#moon knight writing

[thepaperpanda]

An Icy Adventure || Steven Grant x fem!reader

Masterlist ❄

Summary: One winter day, you decide to surprise Steven with a little ice skating lesson

Warnings: none

Word count: 1592

Author: Rouge

A/N: today’s prompt: go ice skating on a frozen lake

You loved winter. There was something crystalline about winter, those brilliant rays that revealed every snowflake's uniqueness. You were surrounded by puddles that became temporary skating rinks and your thoughts were secluded within your favorite woolen hat. There was anticipation of the joys to come in that wonderland of white, in that frozen water-world, of learning new ways to move gracefully over such a landscape. 

When Steven agreed to stroll in Hyde Park, to the Serpentine, you felt overwhelmed with happiness.

You chose a thick, woolen sweater with a reindeer theme, a fitted, black, strapped shirt beneath it, and thick, high-waisted jeans for your date. Black leather, high-heeled winter boots, a thick, brown jacket on top and your favorite black, woolen hat with a fluffy pompon completed your outfit.

Steven looked around at all the snow that had fallen last night. Although it wasn't much, it gave the place a certain winter charm. Despite the cold, it wasn't that bad for him, especially when he was you. "Y/N!" He smiled and waved at you. "Isn't it pleasant to be all bundled up and cozy?"

After climbing your tiptoes, you told Steven, "Yes, I am," and placed a brief kiss on his cheek; Steven was taller than you. Immediately after, you grabbed his gloved hand - you had gifted him with a pair of woolen gloves made of Egyptian cotton with a floral motif that he wore a lot when the temperature dropped below 5°.

Trying to cover your ears with your hat, he worriedly inquired, "You sure you aren't cold? I don't want you to catch a cold.

"Steven, you are being silly. It's not that cold today, and we're going to move a lot," you replied, pointing at a backpack on your back. "I brought some things that might help us though. I also made you a tea, I have it in a thermal mug inside."

He smiled and kissed your gloved hand, saying, "You are my little angel. Nevertheless, I am worried about you."

Due to your flat's proximity to Hyde Park, the stroll was quick and easy. "Wondering what activity I've chosen for us?" A smirk spread across your lips.

A soft shrug was given by Steven as he chuckled. "Although I am sure it is wonderful, I'm a little wary of your idea due to your eagerness."

While walking past the snow-covered bench, you stopped, put your backpack on it, and slowly unzipped it, letting Steven peek inside. In the backpack, there were two pairs of skates. One pair was white and larger, and the other was black, shorter.

The two pairs of pretty skates made him blink; of course you mentioned your little hobby in the beginning of your relationship, but he felt lost now. "Love, those are beautiful, but are you going to invite someone else? I mean, I see two pairs. You skate, but I don't." Seeing your smiling face, Steven paused. So that's what you were planning. "I love you a lot, Y/N, but I can't skate. I prefer my limbs to remain intact."

As you cupped his face in your gloved hands and rubbed his cheeks with your thumbs, you said, "I know you're a little concerned, but I want you to trust me, nothing will happen to you, and we'll have a great time!"

"I can't even tie those bloody skates right," he shook his head, looking at you. "In all honesty, I'd rather just watch you."

"Let's make a deal: I'll skate first, and you'll watch. I'll show you a few steps, and if you feel okay, you can try as well."

"I like the sound of that,” Steven agreed.

"Despite the fact that skating on ice seems intimidating, if you have the right equipment and a little patience, you can learn how to do it!" You told Steven as you led him to the frozen lake. 

On the frozen surface of the lake, several people were already ice skating.

Playing with his hands, Steven questioned, "Aren't you afraid the ice will break? Or that you'll break a leg or an arm?"

On the edge of the frozen lake, you sat in the snow, you pulled out the black skates; after that, you started putting them on, replacing your winter boots with them. "No, Steven, because if I thought negatively, I would draw bad luck. That's why I think positively," you replied. "There were almost three weeks of bitter cold, don't you remember? The ice is thick enough to support the weight of a very well-built man."

In response, Steven nodded and continued to play with his hands. "Yeah, yea, I bet you're right, luv."

His attention was drawn to the way you tied your skates. He mumbled a quiet 'bloody hell' and then sat next to you. In a nervous giggle, Steven pointed at the skates and asked, "Can you help me with those? Kind of like Cinderella..."

Disbelief filled your eyes - you never expected him to actually try ice skating with you! As you reached into your backpack to retrieve the other pair of skates, a quiet giggle escaped your lips. "You will be my Cinderella, and I will be your Prince Charming. So, my lady, please take off the shoes and put them on. Once you are done, please let me know and I will lace them up for you."

Steven removed his shoes and took skates from you to put them on with blush on his face.

When he nodded at you, indicating he was ready, you knelt down and started lacing the skates. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just a little stressed, but I'm fine overall."

"Do you remember what I told you about stress?"

While you helped him get up, Steven murmured, "I know it's bad and I shouldn't let it eat me alive, but you know me. Wow! How do you even walk in those?"

As a first step, you showed him how to fall safely. During your presentation, you told him, "Falling is part of the sport, so it's natural to fall. If you fall with the right technique, you won't get injured. When you anticipate needing to fall, bend your knees and squat into a dip position, then fall sideways, leaning forward, and place your hands on your lap. When you fall, roll over onto your hands and knees."

Steven watched and listened, trying to remember everything you said. Maybe Marc could use a bit of the know-how to make their body a bit less bruised after another chance behind the wheel. "Okay, noted. Let's hope I won't need them, but I'll keep them in mind. So... Uhm... Shall we?" Grant asked, taking your hand.

When he took his first step on the ice, you helped stabilize him while holding strongly to his palms. You grabbed his hips as soon as his leg started sliding forward. He soon added a second leg and grabbed your shoulders, holding them rigidly. "Straighten your back, breathe," you instructed.

Following your instructions, Steven nodded, somehow managing to stand straight. "Look at me! I'm still standing."

A lot of praise was given to him and then you instructed him on how to move on ice. "March two steps forward and let your body glide forward slightly. Repeat until you feel comfortable. This is called gliding."

As he complied with your instructions, Steven said quietly to himself, "Two steps... Let your body glide." Upon realizing he wasn't falling on his butt yet, he chuckled. "Look at me! I'm doing it!"

"Congratulations! My good boy!"

Sadly, Steven's happiness lasted only a short while because as soon as you finished your praise, he fell right on his butt.

You couldn't stop giggling, but as soon as you attempted camel spin by spinning one leg and your upper body parallel to the ice - you lost your balance and fell on your ass as well. "Oh, bollocks!"

As Steven struggled to get up slowly, he exclaimed, "Aha?! You see? That's what you get for laughing at me?! I bet it will hurt tomorrow."

After the unfortunate fall, you felt a burning sensation on your tailbone, but your heart was full of joy - Steven was getting the basics in no time and was doing very well for his first time on ice. "It's almost certain to me that the student will surpass the master soon, my dearest love!" You sent Steven the warmest smile while slowly getting up.

A shy smile danced on Steven's lips as the blush crept over his cheeks, turning them red within a blink of an eye. "Oh, love, no, this will never happen, I assure."

Slowly, you glided towards him and wrapped your arms around his neck. "My love for you will never change, Steven Grant, even if you won't become a figure skater."

