Steven Grant X You - Tumblr Posts

You Look Like a Museum to Me

Click here for my masterlist.

Click here to add yourself to my taglist.

Prompts - “You’re extra beautiful when you talk about this. You know you’re good at it, and that knowledge lights you up.”

Notes -  I know absolutely nothing about ancient Egypt so if anything is wrong, just go with it.

Steven fiddled with the ends of his sleeves nervously as he glanced in the mirror, seeing nothing but Marc’s slightly amused eyes looking back at him as he watched him panic over his first date with you. Despite being reassured a dozen times that he had this, that you liked him just as much as he liked you, despite all of Marc’s comforting words he still couldn’t get rid of the pit of nerves in his stomach.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Marc told him again, not even annoyed at the amount of assurance Steven needed today. It was nice watching Steven with you, watching how flustered he got and feeling how happy he was. “You’re taking her to the museum, right, giving her a tour?”

“Yeah,” Steven sighed, nodding as he wiped his slightly sweaty palms against his pants, “Yeah, she wanted a tour of the museum.”

“Then you’re gonna be just fine, you know everything about that stuff, you’ll blow her away.” Marc smiled as Steven laughed nervously before checking his appearance one last time and grabbing his bag, one more deep breath and he turned away from the mirror.

After a quick goodbye to the fish Steven was heading out the door, just about managing to catch the bus and making his way to the museum. Marc was right, if there was one thing he knew it was this, how many times had he dreamed about giving this tour and now he got to give it to you.  

Asking you on a date had been nerve wracking, even after everything that had happened lately somehow asking a pretty woman out on a date felt scarier than any of it. Marc had laughed, not in a mean way, more in a fondly exasperated way and encouraged Steven to ask you out, went back and forth with him all night with different ways to ask you and different dates that were ideal for the first one. 

“I know this stuff, I’ve got this.” Steven muttered to himself as he got off the bus, not even noticing the side glances he received from strangers. Marc did and it showed when Steven glanced in a window to see Marc standing with a fond smile.

“I’m right with you buddy.” Marc said as Steven walked up the steps of the museum and found that the words eased his nerves a bit and he took one final deep breath to steady himself before he walked through the doors. 

He spotted you straight away, of course he did, even with the children darting back and forth, the tourists looking every which way, the school group that stood huddled together, somehow Steven missed all of them but managed to see you. You were focused on one of the figures, reading the small plaque in front of it as Steven stood still in his spot, more than content to watch you for a moment. 

“She really is stunning.” Steven mumbled, whether to himself or to Marc, even he didn’t know. His eyes were still locked on you as Marc rolled his eyes fondly from his place in the reflection of a glass barrier before he took control for half a second in order to get Steven moving. 

Steven stumbled slightly but managed to catch himself, shooting Marc a glare but Marc just smiled and gestured for him to make his way over to you. 

He took a steadying breath, feeling both more nervous and at ease at seeing you before he finally did as Marc advised and forced his feet forward until he was looking over your shoulder and humming as he saw just what you were looking at. 

“Ah,” Steven said from behind you, causing you to jump slightly before you turned around, a smile spreading across your face and eyes lighting up as you met Steven’s gaze, “that there is Set. Bit of a knob actually.”

“Oh really?” You asked, not even attempting to stop the laugh that escaped you, completely unaware of how the sound momentarily stunned Steven before he shook himself and swore he would do whatever he had to to keep hearing you laugh.

“Oh yeah, completely mental really, I mean what other word is there for dismembering your own brother and having a fish eat his-“ here Steven cut himself off, already berating himself over his words but then he saw your smile widen and your whole body turned to him, giving him all your attention, your head tilting as he paused. 

He could see Marc in the reflection behind you, the reassuring smile on his face telling Steven that he hadn’t messed up, he could do this. 

“Probably best to start a story from the beginning though, eh?” He continued, encouraged by your nod, smile having yet to fade and attention still solely on him. “Well, Set used to be a hero, people called upon him for all sorts, a protector in life and death but what really made him a hero was saving Ra, the sun god, meant he had made sure the sun would continue to rise. But by the time of the New Kingdom, Set gets a bit jealous, now I don’t know about you but when I’m jealous I don’t go around murdering people but maybe that’s just me.” 

Steven paused as you laughed again, trying to commit the sound to memory before he continued.

“See Set was jealous of Osiris, jealous of the fact big brother was the ruler of Egypt and he wasn’t. It wasn’t just Set killing his brother that was odd though it was the way he did it, instead of, you know, just murdering him quietly Set throws this party, one of those fancy ones, and he brings this casket out after dinner.” The entire time Steven speaks his gaze is locked on you, watching you nod along with his words, expression shifting from smiles to questioning looks and Steven can see the genuine interest on your face, can see that you’re actually listening to what he has to say, listening to him ramble about something he liked. 

Steven couldn’t remember a time when somebody had just let him speak, let him share his interest with them without interrupting him or making a disparaging comment before brushing him off. He had known you were something special from the moment he had met you, hell actually from the moment his eyes had locked onto you but this, this moment right here, just confirmed to him how amazing you truly were, a one of a kind girl he had somehow been lucky enough to meet.

“A casket?” You asked, Steven chuckling at the face you pulled, eyebrows drawn together, nose scrunched up and lips twisting into a grimace.

“Weird right? Well after he brought out the casket he had each of the guests attempt to climb into it but none of them could fit. When it comes to Osiris’ turn, well guess who fits in the casket? Osiris does and when he does get in, that's when Set comes along and slams the casket shut, poor bugger was trapped in the thing all the while Set threw him in the Nile.”

You were more than content to continue standing in front of the glass protected figure listening to Steven as he told you the story about the god it was based on, happy to watch as his hands gestured around as he spoke, observe how his entire face seemed to light up as he got to teach you something, watch Steven be at his most confident as his knowledge seemed to give him a boost. It wasn’t a drastic change, it was only noticeable if you were paying attention, he still fiddled with the edges of his sleeves, still tugged on the strap of his bag but he seemed lighter, completely in his element as he spoke without fumbling over his words and it was a side that you guessed many people didn’t get to see, whether it was due to Steven not showing it or other people not giving him a chance to.

When Steven finished talking he saw your face soften, it was almost of fond expression with something else he couldn’t quite place and it made him smile sheepishly at you, an apology on the tip of his tongue, almost on instinct, for rambling on. He nearly had the words out when you interrupted him and your words almost made his heart ache with happiness.

“So what happened to the brother, did he just die?” You asked him. 

Steven felt his smile widen, not only had you put up with his rambling but here you were asking questions, wanting him to keep talking. It was such a rare thing that all he could do was smile at you, completely and utterly captivated by you. 

He really hoped he wouldn’t mess this up, he was already so gone for you and it was only your first date. Steven hoped to any god that might be listening that there were many more dates to come.

“Well the casket floats down the Nile for a bit before it washes up on the shore and this tree, the tamarisk tree, sprouted up to protect it. The tree was so beautiful that the King and Queen of Byblos cut it down and had it brought to their court. Osiris had a wife, Isis and she tracked Osiris down and managed to get his corpse back, all the while Set’s in Egypt and ruling as King, not a good one mind you, he switched between storms and droughts because he was the god of not only war and chaos but also storms, the people ended up turning on each other just to survive, told you he was a knob.” Steven said, pausing to let your laugh wash over him as he moved his hands to play with the ends of his sleeves once he realised he had been gesturing wildly between the two of you.

“Sounds like he was a bit more than a knob.” You laughed and Steven couldn’t stop the bright smile that spread across his face. “So what, Set just kills his brother and gets to rule Egypt? And Isis managed to retrieve his corpse?”

“Yeah, she gets his corpse back and hides the two of them again in some swampy marshes of the Nile. Once they were back though Set found out and started tracking them down. Isis knew of some herbs that could bring Osiris back and she asks for help to watch the body. When Isis is out though Set comes along and tricks Nephthys into telling him where Osiris was hidden, after he found him he went about hacking his body to pieces,” Steven paused, watching as you scrunched your face in disgust again, hoping he hadn’t put you off but you were still looking at him expectantly so he carried on, not giving himself another moment to doubt himself, “Once Isis was back she and Nephthys went about collecting all the body parts to put him back together but his, um, well a certain part of him was missing, well actually it was eaten by a fish which, you know, bit gross.”

“It was actually eaten by a fish?” You couldn’t help but laugh as Steven nodded, a bright smile still firmly in place as he chuckled along with you. “So that was it then for Osiris?”

“Well since he was incomplete he couldn’t return to the land of the living and instead became the lord of the underworld and god of the death and I can tell you that Osiris doesn’t mess around when he’s judging where you’ll spend eternity.” Steven told you, his tone filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite put your finger on and his eyes shifted just over your shoulder to look at the statue of Set. 

Steven's eyes shifted to look at the reflection in the glass casing, distracted by Marc’s amused snort that you obviously couldn’t hear, his own smile spreading into a grin as he focused on you again.

“You say that like you have experience.” You laughed and watched him laugh along with you. “So what happens to Set then, he’s the King, right?”

“For a bit, yeah but Osiris actually had a son, Horus, who battled Uncle Set for control of Egypt. The two of them went before the Great Ennead and were given contests to battle against each other. Turns out Set wasn’t very good, actually he was complete rubbish and lost every battle against Horus.” Steven explained and felt his chest warm as you interrupted him but in a way that was so different to how others usually did. 

“So Horus became King then?” You asked, unable to stop yourself. 

In all honesty Ancient Egypt wasn’t something you sought out yourself, you appreciated it and it was interesting but you had never been too eager to seek knowledge out about it yourself. However when Steven was the one talking about it, telling you the stories that matched the figures you were captivated, completely hooked on his every word, and wanted him to tell you everything he knew.

“You’d think wouldn’t you but no, actually, Set reigned for over eighty years because Ra refused to vote that Horus should be the King and because the decision had to be unanimous Set was free to be King.” Steven told you, physically feeling himself fall for you more and more as the seconds passed as you frowned, mirroring his expression when he had first read the information from one of his many books.

It wasn’t until he looked behind you that he saw a group of school children making their way from one of the figures over to the one the two of you had been blocking for a while now. You looked questioningly over at him before following his gaze, eyes widening as the teacher gave the two of you an annoyed look causing you to bite your lip and look over at Steven, a grin breaking out across both your faces as he took your arm in his and pulled you along, the two of you laughing as you leaned into each other.

Making your way further into the museum, laughs fading off as conversation filled its place Steven found himself glancing down, your arms still tangled together despite the fact that they didn’t need to be. Steven was thankful you hadn’t let go of him, he was more than happy to stay attached to you the whole way around the museum.

“Steven?” You prompted softly when the man had remained silent at your question, his gaze on you but clearly having missed you speaking.

“Sorry love,” he apologised softly and you couldn’t ignore how your stomach seemed to fill with butterflies at the word love. It sounded beautiful coming from Steven, sounded genuine and not meant an attempt to flirt that would ultimately leave you uncomfortably trying to get away from somebody. 

You really wanted him to call you love again. 

The two of you made your way around the museum, Steven rambling on happily about each of the different things that were on display but he found himself stumbling over his words at some points, your entire attention focused only on him, expression so open and he could happily stare at you all day. When he watched you mouthing along as you read from the plaques attached to the displays or when your eyebrows knitted together when you didn’t quite understand something and you would turn to look up at him questioningly, it was only with Marc’s helpful calling of his name and quick repeating of the question that he was able to stammer out an answer, memorising the way your face light up as you listened to him.

He had never made somebody smile like that, like the way you were smiling, he had never had that kind of smile directed at him and he most certainly had never been the reason somebody’s whole face seemed to light up or made somebody laugh in the way he made you, a genuine laugh that made his stomach flutter and took his breath away.

Even as he was surrounded by some of the most beautiful pieces and ancient displays that would usually occupy his attention for hours, they all seemed dull when compared to you standing next to them. Steven found he would much rather look at you, learn everything there was to know about you, than anything that was in this building.

You were as equally as distracted as Steven was, completely captivated by everything about the man, by the way he spoke, even when he did stammer over his words as he was pulled from his thoughts, how his arm felt still tangled with yours, how his eyes seemed to light up every time he looked at you. You had never felt so much for one person so fast, never realised how quickly you could fall for somebody and yet here stood Steven Grant seemingly on a mission to see how fast he could make you fall for him. 

The date lasted hours and yet it still didn’t feel long enough when the two of you stood just past the museum steps, reluctant to pull away from each other but having no other choice as you were getting ready to say goodbye, heading home in opposite directions.

“Thank you for today, I had a bloody brilliant time.” Steven told you, a smile on his face as you laughed softly, nodding in agreement with his words.

“So did I,” You said honestly, “I hope we can do it again?” 

“Yeah, yeah I’d love to, absolutely.” Steven’s smile spread into a grin and you couldn’t stop yourself from mirroring the expression, face almost aching from how much the man made you smile.

“Good, I can’t wait.” As you spoke you looked up, feeling rain begin to fall from the grey clouds above and looked at Steven. “We should probably get home before it really starts.”

“Good idea,” he laughed, seeming to hesitate for a moment before he nodded and stepped closer to you, giving you time to pull away. When you stayed as you were Steven smiled before leaning forward but instead of going for the kiss like you thought he would, he instead placed the softest kiss to your cheek before pulling away with a shy smile. “Let me know you got home safe, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, somehow the soft kiss to the cheek flustered you more than you thought a normal kiss would but thankfully Steven seemed as flustered as you. “I’ll see you soon.”

“God, I hope so.” You heard Steven mumble to himself after you had turned away and taken a few steps away from him, a soft laugh leaving you, fully agreeing with the sentiment and making your way home with a smile on your face even as the rain fell down on you, completely ready for your next date with Steven Grant. 

___________

Steven Grant Taglist -

@bxmaaa, @captainamericasdaughter15, @daisyfreshwhore, @myguiltypleasures21, @polyglot-noodle

August

Click here for my masterlist.

Click here to add yourself to my taglist.

Prompts - 'It is August. My life is going to change. I can feel it.'

The change from July to August passed as easily as it always did, the weather was still warm, birds could still be heard chirping away and yet you couldn’t help but feel off. More than half the year had passed and it had passed without anything remarkable happening. The years had all seemed to pass the same lately and no matter how much you promised yourself this one would be different it seemed it was destined to be anything but. 

Of course just when you give up hope of something great, something remarkable happening, is often when your life changes most. 

It was a regular Monday and you were getting by on nothing but a few hours of sleep as you walked the busy streets with a hot to-go cup warming your hands, mind not completely awake just yet and not at all focused on your surroundings. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when you were suddenly jolted, nearly falling to the floor before a pair of arms caught you. 

“Oh god, I am so sorry, are you alright, love?” You looked up, eyes widening at the man holding you in the middle of a busy London street.

His voice was soft and it washed over you, calming your racing heart from both being crashed into and from the man himself, beautiful and captivating and staring at you. 

Of course, you hadn’t answered him and with a mental slap to your face you cleared your throat and answered the question, straightening up as you did, smiling as the man’s arms didn’t leave you. 

