pelvis and rocking down on the stiff unyielding length of his cock. You build a pace that shocks him, the mattress squeaking to the point it might tear on its metal springs. You grasp his hand and shove it against your clit which is swollen and needy. He uses his thumb just as you’ve taught him, pushing down and around until you’re the one moaning like a cat in heat. Your orgasm breaks like a wave to shore, crashing and spreading like seafoam throughout the bowl of your hips. Heat. Heat. You tighten and release - tighten and release - and Steven follows - a guttural, low noise ripping from his lungs. He’s shaking, his curls wet with sweat and smeared across his broad forehead.

Afterward, when he has long since reached equilibrium and his body has relaxed, he cradles your cheeks between his hands.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he confesses and it scares you. He is so unafraid to be utterly stripped in your presence. He gives his admiration - his desire with earnestness. It is like a live flame searing his features. His raw feelings are blunt and loud.

You are nervous for him - for his mind that is already on vulnerable ground. You are worried for yourself and then Bast bubbles and swells in your head. She’s in a better mood after the sex. Goddess of pleasure and all.

I still think you should remove his head.

***

Another fight takes them outside London and into Durham. Another cult of wrongdoers who are each met with the crescent blade jammed up through their chins. It’s not an easy fight and it takes everything in Marc not to make a scene when you’re cleaved through the front. Your entire waist is nearly split in a red-spitting arc. It’s a horrific injury and one that would have anyone instantly dead.

Instead, you grunt and clamp your palms over the wound to keep everything inside. He wants to run to you. He wants to scream. But he can’t. Khonshu holds him back to finish the job on the last weeping piece of shit bishop who did things he'd rather not think about.

Bast will help her. Bast will pull her flesh together as I do yours.

A muscle in Marc’s jaw pops. It threatens to snap. His fear becomes rage as he twists the bishop’s neck with a sound that echoes through the entirety of Durham Cathedral. He turns back around to find you stumbling down the nave, past the pews, and toward him. There is red staining your grey, gauzy suit, though you are no longer bent completely over. Gradually, you begin to stand up straighter. Your expression untwists as the sting lessens. Your stride becomes less stilted and more controlled.

Marc breathes a sigh of relief. His chest expands and he removes the mask portion of his suit so he can look at you and not through the veil of Khonshu’s magic.

He blinks away the haze, his eyes exploring the vastness of Durham. He ignores the crumpled corpses on the floor. He likes the place’s hardiness. The Norman Architecture that makes it so robust. The fat columns carved with chevrons and zigzags. Astral chapels with groined vaults. There’s the natural beauty of the River Wear and its steep banks that had once been utilized as a method of defense against Viking raids. There is history here - images and scents he can conjure. Still - it is not nearly as old as Khonshu or the relics he has pulled from Egypt. Not even close to those tombs.

The temples he knows are ancient. They are beyond even his concept of time.

He glances up at the peak of the altar. The stained glass of the rose window is dimmed and muddled as evening swallows the last of the sun. These places of worship have become jeweled boxes to him. Prized golden eggs. His synagogue had its own loveliness, but not the glitz or fuss of so many other churches and cathedrals. They’re works of art - monoliths of another time and yet Khonshu’s thoughts tear through his own: These are modern temples. These smell new.

Yes, Marc agrees even though it’s nearly a thousand years old. They’re just structures. What is religion when a God is buried between his ribs?

The jumble in his head is interrupted when you reach the altar. He can feel how prickly you are even when you aren’t touching him.

“I’m fine,” you hiss. The blood has slowed its drip like a screwed tight spigot.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I can feel it, Marc. You’re staring at me like I’m going to keel over.”

She is right. You are too soft.

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why are you being difficult?”

You ignore him, averting your glare to the stained glass above his head. There’s tension in the way you’re holding yourself. It’s not pain though. He steps toward you, filling up the space between them. His face is beaded in sweat, his hair damp and messy. What do you need? Is it to feel something that isn’t bruised kidneys or a stab wound?

This is how it goes after a fight. Their bodies are humming with adrenaline and magic and they need somewhere to funnel it. He regards you quietly as you stare anywhere but at his face. Your beauty is even more apparent under the shadows and the strike of the moon through stained glass.