Steven tilted his head and took one of his gloves off, tapping your nose gently before saying, "And I love you just as much, Y/N, even if you always select dangerous activities for our spare time."

As the two of you shared a passionate kiss, you gently pushed off Steven, loosened your knees just a bit, glided backwards and slowly started to spin, spreading your arms slowly.

He could only glide forward slowly, just as you taught him while observing you; all of your movements were so gently and weighted, and you were moving lightly like a petal of a rose dancing in the wind.

Steven realized at this exact moment that his love for you was immeasurable.

[baconkath]

to all non spanish speaking content creators out there, I beg you:

do not use the term “mija”

“Mija“ is a term your mom uses

“Mija“ is a term your grandma probably uses 

why? because it is “mi hija” shortened, as in “my daughter”. It is not really a term your romantic partner would use when referring to you. In my opinion, it´s kinda cringy and a turn off

remember, just because you saw an endearment in another language it doesn’t mean it can be applied to all situations

it’s a little deppressing when there are a lot of prettier endearments out there:

amor, mi amor = love, my love

cielo, mi cielo = heaven, my heaven (?) or a placeholder for darling

corazón = heart

tesoro = treasure

vida, mi vida = life, my life

[sarahghetti]

can you pretend to be my boyfriend?; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: the boys pretend to be your boyfriend in order to save you from a creepy stranger.

warnings: inappropriate behaviour towards the reader, female!reader.

moon knight masterlist | all masterlists

steven

you lean over the gift shop counter, eyes wide as you ask, “can you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

poor steven is just confused at first.

“pretend to be—wait, what do you mean—?”

he doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought because the man who’s been trying to flirt with you all day suddenly rounds the corner, and you’re out of time.

“there you are!” a smarmy grin, eyes looking you up and down. it makes your skin crawl. “I was worried that you might’ve left before I could get a chance to talk to you again.”

“yeah, wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” you mutter.

it clicks in steven’s brain then, though not exactly fast enough for him to come up with a retort other than, “right, yeah, right.”

the man’s attention doesn’t waver from you, however, and you squirm on the spot. time for a hail mary, you suppose, turning back to steven. “are we still good for lunch, babe?”

“oh, yes, lunch—right, of course, love,” steven nods, more confident. “I just need to finish up some last things here, if you’re willing to wait a bit?”

you’re ready to say no worries, take all the time you need when the guy scoffs, barely sparing steven a glance. “a sales clerk? really?”

“better than the wet tissue you are, bruv,” steven snaps back, so fast that he surprises himself a little. something simmers under the man’s expression, but steven’s faster. “do I need to call security?”

that finally gets to the guy, who just mutters curses under his breath before finally pissing off. your smile is genuine now when you look at steven. “thanks for that.”

“no worries—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you nod. “don’t suppose you’re actually free right now, are you? the least I could do is buy you lunch as thanks.”

luckily for the both of you, he is, and he rounds the counter with a wide smile on his face before you lead the two of you out.

marc

he’s just waiting to place his order at a coffee shop when you walk in, some guy hot on your heels and prattling on despite your obvious discomfort.

“oh, hey, babe!” he doesn’t even realize you’re calling out to him until he meets your gaze, and the pleading look in your eyes is all he needs to understand what’s going on. “sorry I’m late.”

“it’s all good.” marc knows the drill, injecting warmth into his smile as he walks up to greet you. he gives you a small nod, letting you know that he’s got your back as he slips his hand into yours. “was worried about you for a minute there.”

“wait, are you two…?” the man looks between you, eyebrows furrowed.

“mhm.” he keeps his tone light, but is secretly watching like a hawk for any signs of escalation. when the guy’s mouth twists into a scowl, marc subtly tugs you behind him.

“you never said you had a boyfriend.” the venom in the words is terrifying, but marc doesn’t flinch.

“no need to cause a scene, man,” he says, tone amicable, but you take a peek at his face and his expression is as hard as stone. “now, if you’ll excuse us.”

marc leads you back into the line to order, squeezing your hand gently to stop you from looking over your shoulder. there’s the heavy stomping of feet before you hear the bell ring over the door as the guy leaves.

the relief is palpable. you finally let go of marc’s hand, face warm as you smile sheepishly at him. “thanks for the help. let me buy you a coffee?”

“don’t worry about it.” he shakes his head, but you offer again and, well, if you insist. he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his afternoon with you at all.

jake

he’s the one to notice your discomfort from across the pub, how you subtly shift away from the man leaning in close to speak directly into your ear.

when you meet his eyes, you mouth, help? and jake doesn’t even think twice before downing the rest of his drink and making his way to your table. he slaps a hand down onto the guy’s shoulder, making him jump. “think you’re in my seat, hombre.”

the man’s greasy smirk twitches, obviously thinking that jake is interrupting his ‘game’ or whatever the fuck. “nah, man, I’m just—”

“trying to hit on my girl, yeah, I can see that.” jake grins at him, but you get the impression that he’s baring his teeth more than anything. he looks to you, and his gaze softens. “you okay, there, baby?”

“better now,” you say, and it’s not a lie.

the guy turns to jake fully, sizing him up. “you think you’re so tough, huh?”

jake doesn’t even blink, just raises a single eyebrow as if daring for him to suggest taking the matter outside. it’s not even a competition, because the man backs off a moment later, angrily slipping out of the booth without looking back.

you don’t breathe until the guy finally leaves the building, at which point a heavy sigh falls from your lips.

“the nerve of that guy,” jake mutters, clicking his tongue.

“right?” you shake your head, then gesture to the now-vacant seat beside you. “care for a drink? I think I owe you after your help back there.”

“you owe me nothing,” he corrects, but slides in beside you anyways, taking your offer with a smile.

[fettuccin-e]

Hey noodle! Congrats babe, you deserve it ☺️ what are your thots on “just a little more” and our messy boy Steven Grant? 😈

Hi Mona!!! omg thank you sm!!! and thank you for requesting!!! and for steven?? PRECIOUS HUSBAND STEVEN??? how could i refuse ESPECIALLY because i know this boy is filthyyy and fucking needy as all hell okay ilysm thank you again!!

Tags: Steven Grant x Reader, afab!fem!reader, fingerfucking (r!recieving), unprotected piv, riding, uhh squirting pls dont fucking look at me i am ashamed, overstimulation, light degradation, so much praise holy shit (w/c: 1.1K)

Prompt: "Just a little more."

It’s honestly not that Steven likes to edge himself, or has some kind of fucking superhuman stamina in bed with you.

No, you’ve sucked him off in five minutes flat before, Steven twitching beneath you while he whined, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck it’s so good, you’re so fucking perfect, shit-” while he spilled down your throat. Marc never let him live that one down.

But you swear that sometimes, when he’s got his face or fingers or cock buried deep, so deep inside your cunt, Steven forgets that he has to cum at all.

He gets lost in it, mumbling about how gorgeous you are, how wet you get for him, how good you taste. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve cum, how you cry and wail with every orgasm he wrenches out of your heaving body, he just wants more and more and more. Ravenous.

“Steven, please, I ca-I can’t, oh please-” your pussy makes noises that are utterly obscene, squishing against his hand as he works his fingers into you, jamming relentlessly against your g-spot. You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for at this point; for him to make you cum again, for him to fuck you like you’ve been begging for, for him to show some mercy.