“I’m alright, thank you. Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You apologised, smiling softly at him, and watching as he mirrored the expression back, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at how beautiful the smile made him look. 

“Oh no, it’s my fault really, completely in a world of my own.” He chuckled and you couldn’t help but grin at him. “Oh bugger, your drink! Let me buy you a new one, if you’re not in a rush of course.” 

You weren’t in a rush thankfully but even if you had been you thought you would have cancelled any plans then and there if it meant being able to spend a single second longer in the man’s presence. 

“Thank you, you don’t have to though.” You told him but he just shook his head, cutting you off before you could say anything else. 

“No, no really I insist.” He told you, finally drawing his arms back with a sheepish smile and you felt the loss immediately but didn’t dwell on it, instead your smile widened as you nodded. 

“Then I’d like that, thank you.” You said and his whole face seemed to brighten up as he shifted his bag on his shoulder before nodding and gesturing for you to follow him. 

What were you doing, this was completely unlike you to go off with a man you’d just met, one that was a complete stranger and yet it didn’t seem like he was. Something about this man seemed to put you at ease, radiating safety and warmth and you were drawn to him immediately. 

You’d been saying you wanted things to change, months passed in the same old cycle and this was a welcome break in the chain. Perhaps August was the month for it. 

“I’m Steven by the way, nice to meet you.” Steven, it suited him nicely. 

“I’m Y/N,” you told him, sending him a smile back, completely unable to help the way it spread across your face as you looked at him. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

The two of you walked side by side, looking to the outside world like a pair of old friends or lovers out for a morning stroll. Steven, for all that he stammered and fidgeted, was surprisingly confident in carrying the conversation, rambling on about whatever came to his mind, asking questions about you, where you were from, what you were interested in and he responded in kind and by the time the two of you came to the coffee shop neither of you wanted to leave the others company. 

“If you’re, well, if maybe by some chance you weren’t busy would you perhaps like to have a drink?” Steven managed to ask and you felt your heart beat faster and your shoulders relax. “With me I mean.”

“Yeah,” you told him with a soft, almost fond breath of laughter as you nodded, watching as he grinned at you, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

As the two of you ordered Steven felt the ball of nervous energy in the pit of his stomach grow, completely outside of his comfort zone and yet something about you put him at ease and made it easy for him to take a breath and relax. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you were seated with drinks in front of you, Steven’s fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the sides of his cup. Somehow this felt more intimate than walking the streets of London, sitting across from each other under the low light of some hole in the wall coffee shop and yet, despite the nerves you both felt, neither of you could think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

“So where were you off to before we crashed into each other?” Steven asked with a grin and you felt yourself relax even more, glad for the easy conversation and the chance to memorise his features some more.

“I was heading to the museum, I have an interview and wanted to get there earlier to make sure I knew where to go.” You told him, watching as he seemed to perk up at the mention of the museum before his eyes widened.

“Oh god, you have an interview and I pulled you away from it. You really didn’t have to-” Steven began but you just chuckled softly, shaking your head, and cutting him off.

“It’s fine, really, my interview isn’t until after lunch, trust me I’ve got plenty of time and I’d rather be here with you than nervously pacing around the museum.” You laughed and watched as he relaxed, a soft laugh escaping him.

“You have an interview though, that’s great!” Steven beamed at you and somehow this stranger opposite you seemed just as excited as you were at the offer and you were glad to have somebody around who shared your excitement. “That’s really amazing, honestly you’ll love it, I worked there for a bit but it didn’t work out.” He told you, his nose scrunching up slightly as he shook his head and you couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Hopefully I’ll love it if I even get the job. What happened with you?” You asked and watched as he turned to look out of the window for a second before shaking his head and turning his attention back to you.

“Oh you know, had a bit of a nasty run in with a jackal and caused some property damage.” He told you, tone so serious that it drew a laugh from you and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing along with you.

“And yet somehow not the worst reason I’ve heard for being fired.” You chuckled before taking a sip from your drink.

Conversation flowed easily from there, somehow you felt like you had known this man, this stranger, for your whole life, like the two of you were long-time friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while and were simply spending time catching up on everything that had happened since you’d last seen one another, except in this case it was catching up on each other’s entire lives.

It was nice talking to Steven, nice to have somebody around who shared the same interests as you, who seemed genuinely interested and listened to every word that left your mouth. Something about Steven made you feel light, feel a happiness that you hadn’t known you had been missing. 

The man was a simply just a stranger who had happened to bump into you and yet here the two of you were, turning an accident into something that would change your futures, would steer you two down a different path, one where your lives became so entwined it would be impossible to remember a time before knowing one another.

You smiled as you listened to him talk, couldn’t help but silently thank the universe or whatever god what listening for sending Steven Grant your way, for having him knock into you and for having you leave for your interview with enough time to spare for meeting Steven. 

Mid-sentence Steven cut himself off, glancing towards the window next to the two of you again causing you to raise your eyebrows and follow his gaze but saw nothing so instead you turned back to him just in time to see his eyes widen as he looked back to you.

“It’s nearly time for your interview!” He told you and your eyes widened as you pulled your phone out, frowning down at the time, easily getting lost in the conversation with Steven and not realising how much time had passed before debating just how much your interview was worth if it meant leaving Steven’s side. 

If you hadn’t been waiting for this job to come around for months you might have genuinely left the interview but you knew you had to leave no matter how much you wanted to stay. Instead you looked back up at Steven with an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry,” You started but Steven cut you off with a smile, shaking his head fondly.

“None of that now, you have to get to your interview. I know you’re gonna smash it.” He told you and again you were almost taken back by how much this stranger seemed to be rooting for your success.

“It was really nice to meet you, Steven.” You hated that you had to leave, wanted nothing more than to sit in this cosy little coffee shop and just get to know everything about the man in front of you. Instead you started to stand but Steven stopped you before you could.

“I, oh god, don’t bugger this up now mate,” you smiled as he spoke to himself, watching in amusement as he shook his head before glancing up at you with a sheepish smile, “I don’t usually, well when I say usually I do mean ever, but anyway I don’t do this but you are really beautiful, I mean look at you, you’re stunning and I would hate myself if I didn’t ask you if I could see you again.” Steven rambled his way through his attempt to ask you out all the while your smile grew wider.

“I’d really like that.” You said, pulling your phone out again before handing it to him, “here give me your number.”

The two of you swapped phone numbers before walking out of the coffee shop together, each heading in opposite directions and pausing to say a goodbye.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Steven murmured, his eyes widening like he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud causing you to laugh softly, “I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I’m glad we met too.” You told him honestly, somehow feeling more of a connection with a man you’d known for less than two hours than with anyone else you had met in a really long time.

“I should let you go then I suppose, big interview and all that.” He smiled and you couldn’t help but mirror the expression. “Good luck, Y/N, not that you need it, they’d be stupid not to hire you.”

“Thank you,” You laughed, knowing you really had to leave now or you’d be late. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

“I should hope so, I think I’d rather like to have you in my life.” Steven said and the words were so honest that you couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face, feeling a soft blush on your cheeks as you ducked your head before glancing back up at him.

The two of you finally said your goodbyes, walking away with matching wide smiles before turning back to sneak one final glance at each other. It seemed after weeks, after months of pleading with the world it had finally given you an answer to your questions, a cure to the lonely, repetitive days in the form of Steven Grant. You could feel the shift when you were with him, a moment that you hoped and pleaded would be life changing, echoing Steven’s sentiment and wanting nothing more than to have him in your life.

You really hoped August was the month to change your life and really hoped Steven Grant would become a constant presence at your side. 

__________________

Steven Grant Taglist -

@bxmaaa, @captainamericasdaughter15, @daisyfreshwhore, @myguiltypleasures211, @polyglot-noodle, @alexxavicry

lust - Steven Grant

Lust - excessive desire for sexual pleasure

part of my Seven Sins series

similar to my Nathan Bateman hc, I think Steven takes a little warming up for physical affection to be a-ok with him

but once the dam is broken....

cw: quickies, messy sex, praise, 18+, afab reader

You cried out, elbow digging uncomfortably into the shelving you were currently crammed up against. Steven swallowed the sound greedily, sucking and moaning at your lips while he fumbled to pull down your waistband. Books slid onto the floor as your feet scrambled for purchase through his voracious attack.

Steven had no patience for this. Grunting dissent, he absolved to haul your hips over his and jam his fingers up as far as they would go. He clapped a hand over your mouth as you shrieked and bucked, howling from the sudden stimulation.

"Shhh, shh, it's alright," he soothed around a moan, "it'll be nice real soon, love, promise."

His pace slowed considerably once he felt the familiar warmth of your walls thrumming around his thick knuckles. You huffed and whined around his hand, trying to hump yourself harder. The rubbing on his callouses on your clit had stars blinking in your vision.

Steven watched, awestruck, as you matched his pace, rosy cheeks and pouty lips nuzzling against his. He pushed harder, cock throbbing at the feeling of your petal-soft warmth flexing on his digits.

This was...a common routine. He'd ambush you whenever possible, rucking up your shirt and rutting rabidly into you, collapsing into a sweaty heap once you'd both finished. Only to do it again an hour or two later. Most days you stumbled around sore to hell and pleading for a break.

Oddly, he was the only one of the three boys who preferred rabbit-like fuckings throughout the day. The stamina was impressive, but you were tired of spilling coffee from how urgently he'd grab at your waist.

From the moment you could feel his hands tickle your sides under your shirt, you knew it would be a long day.

After a month of constant quickies, you'd set a firm limit; no more than two a week. Which was generous, considering Steven's idea of a quickie wasn't very quick. He'd been needy all week, practically crawling in your lap for kisses and hugs.

He'd done a solid effort of waiting. For three days.

He was on you the moment you walked through the door, hands roaming and eyes silently begging for relief. You couldn't say no; by that point your pants were around your ankles. He'd sucked your clit into his mouth without a second thought.

Currently, he was staving off a boner he'd had for the last hour listening to you rant about your coworker. Steven gritted his teeth and crooked his fingers, urging you forward to pleasure. You heaved and sobbed, trying to overcome the sudden wave of warmth seeping from your cunt.

His hands were so perfect you wanted to cry. They stroked just right, hitting the right places not too hard or too fast, even in the rushed state. You moaned out praise, grinding onto his thumb. Steven nipped giddily at your ear, basking in the attention.

"Please," he rasped, pinching your clit. You sobbed into his shoulder, back thumping against the bookcase. He did it again, firmer. A final stab of golden heat into your core and you were gone. Cool wetness gushed onto his hand, pooling around his palm and dripping onto his shoes.

Steven hunched to catch your quaking legs, clumsily cramming his fingers into his mouth. He sucked and whined, humping into your hip. His cock was so hard it hurt; rubbing enthusiastically against his jeans. You could sense his urgency even in your blissed out state, and helped pull his length free. He gave an appreciative sigh as you slipped onto him, shuddering from relief.

"Thank you," he cried, and you petted his hair.

"Such g-good manners," you said sweetly, hissing as he bumped up the pace. Warmth enveloped your breasts when he latched onto your chest. His grip would leave bruises with how hard his was ramming you up and down on his cock, each thrust sending a licking heat up your legs.

You knew you weren't going to crest the peak again; this was all for him. As he furiously chased his high, length stroking hard and fast against your messy folds, you pressed as many sloppy kisses as you could to his face and neck. There was a ticklish spot beneath his ear, one that brought him to his knees.

You exploited this power greedily, sucking and nipping like your life depended on it. Steven howled and sank to the floor, turning your onto your stomach and slamming his hips forward. Your lungs tightened, making your choke. The cold floor stung your aching nipples and sent shivers across your bare stomach. He mumbled apologies, plastering himself on top of you to continue.

He was too excited. His thrusts too sharp, too hard. He was shoving the both of you up against the wall, a long, continuous moan tearing from his throat. oh oh oh ohohohokayokay oh-

Steven stuttered and whined, arching his back to feel your folds suck him deep, the gummy tension twisting perfectly around his sensitive length.

"'S great, love, really, oh it's so-"

You cut him off with a soothing hush, redirecting his focus to finishing. Steven thrust once, twice before he was through, tremors rocking his core as he pumped sticky seed all over you. He'd slipped out in his vigor, making a mess of the floor. His plush bottom lip was bleeding from the how forcefully he was trying to restrict the sounds.

He calmed with a few stuttered moans, still sucking your essence off his fingers. It pleased you to see him like this - finally taking what he wanted. You could work on boundaries later; his confidence was shining.

While you struggled to pull your slacks back up, he murmured an apology and reached out to help. You sat back and breathed, wiping the sweat from your cheeks.

"No- pull them up, Steven-" you scolded, realizing your pants were further towards your ankles than where they'd started. He giggled, playfully evading your defensive maneuvers. You tried to tug him away by the curls, but he got his wish, licking happily at your petals.

"Just cleaning up," he mumbled into your cunt, kissing your pearl delicately. You flinched, whimpering. He clicked his tongue, rubbing circles into your thighs. "I'll be gentle, don't worry."

The soft, warm strength of his tongue brought a smaller orgasm to light. It wasn't shattering - just a nice, lulling finale to the frantic coupling of earlier. You let the tide sweep you under, melting fully into his embrace. Steven smacked his lips, finally coming up for air.

He looked to you for assurance and you smiled, kissing his cheek. His brown eyes sparkled at you from the floor. Still coming down from the intense session, you stroked his cheek, hands shaking. Tomorrow you'd be wonderfully sore, but he could make up for it later.

tags! comment to join xox

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma @iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world @ael-xander

Broken Pieces - Steven Grant x Reader

You didn't like how Steven talked about himself.

warnings : none (maybe a little angst?? and also self deprecating themes ig) but mostly fluff

word count : 2.01k

author's note : i wrote this randomly in like one sitting at 3am with no plan whatsoever,, it's my first x reader fic please be indulgent,, (also i didn't even proof read it lol so enjoy my silly little spelling mistakes) i just wanted to add on to the sea of soft!steven x reader cause im a sucker for it

<>

"You alright, love ?" Steven asked you, brows furrowed in nothing but curiosity and concern, noticing you blankly staring at him as he went on and on, venting to you about his long day working at the museum - among other things.

"Uh, yeah" you answered after a little while, your mind having wandered to the depths of itself. you gave him an apologetic smile before tightening your grip on his big hands and intertwining your fingers together. "I'm alright, Steven. I'm so sorry, my mind was… elsewhere." You looked at him with mostly care and worry behind your eyes.

"What's going on ?" He slightly shifted from his previous laid back position against the backrest of the couch and was now sat up straight in front of you. Your naked legs were tangled together, covered byt the warm and fuzzy blanket Steven bought for the two of you. He gently put his hand on your thigh underneath it as his thumb drew circles on your soft skin.. He hoped that this gesture would soothe out the pain you seemed to be enduring.

You opened your mouth, only to close it again after a few seconds, leaving the silence between the two of you grow ever so daunting. What were you gonna say to him ?