There is also the fact that, as avatars, sensations can be dulled. It feels like nothing can penetrate your surface. You need something stronger.

“We should go,” you finally suggest, as you draw away from him. You make it four - five steps before he tells you to stop. You shoot him a puzzled look.

He stalks forward, crowding you against one of those giant carved pillars. You lift your chin, defiant even though he’s got the full weight of his body pinning you to the curved stone. “I like it better when you’re helpless,” He drags his knuckles over the hump of your cheek. It’s kind of a lie. He likes you in any form. “Fuck - it gets me so damn hard when you act sweet for me - when you’re docile as a kitten and not so - angry.”

“Really? How boring,” Your voice hitches. They’re playing this game tonight. He’ll make you submit and you’ll do it without protest because it’s a relief to give him control.

“Yes,” he hums, leaning forward to press his mouth to your jaw and then the length of your throat. “I want you to be good for me.” He cups you between your legs, thumb rubbing over the crotch of your suit. “How many fingers of mine will you take tonight?”

Your pupils dilate. You clutch at his arms, seemingly struck dumb. He digs his thumb deeper. “How many?”

Your lips part around a whimper. “As many as you want to give me.”

He shivers at that - his entire body shrieking with affection and desire for you and the molten, wet comfort of your cunt. He kicks your foot out to spread your legs wide. His glove disappears so that he can slide his warm, real flesh underneath the band of your pants. “Open up, then,” he urges.

***

Steven tries his best to protect you. You have to admit that his strange pseudo-tuxedo outfit is a lot sexier than it should be. He doesn’t have the same technique as Marc, but he’s getting better. Kind of.

He is strong and can throw a punch…so there’s that.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs with the most hangdog expression.

“For?”

He’s sitting on the edge of his bathtub. His features are weary and his skin is grey and pallid. There are huge circles under his eyes. Purple as a bruise.

You hover over him, searching his body for any injuries even though you know the damn drill. There will be nothing. There will only be clean, healed skin. Still - you fret. You fret because he frets over you and it only seems fair.

“I messed that up.”

He did. He is an annoying little insect that needs to be squashed.

“It’s okay,” you assure him even though you will have to track down the amulet that got snatched and lost down a sewer.

He stops you, putting his hand on your wrist. You meet his gaze, startled. It is in these moments that you want to ask him if he loves you. It’s etched in the way he stares. The worship. The genuine wonder that he isn’t too proud to hide. His hands are slick with someone else’s blood as he reaches up and cradles your face. He shakes you gently. Bring me back to myself. Please. Tell me something. Tell me how it happened. How it all started.

But you don’t want to talk about that story. You don’t want to yet again go into detail about how Marc and you lay dying and became willing vessels to Bastet and Khonshu. The bargain. The deal.

Instead, you go to your knees and undo his pants. His eyes widen - the demands he had seemingly forgotten. He is always shocked that you’re willing to do this - that you actually enjoy giving him, of all people, pleasure.

It doesn’t take long. His lashes flutter and his nostrils flare as he watches you take him to the back of your throat. You swallow his come, cheeks hollowing as you drink each lash and spurt of seed. You are greedy for it.

***

Marc grunts when you maneuver your fingertips against the wound to keep it open. He delivers a silent request to Khonshu. Can you not heal me for an hour?

I do not understand you, mortals.

I need this. I need exactly this. The throbbing pressure of the injury - the flavor of mortality. Both of them have felt death and as a result, the feeling has come to haunt them. They need everything in surround sound. They need hard sex. They need agony.

“Fuck,” Marc rasps. “Sit on my face”

You flash him a grin and it is white and smooth as one of his crescent blades. You turn around, straddling his face so you're staring at his feet. You lick your thumb and scrape it over the broken skin in the muscle of his calve. His cracked ribs shift between your thighs and his lap bucks.

“Give me your cunt,” he growls, slapping your leg. It is just out of reach, the sweet musk of your sex hovering above his mouth. You drop your hips to meet it and he hums in appreciation. He'd call you a good girl if his mouth wasn't busy.

He eats you messily. His tongue wriggling inside you as his nose prods into thin tissue above it. “That’s my girl,” he hums in between lapping. He suckles and nips as you circle the cradle of your pelvis above his face. You strike your nails over his skin until it burns. His cock is standing straight - full of blood and in need of attention, but you restrain yourself. You prod a stab wound beneath his belly button that makes a feral, broken noise slip from him.