But even then, it’s like he can’t hear you, eyes focused on the way you spread and leak over his fingers, mesmerized by the way you clench around his fingers. He’s been like this since the first orgasm of the night, maybe the second, but God, he just keeps going. He keeps pressing soft kisses to your trembling thighs, using his free arm to brace over your twitching hips while he plays relentlessly with your aching cunt.

It’s too much, he’s been at this for too fucking long, God, you’re leaking everywhere, the bedsheets damp with it. He just won’t let up, your beautiful, treacherous lover, and your whole body locks again with the force of your orgasm, the squeeze of your pussy nearly forcing his fingers out.

His gaze snaps up to your face in an instant, and you can hear his voice through the rush of blood in your ears, murmuring, “That’s it, darling, my God you’re beautiful, so pretty, this pussy’s so tight for my fingers, imagine how it’ll feel around my cock, yeah? How much I’ll stretch this gorgeous cunt apart, right love?”

And it’s so sweet, so gentle, the way he speaks to you, a complete contrast to how he rips you apart with orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

“Fuck me,” you whine, high-pitched and needy, absolutely desperate. “You- you said it, that your cock would feel so fucking good, please Steven, need-need you.”

But all Steven does is chuckle darkly, stretching his fingers out inside you again, and you nearly scream. “Just a little more, darling, one more time for me, yeah?” You can only clench your eyes shut and throw your head back into the pillows.

And when you finally wear him down enough to ease his sticky fingers out of you, you immediately roll him onto his back. If he’s going to fuck you, you’re going to be in charge. You’re going to be the one to make him cum.

You ease his cock into you, hot and throbbing in your hand, and you almost want to cry as he stretches your pussy so good, so perfect, just like he said he would. He moans beneath you, the sound ripping its way out of his chest, as if he’s suddenly realized how worked up he’s gotten himself by playing with your pussy for God knows how long.

You work your hips into his, plunging his cock into you just the way you know he likes. He nudges into your sweet spot just perfectly this way too, and the sensitivity from Steven’s earlier ministrations has lighting arcing up your spine with every nudge, every grind of his cock into your sensitive pussy. 

A mewl escapes you, unabashed and louder than you meant it to,  when you slam down on his cock just right, the hair just above the base of his cock pressed against your achy clit. Steven’s hands fly to your hips immediately, holding you there with an iron grip.

That look is in his eyes again, pupils blown wide and brows furrowed as he rakes his gaze over your quaking body. He punches his hips up, making his hair grind against your clit in a way that makes your head spin, his fat cock somehow reaching deeper into your pussy.

“That’s it, love,” he says, “let me make you feel good. Let me take care of you, fuck, you look so pretty like this, writhing on my cock like a desperate little whore.” Your eyes roll to the back of your head with his words, your hips working of their own volition, on pure instinct as you work his cock into you again and again and again. It’s like you can’t get him deep enough, bouncing on his cock just like he told you to. Making yourself feel good.

When you cum, Steven groans, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips hard enough to leave bruises in their wake as you clamp down on his cock. A shaky moan rattles out of your throat at the feeling, your body aching with exhaustion, your pussy too sensitive as you clench and pulse in his hands. You feel like you could shake apart with the force of it, wrung dry under his unrelenting touch.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, and you open your eyes to see his gaze trained on your pussy, and oh shit, his stomach shines with your wetness, the sheets soaked with it. You’ve never done that before, never-

“Fuck, you made me squirt, oh my God, Steven-” your body burns with embarrassment, and you start to pull off his cock in search of a towel, or something, anything to clean up the mess you’ve made of him. But his hands hold you firm in his lap, using an unseen strength that he keeps under his button-downs and jumpers, his biceps flexing in a way that makes saliva pool in your mouth.

“Don’t you dare, darling,” his voice is a rasp, all dark and ripped apart and feral. Fuck, if it weren’t for the accent, you’d think it was Jake. “One more time, sweetheart, just one more for me.”

“Steven,” you start, but he thrusts his hips up into yours, and the movement of his still-hard cock in your sloppy, sticky cunt makes you choke on your spit.

“Just a little more, sweet girl, just-” he thrusts into you, hard and unyielding, “one more for me.”

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Moon Boys Sleeping Headcanons

Rating: PG •  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged? • ko-fi •

Warnings: some fluffy fluff, mentions of reader, not beta read

Word count: 861

Steven:

I firmly believe that this man constantly moves in his sleep.

He’s rolling around all over the place.

One of those people that hold their arms/legs up in their sleep in the most uncomfortably looking positions. 

There has been more than one occasion where you wake up and see Steven sitting up in bed, fully asleep, and you have to coax him back into lying down.

He is taking up all of the space, then hardly any. 

He’s got all the covers and then none. 

Side and back sleeper, for sure. Loves to be the big or little spoon when going to bed and will twist himself into the most uncomfortable positions for himself if it means you're comfy. 

There is normally at least some part of him touching you, even if he is out of it. 

You have woken up to him holding your hand or your arm in his sleep. Or curled up into a ball and snuggled into your side. 

His feet are always warm, no matter how cold it is.

Delights in eating in bed, watching TV cuddling with you. (Will tell Marc he never eats in bed with a completely straight face.) 

Once he knows about Marc and doesn’t worry so much about sleepwalking he has the ability to fall asleep anywhere and anytime. Literally his eyes are closed and a second later it’s lights out. 

Mumbles in his sleep. It’s never actual words, just little sounds. You video him sometimes to show him in the morning. 

He laughs about it for ages. 

Remembers his dreams in vivid detail. 

Always wakes up with messy hair, no matter how hard he tries or what material his pillow is. 

Prefers to sleep in pyjamas even when it’s burning hot, because it doesn’t feel right otherwise.

Marc:

Back sleeper. Literally lays down like he’s going into his coffin, so stiff it should be uncomfortable. 

However if you’re in bed with him he will snuggle up and lay all over your chest and tummy, and please play with his hair while he goes to sleep. He needs it. 

Doesn’t talk in his sleep, but flinches and twitches. The movements are usually small, like a mini electric current runs through his nerves. 

Pulls a face at eating in bed, will get the handheld vacuum cleaner out and hoover the sheets. “Steven, why are there crumbs here?” 

“I don’t know mate, don’t ask me.” 

“They're those stupid seaweed chip things you eat, you’re the only one of us that eats them.”

“First, they're crisps Marc, say it with me crisps.”

“Steven-”

“Secondly, Jake eats them too.” 

“I know it was you Steven, you always eat in the bed-”

“I’m the only one who changes the bloody covers, aren’t I? I think I’ve earned it.”

“That’s not-”

“I changed the covers last week.” Jake chimes in. 

“You’re right, you did mate, sorry about that.” 

“No problem.” Jake gives him a mental thumbs up.

Marc is just like !!! Where is my apology for eating in the bed? !!!

However, if Marc wakes up before you he will bring you breakfast in bed and purposefully ignore Steven when he playfully calls him a hypocrite.

Sleeps in pyjamas if it’s cooler, but will also sleep naked if it’s hot. 

Falls asleep quickly and doesn’t remember his dreams at all. (He prefers it that way.)