While he was talking about his day, about how bored he was working at the gift-shop counter and how unnerving his boss' presence was, constantly lingering around to remind him not to "chat the visitors' ears off" despite him really wanting to, you felt a sudden sort-of-sadness washing over you. You couldn't really explain it but you felt a heaviness in your chest, weighing in a bit more with every word he spoke.

Hearing your boyfriend talk about his job like that made you sad. Hearing him talk about how he was being treated in such a casual, detached, used-to-it manner made you angry. You were angry at Donna, his boss, for giving him hell when he deserved paradise and even more. You were angry at him, for not standing up for himself and letting people walk all over him. And you were angry at yourself, for caring so much that it made you sick to your stomach.

When you met Steven, the second you laid your eyes on him, especially on his brown curls, exhausted eyes and boyish grin, as cliché as it was, you felt a million butterflies fly around in your empty stomach. You'd walked up to him, barely managing to conceal the flustered look on your face and asked him about the items he sold. You wanted to start a conversation with him and that seemed like the easiest approach. He started talking to you about the pyramid shaped key rings and about the plushies of the different gods, taking one in his big calloused hand and setting it on the counter. It was a plushie of the goddess Taweret, Egyptian deity of fertility. Soon enough, he started rambling about the origin of her cult and how exactly people worshipped her in the ancient days. While he was talking, you couldn’t help but notice how his face, previously dull and haunted by boredom, was now lit up and joyful. You could practically hear the smile in his clear, soothing voice.

Realising mid-sentence that he completely went off-track, he scolded himself mentally, already picturing Donna lecture him about how "he's not the bloody tour guide" and should stop giving people unwanted remarks about ancient egypt. He then profusely apologised to you. His eyes were looking down at the plushie that he grabbed from the table where he'd put it while his lips curved into a defeated half smile. You were amazed at how expressive that man was. You could read his face like an open book, every emotion he felt being completely obvious. Not that you were much of a stoic yourself.

"That's so interesting," You slightly squinted your eyes to read his name on the tag that you just noticed he was wearing "Steven. Could you tell me more ?"

He looked up to you, eyes open wide and mouth faintly agape. He wasn't annoying you with all these useless facts ? And even more unbelievable, you wanted to hear more ? As he blinked slowly, he let out a shaky breath that made your heart melt. He was adorable. As he continued talking, giving you little facts about the goddess, the life in egypt and whatnot, you found the way his hands caressed and handled the plushie endearing. Everything you'd seen about him so far was endearing. To the way his pretty brown eyes wandered about, shifting between timidly looking into yours and at the table, to the way he tripped over his own words, as if he was hurrying to get to the next one already. After a few minutes spent with him excitedly talking and you scrutinising his face, he stopped talking and finally made solid eye contact. "I assume you're interested in egyptology, yeah ?" His eyebrows went up an so did his voice.

"Me ? I guess you could say that yes." A little laugh escaped your pink covered lips as you tucked a piece of stray hair behind your ear. You hoped your flirtatious intentions were obvious enough for him to pick up on it.

"Stevie ?" A feminine voice called from not so far away. You both turned your heads in the direction it was coming from, you with curiosity and him with apprehension. A blond haired middle aged woman was looking at him with a severe expression on her face and her arms crossed over her chest. She looked somewhat angry, or disappointed, or both.

"Shit," You heard the man in front of you say when he turned his head back to his gift-shop counter and accesorily to gift-shopist reality. He seemed to "have forgotten that he was only here to sell useless crap" as his colleagues so well put it. "I'm so sorry miss, but I'm actually not allowed to erm… chat during my work hours." He said, the words leaving his mouth with a truly bitter taste. He enjoyed this little talk the two of you just had and the look of pure interest in your face struck him. He always tried to share his extensive knowledge of all things in regards to ancient Egypt to pretty much everyone stopping by but he wasn’t used to people actually listening and being interested.

Your hands flew to his, gently taking the plushie he was holding and inadvertently brushing against his fingertips as you did so. "It's alright, it's my fault, I distracted you from your job. I'm gonna buy that, yeah ?" You smiled at him, truly sorry for monopolising his attention for so long.

"Great, awesome, good." He said, a huge smile stretching his pink lips, relieved that this was probably gonna save him from being torn apart by his boss later on. After you paid for it, you looked at him earnestly. "It was really nice meeting you, Steven." You finally said before walking away, not without waving him a little goodbye with your free hand. He waved back at you, still amazed by what just happened. It took him time to fully register the way you looked genuinely fascinated by what he had to say, the way your fingers touched his for a split second when you took the plushie from his hands, and the way you said his name twice. It rolled out of your lips so naturally and casually that he felt a little sting in his chest. This feels nice, he thought, unfamiliar but nice.

Ever since that day, you kept coming back to the museum and eventually, you got yourself a nice little collection of plushies since you made sure to never leave without buying one. Soon enough, he asked you for your name, then you asked him out on a date, then you became a couple.

The more things you discovered of him along the way, the more you liked him and the more you wanted to know. He was devastatingly beautiful, funny, smart, passionate, gentle, sweet, caring, and so much more. You learned all of that through the first couple of dates you've been on together and to which he made sure to bring you flowers. You could see all of that in him from the very beginning but the horrifying realisation that it was absolutely not reciprocated from his part hit you like a truck. He was a lovely and wonderful man, why couldn't he see that ?

Steven deserved the world and all the best things it had to offer. The words quit your mind as you tried to piece together the things you wanted to communicate to him. You couldn't quite find the right words or phrases to tell him how sad it made you that he didn't see himself the way you did. You wished you could tell him that you wanted to shower him with all the love pouring from your heart. You wish you could tell him how all you wanted was for him to know his beauty and his worth. Your eyes started to water as he was still looking at you, patiently waiting for you to answer. You had a dreadful week so your sensibility was heightened and your emotions were a lot stronger. You didn't have the energy - and honestly didn't really feel the need - to fight the tears running down your cheeks.

"Do you know that I love you, Steven ?. I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much that I don't know what to do with these feelings." Your voice broke with the last words you spoke. You lowered your head on his shoulder and started full-on properly crying. Before he could think about it, his arms flew over your back to take you into his warm embrace, hugging you tighter than usual. His eyes were still awestruck, due to the shock of seeing you burst into tears like that. "Shh, It's okay, babe. I'm here and I love you too." he kept saying while stroking your hair to reassure her, in the way he knew it did. He still couldn't really believe it. You were crying because of him ? Because you loved him ?

Wow. Was all he could think of. While he was heartbroken to see you cry, part of him was secretly happy because you said you loved him. You said you loved him so much that it was distressing. Wow.

Oftentimes, he wondered why you even wanted to be with him. Surely someone so gorgeous and lovely as you could date someone much better, he thought. Everytime he did, he reminded himself that he was a broken piece of man. An empty shell. He truly believed that you would be much happier with someone else - anyone else - than with his depressing, dull and odd person. You deserved someone who could care for you, protect you and make you feel appreciated everyday, not someone who would disappear for days at a time with no previous warning to fight for an Egyptian god. Nevertheless, you seemed to think that he met all the criterias. Seeing you so helpless and distressed because of your love for him, made him feel all kinds of warm inside. You loved him.

And he loved you. He loved you so very much that he didn't think he would be able to express it to its fullest extent in his lifetime. You were the light that pulled him out of his boring day routine and dark lonely nights. You were the only one that listened to what he had to say, that cared and appreciated him no matter how insufferable and deranged he thought he was. You gave him life everyday just by being around him. You were his solace of peace and quiet when all he could feel was the harshness of the world. The only moments where he felt like he was truly alive were the ones he spent watching you, touching you, kissing you. You were the best thing that could have happened to him.

Cupping your face in his hands, he slowly lifted your head so that your tear filled eyes faced his. "I. Love. You." He punctuated every word with gentle kisses on your forehead, on your cheek, and on your lips.

One thing was sure, you loved this man with everything you had and also promised yourself that you'd help him walk out the path of despair he was engaged in and into the true light of happiness, holding, kissing, loving him and his broken pieces every step along the way.

Steven Grant being in love with archeologist! reader

Masterlist

POV: You're camera roll if you're dating Steven Grant

The London Daily Ride

09:33

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". Every day, a new opportunity to discover the lovely little quirks of a stranger; becoming more and more familiar. That is, until someone else shows up. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (can be triggering), Touched-starved!Steven, sex (future chapters). # Word Count: 1.3k [read me on AO3] · [next chapter]

There is comfort in being alone.

A bliss in enjoying yourself endlessly with no prying eyes. No expectations from anyone.

Yet, there’s a fine line between solitude and isolation. Withdrawal. Sometimes, you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, and occasionally, you would slip. Going to bed later than you should, burying yourself in one of your hyper-fixations. Not only avoiding social occasions, but preventing the chance to create them altogether.

Still, there is comfort in that. Even in that. Trepidation. A sheltered world you have been masterly building; the possibility of negative interactions denied at its borders. No trespassing. Only safety. That’s the bubble you’re in, that early morning on the bus. Absently seated, not even aware of your own body, since you’ve spent the last few weeks embedding your mind into passion, like a hammer on a nail, geeking out. You have no energy for anything else.

The bubble is about to burst. You don’t want that. Yet, it needs to. It needs to since, out there, strategies of coping are required. Every so often, even a disdainful look from the local cashier is all it takes to shatter to pieces. And of course, being a woman entails, before all, being sharp and quick enough to know in seconds if a stranger’s eyes should be avoided. Men’s eyes. You’ve read the statistics. Experienced some yourself. You know that even when you know them, there’s a risk.

Such is the world. And thus, such is the need for the bubble. Even when alone merges into lonely.

That’s when you see him.

Not much worth a look.

He's on the driver’s side of the standing area, seated backwards. A countercurrent. A perfect diagonal; opposing your figures. Between, the automatic gates of the bus intermittently opening and closing, as the passengers get to their destination or are entering; taking shelter from the cruel Londoner’s rain. Your eyes caught the head tilting down, as he’s clearly drowsing off, and you smile. That’s the little but meaningful details that you like to observe. When the empty interactions slip to reveal authenticity. Even for a few precious seconds.

When you lie in your bed at night, what will you remember? The day passes in a rush, always occupied or preoccupied by work. If not, responding to emails and messages, watching endless feeds on your phone. All that, the long-term memory part of your brain doesn’t care for it. It is devoid of emotions. During the night, the brain will implacably select what is worth keeping. What will you remember, in the dark of a room, after a long day?

The odd-ish, luminous, mischievous details that made you feel, you bet.

It's what makes the difference between boring repetitiveness of the days and fondness for a new one coming.

So, you observe him with new-found attention. Like witnessing a scene in a theatre. The smell of rain on coats tingling your nostrils. The tip-taping on the windows, insistently conveying a sense of shelter in your chest. Your outfit hugging your flesh into reassurance; humid vest, yet clothes underneath dry.   

Not much worth a look. It’s true. His clay-grey gabardine seems to fall too big on his shoulder, even if it isn’t. There, droplets of rain are holding on; still not quite dried. He’s dressed proper, with a shirt almost the same colour; a tad darker. Your eyes descend to his shoes. Navigator shoes. And your smile widens: Typical dad shoes, you think. They are taken care of. The leather has recently been polished, and you nod lightly in appreciation that you know isn’t needed from anyone. However, they aren’t neatly tied as one would expect. Tidy, but distracted, you deduce. Next to the paradox embedded in his shoes, a black saddleback. Effective, yet not remarkable. And you wonder if people, co-worker or friends, would state the same thing about its owner. Your eyes drag across his figure, ultimately coming back to the top. You can’t see much of his face, leaning forwards. Only his mane, a mess of brown -you can only guess- soft curls; damped by the dreadful weather of the day.

He must be narcoleptic, you deliberate. Following the movement of the bus as it takes its turns, you see his head lolling to the side; only to land on the man in his 50s seated next to him; reading a newspaper. The businessman, aquiline and imperious nose, bothers to shoot an exasperated side-eyed look. Still… he says nothing. It’s not really a kindness, but it warms your heart anyway. That alone would have sufficed to light up the coming night. It makes your smile-turned-into-grin need to be tamed. You force yourself to observe the linoleum of the bus, constellated with shoe marks brought by the heavy rain -small dull mirrors- to regain control of the muscles of your face. 

The next bus stop comes. The newspaper-man folds its adjective and gets up. The other shoots its head straight up, one eye half hooded, the other wide; a literal sketch from a comic book. Promptly, he’s apologising profusely, running on sudden adrenaline. And you notice two things: One, a lovely, distinct Londoner accent. Two, how the phrases coming out of his mouth sound a bit boyish.  "Oh sh -. Oh, So-Sorry about tha’. I didn’t mean to- I-" and he offers a contrite smile. "Don’t get much sleep is all."

And as the older man folds his copy of the London Daily, stepping out indifferently: "Y- Yeah, okay. Goodbye then.” And he waves. 

"Thanks for the shoulder!" A full chuckle is menacingly creeping up your throat, as a powerful fondness melts your core.  It’s hard not to see yourself in him. Apologising for things that aren’t really serious, or demanding one. Apologising to someone that doesn’t have the appreciation for it. Now living under your chest, something tender has made its home. Despite that, a sting. As you realise that just a few seconds after he has waved goodbye, he turns his head to consider the dreadful weather by the window and his expression falls. A disappointment of sorts, perhaps, to see the disregard in the other’s reaction. And you think again: Why can’t people just be nice? Not nice. Just decent. In the back of your mind, Humperdinck echoes the end of his refrain: "Lonely is a man without love". Any kind of love, you think. Even from a stranger.  After that, you don’t allow him out of your sight, but he doesn’t notice. His hands laying on his laps with no purpose, he looks behind him, at his right, then at his left -the empty seat-. Then, he looks up at the bus's hanging screen with narrowing eyes; mouth opened. A new stop, people in, people out. By the time he’s in your line of sight again, he has fumbled a book out from the bag near his feet, adjusting his glasses on his nose and frowning at the pages. The glasses of a librarian. Or an archivist. And you wonder again, if what you imagine somewhat defines the person he really is.

Oh, bless him, you think.

Hardly anyone reads in the bus or the train these days. Yourself included. The dopamine-inducing-apps are too hard to resist. A book always seems too much trouble, with a significant chance of missing your own stop when your brain finally settles into the reading. Instead, you much prefer observing the passers-by, searching for the details. You examine his deep frown. His ravish looks from time to time; as he must be reading a particularly interesting passage. His fingers fumbling to crook a corner, you fantasise, for him to read again later. Undeniably, if not found in others, love can be found in other passions.

And then, the realisation hits you. What you’re witnessing has an intimate familiarity. The bubble. His bubble. Laid bare for everyone to see. Yet, no one is paying attention.

No one, except you.

The London Daily Ride [2]

09:37

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". You summon all you might to speak to him. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (triggering), Hot/Sweet!Steven, Slow Burn. # Word Count: 3.4k [read me on AO3] · [previous chapter] · [next chapter]

Four minutes. It’s all it takes. And he’s looking at you, only manifesting utter shock.