He is frantic. He is out of control. He shoves you forward a little so he can sink two of his fingers inside your pussy. You're on the very brink of a climax - walls flexing around his knuckles. The continuous push of more liquid that paints his chin. His stubble is burning the silky inner skin of your thighs and he hopes it leaves a mark for once.

His hips keep lifting - his impatience reaching a breaking point.

"Aw," you croon. "Do you need attention?"

You're such a bitch sometimes. He loves it.

You relent, wrapping your hand around his cock and giving him one firm harsh stroke that makes him choke on his own spit. It's just your dry palm, which makes the gesture hurts in a way he dies for - in a way that forces pre-spend to dribble from him.

"Fuck, baby," He hears you say. You continue to rock down on his face - on his fingers that he's thrusting inside you with a crude, constant squelch. "Let me use my mouth."

You drop your head, placing the wet tip of your tongue to the head of his cock and circling it. It's embarrassing how effective it is.

His body goes rigid and the blooming pressure in his abdomen releases. He comes and comes as he continues to devour you. It is as if he could swallow every organ by licking your cunt.

Everything inside you is mine. The thought shines bright inside his head. Let me collect your parts and pieces. Hide each in a Canopic jar for safekeeping. He hopes you feel the same.

He smirks as you moan with delight, licking his spend from your fingertips.

***

Moon Knight’s suit smells like papyrus and plume thistle and chamomile. But there is also the stench of stale air from a pyramid tomb.

“You smell like time,” you had told him once while you were drunk and sad and still not used to the screaming cyst of a goddess inside your skull.

“Time?” Marc frowned, his dark curls drooping over his forehead.

“In the suit - smells old - smells like mummies.”

“Have you ever smelled a mummy?”

“No, but I bet that’s what one smells like.”

Now - they were long past that period. There weren't many moments of idle drunkenness and playful banter. Marc was harder on you just as you were with him because it’s what they needed. Steven is different. You treat Steven like something precious, which Marc only finds annoying when it gets in his way.

You killed his fucking fish!

It was an accident.

Get a new one! He’s already fragile enough!

***

It is the best of both worlds really. You have that soft-sweet sex with Steven and then the feral fucking with Marc.

You obey Marc, especially in that suit. You get on your knees and crawl toward him.

“That mouth of yours needs fucking,” Marc hisses through that blank, sightless mask and you lift your chin and tell him: make me.

It's grueling and a bit violent and you still thank him afterward because it feels so good.

“You let him hurt you?” Steven asks as he traces the open sea of your skin where all the marks have disappeared as soon as they’d come. You don’t know how to explain it to him. How could you? There is a living goddess filling up your bones - rippling through your tissue and veins. It is not enough to be coddled and held and stroked. By him - yes. By Marc - you need the rest of it.

He wasn’t hurting you. Not really.

“It’s the whole avatar thing,” you try. “Sometimes you require more...stimulation. It - it can feel like you’re wrapped in plastic.”

Steven nods.

“I can feel it,” he reveals. “A bit. Just a bit. His thoughts - how Khonshu teases in my head. It’s like screaming through a downpour.”

“Yes,” you agree. “It is like that.”

The line between Steven and Marc is getting slimmer by the day. You’re not sure if Steven has the disposition to withstand Khonshu and his celestial bluntness.

It’s a sad thought.

Steven spreads his arms and you fall into him. You physically maneuver his hands to your hips and then the plump of your ass because he continues to be uncertain with you. “Do you want me to ride you, Steven?” You ask into his ill-fitting sweater. The wool scratches your cheek.

He inhales sharply. “Yes.”

They could make you come…holy fuck they could make you come and often. It was your connection. The weird fact that you shared each other's space. Khonshu and Bast tolerated the other’s existence while Steven, Marc, and you were straddling this mystical world where magic existed and souls were weighed.

Maybe - you weren’t that alone, after all. Maybe it didn’t matter.

***

Moon Knight descends upon the crowd surrounding you like a pale ghost. He is silent before he makes contact and then you can hear his weight. His solid form and preternatural strength as he tears through these criminals like meat.