Deep, but light sleeper. Goes into a deep sleep very quickly, but is awake and alert if something sounds ‘wrong’. You once stubbed your toe on the bathroom door and let out a little yelp and he was up and by your side before you’d even realised.

Likes to put lavender and eucalyptus sprays and oils on his pillow. 

Jake: 

Very good at sleeping sitting up and power naps, but prefers you to be laying on top of him if you're in bed. 

It makes him feel grounded to have your weight on him. If you’re happy to lay completely on him he is so content, it doesn’t matter what weight you are, he just loves wrapping his arms around you like you’re his own weighted blanket. 

You buy him a weighted blanket for a gift and he wraps himself up in it constantly. 

Often complains about the cold when sleeping, even when it’s hot his feet are still freezing. He has taken to always wearing socks in bed.

Which leads to a rather amusing sight in August when it is boiling hot, so he’s sleeping naked, but his feet are still covered in fluffy socks. 

He calls them his ‘sexy socks’, and has pairs in a variety of colours. He prefers ones that have loud patterns and colours. 

(I headcanon Jake as a kniter, so I think he would definitely make some for himself as well.) 

Doesn’t usually eat in bed, but does on occasion to affectionately annoy Marc. 

Remembers his dreams, and remembers Steven’s and Marc’s as well. 

Likes to dramatically push you into bed, and throw himself in after. 

Doesn’t move around a lot in the night, but occasionally talks. 

Never wakes up first if he can help it, usually stays asleep while Marc and Steven are up. 

Thank you for reading!

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[starsarekind]

Trying out some new digital brushes... Steven "summon the suit" Grant

[whatthefishh]

C*ck Therapy

Therapist Steven Grant x patient!camgirl!female reader

Warnings: 18+, taboo relationship, therapist-patient sexual relations, c*ck warming, p in v, unprotected, mentions of cam girl activities, mentions of masturbation, mentions of oral (f rec), umm.. how else do I tag this. Brat taming Steven.

Just 1.8k words of horniness I’m sorry. Beta’d by the lovely @melodygatesauthor

“I’m not moving until you tell me what’s got you so angry, love,” he said while gripping your hips down onto his, not letting you roll them the way you longed to.

See, Steven used to be your therapist. He used to be your kind, respectful, and attentive therapist for about 4 months but that quickly changed when you decided to divulge your secondary income source – your premium content. Subscription based content. Adult modeling. Your camgirl side hustle. Whatever you wanted to call it.

He didn’t take the information as well as you were hoping, stuttering and blushing and not meeting your eyes, and you felt uncomfortable, thinking he was judging you for it. In actuality, Steven had found your profile a few weeks prior to your confession, and couldn’t help but palm himself to your entire content library. He’d never come harder than he had on the first night he stumbled upon one of your videos. It wasn’t long before he became addicted to the way you fell apart on camera.

He knew it was wrong, he knew it was probably against some rule about him being your therapist but he couldn’t help it. You were so intelligent in your sessions with him, always providing great insight on your own issues. You were one of his favourite patients. He was really happy with the progress you were making, and well… Steven couldn’t deny that you were beautiful. He was sure you were well aware of your beauty, so he never fancied himself someone you’d find attractive, especially considering the nature of your relationship. It was sort of forbidden. No, it was forbidden. The guilt didn’t stop him from subscribing to you though.

In your sessions, he never made you feel uncomfortable, he never gave away that he knew about your secret side gig, and he honestly wanted to help you. Steven was genuine in his career, he loved listening to you open up to him. He didn’t think his guilty addiction to you was hindering your growth until you mentioned your videos and apparently it showed on his face. He began stumbling over his words, trying desperately to explain that he wasn’t judging you. When you told him he was making a ‘cringe face’, he was forced to admit that he was actually cringing at himself, not at you. It was a painful few moments for you both.

Long story short, he couldn’t keep seeing you in his office, and decided some private sessions in his home were more appropriate. They usually started off with him bending you over the couch and then asking you how your day went as he righted your clothing, or kissing you messily the second you walked through the door, only to ravenously eat you out on the closest surface he could find. He was insatiable. Half your sessions were him just whining and whimpering about how delicious you were and how he couldn’t believe you were really letting him do this to you. Steven still let you talk, still listened to your issues and still tried to therapize you. It was just after he fucked your brains out.

You came over with an attitude today, irritated by external factors and you were looking forward to Steven fucking it out of your system. When you tried to initiate it with him, to get him to give you what you needed, he pulled back to look at you in concern. He offered to talk first, and you got angry and scoffed in his face, ripping yourself from his grasp. He conceded, telling you to take your frustrations out on him as he sat on the couch you usually laid down on in your sessions, patting his thighs in invitation. You were supposed to ride him, putting all your energy into it and watching his brows furrow as he watched his length disappear inside you again and again.

Today, he was hell-bent on you cockwarming him, claiming it was supposed to get you talking quicker but you were highly doubting the validity of his statement with the way his cock was twitching inside you every few minutes. Your slick was coating your thighs and the hairs at the base of his member, flowing more freely the longer he sat unmoving inside your hot channel. Infuriatingly, he held your hips down with his impossible strength, looking up at you with those sweet brown eyes of his as he repeated his question. Shit, what was the question?

“Hmmm?” you managed, after another unsuccessful attempt at rolling your hips.

“I said, what’s got you so angry today, love? Talk to me. I’ll make it worth it, I promise, but first you have to be good and tell me what’s wrong,” he urged, nudging your chin with his shapely nose.

You had inhale deeply, your breathlessness making it hard for you to speak. God, he really was so thick, wasn’t he? He was filling you up so perfectly, stretching you out at this angle and you had to close your eyes to even think about what you were going to say.

“That girl at work… the one I told you about who leaves all her shit for me to clean up after her shift–”

“Mhmm, keep talking, love,” the vibrations from his chest felt like an electric shock through your body, your back arching at the sensations.

“Ahhh, she-she made a mistake, and blamed me… and, and then I got reamed out by my stupid manager,” you were close to crying now, the anger subsiding slowly, and the feeling of being denied by Steven taking over.

“Ohh, sweetheart, s’not right, is it?” He brushed your hair back and rubbed your cheekbone with his thumb, and you couldn’t help but lean into his palm like a cat needing affection. “S’not your fault. Tell you what, maybe you should quit.”

“Maybe you should fuck me, come on, Steven, just–just make it go away, I need you,” you were whining pathetically, ready to let your fists land on his chest in a rage.

Steven tutted at you. He tutted, like you were a petulant child, like you were just having a tantrum, like a teacher gently disciplining a student, not like you were sitting on his cock, leaking all over him and the couch, staining the taupe suede material with your juices. Leaning forward to softly mouth at your neck, he whispers against it and lets his lips graze your skin.

“I wouldn’t be a good therapist if I didn’t let you talk about it first, would I? That’s not very ‘healing comes from within’ of me,” he laughed at the end of it, his hot breath burning you even further.

Oh, you hate him. You tightened your core when he laughed against you, the rumbling causing his cock to shift slightly and you let out a soft moan at the smallest amount of friction it granted you, and he unwillingly thrust upwards at the feeling. Oh, you knew how to get back at him.