To be frank, you are as well. Seeking contact outside your comfort zone is no hobby of yours, and yet, here you are. As you’re waiting for the next bus stop, in the delimited square of the standing area surrounded by seats and passengers, your eyes have struggled to recover their independence. Irremediably drawn to the silhouette hunched over his book, glasses on his nose, unconditionally absorbed by his reading. From where you were, you couldn’t decipher the nature of the paragraphs, yet you couldn’t miss a collection of photographs in black and white with recognizable figures of Egyptian gods. As one of his hands had reverently skimmed over some parts of the illustrations, you had observed the brush of his fingers, divulging his lingering admiration. Your chest has squeezed itself into a delicious awakening.  The sleeve of his rumpled jacket revealing his wrist, his golden skin was at odds with the rain. Not fitting quite right in the decorum. Like a misplaced ray of sunshine in a greyscale.  Your organs are unsure if they are misplaced as well. Your stomach seems to be in your throat. Your brain, either nowhere to be found or racing like an untamed horse. Your skull, a shell for raw emotions. It requires a few seconds to realise that your body, part by part, is coming alive anew. The link that had been severed for several weeks is blooming again. You shift your feet. Detect the vibration of the large motor coming up to you. Feel the pain lodged in the arches of your feet, standing so still until now that it hurts. Your stomach grasps that it’s hungry. You forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

Outside, it’s pouring. Inside as well. Overwhelmingly. For a few seconds, you are both blinking at each other, and you feel as if it would be the perfect timing for recorded laughs from an invisible public. But no lines of dialogue come to you. You can only blankly stare at him. 

"Sorry, wha’?"  His voice. Boyish tone. Authentically wondering. A detail to add to your collection of appreciation. You can’t tell if the irresistible pull that drowned you in is fascination and yearning; or if it’s his bubble of comfort calling your own until both collide.  Either way, you observe his book like a lifeline as he continues. You’re not yet ready to cross his gaze. You have time. You always get up a few stops in advance. "Ah, loud noises here, yeah?" he says, pointing around aimlessly, leaning slightly towards you, so you can hear him better without raising his voice too much. "Sorry, I didn’t quite catch tha’."  So, you repeat the question you prepared; or rather, blurred out while you were positioning yourself to wait for your bus stop. "Good read?"  Two words. It’s barely an ask, and it’s missing a verb. Cue the laughter. You don’t know if it’s you or your question that’s missing substance. And who asks yes-or-no questions anyway? How could it even create a conversation? Somehow, it does. He does .  "Oh, that?" he closes the books to display the back cover, and he laughs softly, oh so softly, that with the racket of the bus, the rumbles of conversations, and the tumbles in and out of passengers, you could almost have missed it. It has an unmistakable endearment as his head falls to observe the companion of his ride. "It’s an astonishing read," he corrects with a kindness of his own. "Absolute marvel, if you ask me."

You feel his gaze returning to you as he explains in considerable detail how Howard Carter, anything but a true Egyptologist or archaeologist, and after five years of unsuccessful and costly searches in the Valley of the Kings, had ultimately made one of the greatest discoveries in History. Mister Carter, aged 48, was yet to fulfil his dreams about ancient tombs awaiting in the dark belly of the Valley. And on the 4th of November 1922, deeply buried into the protective Egyptian sand, below what was thought to be an ancient village, the door of the Tomb of Tutankhamun was in front of him, the seal of ropes and clay still on the entrance, unbroken. You’re not sure when your eyes unfocus plainly, your mind conveying fantasised images of oil lamps shining on treasures; the flickering flames revealing them for the first time in three thousand years. And then he looks at you, truly looks at you, with a burnt sienna that reminds you of the ochre steppes beyond the desert, where untamed Arabian horses are free to ride at full speed. And his traits become very still, until they are overcome with a gentle sadness of sorts. The one you’ve seen before, as the newspaper man had stepped out indifferently. He stops himself as if he was doing you a mercy.

"Look at me, rambling." And he adds with an apologetic smile: "You prob’ly don’t want to hear about tha’." 

It takes you a few seconds to travel back from the depths of Egypt in its early 20s to rainy London and a cramped bus. You breathe. You observe him. Hands on his closed book. You don’t reinforce his false interpretation. You redirect instead.

"I heard that Carter was on the verge of giving up when he found the tomb. Wasn’t he helped by a Lord of some sort?"

You tend to forget many things, yet you don’t forget little fun facts about an inspiring story or piece of history. Your memory is as good as the interest you have in the documentary you’re watching late at night on the history channels, while sorting through your files for the next day’s trials.

Eyebrows raised, mouth briefly closed, a quirky little smile is twisting his lips.

"Well, someone knows her British archaeologists." He lets out a tittering laugh; somewhat astounded: "That’s amazing."

His eyes meet yours with directness and fortitude. A swirl of spice and espresso that you are somehow sure that will never quench your thirst.

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’m afraid my brain only remembers bits and pieces when it wants to." You shrug with no embarrassment. "I’ve got no control over it whatsoever." 

For a few seconds, he smiles, as if he would precisely understand what you meant. And then, he frowns.

"Sorry, I don’t mean that in a creepy way, but …" You can feel how truly puzzled he is, yet can’t quite put your finger on what .

What he says next leaves you in the same state.

"I’m not imagining this conversation. Am I?"  Then, he’s slightly frowning a little bit more with an almost comical disarray: "… Am I?" You like how the second time he says, Am I? like he's actually wondering. And indeed, it doesn’t feel like any ordinary London rainy day now, does it? Something has shifted from the well-constructed routine that you typically experience in the morning. The frightening and marvellous premonition that what’s happening is important . Like the tide withdrawing after a muted earthquake… or was it just the vehicle trembling beneath your feet? Maybe, just maybe, this was a shared feeling. 

As silence drags itself, you realise that he somehow needs confirmation. Looking expectantly at you. 

"You’re not. Absolutely not."

You hope that the hint of doubt isn’t coating your voice. At least, you feel real. 

As if he’s now a bit lost, he’s vaguely looking at his book. With the commotion of the bus, you can’t make out what he’s muttering to himself. However, you can deduce that your confirmation is not enough. 

"If I could …" 

His eyes focus on you again.

"Wha’?" 

"Prove it to you?" 

The hissing of the double-decker has its stops makes you almost trip, and you’re only still standing vertically thanks to one of the yellow poles. Just like that, the shared bubble bursts. Without warning, still with red glasses on his nose, he gets on his feet instantly.

"Oh, bugger! My bus stop!!" 

He gasps so hard that a few heads turn around.

Now, he’s frantically shovelling his book into his saddlebag as the bus is departing again. Then, he stands next to you, breastless, his possessions against his chest with one arm, the other almost over your head, hanging from one of the ceiling handles. A source of warmth unexpectedly at your side. His glasses now crooked, he offers a contrite smile. You don’t know if it’s just the embarrassment of missing his stops or due to your sudden proximity.

"All righ’, that settles it then." 

You tilt your head in interrogation.

"If this was a dream, I wouldn’t look like a knob now, would I?" 

And just like that, he has the power to reunite your bubbles again. He’s so close to you, huddled in the standing area with other travellers, that his minty heated breath is tingling the skin of your face as he’s laughing softly. A smile hidden all along at the corner of your lips blooms into a laugh.  

It sure feels unreal to me, you want to say, but the whisper doesn’t even leave your lips. Time’s up.

"I better jog on before I miss my stop again… Nice meeting you," he says embarrassingly, not knowing what to do with his busy arms, wanting to probably squeeze your hand but thinking better of it before rapidly taking off his glasses, precariously balancing on the bridge of his nose. Your raincoat brushes his grey-clay gabardine as the bus is stopping again and finally opens its doors. He squeezes himself between the others, stuttering and apologising while making his way out. He adds before he gets off: "I will see you… on the flip-flop."

On the flip-flop? 

Stepping out, he’s sheepishly smiling at you before partly disappearing behind the automatic closing doors. His face takes on features expressing pure dread, as he seems to realise he has omitted a crucial element. Through the doors, you hear him shout at the departing bus:

"THE NAME IS STEVEN BY THE WAY" 

The belly laugh you get after that has been the best you’ve had in years. You don’t care about the passenger sending either a concerned look or a smile to share your hilarity. It's the kind of laugh that fills one’s core with ease and light. When you brush the corner of your eyes to dry saline drops, you are desperately, positively wrecked with joy.

Morning after morning, Steven becomes part of your daily routine.  His illuminating smile. His wave. Your cheerful “Good Morning!”. Your re-found sense of comfort. The usual empty seat on his left becomes yours. Habits have the reputation of dying hard. You enjoy loneliness until your craving for connection is so strong that you can finally rejoice at the prospect of long conversations with your friends and parents. A coping mechanism that served you well these recent years, creating distance when everything becomes too much. Allowing your mind to be consumed by objects of desire and passion. Plus, what law firm would complain about the ability to work intensely for eight hours straight? Your addiction to seclusion has its ups… and lows. At one point, you can feel how your mind is desperate for an authentic interaction. As starved as your stomach that morning in the bus. However, you perceive that for Steven, starvation ignites from elsewhere. There’s no self-infliction. No harmful habits are involved. He did not choose seclusion; not like you. Seclusion seems to have chosen him. That’s when your endearment turns into something more profound. Steven isn’t really the shy guy that you first thought; avoiding social interactions. On the contrary, as you observe him day to day, it turns out that’s the other way around: Steven is so driven and desperate to connect with others, with so much enthusiasm … that it becomes awkward for most people on the other end. And that’s what most people are afraid of: deep and uncompromised consideration, with an intent to genuinely bond. And who is brave enough to let the mask down before a stranger? You understand what Steven can’t. People fear the possibility of attachment —his intent to truly bond— because they fear vulnerability.  Steven was the opposite of everything you ever knew. The opposite of masculine stereotypes. Gentle. Caring. Willing to be vulnerable . Even the choice of his food was a far cry from the raw, bloody, virile steak. More than that, the more you come to know Steven, the more you come to redefine falling in love. Until now, you had experienced the rush of falling. The intense months of passion and then the degradation throughout the years. You had always thought the butterflies were the predictable sign of true, unyielding attachment. The sign that someone is a match for you. Then … Why was it never good enough to sustain a relationship? The fire of passion is all good and well. However, what good is it when comfort is never built? When the wood is lacking, and there’s no fire left; what is left? As one would expect, there’s always a bit of nerves to a new encounter, but it had become abundantly clear that even if there was alchemy, meeting Steven each morning wasn’t the nerve-wracking experience that you ordinarily had with men. Instead, it was soothing. Your favourite TV show after a strenuous day. The purring of your little black and white cat on your lap. Your decade-old copy of your favourite book that has lived in your high-school backpack, dog-eared pages, spine broken, yet losing none of its powerful story. Steven was all that and more; conveying a tranquillising warmth that felt like home . When we are loved through passion and passion alone, what interest does that person really have in you ? Besides the butterflies? Besides the attraction? All that’s left is a fusion of well-matched bodies. And when the chemical reactions finally fade, as the neural pathways are used to the rush of hormones, what is left to celebrate? In your hard-earned opinion, passion is more about losing oneself in another than truly knowing the other. Lonely were some nights in your tiny flat cramped in the heart of Camden. Lonelier it was to be loved by someone who believed that passion could build and solve all. And for a time, you were no exception.

So, when Steven naturally places his hands on your shoulder, as any friend would, showing you a paragraph of his readings about an artefact, saying: “Oh, no, no, that’s impossible. You’ve actually never seen it?". Your head says no. “Oh, all righ’ then. You’re in for a treat now, aren't you! I’m pretty sure you’ll love it. Come by the museum Thursday, yeah?”. You’re convinced that that guy doesn’t want the passion . He merly wants to share his favourite place to ever exist in the world. Romance has nothing to do with it.

When Steven holds his sides for laughing too long, one morning, when you compare Donna to a velociraptor, you feel as if you’ve known him for years, and is this what a best friend feels like ?

When you gently nudge him to point out at the window an advertising sign for Cammas Hall, revealing how you absolutely adore going to the countryside, just north-east of London, and Steven leans in so very close to you, as to make a confession: “Their maize maze is mental, innit? Ah! Say that three times fast. Maize maze, maize maze … ”. And you laugh; you know there isn’t an ulterior motive. No excuse to get close or physical. The glimmer of copper in his eyes tells another narrative. Again, he just wants to be a part of, to make you a part of .

When Steven sits in silence beside you, exhausted from his sleep condition, and finally drowses off; only for his head to fall on your shoulder, your heart doesn’t hammer. You run your hand through his oh-so-soft brown curls to clear his face; to ensconce his head in the crook of your neck, as a mother would do for a child. The tenderness living under your chest radiates and encompasses the both of you. You just want him to be okay. And you can only hope that it is the same for him.

In fact, you’re pretty sure. Because it’s another element with Steven: he doesn’t make you doubt his attention or his building affection. He lays it bare, for everyone to see. Just like his bubble. Every paper is about superheroes these days. It’s filling the news and every talk show. They aren’t talking about unsung heroes, those from ordinary life; those who lay bare their hearts.

There is no game here. No “can’t wait to get to the next base”. As if Steven would be forever happy to have those simple moments to share. Alchemy is just a bonus. Not the other way around.  I’m not imagining this conversation, am I?  You swear that sentence could have come straight out of your mouth.

You think again about your loneliness, your “almost-addiction”, and how it shields you from the bad … and the good. With Steven nearby, seclusion appears to be less attractive. And the outer world feels like a decent place again.

Changing harmful habits is a challenge. Yet, with the right person, it seems to fall like the scab of an old wound, rather than a vivisection.

It was both wonderful and terrifying … that one person, one encounter, could change so much. 

The picture of Steven Grant is constructing itself. Even its flaws.

Attentive, caring, devoted to what he loves.  A sensibility and sensitivity like an acute nerve, exposed to the elements. You know all that. That’s why when Donna crushes his hopes to be a tour guide yet again, you truly question how those devastating interactions are pretty much all the socialising he gets. He has colleagues, but friends ? Surely, this isn’t healthy. Adding to that, his sleeping condition is bringing questions to the surface, when one morning, he’s thrilled about his new puzzle, a new variation of the Rubik’s Cube. A tetrahedron that will undoubtedly keep him awake this time . 

"Oh, it’s ace. Yeah, it’s amazing. New shape, new algorithms, you know what I mean?"

"So, you’re able to sleep," you point out a cup of warm coffee in your hand, sitting next to him. "It’s just that you … won’t?" There’s nothing accusatory, you’re just pointing out the incoherence. 

You’re working in a law firm, for God’s sake. Finding incoherences and counter-arguments is what you do. Your ex had a lovely little nickname for that, calling you “The Scalpel”. Acute questions. Pushing and inquiring where it hurts. Incisive . “Can’t you stop analysing and arguing on every fucking point all the time? Just … let it go ”. At that time, you were pretty sure you were mostly cutting through bullshit. But now, Steven is at your side, vulnerable and sensible and right, this time, it’s different, don’t be such a fucking scalpel, dumbass, you admonish yourself.  