Bast’s power staff sings in your hands - wanting more more more blood, but you are enthralled by Marc as Moon Knight. There are decapitated heads, broken bones, hearts tugged from chests. Blood spurting up and outward like that fountain in Russel Square.

You were overwhelmed by the group. You put yourself at risk because you didn’t listen to him and you left his side and went your own way.

When the screaming fades out, he whirls around to face you.

You can’t gauge his reaction. There is only the tense set of his shoulders and the eerie phosphorescent glow from the eye holes in his mask. The silence sings between you both. It fattens and swells and you should be dead, but you are not. You can’t die, but Marc is the last person to test it.

He stalks toward you.

His pace is always deliberate - steady and intimidating. You don’t retreat, you let him brush up right against you. He is vibrating with power. The blades at the center of his armor are wet with blood. He looms like a wall of muscle. The surface of him has the same quality as a statue - marbled and stiff. You want to throw yourself at him. He’s obviously waiting for something.

Your place your palms on his chest and leave apple-red handprints. So much blood. Their whole relationship is blood. He lifts his arms slowly and grasps the sides of your face. He tilts it underneath the moonlight. The wind shakes through the bouquets of foliage and trimmed hedges. There is the sweet scent of planted jasmine. The trees creak. The London traffic is far away - a rumbling buzz of nightlife.

“Are you going to beg me for it?” His tone is cold - burning cold though you know that underneath that suit is warmth - is a fever - is viscera and his pumping heart. His golden skin is always like sunbaked sand. You could rest your cheek upon it like a lizard.

You blink up at him, playing dumb. Your hands still jerk and twitch from the earlier fight - ready to wrap around the throat of another bony jackal should it burst between you.

Not your hands. Not your body. Not anymore.

Marc moves even closer until you are crushed as one. When you look up, you cannot see past his hood and mask. His yellow-white eyes illuminate your upturned face. He has blotted out the stars - the blue velvet galaxy. He takes the shape of the moon as his thumb rasps across your cheek. Beg. He demands without speaking. Beg me. Prostrate yourself.

You want it, but Bast doesn’t want to bend to him this time around.

He’ll give in eventually, little one…he will be unable to control himself. The weakness of his sex.

If only it were so easy. You are one screaming, raw nerve. You need him to shatter you into a thousand pieces. You are so torn up already - a cracked mirror that needs a final kick. Let me disappear into tiny diamond bits.

He drops his head lower, his mask rubbing across your jaw before he pulls back to regard you coolly. “Do you want it like before?”

See. I am never wrong.

You nod, already curling your fingers into his suit. You’re not pleading. You are just moving your head. The smell of iron wafts from those gleaming moon-shaped blades.

Those weapons are a bit on the nose don’t you think?

You’d better keep that to yourself before Khonshu decides to punish you.

Is that a promise?

“You like it when I hurt you with my cock.” he states, his tone uncharacteristically tender. His wrapped knuckles graze your lower lip and then your chin where he pinches the flesh to keep your head still. Your stomach twists up all the same. You feel empty without him. Yes. Yes. Yes. Just like back in Egypt and that first time - that room and tiled floor as you bent me over in front of the mirror -

“I do,” It’s the only thing that works. The fucking. It makes the voice go away for a bit. It makes you feel something when everything else is like squirming through smoke. You need it so rough it causes your teeth to click in your mouth. You need it everywhere. Every orifice. You need the pain of it and so does he.

That longing leads you to Moon Knight fucking you against the alleyway wall. There is trash. There is the promise of rain. The Gods are quiet for you both as Marc shears through your body - impaling you on a length that feels too big. He fills you to the brim. He uses you. His hoarse, vicious grunts in your ear.

His weight pins you to the brick as the head of his cock batters against your womb without respite. Take it take it take it. I know you can. I know. I know.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your cunt flutters in response, tightening up before relaxing. Your heart is in your mouth. It is far from over, leading you through two more orgasms before he finishes. When he does, a sound closer to a howl is ripped from his throat - muffled and low. You milk him dry - palms cupping the hood of his cape, holding tight to a form that feels more mystical than mortal. Your back continues to scrape against the cement and the brick as each slowing thrust juts you upward. Your knees are hitched over his waist. His suit rasps the inner skin of your knees.