Clenching around him again, you wait for his reaction as your lips touch the shell of his ear, whimpering, as he garbled out a choked out groan against your neck. Steven’s hips unwittingly thrust upwards again, knocking into your cervix just that small amount, enough to make you dig your nails into his shoulders where your hands were resting. You were both moaning now, and you think you can tease him like this until he finally gave in and fucked you from under you. You needed him to, therapy be damned.

Dragging your hands up into his hair, he shuddered when your nails scraped across his scalp. He licked his lips, the edge of his tongue grazing your neck before he pulled back to look into your eyes and the previous soft look he was giving you was gone, replaced with a heady look, eyelids low as his mouth was open and panting.

“No, but considering that you’re inside me right now, I’d say you’re halfway there,” you gasp as his hand shifts down to your ass, squeezing, fingers splayed wide and pulling at the flesh there.

You lean more into his chest, your breasts pressing into him now, his mouth sitting just so, dipping down to mouth at them through your top. Steven’s control was slowly slipping, his idea failing spectacularly as he pulled your hips to roll and grind on his. You squeezed your muscles around his thick and throbbing cock again, trying to entice him to pull out to the tip and buck up into you like you wished he would. You were gripping him so tight, and your slick was more than enough to make his movements smooth and yet Steven was holding back from giving you his all, his logic lost on you.

“Steven, please, I’m sorry for being short with you, I’m sorry, okay? Please just–”

You were cut off from your helpless begging when he decided he’d had enough, that you had suffered enough, that you learnt your lesson and that the anger you walked in with was gone, along with his restraint. Steven gripped your ass even tighter, his fingers pressing divots into your skin as he thrust up into you mercilessly, bouncing you on his length as you cried out for him.

His hands were squeezing you, keeping you wide open for him as he rendered you incoherent, pathetic moans and whines leaving you. With your mouth still close to his ear, your noises began spurring him on as he grunted with each pass of his cock into your hot cunt, desperate to reach his end. Your hands began bunching his blazer lapels, angry in the back of your head that he didn’t even take off his jacket when he sat you on his thick shaft. Your soft walls began fluttering around him, signaling that you were almost reaching your end, his relentless teasing having caught up with you now, hurtling you towards the edge quicker.

“Ohh, ffffuck, Steven I’m gonna–gonna come, yes,” you shouted, so close to your euphoria that you were desperate to reach. The way his cock was punching up into your cervix was just perfect, his smell overwhelming you, his hands squeezing you just right, everything was leading to this and you couldn’t help but whine when his thumb swiped at your clit once, twice–

You were coming hard.

His grunts and groans were muffled into your chest, his thrusts getting sloppy while he chased his own release, pulling your hips down to his so hard it almost hurt. Steven bucked his hips one final time before you felt the telltale pulsing inside of you, the warmth of his cum slowly trickling out from where you were still sheathed around him. He pulled back to look at it with brows raised, almost impressed at his own mess while still catching his breath.

“How are you feeling now, love? Still angry at me?”

“I wasn’t angry at you, Steven,” you sigh dazedly, shaking your head at him. “Silly man. But to answer your question, I’m feeling much better now that you’re done torturing me.”

[boy-of-death]

I want to thank all the girls and the gays that are obsessed with shows that ended 10 years ago and still write about it. Thank you for your service, you are my sole lifeline 🫡

[pygmi-cygni]

hc for moonknight boys ( pigging off of the preferences hc a little..) with neighbor!reader who is thick as fuck and has a big white cat named Osiris and one day the Boys hear her opening her door in the hall and calling for her cat, the boys being like ⁉️ HUH and then they go over and meet the cat and like they have a huge big fat crush on her

AWW anon this sounds cute.

reader is fem (uses she/her) curvy, fluff, pining, dual POV. no y/n

Summary: reader moved in a week ago and her cat is adventurous. not exactly the way you asked but it mutated hehe

song recs: anything by stephen sanchez or frank ocean

Things had progressed nicely. The furniture arrived yesterday, and you'd got it done in a flash - hopefully the neighbors weren't too concerned with the loud thumps and scrapes. You were most glad that Osiris' cat tree had arrived so he'd stop shredding the carpet.

"Ozzy," you whistled. "Breakfast, bubba." You scraped the rest of the tin into his bowl and waited for the excited jingle of his collar.

Frowning, you peered into the living room. Even in dead sleep, Osiris woke at the prospect of a snack. Part of why you got along so well.

"Osiris?"

Hoping you hadn't shut him in a closet, you set down his meal and knocked on all the doors, checking the shelves and any tricky-to-reach spots. Ozzy often forgot his size and got into places he couldn't easily get out of.

It wasn't a huge apartment, only two bedrooms and a bathroom. You'd done two rounds before nervously figuring that he'd gotten out.

How? The door was closed and locked - you double checked, always.

Your hands fluttered nervously, lip stuck between your teeth. He was a lovely boy but he didn't know the area. You didn't know the area, where would you look? There was one floor below you until the busy street...

"Shit," you muttered, hurriedly pulling on your shoes. The cold air had started yesterday. I'm comin', buddy, don't worry, you thought nervously. You were dressed in a comfy sweater and sweats. Hopefully you didn't look too much like a crazy person.

Slamming your door behind you, you looked both ways down the hall, eyes squinting for a flash of white fur.

"Osiris?"

Marc had enough. Somewhere, a tiny trilling bell was jingling. It was driving him fucking insane. He'd poked through the stacks of books and under the mattress. His phone - Steven might've installed some crazy alarm - but no dice.

He peeked out his door. The hall was empty, but-

"Oh," he said, crouching. "Hey there, little guy."

Steven, now awake, snorted. Not very little, though, is he?

The roundest, whitest cat he'd seen in his life was sat patiently in front of his door. Brilliant green eyes blinked up, and a soft meow carried through the hall. Marc had never been good with cats.

His headmate shoved to the front, greedily reaching out for a pet. "He's so soft," Steve breathed, scratching under the cat's chin. A titanic purr radiated out of the fluffy monstrosity, reveling in the attention.

Steven was in love. He gently picked up the cat, snuggling its warmth. Marc grimaced, tapping on Steven's shoulder. You don't know where that's been, man. Wash your hands.

He waved him off, eyes glued to the cat. It was cold out; the poor thing was probably starving. Closing the door against the cold air, Steven happily set his new friend on the ground.

"Would you like some food, then, little man?" He cooed. The cat meowed again and ran off curiously. Steven watched as it poked and sniffed through his flat, purring the whole way. He noticed a slight jingling sound follow the furball. Aha, he was the culprit.

Means he's got a collar, Marc noted, so he's got an owner, I'd bet. Steven pouted slightly; he wouldn't mind keeping the little bugger. Jake hissed when the cat started wiggling into the closet.

Ay, if that thing steals my gloves I'm takin' it out back.

Steven gaped at the hostile behavior of his friends. "Alright, fine," he relented, "but I'd like to feed it first. It's cold out, y'know."

Whistling gently, Steven knelt down in front of the wardrobe. "Here, kitty," he said softly, clicking his tongue. A fluffy tail tickled his nose. Giggling, he caught the cat in his arms.

"Okay now, hold still for a smidge, lemme look at you-"

The cat squirmed as he felt around for a collar. Truly, the amount of hair on this thing was insane. Jake sneezed.

A little gold tag glimmered. Steven squinted. "O...Osiris? Innat funny, Marc? His name's Osiris!" He dropped the cat in favor of rambling about the deity, hands moving excitedly. Jake frowned.