The white of his eyes is more visible, and his forehead wrinkles, as he stares wide at you. He babbles a confused explanation; how of course he can sleep, but, you know, his body wants to get up and wander about, he’s not an insomniac or narcoleptic or anything now is he. And he laughs awkwardly— and he crosses your eyes again and oh, oh— he realises that’s exactly what you assumed. But yeah, nothing to worry about, the sleepy part was fine, it’s the dreams you see. The vivid dreams that make Steven exhausted and how is this a medical condition you think racingly; when dreaming is more exhausting than living ?

There and then, the perfect picture that you’ve assembled of Steven begins to crack. Like an oil painting, as time does its work, the thick layers of paint begin to split and break. Reluctantly showing the rough sketches under; exposing the wood beneath. You were wondering how deep the fractures were. If the cracks you were witnessing were just the thin upper layer of varnish giving up, in need of light restoration. Or were the lacerations so deep that they would eventually break the painting apart? If it was ever the case, would Steven be the whole piece of work; or merely a section of it ?

But you don’t press . You do not invade and question. No arguments or counter-arguments. 

Somehow, you think you understand.

Aren’t we all parts and pieces, holding together by sheer will? 

ooooooh THANK YOU this is absolutely adorable !! I was literally on the bus (no Steven on mine tho) home when I saw your reblog 💓💓💓

The London Daily Ride

09:33

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". Every day, a new opportunity to discover the lovely little quirks of a stranger; becoming more and more familiar. That is, until someone else shows up. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (can be triggering), Touched-starved!Steven, sex (future chapters). # Word Count: 1.3k [read me on AO3]

There is comfort in being alone.

A bliss in enjoying yourself endlessly with no prying eyes. No expectations from anyone.

Yet, there’s a fine line between solitude and isolation. Withdrawal. Sometimes, you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, and occasionally, you would slip. Going to bed later than you should, burying yourself in one of your hyper-fixations. Not only avoiding social occasions, but preventing the chance to create them altogether.

Still, there is comfort in that. Even in that. Trepidation. A sheltered world you have been masterly building; the possibility of negative interactions denied at its borders. No trespassing. Only safety. That’s the bubble you’re in, that early morning on the bus. Absently seated, not even aware of your own body, since you’ve spent the last few weeks embedding your mind into passion, like a hammer on a nail, geeking out. You have no energy for anything else.

The bubble is about to burst. You don’t want that. Yet, it needs to. It needs to since, out there, strategies of coping are required. Every so often, even a disdainful look from the local cashier is all it takes to shatter to pieces. And of course, being a woman entails, before all, being sharp and quick enough to know in seconds if a stranger’s eyes should be avoided. Men’s eyes. You’ve read the statistics. Experienced some yourself. You know that even when you know them, there’s a risk.

Such is the world. And thus, such is the need for the bubble. Even when alone merges into lonely.

That’s when you see him.

Not much worth a look.

He's on the driver’s side of the standing area, seated backwards. A countercurrent. A perfect diagonal; opposing your figures. Between, the automatic gates of the bus intermittently opening and closing, as the passengers get to their destination or are entering; taking shelter from the cruel Londoner’s rain. Your eyes caught the head tilting down, as he’s clearly drowsing off, and you smile. That’s the little but meaningful details that you like to observe. When the empty interactions slip to reveal authenticity. Even for a few precious seconds.

When you lie in your bed at night, what will you remember? The day passes in a rush, always occupied or preoccupied by work. If not, responding to emails and messages, watching endless feeds on your phone. All that, the long-term memory part of your brain doesn’t care for it. It is devoid of emotions. During the night, the brain will implacably select what is worth keeping. What will you remember, in the dark of a room, after a long day?

The odd-ish, luminous, mischievous details that made you feel, you bet.

It's what makes the difference between boring repetitiveness of the days and fondness for a new one coming.

So, you observe him with new-found attention. Like witnessing a scene in a theatre. The smell of rain on coats tingling your nostrils. The tip-taping on the windows, insistently conveying a sense of shelter in your chest. Your outfit hugging your flesh into reassurance; humid vest, yet clothes underneath dry.   

Not much worth a look. It’s true. His clay-grey gabardine seems to fall too big on his shoulder, even if it isn’t. There, droplets of rain are holding on; still not quite dried. He’s dressed proper, with a shirt almost the same colour; a tad darker. Your eyes descend to his shoes. Navigator shoes. And your smile widens: Typical dad shoes, you think. They are taken care of. The leather has recently been polished, and you nod lightly in appreciation that you know isn’t needed from anyone. However, they aren’t neatly tied as one would expect. Tidy, but distracted, you deduce. Next to the paradox embedded in his shoes, a black saddleback. Effective, yet not remarkable. And you wonder if people, co-worker or friends, would state the same thing about its owner. Your eyes drag across his figure, ultimately coming back to the top. You can’t see much of his face, leaning forwards. Only his mane, a mess of brown -you can only guess- soft curls; damped by the dreadful weather of the day.

He must be narcoleptic, you deliberate. Following the movement of the bus as it takes its turns, you see his head lolling to the side; only to land on the man in his 50s seated next to him; reading a newspaper. The businessman, aquiline and imperious nose, bothers to shoot an exasperated side-eyed look. Still… he says nothing. It’s not really a kindness, but it warms your heart anyway. That alone would have sufficed to light up the coming night. It makes your smile-turned-into-grin need to be tamed. You force yourself to observe the linoleum of the bus, constellated with shoe marks brought by the heavy rain -small dull mirrors- to regain control of the muscles of your face. 

The next bus stop comes. The newspaper-man folds its adjective and gets up. The other shoots its head straight up, one eye half hooded, the other wide; a literal sketch from a comic book. Promptly, he’s apologising profusely, running on sudden adrenaline. And you notice two things: One, a lovely, distinct Londoner accent. Two, how the phrases coming out of his mouth sound a bit boyish.  "Oh sh -. Oh, So-Sorry about tha’. I didn’t mean to- I-" and he offers a contrite smile. "Don’t get much sleep is all."

And as the older man folds his copy of the London Daily, stepping out indifferently: "Y- Yeah, okay. Goodbye then.” And he waves. 

"Thanks for the shoulder!" A full chuckle is menacingly creeping up your throat, as a powerful fondness melts your core.  It’s hard not to see yourself in him. Apologising for things that aren’t really serious, or demanding one. Apologising to someone that doesn’t have the appreciation for it. Now living under your chest, something tender has made its home. Despite that, a sting. As you realise that just a few seconds after he has waved goodbye, he turns his head to consider the dreadful weather by the window and his expression falls. A disappointment of sorts, perhaps, to see the disregard in the other’s reaction. And you think again: Why can’t people just be nice? Not nice. Just decent. In the back of your mind, Humperdinck echoes the end of his refrain: "Lonely is a man without love". Any kind of love, you think. Even from a stranger.  After that, you don’t allow him out of your sight, but he doesn’t notice. His hands laying on his laps with no purpose, he looks behind him, at his right, then at his left -the empty seat-. Then, he looks up at the bus's hanging screen with narrowing eyes; mouth opened. A new stop, people in, people out. By the time he’s in your line of sight again, he has fumbled a book out from the bag near his feet, adjusting his glasses on his nose and frowning at the pages. The glasses of a librarian. Or an archivist. And you wonder again, if what you imagine somewhat defines the person he really is.

Oh, bless him, you think.

Hardly anyone reads in the bus or the train these days. Yourself included. The dopamine-inducing-apps are too hard to resist. A book always seems too much trouble, with a significant chance of missing your own stop when your brain finally settles into the reading. Instead, you much prefer observing the passers-by, searching for the details. You examine his deep frown. His ravish looks from time to time; as he must be reading a particularly interesting passage. His fingers fumbling to crook a corner, you fantasise, for him to read again later. Undeniably, if not found in others, love can be found in other passions.

And then, the realisation hits you. What you’re witnessing has an intimate familiarity. The bubble. His bubble. Laid bare for everyone to see. Yet, no one is paying attention.

No one, except you.

The London Daily Ride [3]

Not in Service

# Pairing: Jake Lockley x female reader (light Steven Grant x female reader) # Synopsis: Sweet and kind Steven is part of your daily rides on the morning bus. However, today, Steven isn’t stepping in. Instead, someone else shows up.  # Warning/Content: Angst, Character Study, Unhealthy/Toxic relationship, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (kind of). # Word Count: 3.2k [Part 1] · [Part 2] — [read me on AO3]

Today is different. Today is not the same. He’s not. That, you can immediately tell. He enters the bus, and from the first step on the linoleum, a deep glaciation makes its way into your ribs and freezes solid the core of your chest. The reflex of hailing him a “Good Morning!” buries itself in your throat, and you swear suffocation is only a breath away. Strange, isn’t it? To know someone so well and not recognize them? For a second there, you wonder if a case of face-blindness can happen overnight. You hope so. The alternative is far more devastating. 

He takes three decided steps. He sits where he usually does, perhaps the reminiscence of a habit. Inspects its surroundings; his mouth shut in a tight line, as if he was finding it almost distasteful. You think for a few seconds that even the clothes are different, but they aren’t. The clothes are Steven’s. You can recognize one of his favourite shirts; geometric patterns of white and malachite that echo The Great Green; Osiris. His clay-grey jacket. And yet, it’s like witnessing a different actor embedding the role of your favourite character. He makes a sudden move to adjust the clothes more tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Runs a firm hand through his hair to keep them back. His face free from the curls that normally frame his forehead, his features are stern. Implacably indifferent. Then he leans back with ease, crossing one of his legs nonchalantly, an arm laying on the other passenger's empty seat. As soon as he makes himself comfortable, his eyes meet yours. Shit.

Caught red-handed. You couldn’t have been more obvious, but you just didn’t think he was really paying attention. Steven is often daydreaming or laser-focusing on your conversations or the book on his lap. Steven is a lot of things. However, he doesn’t pretend. He does. The thin and almost invisible hairs on the back of your neck bristle. You look aside. Then, through the window and you wish the blush of shame away, and of course it does nothing. Ever tried to order veins not to dilate? Of course not, you fucking idiot, you think, trying desperately to gather yourself. Your peripheral vision warns you that his silhouette is not moving. A controlled halt, your instinct feeds you. Similar mannerism, you would assume, of a military sniper seeing the head of his shot. You’re the one being studied now, and the burn creeps even more at the surface of your skin. Treacherous carmine is rising to the surface of your cheeks and making its way towards your aching chest. You can’t even think straight. This is a nightmare, and it’s not stopping. The sense of familiarity like smoke slipping away between your grasping fingers. Steven is there, but he’s not. An outsider made its way onto his insides. Something is terribly wrong. Like an Ushabti being inhabited by another essence. You do not dare to cross his eyes. The birth of your neck and now forearms, warning with goosebumps. And for good reason: is there anything more horrific than seeing someone you care for vanish in front of your eyes? Whether it be illness— physical or mental? Horror is no jumpscare and neither is a good story shared at night around a bonfire. True horror is a familiar scene being torn apart by a single, disquieting detail. A detail that you know to be of importance yet always seemed ordinary before. His eyes. His eyes are not the same. A void is replacing your guts. Nothing feels tangible. You’re hollow. Uninhabited. Unlike the man you think you knew. Breathe, you try to remind your sympathetic system. And think. And your brain does. He’s kick-starting the gears, running with the urge to feel safety through comprehension. Regaining control through knowledge, that’s what you’re good at. Coping. Organising thoughts. Then arguments. Sometimes, the scalpel is useful. Your mind begins to pinpoint why it has triggered such a nuclear reaction in your core. 

Through the weeks, nearly a month and a half, Steven had become a familiar figure in the urban jungle. A bubble-sharer. A comforter. Losing that was breaking the new builds of a welcomed refuge. No refuge, no familiarity. No familiarity; thus, anxiety. Even more so: the primal fear of losing someone to an unknown alterity. Hell is other people, would say Sartre. For you, hell was just people you didn’t know.  It has only been a minute. Sixty long seconds, since he has pinned you down with the two black holes that are in place of his eyes. Seven forced, slowed cycles of breath. It’s only then that you are able to conjure your sight to cross his. You feel the rush of adrenaline roaming your back as you discover the expressionless face of Not-Steven. The unfamiliarity of his familiar traits pierces your sternum. A stillness you’re unused to, you realise, as Steven was always fidgeting in some way, unless consumed by his favourite subject or by you. Shame is making its way back onto your cheeks, but you hold on. That’s when there’s finally a reaction. Desperately slow, you see one of his brows lifting lightly. His pupils are graphite. But you hold on. By the same reflex and the same logic when facing a wild beast. Only a fool would turn around and run, offering their spine as a perfect prey. And as of now, you can’t be spineless. 

Though beneath the fear, beneath the urge to stay put like a deer in the headlights, you can feel a deep contraction grasping your lower insides. At first, you mistakenly recognise it as a light menstrual cramp, and yet, it’s not quite the same. Flirting with pain, the ache is putting its claws deep between your legs, as the reptilian part of your brain registers the blown wide irises in front of you as a sign of arousal. It’s clear now that the panic you’re experiencing has just become adrenaline; confused about its own role. Conjure a fight or flight response? Or conjure an unforgiving blaze? Flames licking at your lower lips, your jaw contracts. And as you’re thinking to drop your sight just below to greet his mouth, he grins. 

Fuck. 

There are teeth behind a smile. 

The expression doesn’t reach the corner of his unlit iris; two endless pits that summon to fall down. The only adjective that comes to mind is perverse. Still, you’re not quite sure if it should define his or your reaction. From there, you can only hold on to your seat. Quite literally. A wildfire amidst your entrails. It reaches your breasts with an undignified ripple of pleasure. You can feel your eyes drawn to his pursing lips, unable to detach themselves. He lifts his head lightly and, with an unsettling tranquillity, begins to whistle. At that distance, you can’t make out the tune. Only snippets are meeting your eardrums; the rest is engulfed by the sound of the hydraulics of the bus; hissing when stopping, the engine rumbling steadily, people talking. Even if there was nothing else but a vacant room, your brain wouldn’t be able to compute anyway; far too discombobulated by the flux of steroid hormones and thus by the roaring in your ears and far lower organs. How many minutes does it last? Off and on, he’s letting you go from his sight. Still sneering and whistling, looking serenely around. Then he’s getting back to you. His head is nodding gently from side to side. Stopping the pursing of his lips for a few, long, seconds, before resuming his tune again. Little mouse that you are, he’s letting you go from time to time before clawing his way back to you.  The encounter is violent. No words are exchanged, but there’s knowledge lingering in the air. You know. And he knows you know. He makes a blatant show of it. A power-play already won. The twin hypothesis that goes on in every telenovela just won’t hold when it comes to him. To Steven. Or whoever else might be in there.  The bus hisses to a halt, and with an excruciating noise that seems to break your stupor, the doors open to deliver more passengers. Amongst them, a fairly older woman with long grey hair obediently gathered in a low ponytail. Reflexes built over years spent in the capital make you stand on your own two feet. You don’t even feel them. To tell the truth, it comes as a surprise that you’re able to be in a vertical state at all. Your bus stop is nearly a few stations away. Your mind hyperfocuses on the new stimulus. A recomforting tunnel of attention that allows that wild sympathetic system of yours to ignore all other factors and regulate itself. Don’t look. Don’t feel. You’ll deal with all that later. For now, focus. As the older woman is waiting to pass in front of you to the newly spare seat, the spark of her golden pendant catches your eye. You recognize a highly stylised ostrich feather. Steven has been thorough when putting his passion into words. You can easily convey his voice: warm and pedagogical, patiently explaining. And it’s suddenly as he’s close to you, almost whispering into your ears:  The feather of Maat is at the heart of Egyptian civilisation, as he could have gently reminded you. It’s lovely, innit…? How can such a light little thing have such weight in an entire civilisation? The Weighing of the heart, you mean? You question the phantasmagorical version of Steven. You can almost hear him chuckle. It’s the point of convergence of your attention. Yeah, yeah. Deciding if you’re worthy of the Field of Reeds and all tha'. But that’s for when you’re dead. For the likes of us, you see, the feather is a reminder: to live in peace is not easy. Your brain raises an eyebrow, requiring more historical facts that you had somehow memorised. To be honest, focusing on what was coming from Steven’s mouth was hardly a problem. There were times; you wished to absorb all of him, as if you were one. To abide by the feather… is to tell the truth. As I said: Not easy, you know? The Egyptians were quite right about this one. It’s really the only way to prevent chaos. He seems to be looking through your eyes, as Egyptian gods would do with their statues. And for now … it’s not looking so good for me, is it? What ?