You tighten your embrace around him. Gentler and sweeter. His grip on you loosens. He pets your shoulders and arms and bare waist, his touch full of fondness.

***

Marc is trying to plug his fingers into too many holes at once. His brain is like swiss cheese. He hates it - trying to cover the gaps in this entire other life that is Steven and everything else. His identity is sliced thin and copious as lunch meat.

He is grateful for you in that regard. You calm Steven’s nerves - literally dragging him back from the edge of a panic attack or breakdown every time he’s conscious.

Marc thanks you with fucking, which is what they seem to be the best at next to killing things.

He remembers the first time with you. The hellscape they’d found themselves in. It had been right after the first fight as Avatars. Both of them were so high off the adrenaline that he’d fucked you into the rough tile floor of a rented room in the middle of Egypt. The heat was near unbearable as he slid between your thighs and shoved his cock into you. No condom. No thoughts beyond your tight pussy and swollen mouth. The sweat from his curls dripped onto your face and you licked them away. Eyes wide and too bright and bleeding out your own God.

What happened? What are we now?

Each harsh thrust of his cock made your tits bounce. Your nails carved red streaks down the muscles of his back.

“Harder,” you begged him, hitching your knees higher over his waist. He slammed into you just as you asked. He angled downward until his dick was pounding against the furthest part of your body. Your cunt squelched with each stroke. Your nipples grazed his chest and he still wanted to be closer. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing it up in order to crash their mouths together.

“Not enough,” you sobbed into his kiss. His breath was your breath. His heart was hammering in his throat. He felt drunk. High. He was vibrating with so much energy that he could barely speak. He sat back on his heels and threw your ankles over his shoulder so he could fuck you that way - he was punishing - unrelenting -

Still - you were unsatisfied.

“I want you everywhere,” you demanded. “Every part of me.”

“You sure?” He was able to form that question - able to pause despite the curtain of lust that was crowding out anything that wasn't your pussy.

“Yes,” you hissed. “Please, Marc.”

He relented. He flipped you over onto your hands and knees, his touch stroking down the line of your spine and curve of your waist. Your eyes found his in the decorative mirror of their now destroyed room. He wanted to see your face as he fucked you.

He glanced down, spreading your ass, spitting what saliva he had left into the puckered hole that blinked and flexed above your gaping cunt. It had been wrong. He’d never have done it that way with anyone else. It’s not something you can just do without any preparation, but your body was no longer your body entirely. It was suddenly very capable - easily stretched and maneuvered and molded.

He tried to be careful as he entered you. The head of his cock was red and shiny from your pussy. His shaft throbbed, unbearably hard. He pushed inside inch by inch and you blossomed to take it. “Fuck,” you gasped as he burrowed deeper, as he filled you. Your fist came down, cracking the floor. “Don’t stop.”

He watched with rapt attention as that tight ring of muscle swallowed him.

He sunk to the hilt until his groin met your thighs, your body arching with the weight of him stretching you open. You were a mess of mewling girlish whimpers. He eased out just enough so that the tip caught on the rim of your hole before driving forward with a wet sound.

You choked - the channel of your ass clenching with the force of it. “So good,” you stammered as you dropped onto your forearms.

“You like it when I fuck your ass?” He cracked his hand across the cheek and then kneaded the flesh until it had to have ached. You didn’t even wince. Instead, you shoved yourself back against him - meeting him stroke for stroke. Your fingers made divots in the tile floor.

Marc glanced up at the mirror and, for a moment, swore that his face was not his face, but something new - screwed up in confusion and shock and maybe awe. Khonshu was silent. He seemed to blend into a grey mass at the back of his brain, which worked for him. That moment felt like the only time his head wasn’t breaking up into so many voices it became white noise.

Marc wrapped his arm around your tits and hauled you back against his chest. His hips snapped up against your ass - the backs of your thighs. The wet flesh smacked into a crescendo of thwap thwap thwap.

“Like that?” he grunted into your ear, his hand grasping your throat to hold it stiff and at attention. He could see tears sliding down the corner of your eyes, your lips parted around a choked-off scream. Every spear of his cock had left you mute, punching deep and splitting you in half. “C’mon, pretty baby. Tell me this is what you wanted? Opening your ass up on my cock?”