Isn't that the death guy?

Steven sighed at Jake's vocabulary. "Underworld, mate, very different." The alter snorted. My bad, of course.

Could be an omen, Marc quipped.

"Why're you all being so grumpy?" Steven groaned, raking his hand through his hair, "it's just a cat."

Did the tag have an address? Jake wondered, back on track. The cat had curled up on Steven's lap, so he tried gently to get closer without disturbing him.

"Uh...yes?" The numbers were smudged to hell, so he couldn't really read it. The cat couldn't have gotten too far in the cold, his owner lived close. Steven's disappointment at letting go of his friend was quenched by the intrigue of meeting someone who was interested in Egyptology.

He fed the cat a few pieces of cheese and scooped him up. "Alright, off you pop, let's find your owner, yeah?"

The cat purred in his arms, snuffling into his jacket. Steven whistled aimlessly, locking his door and setting off.

He lived on the third and highest story - so he'd work his way downwards. He paused.

Marc sat back knowingly. See, in order for this to work you've actually got to talk to people, Stevie. Steven faltered. He looked sheepishly in the reflection of the doorknob.

"...Marc?"

Rolling his eyes, Marc slipped in to front, jostling with Osiris. The cat noticed a switch, and curiously sniffed the new alter. Jake backed out; claiming allergies. Grimacing, Marc reached for the knocker on the neighbor's door.

No luck. Nobody on his floor had seen or lost a cat named Osiris - though he did encounter a tearful little boy looking for his hamster. Internally, Marc wondered if the cat had found the rodent first. Steven would switch out every few minutes to stroke Osiris lovingly, before hiding in the headspace if someone approached.

The cat seemed to get used to the different men, eventually falling asleep.

Marc sighed, taking the elevator down to the second floor. This cat was heavy.

He nearly ran smack into someone else as he stepped out. Osiris yowled and he stuttered an apology, blinking at the impact.

A very shocked woman was staring at him, mouth open.

"You've got my cat!"

He blinked again, looking at Osiris. "Your...he's yours?"

You nodded, reaching out for him. Marc clumsily handed him over, still reeling from the coincidence. You thanked him profusely, gently scolding the cat.

You beamed at him. "Thank you so much, sir, I thought I'd never find him. Ozzy's a bit of a pill when we find a new place, I appreciate is so much."

Marc was stunned stupid. Once he'd gotten a look at you, you were really pretty. There was a nice, calming energy radiating off of you like a halo. A flush had brightened your eyes and cheeks from the cold, coloring you like a cherub. The fluffy cat rubbed itself on your legs, tail winding around your supple curves.

Ay, amigo, Jake whispered, you haven't said anything.

"Yeah," Marc stammered, wiping his brow. "Yeah, for sure, it's...it's no problem." Fuck, he sounded like Steven.

The poor brit was in the same sinking boat, brain gone offline in shock. Oi. Oi Marc, don't fuck this up holy shit do you see her earrings? She's got little moons on-

Marc had to mentally mute his friend's babbling, too preoccupied with not looking like an idiot. You were busy cooing after your pet. A cute smile adorned your round cheeks and he had the urge to reach out-

"Hey, d'you want to come in? I've got some coffee or tea inside," you offered, gesturing behind you. Marc had a feeling that was a bad idea, seeing as how fast his heart was beating, but Steven was doing flips with excitement, so he accepted.

Your apartment was lovely. You'd clearly just moved in, the furniture was clean and new. Incense burned at the window, filling the room with a jasmine scent. Marc inhaled deeply, catching whiffs of your shampoo. It made his chest feel a little gooey.

Steven needed a tranquilizer, he was so elated. A small shrine to Ra was on your vanity, with a plate of dates and gold coins. Your bookshelves, unlike his, were neat and organized. Most of the books were on Egypt or horticulture. That explained the houseplants on every flat surface.

If we were mentioning omens...Jake murmured suggestively, nodding to the abundant moon decor and Egypt references. Marc pushed him away, too enraptured with watching you.

You were humming quietly, grabbing mugs and sugar and cream. That wonderful halo was burning brighter the longer he stared. The sweater you were wearing was a lovely shade of blue that brightened your face like the sun. Fitting that she likes Ra, Steven breathed, she looks celestial.

Jake agreed silently, having swallowed his own tongue. He was excited about the coffee, smelling warm and rich from your kitchen. You handed them a cup, gesturing to the milk and sugar.

"Help yourself to either," you said cheerily, patting Marc's shoulder. holy fuck your hands were soft. He watched you disappear into the hall, mesmerized with the sway of your hips.

Don't be a creep, Steven scolded, as if he hadn't been mentally planning a wedding. Marc murmured something unintelligible, awestruck by your lovely figure.

He gulped his coffee too fast to hide the flush on his face when you returned.

"What's your name?" You asked, sitting across from him. You told him yours, voice musical and light.

"M-Marc," he said around a burnt tongue and a lovesick heart. You asked him questions about where he was from, which he tried to answer, though in truth your sparkling eyes and lovely scent were really difficult to think around.

Your curves were quite distracting, and he kept being drawn to your movement, face aflame. His dignity was in tatters now but he'd never seen a person so gorgeous before. Osiris wound around his feet, an almost-smirk on his face.

Marc's gaze was glazed as you continued talking, words going in one ear and out the other. That was okay - he could catch up once he asked you on a date. Currently he was too preoccupied with imagining your soft skin and supple hips and-

Marc.

He scowled at himself, shameful. Jake shook his head, sighing. he didn't show it, but a hot rush of desire was also snaking through his chest. Steven was sat and totally absorbed in your conversation like a child at storytime.

Before he left, he slipped his number onto your kitchen table for you to find later. You caught him as he left and pulled him into a hug.

what.

He'd completely glitched when you pulled him into your soft body. Trembling with restraint, he carefully hugged you back, nose pressed greedily into your sweet-smelling hair. You fit perfectly in his arms, waist wonderfully soft and perfect to hold. Marc's mouth was dry as the desert. His heart was thundering, and he held on for a bit longer than necessary. He couldn't let go, he just wanted to hold you and squeeze and kiss you and oh god he's gonna embarrass himself like a teenager with how hard he's getting-

You waved goodbye and shut the door, leaving him awestruck in the hall.

"I think I've been drugged," he breathed to nobody. Steven had passed out, and only Jake was left to numbly agree.

yay! join my taglist if you want, comment below

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @krakenkitty

[mcondance]

giving steven head. sighs.

steven. . steven’s so reactive. he’s so fucking sensitive. every time you even lay a finger on him he’s damn near shaking, trembling under your touch. and when you have your mouth wrapped around his dick, your tongue tracing the pretty veins on the underside of his shaft. . he’s a mess.

a pretty mess. your pretty mess, his curls ruffled and some sticking to his forehead with sweat, big chocolate eyes low and almost closed, except for when he can pry them open to watch you take him down your throat so well.

when he watches, it’s a show. your pretty plump lips wrap around him, mouth stretched wide around his thick cock, hands wrapped around the base of him and sliding down to run your hands over his heavy balls, his thighs clenching up every time you move.

and just like normally, when he’s rambling about old egyptian culture or babbling about something or the other, he’s so damn talkative.

“feels so good, love, feels perfect.”