“Tranquila, señora, tranquila.” You stumble. You're unsure if it’s due to the moving bus or to him. With your eyes on the attribute, you didn’t see him coming. He’s near her, near you. Replacing Steven. Offering the traveller his seat, as you entirely forgot to move enough to allow the lady with the Feather pass through. You had just stood there. Body frozen; mind racing. Oh God, oh god, oh god- You’ve been dissociating again. How long was it?

“Tak’ a seat,” you overhear him say. It’s not Cockney, yet some of the sounds are the same. The accent isn’t truly Spanish either, despite the use of it. East Coast American is your best guess. Is he faking that? It sounds like blasphemy compared to the beloved accent you’ve come to know. The gears in your brain want to pinpoint the details, determine exactly where you’ve heard that before. Where exactly? No. Stay focused; stay in the present. Stay present. Don’t escape elsewhere and hide. What’s happening now? Well … To begin with, he isn’t talking to you. Good. Second, you sincerely hope he won't offer you anything. Not a seat. Not a sentence. Not even a word. Steady now, you scold yourself. Still standing vertically, you pivot your feet to make your way well in front of the automatic doors. Grabbing one of the yellow poles of the bus; holding it dear like a lighthouse in a storm. Looking straight ahead. The Exit. Third and finally, just like a two-year-old toddler learning about object permanence, you hope that if you don’t see him, he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t see you.  “Why don’t you take a taxi next time, querida?” Realising he’s at your side electrifies your whole body. You can’t move. Heart drumming like the fluttering of a hummingbird. And yet, deep below, arises a fire that you snuff out violently. Silencing the truth. Your mouth is dry when you respond: “No.” One strangled syllable. It’s barely an answer. Not even a sentence. In any other context, it would have been incredibly rude, however, you both know it’s a blatant excuse for an interaction. And you can’t decide if it’s a positive or negative one. All you can feel is your weakening knees. And the brushing of his sleeve against yours, paced on the swaying of the bus. “Está bien, está bien…” he tempers with a faint smile in his voice. Is he enjoying this? He pauses, and from the very corner of your eyes, you make out his shape; scrutinising. “Even if I’m the driver? Aguas, querida… I could take it personally.” Is he a cab driver? What’s a cab driver doing on a bus, then? You don’t understand. You can't think properly. You focus, so your voice doesn't waver. Focus on what? You grip the yellow pole a little tighter. 

“Not interested.” Let me out. Let me out. Let me-

"Mh," he hums and your skin prickles, "pero que pena, no? Together, I’m sure we’d break the devil’s dishes." You don’t recognize the expression. It sounds misplaced. How is Steven doing that? Is he doing that? No, no. He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t a fucked-up role-play. That, at least, is clear. So, who is to blame for Steven’s disappearance?  You ultimately lay your gaze on him, utterly confused, trying to keep it all in. The sting. The shock. The blaze. The echo of security you’re used to experiencing with Steven is still there. And presently, so does the dread. He doesn’t say anything. Most people fill in the blanks; are uneased by silence. Not him. He is simply keeping his eyes on you. Not willing to let go. Relishing. Like the red halo of a hunting rifle. Trying not to alarm the prey while still keeping its aim on it. A hot swelling in your chest torches its way into your abdomen. “We don’t need to break anything.” You don’t know how you had the guts to say that. Maybe it’s just your subconscious acting as a relay. Or maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself.  He responds again with silence, keeping his mouth shut in a thigh line. This time, he shoots. His huge hand swiftly snatches yours. Holding it down. You gasp for air, but nothing comes.

Before, your respective sleeves were only grazing. Now, his fist is crushing yours. It’s painful. It’s warm. And because it’s forced, it’s guilt-free. Your eyes plunge, and they can see a hidden rictus that wants to lash out. Pulling you closer to him with a lingering strength; as if he didn’t need any in the first place. As he perfectly knew that your resistance was merely superficial. With a mix of aversion and elation, you feel the heat of his other hand penetrating your coat, as he enters one of your pockets. Even through layers and layers, your skin detects his flat palm against your side with an accuracy that scares you. Your flesh and very bones feel the low humming of his muscles, ready to take more drastic measures. You think you might faint. This is too much; and at the same time, it leaves you wanting. The sheer potency of his grip; his control over what comes next oddly puts your mind at rest. He’s the one with his hands on the wheel. His fingers following the curve of your belly resume their descent, and as you think he might capture you into oblivion or perhaps fondle you, the warmth disappears altogether. He is holding your phone. Thumb on the home button. It unlocks.  “Thought I didn’t keep an eye on you, mh?” His fist still crushing yours and the yellow lighthouse are your sole anchors left to reality. In overlong, agonising touches of his large digit on your screen, you observe him enter a phone number. How? How had he gained access? Steven hadn’t. And a moment of shared intimacy was yet to come; to be able to steal your phone in the middle of the night, protected by a moment of shuteye.

Your whole body hums back and trembles. He must have noticed the treacherous tremolo in the heart of his hand, but once more, he uses silence as a weapon. The dull glow of the screen is the only change you can see on his stern face. Then, he locks it anew. The screen goes black, like an echo of your brain. In less than a breath, the weight of your phone is back in your pocket, and the growing pressure that was crushing your fingers withdraws. It all ends the same way it began: abruptly, rough. Raw. He adjusts the side of your jacket; admonishing, commanding: “Don’t lie to yourself.”  If you think that you couldn't redden harder, you’re deadly wrong. Before that mouth of yours can barely utter a word or your eyes can even glance at him with indignation, the bus is coming to a full stop. You feel yourself losing balance, however, to be fair, it was already lost on you a few minutes ago. The halting vehicle makes you miserably collide, and it’s like you’re a wave crashing on concrete. He doesn’t budge. The arch of one of your brows bumps against his collar bone. The rest of you collide with him, and warmth envelops you like a cape. Your synapses register your body pressed against his, your breast crushed against his torso. And it’s another surge, far more devastating, that arises within you. You hold on to the grey jacket of Steven. Steven. When you ruthlessly pull away, as the gates are opening, the grin is back on his lips. Little mouse that you are. “Todo bien, cariño?” You don’t even respond. The exit begs you to step out. And you do. "If you need a ride into the city," he informs, nodding at your pocket, "the name is Jake Lockley." You don’t look at him, fearing that the two black holes would engulf you without the mercy to ever spit you out again. You refuse to break anything owned by the devil, but you sure as hell head out of the bus as if he were himself chasing you.  Your feet are finally on the concrete. Solid. Yet, your mind doubts the earth could still support you. The doors hiss shut behind your back. Your breath is erratic. Your body reduces to trembling limbs. The grumble of the motor fades away, but the guilt stays. Your phone could burn a hole in that fucking pocket.

Your brain could recognize the charismatic pull of an avoidant relationship in any circumstance. That was it. Logic is screaming at the top of its lungs about how you recognize those patterns now. Through hard-earned experience. Never again, you have sworn to yourself. And to your therapist.

The signs are there. The adrenaline. The magnetic pull. The consuming thoughts. The unbearable focus that eclipses anything or anyone else. You can feel the hyperfixation building itself up as you’re thinking. Replaying again and again small details that ignite your reward system in a fucked-up way. A broken player that you thought you had fixed after several years of therapy.

No, no, no- This can’t happen. You swore.    That part of you is healed.

Don’t lie to yourself.

It turns out that the brain can rationalise all it wants; what’s between your thighs doesn’t give a shit about toxic patterns.

tranquila : easy; don’t worryestá bien : fair enough; all right querida : dear; paramore break the devil’s dishes :  [brooklyn slang] have a wild time aguas : [guatemalan slang] carefull

# Dedication : To @grumpyahjumma, who is such a sweet human being <3 Thank you for existing ! # Taglist : @pri00r  , @medivalpersephone , @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough  , @thebadasssass  , @griffinkid2187  , @fandomtrash465  , @randomchick546 , @romanarose   , @galactic-galabee  , @actuallyanita  . # A/n on DID : Hello there <3 I want to stress that Jake Lockley isn’t the “evil side” or “bad side” of the System. Jake is probably more of a Protector. Everything here is through the subjective point of view from the Reader; her own experience, projecting her past traumas. The goal will be to overcome those conceptions; hence the perception of Jake. Generally speaking, please know that people experiencing DID do not have what fiction would call “a beast” or an “evil Alter" (as in the movie Split, for example). When an Alter has persecution tendencies, it’s mostly towards the System itself. Thank you!

Steven laughs—a laugh you've hardly heard before, as if it were gripping his very throat with unspoken emotions.

One of his hands lands before his eyes, as if perhaps the news is too much to take in: he has to close himself from one of his senses and be in the dark for a few seconds to fully comprehend what you've just announced.

"I'm pregnant."

"Wha'?"

"Steven," you had repeated calmly, the blue test in your hand and approaching the corner of the bed to sit beside him, "I'm pregnant."

Maybe it was too much? Maybe Steven wasn't ready for it?

Then, his palm falls to his heart, revealing the crinkle of his eyes that you've come to know and love. And he let himself fall as well into the news with a delighted sight.

"Oh my days," you hear him say with a tone conveying genuine wonder.

Then he sits himself back up as if he had an electric shock, turning all of his being towards you.

"Are you all' right, love?" he asks, placing his warm and big hands suddenly on the sides of your arms, a concerned look tainting his brown eyes. "You don't feel sick or anything?"

It's your turn to laugh and reassure him: "It won't come for a few weeks."

His comforting palms ensconce themselves in the crook of your neck. His lips meet yours with a softness that almost breaks you. Once. Twice. Longer, and he lingers, then puts his forehead against yours. 

"Okay, I'll be with you, love, every step of the way, yeah?" 

"I know," you confess to him with almost a whisper, and you add, "I love you." 

"I love you."

Then, he takes you into the crook of his arms, an embrace that makes you shriek and giggle as he gently pulls you to fall with him on the quilt. His laughs mingle with yours, and time suspends itself as you both share with delight the oldest secret humanity has ever known.

𝒫𝒪𝒱: You tell your husband Steven that he is going to be a father and his reaction caused you a lot of tenderness (he’s so cute God!!!)

me patiently waiting for steven grant x reader after watching the first episode:

while we untangle

Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader (implied Marc Spector x F!Reader) Wordcount: 2.9K Warnings: Explicit AF. SMUT. DID. Wounds. Oral. CUM eating. Sry. Summary: Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever. A/N: wow i wrote this instead of working on wys because i hate myself. title from Rufus Du Sol's No Place. i know vague shiz about moon knight but this is my current headcanon of marc being aware of steven and steven just doing his best (lmao). idk if this is really spoilery.

Steven doesn’t quite recall when he started dating you. He does not remember how it happened. You just appear and he simply goes with it because you’re soft and warm and you call him by his name.

It’s a little like magic. He falls asleep and wakes up and you’re there.

“Hi,” you murmur by the side of his bed. His body is aching. His shoulder is screaming. He feels his bones bunching up against the thin shell of his skin.

“What?” He shakes his head. “Who-?”

Their first conversation (that he remembers) is just fragments of words. It is a series of cut-off questions.

Who? What? Where?

You lean forward so quickly he nearly misses it. A flash of your hair and your eyes glittering like fish scales in the blue dawn light. You touch his jaw and use your other hand to comb his sweat-damp curls back from his brow. He wants to say something because he feels naked in front of you - this stranger in his sweats and one of his t-shirts.

Who are you? Who are you?

Instead, he says: “I’m sorry…I didn’t expect guests. I would have cleaned…”

He would have. He would have made an effort. You smile at him and that’s when he notices the gash at your hairline. The strange bruising along your collarbone.

“Did we…?” he finally asks because why else would a girl be in his apartment - at his bedside. Your lips quirk and you shake your head.

“I’m - do we know each other?”

He really shouldn’t press his luck. Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever.

“In a way,” you hum as you stretch your arms above your head. Your joints crack and that cut on your forehead beads with blood. A few hours later, he will notice that it’s gone. He will notice that marks on you never last longer than a day.

“In a way?” he echoes. He is lost in this conversation just as he is lost in most conversations. Everyone seems about five feet ahead of him at all times.

“Yes - in a way, but,” You shoot your hand out and grasp his own tightly. He notices his palm is covered in raven-black grease and you don’t seem to mind. “I suppose we should meet formally.”

You tell him your name and he repeats it - rolls it around over his tongue like a smooth marble. His accent is thick and often too chewy in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he even uses the term “accent” because shouldn’t it just be his voice? His tone. His.

He feels like he’s trying to shove himself through a narrow hole. Nothing fits.

***

He starts waking up with you - coming to with you - in weird places. One time, he’s restocking mugs etched with incorrect hieroglyphics and the next thing he knows he’s coughing up blood on a rain-soaked street. It’s thundering. The clouds spiderweb with lightning. There’s the smell of wet leaves and garbage and a neon Exit sign is blinking above him.

“Marc! Help me out here.” You’re a few feet away punching the hell out of a man in back. There’s a splash of blood. It splatters over your nose and chin. You’re in this tight suit that shimmers grey-blue in the rain. Weird. When your eyes meet his, you suddenly grimace. Your expression flits between seemingly concerned and incredibly irritated.

“Who’s Marc?” He rubs his forehead. His teeth feel loose in his mouth. “Wait - where are we?”

Wait. Wait. Wait. He’s always colliding into a disaster or conflict before he can confirm what it is. Where - when - what -

“Fuck,” you growl and then the man you’re fighting socks you right in the temple. You stumble to your knees. Steven doesn’t really think - he doesn’t have to - he rushes forward in some hopeless attempt at protecting you and - well - everything goes black again.