You nodded - a wet noise behind your teeth.

When he slipped his fingers over your clit, you came like a fountain. The tiny nub was swollen and rubbed raw from how long they’d been going at it. He teased you further, dragging his thumb down the cleft of your soaked cunt. Your body wound taut and knotted with tension as he pounded you. There were bits of sand stinging his knees. Your breathing became clipped and panicked and Marc Marc Marc please -

He felt you go rigid with your second climax. Your ass practically strangling his cock when you clenched up. It was enough for him, too because his own orgasm slammed into him with a blunt violence. It expanded in his groin until it unfurled completely, filling your ass with lash after lash of seed. You crumpled forward and he followed - his face crashing into your shoulder blade. He couldn’t catch his breath - he couldn’t feel his body. He felt very far away and so he wrapped himself protectively around the curve of your shaking form. Their skin was slippery with sweat. Sticky with come.

Gradually the world came crawling back to him. The billow of gauzy curtains in the window. The scent of the open-air market outside: coriander, bay leaves, cinnamon, dill, and mint. Roasted salty nuts. Orange-blossom syrup.

He touched your cheek, gently forcing you to look at him. Out of the haze, he was suddenly worried that he’d been too rough - that he’d been possessed by a power greater than himself. He had wanted to burn alive - twist up in pain and feel real heat and the wet clutch of your sex and he had been unable to tame it. What the fuck was wrong with him?

You are a small mortal with a living God inside you. It is natural to crave too much.

He ignored the voice, his fingers trembling as they touched you. “Are you okay?”

Your lips quirked and you stretched out against him. The image of a cat in the sun. “Harder next time.”

***

It isn’t always rough with Marc.

He has his quieter moments - his softer moments though you believe that even when he’s being stern it’s still all for your benefit. Your protection.

After the first time, he’d fucked you in that room in Egypt, he’d brought you ful medames with fried eggs. Kofta. He hand-fed you basbousa and licked the tang of honey and lemon from the cup of your mouth.

***

At some point, the barriers between Steven and Marc overlap further. The lines warp. It is not strict gentleness with Steven anymore. He could feel it, the genuine warmth in his chest and groin when you killed something or someone in front of him. The way blood dripped from your fingers made him tremble with a hunger that scared him. He no longer felt disgusted at the gore of their nightly rituals.

He was seeing more of Marc’s sex with you. More images. More moments of intrusion where he’d become a third-party guest. Sometimes he’d even manage to take over while Marc was fucking you.

He’d be mid-thrust or with his tongue between your legs and he’d draw back and say:

Just - um - by the way it’s Steven now.

I know it’s you, Steven. I know the difference.

You’d stare at him with that smooth amusement. Your indulgence reserved only for him. It was Marc who got your reality. He got your vulnerability. You treated Marc like he was something you could toss against a wall again and again and it wouldn’t crack. It would withstand your ugliness and pain. Steven sometimes wanted you to give that to him.

“I want all of you. I want everything,” Steven demanded, pressing adoration into your skin with his mouth, his teeth scraping down the curve of your tit. “You’d give it to me, yeah? I can handle it.”

“You want me to be mean to you?”

“You’re mean to Marc,” he pointed out. “You fall apart with Marc.”

With Marc. With Marc.

The sex with Marc is unhinged. He knows that. It straddles the line between dangerous and demented. Steven catches glimpses of Marc shoving his cock in you as he jams his fingers in your mouth, muttering: fucking Christ - you like being stuffed everywhere don’t you? You want it in your ass again?

You had decidedly not done that sort of thing with Steven.

You tap his nose, a single perfectly shaped brow lifted. “It's just what we do, Grant.”

Yes - her relationship with Marc had begun on violent terms. He could remember in the tiniest of flashes - in memories he couldn’t quite make out. You had hammered out the rest for him as they slept around each other in the warm dark of his loft. You and Marc had been in Egypt, both trembling and crusty with dried blood. Both newly reborn and still in the yolks of Khonshu and Bastet's afterbirth. They’d served them unconditionally, their bodies led like puppets to kill and protect.

“The first time we fucked,” you recalled. “It - well it was more of a fight to be honest.”

He didn’t entirely want you to be honest. Steven still felt that surge of jealousy that what you did with Marc was not what you did with him.