“yeah— fuck, your mouth feels so. .”

“feels like— ah, god like that, keep goin’ li’ that.” his sentences are scrambled, words just barely formed around his heavy tongue before you swipe them away with swirls of your tongue around his tip, eyes fixed on his flushed face. “so good to me.” is what he whispers with a shake of his head when his eyes find yours, his hand moving from the sheets to your hair to push it out of your face, to repay the pleasure you’ve given him with that small gesture.

when he's close, you know it. whether it's his whiny groans, or his nodding when you take him all the way to the base, or his babbled "gonna cum, wanna cum, yeah". . you know. so you keep doing what you're doing, and he keeps singing fucked-out praises to you until he's cumming down your throat, your lips painted white with the release that drips down his cock.

with his eyes fixed on you is how he cums, his lips forming a pretty "o", chest heaving and hands tightening in your hair and in the sheets. and with soft smiles and kisses is how he thanks you, hand cupping your cheek as he thanks you the best way he knows how.

well, the second best way. but that's for another time.

[scarletttries]

NSFW Headcanon Request: Steven Grant (Moon Knight)

Steven Grant + Recording: (prompt list here)

(Part Two Here!!)

- When Steven Grant bought a little camcorder and stand a few years ago, he had very innocent reasons in mind. Yes, the stand was set up so the camera pointed straight at his bed, but it was to capture exactly why we woke up so exhausted from a night of tossing and turning alone, not for anything more fun than that.

- Naturally anytime you were coming over, he'd carefully stash the device away, not wanting to creep you out or do anything to risk making the most important person in his life uncomfortable. He knows just how lucky he is to be the man that gets to worship your body, and even though he'd die for the chance to relive every one of your intimate encounters, he thinks it's way too weird of a question to ask.

- That is until one night you surprise him at home, on your way back from a girl's night and missing your sweet, nerdy boyfriend. He's over the moon when he opens the door to your bright, smiling face, quickly surrendering to your hypnotic kiss as you lead him to the bed he was all but ready to settle into for the night alone.

- Your hands are pushing his shirt off his shoulders, while his hands slide up your dress, clawing at your thighs until they spread enough for him to fit between them, when you first notice the blinking red light.

"Steven, gorgeous, how long have you had a camera in your bedroom?" Instantly he's mortified, apologising and tripping over his own feet as he launches off the bed, practically crawling across his bedroom floor to turn off the device,

"I'm so sorry love, I didn't realise you were coming, and it's to help with my sleep walking, and I swear I always put it away whenever you're here, I'd never violate your privacy like that." He's struggling to take in breaths as each sentence catches in his throat, tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he watches you pull down your skirt and hop off the edge of his bed, picking him up off the floor and bringing your hands to softly cup his face.

"It's okay, I believe you. I trust you Steven, I was just surprised is all." Your gentle words slow his heart back to a steady pace, the tender press of your lips to his enough to reassure him that this isn't the breaking point he always assumes is right around the corner. Each kiss is quickly followed by another, Steven completely entranced by you, enough so that he doesn't notice as you press the record button again, throwing the camera a showy wink as you lead him back to bed again.

- It's not until a few days later, texting Steven from a hotel during a weekend away that you let him know about your little tape. He's desperately fighting the urge to plead over text for you to come home early, settling for telling you just how terribly he misses you, three little words hanging on the tip of his tongue, not quite bold enough to let them loose yet. You echo his longing sentiment, telling him just how much you miss the feel of his hands on your skin, his touch on every part of you, and tell him maybe he should check his camera before he takes himself to bed.

- He's sceptical as he takes his camcorder off his stand, flipping the little screen to face him and scrolling through the hours of footage until he recognises the night he last had you over. He has to cover his eyes with embarrassment as he watches himself tumble out of bed to stop the recording, but his eyes dart wide open when he watches you turn it straight back on, the playful look in your eye immediately flushing all his blood down his body.

- He realises he's holding his breath in his attempt to hear every single sound you make as the two of you step across the screen and climb back on to the bed he's now propped up in alone. He knows it was your decision, but he still feels voyeuristic and dirty as he watches your dress slide down your body on the screen, his free hand slipping into his pyjama bottoms as his on screen counterpart slides his hands over your chest, earning a happy moan that has him hardening at the first touch.

- His mouth hangs open and he watches intently as he settles between your legs, turning up the volume as high as he can as you start to pant and moan at the feel of his tongue exploring your centre. His hand has picked up its pace now, chest heaving as he watches your back arch off the bed, nipples hard in the cold night air.

- He almost loses it the first time he notices you smile right into the camera as you moan out his name, a private performance just for him that makes his heart throb almost as hard as the manhood he's now furiously rubbing. He can feel him cross the point of no return as he watched himself plunge deep inside you, your legs wrapping tightly around his hips leaving no room between your two bodies, his lips desperately chasing yours. His screen self lasts longer than lonely Steven does, spilling across the empty bed as you let out the needy high pitched whine you do every time he pulls out of you to change positions. He sits there, dick pulsing in his hand as he watches your ass bounce as he slams his hips against yours, finally both spent and collapsing alongside you.

- Feeling utterly beat he almost puts the camera away, until he notices you creep out of the bed towards the bathroom, stopping in front of the focused lens to mouth three little words to him before stopping the video. If the sensitive soul hadn't already been in bed, he would have immediately collapsed to the floor. Frantically he picks his phone back up, impatiently waiting through the rings until he can finally tell you that he loves you too.

[chaos-and-ink]

Yes, Marc is a protector but he is also a trauma holder. He protects the system from things they cannot handle but he also carries traumatic experiences and memories the system can't handle. He may be strong and protective but he's also vulnerable and deeply traumatized. He has no self worth or self respect, going to great lengths to protect others but never himself. He's self destructive and impulsive and often lacks stability. He dwells on negative thoughts and spirals in them. He may be a protector but he still needs protection.

And the system does protect him. Steven protects Marc by giving him an escape from the constant pain and trauma of his life. Jake protects Marc from his own self destruction when he feels his life isn't worth anything or he can't go on.

[cartoonsbyandie]

Sequel to this post! Yeah I'm just gonna do all of them under this very specific theme of 'Weapon Swap + Khon is in their clothes for some reason.'

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

[lieutnt]

Omega Steven Grant x top male reader. Steven is in heat and comes from work very very need, and he literally begs his partner to creampie him

Steven barrels into your chest as soon as he’s through the door, rubbing himself against you as if he’s trying to push into the space next to your heart. You try to ask him what’s wrong but he’s reluctant to be pulled away, and it’s not until you smell the air, instantly picking up the scent of his slick that you realise. He looses a purr when your hand combs through his curls, “It snuck up on you huh?” you ask. Steven’s never been one for keeping good track of his heats, having to rush home when it hits him unexpectedly.

He nods against you, arms tightly wrapped around your body to keep you close. “I need you luv.” Moving up he burrows into the crook of your neck, already losing himself in trying to get as much of your scent on him as he can. 

After a whirlwind of clothes being pulled off you have Steven underneath you, naked and desperately trying to fuck himself back against you as you sink into his wet heat inch by inch, going slow despite his pleas for more. His body screams at him to breed and that’s what he does when your balls press against his ass; begs you to fill him up, to cum inside, keep him on your knot until something takes.