***

He wakes to the tinkling music of a Carnival. He’s got his hands wrapped around a pole with chipped gold paint. There’s a thousand colors blurring into a mosaic of blues and pinks and purples and reds. Yellow as buttered popcorn. Green and copper as scarab beetles. He can taste sugar on his tongue. Cotton candy. His stomach aches.

He looks down and sees the white mane of a wood worse. It’s uncomfortable between his legs. He blinks. He shakes his head.

“You okay?”

He turns to find you sitting - riding - next to him. You’re straddling a unicorn, which oddly seems fitting since he’s about 67% certain you don’t exist. There’s an unreadable expression on your face. A strange transformation. You go from cheerful to anxious and he feels as if he has interrupted something. You bite your lip and reach for his hand. You thread your fingers together as the carousel picks up speed - as it circles and whirs like a cyclone.

That terrifying, obnoxious jingle of music.

“Hi Steven,” you tell him, which he doesn’t understand. Why are you greeting him when you’ve obviously been with him for a while. Are they on a date? This must be a date. Did he drink? He swears it was 4 PM last he checked, but the sky is black-navy. Violet and midnight.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he clings to the pole with one hand as you hold onto the other. He leans his too-hot temple against the wet-cold surface of it. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what else to say.

***

His eyes flutter open and it’s day again. The midafternoon sun peeks through his heavy blinds. You’re sitting next to him - hunched over like a curled C. One of his heavy mythology books in your lap. You’re reading about Isis and Osiris and he wonders if all his pieces are scattered over the Earth. It would make sense. It would honestly be a relief. An explanation.

There’s a white bandage around your arm with old blood staining half of it. It’s practically brown. He sniffs a metallic tang in the air along with the harsh scent of antiseptic.

He lifts himself up gingerly. More soreness. More agony in his back and the constant headache that thumps at the center of his forehead. He leans into you out of reflex, his chest brushing your shoulder. He touches your arm - drags his finger down the bandage.

“I didn’t do that did I?” He can’t trust himself. He doesn’t know anything. He loses days and nights and you are the only constant in his life. The one unmoved variable.

You twist around to look at him. You’re visibly exhausted. He wonders when you sleep because he’s never seen you do it.

“No,” you assure him. They’re so close that your breath fans over his lower lip. They’re dating and they aren’t. “Dating” is the only word he has for it because he wakes up and you’re in his room or literally in his bed. Sometimes you haul him to a restaurant or coffee shop.

Eat, Steven. You’re very pale.

They’ve never kissed though. They’ve never done anything beyond you looping your arm through his as you take him around London. He hadn’t realized it until now, but every errand they go on has been for his benefit.

You need more shampoo. You need another jacket. You need to get your haircut. Do you want another fish so he has a friend?

You let him talk to you. You let him vomit his words all over you because he has no one else. His mum’s voicemail. His mirror. His mind. One minute, he’s spilling his guts to a living statue and the next he’s spilling his guts to you.

And you respond. You nod and agree or disagree or drop your chin into your hand and listen intently. You laugh when he says something he actually meant to be funny.

“You’re such a weirdo,” you tease in between sips of coffee. It makes his lungs expand to the point he can finally get a full breath in. He is wide awake.

He shifts on the bed. The springs squeak. His sheets are scratchy and he notices there are granules of sand in the folds of linen. Bloody hell and all that.

There’s a wrinkle between your brows as you watch him watch you. You don’t avert your gaze like so many others do when he makes them uncomfortable. He can’t help it. He forgets himself sometimes. You’re different. You meet his stare straight-on.

His voice is low and urgent when he finally asks: “Why do you take care of me?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth. It turns a color and he has to stop himself from swiping it with his tongue - from digging his thumb into the flesh. “I promised someone I would.”

He should question that. Who?

You know who.

The voices have returned. Swelling and shivering at the back of his head. They distract him. Solid. Tempting.

You know her mouth. You’ve tasted it before just not as you. You’ve had her. You’ve felt her. She’s ours.

He doesn't know what to do. He’s aware of his own awkwardness. He’s aware that he often misses social cues even though a large part of him seems to understand them. He just can’t get there.

“Steven,” you whisper like a secret - like their secret - every fucking letter deliberate and compassionate.

He wants to feel this.

He surges forward and kisses you. His body does it before his brain even catches up. He grips the hinge of your jaw and crushes his mouth to yours. You squeak in surprise before relaxing - before allowing him to cradle your cheeks between his hands and continue.

It feels familiar.

His lips move against your lips. His tongue traces your tongue - teasing and caressing and it subtly changes from sweet and careful to frantic and dirty. Your hand is on his chest - right where his heart thumps. He scrapes his teeth over your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. He makes a demanding sound and pulls you closer.

He senses that he’s been at this threshold a thousand times previously. He has to move forward. He knows the steps. He needs to take you - plant himself inside you where he’d be safe. He’s been safe.

His hand palms the crown of your skull. He tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You respond gracefully - your own fingers now locked in his t-shirt. They trade kisses in his dusty room with all of his old books and white-noise sound machines and cheap cutlery. You sigh into his mouth - your breasts crushed against his chest. Your heart. His heart. Pound for pound. Sharing a rhythm. How much would they weigh? The bandage on your arm chafes the inside of his bicep.

You shiver and it surprises him - the fact that he’s capable of arousing such a sensation out of you. He wants to go further.

He wedges himself between your legs. He doesn’t know entirely what he’s doing and yet he does. He’s had to have done something like this before. Maybe, at school. His twenties? He should know though no distinctive memories come to mind. No images of teenage lust in a backseat or fumblings in a dark theater.

Still - he appears to be getting it. Gestures before thoughts. It’s like the act itself is already written on his bones - taped somewhere in his mind with instruction.

At some point, they get naked.

You are spread out on his pillows and he uses his hands to open your thighs. He watches your cunt - shiny and pretty in the afternoon light. There are bruises on your hips - along your ribs. He wants to ask, but doesn’t.

You already know, Steven. You saw her get them last night. Fighting. You have some too.

That voice that’s like his voice, but not.

He slips his fingers against the seam of your folds - nudging between them and watching the effect it has on you. He thrusts to the knuckle before twisting his hand so he can press his thumb to the peak of your sex. You’re so wet and hot and each jerk of his fingers makes you tighter. The repetitive clench of your walls as he eases you through it. The push of slick more erotic than anything he’s ever even dreamt of.

“Oh,” you moan softly. “Oh - shit.”

“I-I think - is that alright?” he stammers - his chest tight - his cock so hard that it juts against his stomach.

You nod furiously. You open your arms to him - come come come - be with me. He goes - capturing your mouth - tongue warm as it slides over yours in a desperate, messy tangle. Your hand circles his cock, grasping him tenderly. You stroke him slow as he fucks into your palm. He kisses you. He kisses your throat - your breasts - your cheeks. You lead him - let him in - and then the head of his cock is rubbing right up against your pussy. It’s furiously hot - making slick sounds as it slips through the seam of swollen flesh.

You stare up at him, lips twitching and kiss-bruised. He keeps his eyes fastened to your face as he sinks in too quickly. You stretch around him - nails digging into his shoulders. Your mouth parting. Oh - it’s like this.

You feel like home. You feel like him. He knows this. He knows the wet clutch of your sex around him. Vice-like. Murderous. He rocks down and you glide with him. He draws back until he’s nearly out of you before snapping forward - punching a moan from your lungs. A push and pull. He tilts his hips and you follow - knowing the ebb and flow of his movements like you’ve done this before. You fist a hand into his curls as you nip his jaw. There is the loud liquid suck of your body greedily accepting his cock again and again. It’s so crude that he can’t quite believe it.

“Steven - fuck,” and now he is acting without thought. He is allowing the insides of himself to take over. It’s like a dance that he is watching from a step away, but oh he feels every second of it. He savors the soaked clasp of your cunt. The smell of your sweat and your hair and your lush skin as it slaps against his.

You shove him away and he groans as he rears back on his heels. His pleasure is dismantled. It is interrupted. You rise up on your knees and kiss him hungrily - nearly swallowing his tongue before you turn around. You get on all fours - your grip taut around the bed frame. His gaze traces the lines of your body - the curve of your ass that hitches into his hip bones and fitting snug.

You know what to do. You’ve done it before. Our girl likes it like this.

Ours. Ours. Ours.

That voice unbearably deep and vibrating with power. It’s like heartburn in his chest - bubbling up his throat.

This is for you, Steven. Trust us. Trust us.

He takes himself in hand and guides it back into your spread, dripping cunt. He bottoms out and you respond beautifully - a fragile wisp of a sob as you blossom around the length of him. You bury your forehead into his pillow. You bite the blanket.

Steven has never been able to keep quiet, but now he is out of words. He grunts low, rumbling noises and sometimes: oh god - fuck - so good -

He hopes that it’s enough for you to realize that this is everything he’s ever wanted. This true connection when he’s always felt like he’s living behind glass. He’s grateful.

He reaches around to pluck at your clit - something he wouldn’t have known to do or hadn’t done before and yet he does. It’s imprinted. The second he touches the swollen nub of it, you seize up like you’ve been electrocuted - pleasure ringing through your veins and limbs and he meets it by grinding deeper into you and there are filthy words flying from your lips in heaving, breathless whimpers and Steven blushes bright red because he can’t quite believe he’s done this with you - even as his cock spits inside you - even as he fills you to the brim without wasting a drop. When he eases himself out, there is his own pearly seed sliding down the backs of your thighs. It seeps between your swollen folds, dripping onto his comforter, which he will never wash again -

He touches it with his fingers - mesmerized. The voice in his head is throaty and smug: do it, Steven. I know you want to. She’ll love it.

He listens. He flips you onto your back - mouthing at your throat and tits before he travels downward. He forces your knees apart and buries his face between your legs - lapping and sucking and devouring what he has done to you. You arch up - hips jerking against his face. His nose hooked enough to deliberately scrape against your clit as he licks from your fucked-open pussy.

You cry out, yanking at his curls until it stings and he’s sure he’s missing patches of hair. He won’t let up. He latches and remains there - his hands now under your ass as he lifts the bowl of your pelvis up - like a platter - like an offering to the Gods - overflowing with nectar - a ritual -

He’ll repeat it. Day in and day out. He will perform this.

His skin burns with arousal. A fever. You know it’s him doing what he’s doing as he feasts - as he suckles his own come from your sex. He does not know this and yet he does. Another lifetime perhaps. Another yesterday. All of his memories are wrapped in plastic and yellowed with age. Opaque. Potentially not his. But this is clear. This he is sure to remember.

He knows. He knows. He knows this and there aren’t any lost hours between them. It is one long day and one long night of this tryst where he doesn’t wake up with a broken jaw or bleeding gums. He does not question your presence or why his fish die or why you care enough to keep him alive when no one else seems to notice him. He’s Steven and you call him by that name.

while we untangle

Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader (implied Marc Spector x F!Reader) Wordcount: 2.9K Warnings: Explicit AF. SMUT. DID. Wounds. Oral. CUM eating. Sry. Summary: Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever. A/N: wow i wrote this instead of working on wys because i hate myself. title from Rufus Du Sol's No Place. i know vague shiz about moon knight but this is my current headcanon of marc being aware of steven and steven just doing his best (lmao). idk if this is really spoilery.

Steven doesn’t quite recall when he started dating you. He does not remember how it happened. You just appear and he simply goes with it because you’re soft and warm and you call him by his name.

It’s a little like magic. He falls asleep and wakes up and you’re there.

“Hi,” you murmur by the side of his bed. His body is aching. His shoulder is screaming. He feels his bones bunching up against the thin shell of his skin.

“What?” He shakes his head. “Who-?”

Their first conversation (that he remembers) is just fragments of words. It is a series of cut-off questions.

Who? What? Where?

You lean forward so quickly he nearly misses it. A flash of your hair and your eyes glittering like fish scales in the blue dawn light. You touch his jaw and use your other hand to comb his sweat-damp curls back from his brow. He wants to say something because he feels naked in front of you - this stranger in his sweats and one of his t-shirts.

Who are you? Who are you?

Instead, he says: “I’m sorry…I didn’t expect guests. I would have cleaned…”

He would have. He would have made an effort. You smile at him and that’s when he notices the gash at your hairline. The strange bruising along your collarbone.

“Did we…?” he finally asks because why else would a girl be in his apartment - at his bedside. Your lips quirk and you shake your head.

“I’m - do we know each other?”

He really shouldn’t press his luck. Things happen to Steven. He ends up with dates he doesn’t remember making. He finds his fridge full and fishes with two fins. There is an attractive woman inches from him and he should just shut up and take it as a sign from God or Gods. Whatever.

“In a way,” you hum as you stretch your arms above your head. Your joints crack and that cut on your forehead beads with blood. A few hours later, he will notice that it’s gone. He will notice that marks on you never last longer than a day.

“In a way?” he echoes. He is lost in this conversation just as he is lost in most conversations. Everyone seems about five feet ahead of him at all times.

“Yes - in a way, but,” You shoot your hand out and grasp his own tightly. He notices his palm is covered in raven-black grease and you don’t seem to mind. “I suppose we should meet formally.”

You tell him your name and he repeats it - rolls it around over his tongue like a smooth marble. His accent is thick and often too chewy in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he even uses the term “accent” because shouldn’t it just be his voice? His tone. His.

He feels like he’s trying to shove himself through a narrow hole. Nothing fits.

***

He starts waking up with you - coming to with you - in weird places. One time, he’s restocking mugs etched with incorrect hieroglyphics and the next thing he knows he’s coughing up blood on a rain-soaked street. It’s thundering. The clouds spiderweb with lightning. There’s the smell of wet leaves and garbage and a neon Exit sign is blinking above him.

“Marc! Help me out here.” You’re a few feet away punching the hell out of a man in back. There’s a splash of blood. It splatters over your nose and chin. You’re in this tight suit that shimmers grey-blue in the rain. Weird. When your eyes meet his, you suddenly grimace. Your expression flits between seemingly concerned and incredibly irritated.

“Who’s Marc?” He rubs his forehead. His teeth feel loose in his mouth. “Wait - where are we?”

Wait. Wait. Wait. He’s always colliding into a disaster or conflict before he can confirm what it is. Where - when - what -

“Fuck,” you growl and then the man you’re fighting socks you right in the temple. You stumble to your knees. Steven doesn’t really think - he doesn’t have to - he rushes forward in some hopeless attempt at protecting you and - well - everything goes black again.

***

He wakes to the tinkling music of a Carnival. He’s got his hands wrapped around a pole with chipped gold paint. There’s a thousand colors blurring into a mosaic of blues and pinks and purples and reds. Yellow as buttered popcorn. Green and copper as scarab beetles. He can taste sugar on his tongue. Cotton candy. His stomach aches.

He looks down and sees the white mane of a wood worse. It’s uncomfortable between his legs. He blinks. He shakes his head.

“You okay?”

He turns to find you sitting - riding - next to him. You’re straddling a unicorn, which oddly seems fitting since he’s about 67% certain you don’t exist. There’s an unreadable expression on your face. A strange transformation. You go from cheerful to anxious and he feels as if he has interrupted something. You bite your lip and reach for his hand. You thread your fingers together as the carousel picks up speed - as it circles and whirs like a cyclone.