If Steven really tried, he could pull a shard of that memory to the surface. You with tears in your eyes and Marc behind you, holding you up as he fucked you and you could barely get the words out - yes harder harder harder -

Marc felt little pity for Steven in that regard. He’d be that second voice, the distorted blur of his figure in a mirror as he told him:

You get her love don’t you? You get her care and her gentle fucking hands. You get that. She needs something else from me.

It is fury with them, too. It is blood-hot. Bullets. Explosions. Marc and you volley one crude thing back to the other.

You like it when I leave your cunt aching, baby?

You want me to keep your come inside me, Spector?

You know what will happen if you don’t.

Choke me.

You’re so big, Marc. I can’t stop feeling you. You split me in half.

Steve still goes red when he is privy to these moments. He stammers through them, eyes trying to find any other point in the room that isn't your pretty face.

***

He comes to with you on your knees for him. They’re in Marc’s storage room.

The light is pale and softer than before. It seems artificial, but there is no source. It trails like moonlight. It spins cornsilk as it drips like wax over your bare back. You crawl across the floor - naked. Your ass lifted as an offering to him. The shiny image of your cunt peeking between your spread thighs and he swallows because he can see it parted and drooling. It is leaking pleasure and he wonders if Marc has already had you tonight. There’s that high glow emanating from your skin when you’ve been made to come. He knows it like he knows everything about you: every vein and ticklish spot. every scar. every sensitive patch of flesh.

“I could make you happy.”

“Could you? How?”

“If you share with me what makes you sad. If you tell me what you tell Marc.”

"And that's what will make me happy?"

"No, darling. It's so that we can avoid everything that upsets you, yeah?"

He glances down at himself. He is in the suit that Marc hates, but it fits him like a glove. You toss your head, making eye contact with him over your shoulder.

“Hi baby.” Your voice is full of warmth and the expression is so lovely that it makes his chest balloon outward. It mystifies him. The endearments. The intimacy of kind words shared between the two of them.

“Hello you,” he replies, completely glossing over the fact that you're as naked as the day you were born. This happens a lot though. He comes to in a lot of these special situations. He shifts on his feet. His eyes trail over the clutter that surrounds them.

Marc’s room is packed with loot. There is the glimmer of dust-sprinkled uncut gems in opened boxes. Cash. Guns. Golden trinkets. Everything glints in the shadowed corners of the room.

“What - what are we doing here?” He’s got the mask on. His mouth muffled against the fabric. His forearms are white as chalk.

“This was her idea,” Marc declares, his form clear in the reflection across from Steven. Same suit, but Marc carries himself differently. There is an arrogance in his shoulders. His tone harsh just like everything about him. Steven can almost make out the shape of a smirk beneath the cloth.

“You’re going to fuck me, Steven,” you say plainly as you lean forward on your elbows. Your ass spread for him. Your pussy. He swallows as his cock twitches. “Marc gets to watch.”

“Oh,” He doesn’t really know what else to say. He doesn’t really know what this is. He can feel Marc’s scrutiny on him. It’s heavy and crushing.

“You want to feel what Marc feels, don’t you? He’ll tell you - show you.” Your voice is so throaty, drawing him in. He moves forward before it even registers and then he is there behind you. He is reaching for your face and you allow it, turning and rising up on your knees.

“Yes,” he replies as he rucks his mask above his nose. He bends at the waist, grasping your chin in order to kiss you. The pressure he shoves behind it is fierce. It is teeth and tongue. He understands that they’re about to cross a line. This is what he's asked for. This is what you are willing to give him. Marc seemingly agrees, though the man's expression in the reflective glass is dubious. Steven will prove that he's capable. He'll prove his worth, which is a battle he's been fighting since he can't even remember.

Desperate to be seen. Desperate to be felt. Desperate to matter.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm right here.

"Steven," you breathe against his lips - your hands pulling at the back of his jacket. "Steven - let us show you."

He can hear Marc's rugged timbre coaxing him. A tickle at the base of his brain.

He knows how it will have to be and so he yields, allowing Marc's words to drift in and hit their target. Steven listens intently and his touch reflects every directive. They cobweb together - meld and morph into a whole. They take you apart - carve you open and let you break.

#moon knight

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