You fuck him through two orgasms before yours makes an appearance, your warning sending Steven into a frenzy as he rocks himself back against you, hole trying to suck you in deeper. Your cum flooding his insides has Steven groaning so loud you think the neighbours may hear, eyes rolling into the back of his head as the smell of an omega in heat has you cumming more than usual, some already leaking from his hole.

Before you can collapse on top of Steven you roll onto your side, hugging him to your chest as he purrs contentedly, your cock acting as a plug to keep your cum inside while the intensity of his heat wanes temporarily, body momentarily satiated as you protectively curl around him. 

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

If I Ask Nicely

Steven Grant x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 22: Voice Kink

Summary: Steven uses your appreciation for his voice to his complete advantage.

A/N: This was meant to be for kinktober 2023 (I'm so sorry). One day I'm sure someone is going to psychoanalyse me based on my fics. Then I'll be in trouble.

Warnings: voice kink, kissing, fingering, lube, dildos, double penetration, Steven just running his mouth, bit of soft dom! Steven, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 1299

Part of you is sure you should have never told Steven that you liked the sound of his voice so much.

Because the second he found out he used it to his complete advantage, batting his eyes at you and asking sweetly for things. It was innocent, at first, just testing the waters. But it quickly dissolved into him being as cheeky as possible when you were both alone. 

Which is how you found yourself completely naked, your back against his warm chest, your hands in his. He moved your fingers to where he wanted them, whispering filth into your ear. 

“That's it love, that's it. Being so good for me.” He kisses your neck lightly and you whine. 

“Keep touching yourself, yeah?” He keeps one hand on your breast and the other between your spread legs. “Feels so good, doesn't it?” 

You gasp and nod, rocking back slightly to feel his heavy cock pressed between your bodies. 

“If I knew you liked my voice this much I would have made you do so many things sooner.” He chuckles as he rubs your fingers against your clit in soft circles, delighting when you jump and gasp. 

“Want to make you all wet beforehand.” He breathes heavily, “Want to slip in so easy.” 

Steven groans as he moves his fingers down, teasing your entrance.

“Steven,” you moan, your back arching.

“That's it, love, you keep playing here.” He taps your fingers against your clit. “And I'll play here, hmm? Sounds good? I know it does.” 

You whine, throwing your head back against his shoulder as he presses the tip of two fingers inside, but doesn't go any deeper. 

“God, you're so wet.” His breath is warm against your skin, a deep growl to his words. “Want you to be fucking soaking. Can you do that love? Can you do that for me?” 

You nod, gasping as you rub your clit, your thighs shivering as he slips a little deeper, rewarding you.

 “Oh, so good love, so good for me.” He groans, “Gonna lube you up after this, want you so slippery, want to fuck you so hard and fill you up and then fuck you again.” 

You writhe in his arms, moaning loudly as he curls his fingers, stroking against your walls in a come hither motion. 

“Oh!” You sob, shaking. 

“That so good? You gonna come just from a tiny touch? I think you are.” He purrs and nips at the shell of your ear. He rubs his erection slightly against your backside, groaning as the pleasure spirals in his stomach. 

You manage to moan his name, so close you can taste it, shivering in his touch. 

“Stop, stop,” he whispers, moving his fingers out of you and taking your hand in his.

You whine, tears at the corners of your eyes. “Please.” 

“Here, here,” he soothes, kissing your neck and wrapping one arm around you while he rummages in the bedside table with the other. “So good love, so good.” He sucks lightly at your pulse point before he moves back a fraction. “Just a second love, one second.” 

He quickly pours lube all over his aching cock, hissing as he rubs the cool liquid down his weeping length and then puts his hands on your waist and helps you up and back. 

“Just stay there one second,” he groans, spreading your lips apart with this thumb and chuckling when you shiver. He presses his tip against you, slowly sinking in and moaning when you gasp. 

“Being so good for me.” He repeats and breathes deeply as he guides you down, panting as you stretch and pulse around his cock. 

You bite your lip, your breath robbed from you as you sink, swallowing more and more of his thick length. “Steven,” you whine, unable to help yourself. 

Most of the time you called him by pet names, but you knew how much he loved you saying his name in the bedroom.

He hisses as he bottoms out, pulling you back to rest against him and mouthing at your neck once more. “You gonna be good?” He mutters, breathing hard.

You whine an affirmative. 

“Good, god you’re so nice and wet, make me just want to fill you up right now,” he takes the dildo he pulled out from the drawer in his right hand and coats it just as liberally in lube.

You watch him, hypnotised by how he strokes it. 

“You gonna take it?”

You nod, swallowing eagerly and he groans again, his eyes rolling back.

“So fucking sexy, you know that?” He holds the dildo in his right hand and rubs your clit with his lubed left fingers, easing down to lightly stroke at where you’re split open and where the base of his cock just rests inside. 

Steven slowly spreads you a little wider, teasing one finger into you and grinning when you shudder. “Just tell me if it’s too much, love, okay?” 

You nod, “okay.” 

“Good, good,” he kisses your temple and pushes the tip of the dildo against your pussy, just above his heavy cock. 

You gasp as he starts to ease it inside, your back arching as you're stretched so wide. It’s almost painful, almost too much. The sensation burning on your tongue but igniting a deep ache in your chest. 

“Oh, you’re doing so well love, so well.” Steven groans, easing the dildo in slowly an inch then out half an inch and repeat. “This is what it would feel like if Marc or Jake could be here physically too, god we’d all stuff you so full.” 

You moan, your hips bucking forward. 

Steven wriggles, shivering as you squeeze and the ribbed silicon of the dildo rubs up against his cock. When it finally rests completely inside he breathes out deeply. 

“God,” he places sloppy kisses all over your shoulder, “feels amazing, you okay love?” 

You nod, rocking your hips ever so slightly. “Please Steven, I want…” “Want to come?” 

You nod again.

He chuckles, “You’d let me do anything wouldn’t you, if I asked?” 

“Yes.” You whine. 

“Fuck.” He hisses as he begins to pump the dildo in and out of your slowly, revelling in how it drags along both of you, how you pulse and gasp and rock in his arms. 

“Next time we’ll get one inside me too yeah? Get us both really full.” He groans, “Would you like that?” He bites his lip, unable to stop the words from falling out now he’s started. “One of those remote vibrating ones and you can hold the controls and, fuck, be in charge of that while I fuck you and-”

You moan loudly, your limbs shaking and tensing as he presses the dildo deliciously against your walls, making you scream.

“Oh love, that’s it, that’s it, come on, give it to me, let me have it.” He groans, rocking you faster.

You grab hold of any part of him you can reach, whining at spasming as pleasure washes over you, going lightheaded as he pants and whispers in your ear. 

You feel him tense and Steven swears as he follows you, pumping you full of hot thick cum. 

He nuzzles into your neck as he slowly eases the dildo, and himself, out of you, comforting you as you whine softly, and helps you onto your back on the mattress. 

He softly kisses your lips, grinning when you wrap your arms around his neck and he settles between your legs.

Gently, he takes his semi hard cock in hand and delicately begins to ease it back inside of you. 

You moan softly, the sensation not uncomfortable but unexpected. Yet, in spite of that, you still crave it.

“Shh love, it’s okay, you’ll let me, if I ask nicely, won’t you?” 

Thank you for reading!

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