That terrifying, obnoxious jingle of music.

“Hi Steven,” you tell him, which he doesn’t understand. Why are you greeting him when you’ve obviously been with him for a while. Are they on a date? This must be a date. Did he drink? He swears it was 4 PM last he checked, but the sky is black-navy. Violet and midnight.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as he clings to the pole with one hand as you hold onto the other. He leans his too-hot temple against the wet-cold surface of it. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what else to say.

***

His eyes flutter open and it’s day again. The midafternoon sun peeks through his heavy blinds. You’re sitting next to him - hunched over like a curled C. One of his heavy mythology books in your lap. You’re reading about Isis and Osiris and he wonders if all his pieces are scattered over the Earth. It would make sense. It would honestly be a relief. An explanation.

There’s a white bandage around your arm with old blood staining half of it. It’s practically brown. He sniffs a metallic tang in the air along with the harsh scent of antiseptic.

He lifts himself up gingerly. More soreness. More agony in his back and the constant headache that thumps at the center of his forehead. He leans into you out of reflex, his chest brushing your shoulder. He touches your arm - drags his finger down the bandage.

“I didn’t do that did I?” He can’t trust himself. He doesn’t know anything. He loses days and nights and you are the only constant in his life. The one unmoved variable.

You twist around to look at him. You’re visibly exhausted. He wonders when you sleep because he’s never seen you do it.

“No,” you assure him. They’re so close that your breath fans over his lower lip. They’re dating and they aren’t. “Dating” is the only word he has for it because he wakes up and you’re in his room or literally in his bed. Sometimes you haul him to a restaurant or coffee shop.

Eat, Steven. You’re very pale.

They’ve never kissed though. They’ve never done anything beyond you looping your arm through his as you take him around London. He hadn’t realized it until now, but every errand they go on has been for his benefit.

You need more shampoo. You need another jacket. You need to get your haircut. Do you want another fish so he has a friend?

You let him talk to you. You let him vomit his words all over you because he has no one else. His mum’s voicemail. His mirror. His mind. One minute, he’s spilling his guts to a living statue and the next he’s spilling his guts to you.

And you respond. You nod and agree or disagree or drop your chin into your hand and listen intently. You laugh when he says something he actually meant to be funny.

“You’re such a weirdo,” you tease in between sips of coffee. It makes his lungs expand to the point he can finally get a full breath in. He is wide awake.

He shifts on the bed. The springs squeak. His sheets are scratchy and he notices there are granules of sand in the folds of linen. Bloody hell and all that.

There’s a wrinkle between your brows as you watch him watch you. You don’t avert your gaze like so many others do when he makes them uncomfortable. He can’t help it. He forgets himself sometimes. You’re different. You meet his stare straight-on.

His voice is low and urgent when he finally asks: “Why do you take care of me?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth. It turns a color and he has to stop himself from swiping it with his tongue - from digging his thumb into the flesh. “I promised someone I would.”

He should question that. Who?

You know who.

The voices have returned. Swelling and shivering at the back of his head. They distract him. Solid. Tempting.

You know her mouth. You’ve tasted it before just not as you. You’ve had her. You’ve felt her. She’s ours.

He doesn't know what to do. He’s aware of his own awkwardness. He’s aware that he often misses social cues even though a large part of him seems to understand them. He just can’t get there.

“Steven,” you whisper like a secret - like their secret - every fucking letter deliberate and compassionate.

He wants to feel this.

He surges forward and kisses you. His body does it before his brain even catches up. He grips the hinge of your jaw and crushes his mouth to yours. You squeak in surprise before relaxing - before allowing him to cradle your cheeks between his hands and continue.

It feels familiar.

His lips move against your lips. His tongue traces your tongue - teasing and caressing and it subtly changes from sweet and careful to frantic and dirty. Your hand is on his chest - right where his heart thumps. He scrapes his teeth over your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. He makes a demanding sound and pulls you closer.

He senses that he’s been at this threshold a thousand times previously. He has to move forward. He knows the steps. He needs to take you - plant himself inside you where he’d be safe. He’s been safe.

His hand palms the crown of your skull. He tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You respond gracefully - your own fingers now locked in his t-shirt. They trade kisses in his dusty room with all of his old books and white-noise sound machines and cheap cutlery. You sigh into his mouth - your breasts crushed against his chest. Your heart. His heart. Pound for pound. Sharing a rhythm. How much would they weigh? The bandage on your arm chafes the inside of his bicep.

You shiver and it surprises him - the fact that he’s capable of arousing such a sensation out of you. He wants to go further.

He wedges himself between your legs. He doesn’t know entirely what he’s doing and yet he does. He’s had to have done something like this before. Maybe, at school. His twenties? He should know though no distinctive memories come to mind. No images of teenage lust in a backseat or fumblings in a dark theater.

Still - he appears to be getting it. Gestures before thoughts. It’s like the act itself is already written on his bones - taped somewhere in his mind with instruction.

At some point, they get naked.

You are spread out on his pillows and he uses his hands to open your thighs. He watches your cunt - shiny and pretty in the afternoon light. There are bruises on your hips - along your ribs. He wants to ask, but doesn’t.

You already know, Steven. You saw her get them last night. Fighting. You have some too.

That voice that’s like his voice, but not.

He slips his fingers against the seam of your folds - nudging between them and watching the effect it has on you. He thrusts to the knuckle before twisting his hand so he can press his thumb to the peak of your sex. You’re so wet and hot and each jerk of his fingers makes you tighter. The repetitive clench of your walls as he eases you through it. The push of slick more erotic than anything he’s ever even dreamt of.

“Oh,” you moan softly. “Oh - shit.”

“I-I think - is that alright?” he stammers - his chest tight - his cock so hard that it juts against his stomach.

You nod furiously. You open your arms to him - come come come - be with me. He goes - capturing your mouth - tongue warm as it slides over yours in a desperate, messy tangle. Your hand circles his cock, grasping him tenderly. You stroke him slow as he fucks into your palm. He kisses you. He kisses your throat - your breasts - your cheeks. You lead him - let him in - and then the head of his cock is rubbing right up against your pussy. It’s furiously hot - making slick sounds as it slips through the seam of swollen flesh.

You stare up at him, lips twitching and kiss-bruised. He keeps his eyes fastened to your face as he sinks in too quickly. You stretch around him - nails digging into his shoulders. Your mouth parting. Oh - it’s like this.

You feel like home. You feel like him. He knows this. He knows the wet clutch of your sex around him. Vice-like. Murderous. He rocks down and you glide with him. He draws back until he’s nearly out of you before snapping forward - punching a moan from your lungs. A push and pull. He tilts his hips and you follow - knowing the ebb and flow of his movements like you’ve done this before. You fist a hand into his curls as you nip his jaw. There is the loud liquid suck of your body greedily accepting his cock again and again. It’s so crude that he can’t quite believe it.

“Steven - fuck,” and now he is acting without thought. He is allowing the insides of himself to take over. It’s like a dance that he is watching from a step away, but oh he feels every second of it. He savors the soaked clasp of your cunt. The smell of your sweat and your hair and your lush skin as it slaps against his.

You shove him away and he groans as he rears back on his heels. His pleasure is dismantled. It is interrupted. You rise up on your knees and kiss him hungrily - nearly swallowing his tongue before you turn around. You get on all fours - your grip taut around the bed frame. His gaze traces the lines of your body - the curve of your ass that hitches into his hip bones and fitting snug.

You know what to do. You’ve done it before. Our girl likes it like this.

Ours. Ours. Ours.

That voice unbearably deep and vibrating with power. It’s like heartburn in his chest - bubbling up his throat.

This is for you, Steven. Trust us. Trust us.

He takes himself in hand and guides it back into your spread, dripping cunt. He bottoms out and you respond beautifully - a fragile wisp of a sob as you blossom around the length of him. You bury your forehead into his pillow. You bite the blanket.

Steven has never been able to keep quiet, but now he is out of words. He grunts low, rumbling noises and sometimes: oh god - fuck - so good -

He hopes that it’s enough for you to realize that this is everything he’s ever wanted. This true connection when he’s always felt like he’s living behind glass. He’s grateful.

He reaches around to pluck at your clit - something he wouldn’t have known to do or hadn’t done before and yet he does. It’s imprinted. The second he touches the swollen nub of it, you seize up like you’ve been electrocuted - pleasure ringing through your veins and limbs and he meets it by grinding deeper into you and there are filthy words flying from your lips in heaving, breathless whimpers and Steven blushes bright red because he can’t quite believe he’s done this with you - even as his cock spits inside you - even as he fills you to the brim without wasting a drop. When he eases himself out, there is his own pearly seed sliding down the backs of your thighs. It seeps between your swollen folds, dripping onto his comforter, which he will never wash again -

He touches it with his fingers - mesmerized. The voice in his head is throaty and smug: do it, Steven. I know you want to. She’ll love it.

He listens. He flips you onto your back - mouthing at your throat and tits before he travels downward. He forces your knees apart and buries his face between your legs - lapping and sucking and devouring what he has done to you. You arch up - hips jerking against his face. His nose hooked enough to deliberately scrape against your clit as he licks from your fucked-open pussy.

You cry out, yanking at his curls until it stings and he’s sure he’s missing patches of hair. He won’t let up. He latches and remains there - his hands now under your ass as he lifts the bowl of your pelvis up - like a platter - like an offering to the Gods - overflowing with nectar - a ritual -

He’ll repeat it. Day in and day out. He will perform this.

His skin burns with arousal. A fever. You know it’s him doing what he’s doing as he feasts - as he suckles his own come from your sex. He does not know this and yet he does. Another lifetime perhaps. Another yesterday. All of his memories are wrapped in plastic and yellowed with age. Opaque. Potentially not his. But this is clear. This he is sure to remember.

He knows. He knows. He knows this and there aren’t any lost hours between them. It is one long day and one long night of this tryst where he doesn’t wake up with a broken jaw or bleeding gums. He does not question your presence or why his fish die or why you care enough to keep him alive when no one else seems to notice him. He’s Steven and you call him by that name.

Yall imagine…

You’re in a relationship with just Steven but you know about Marc. Obviously, because ur so amazing and beautiful, Marc is in love with you. One day, you and Steven fall asleep after having sex and Marc wakes up in the morning with your naked form on top of him. You pressed up on him and he gets all hot and bothered.

Steven gives off the vibes that he would be secretly very rough in bed. imagine you are dating him and it starts to get little steamy and you try to take charge. But, he holds you down and fucks you so hard, he rearranges your organs.

Steven making a video while having sex with you. He is on top and it’s just you in it, your reactions, your tits bouncing, and the sounds you’re making, so Steven can watch it while he was at work. But, imagine Marc wakes up in the morning and goes on a mission and later checks the phone and just sees the video likeeee…..

i M SICK 😭😭😭😭😭🤢🤢🤢

Pretty Boy

Steven got all dolled up to show how good he is for you. Inspired by this post.

tags: established relationship | dry humping | coming in pants/underwear | lingerie | finger sucking | nipple play | light Dom/sub | sub!Steven | Dom!Reader | genderneutral reader

ships: Steven Grant/Reader (and some Marc Spector/Reader on the side)

word count: 2k words

AN: Thank you to @winniethewife for being my beta reader for this. But most importantly: Happy Birthday to @femmeanonymelives who encouraged me to finally finish this fic 💙

AO3

"I haven't even touched you and you're already so worked up, baby," you coo as you watch your boyfriend hump the pillow between his legs. Steven answers you with a soft whimper, cheeks flushed and eyes already glassy as his hips begin to stutter at your words. 

You can't suppress the delighted chuckle that bubbles up in your throat. Steven is a sight to behold. Your darling boy had picked out a set of breath-taking lingerie to surprise you with. And surprise you he did. The gorgeous satin barely covers his straining erection and peaked nipples, his panties already damp and darkened by the inhuman amount of precum leaking from his cock. The stockings held up by a garter belt were a lovely addition to the set. Steven looks truly divine and you can't wait to absolutely ruin him and his underwear. 

You sit on the other side of the room, patiently watching Steven rut against the pillow haphazardly squished between his legs. He's barely holding himself upright, his fingers digging into the sheets, his pecs pushed out to show off the cute bra he put on just for you. 

It occurs to you how ironic it is, the sweet and usually so soft spoken Steven putting on a show for you and even dressing up like the cute little slut he really is. It takes all your willpower not to reach out to him, to push the sweat-soaked hair out of his face and caress his heated skin. 

Steven's soft panting and hiccups are music to your ears. You watch him swallow hard so as to not drool all over himself and his new lingerie. 

"Am I-...Am I doing good?" 

You're pulled out of your reverie by Steven's hesitant question. He still hasn't stopped grinding against the pillow, looking at you like a lost puppy. The way his whole body quivers in anticipation makes you smile. 

"You're doing so good, baby" You coo, your eyes raking over him like a prized possession. "You can go a little faster for me, can't you?" Your voice is saccharine, a demand disguised as a question. Eager to please, Steven nods frantically. "Yes! Yes I can go faster," he responds before quickening his pace. You watch him hump the off-white pillow more forcefully, his needy cock peeking out from the pretty panties, the piece of clothing no longer able to keep his length contained. A slow but steady stream of precum leaks from the tip, smearing messily onto the pillow cover. 

Seeing Steven so desperate arouses you faster than you had expected. Gently, as not to distract him, you shift where you sit and spread your legs just enough for your hand to slip between your thighs. Shamelessly you tease yourself, touching your most sensitive parts to the sight before you. 

Lost in pleasure it takes Steven a moment to notice you touching yourself. With a high-pitched whine his hips stutter. As he leans forward, squinting his eyes, to get a better look, he almost loses his balance in the process, too eager to get even just a glimpse of your arousal. 

"Did I tell you to stop, baby?" 

His eyes go wide, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "N-No. I'm sorry. I just-" 

"I didn't ask for an explanation. Just keep going and look pretty for me," you sigh with your hand still pleasuring yourself. His eyes are fully focused on the way your fingers move. The slick sound of your own touch makes his mouth water. 

"Please, please can I-..." 

“Use your words, baby. What do you want?”

“Please, can I taste you?”

You hum thoughtfully, your hand still busy between your legs as you mull over his plea. You’ve trained Steven well, taught him all the ways he can make you see stars with his lips and tongue alone. You know it would feel amazing to have his face buried between your thighs, having him drink from you like a fountain. But you don’t want this to be over that quickly. You want to see Steven squirm, to hear him beg until his voice is hoarse, edge him until he’d come with just your breath caressing the head of his cock. You shake your head and Steven’s shoulders slump in response. 

His hips jerk and Steven whines, precum leaking steadily from his pretty cock. You should have put up a camera so you could rewatch this again and again. You're sure Steven would let you. Maybe another time. 

“So pretty for me, baby. Doing so good,” you croon, your praise going right to his head and making him feel dizzy. His rhythm falters, his hips moving back and forth erratically. His legs tremble underneath his own weight, even his toned muscles fighting to stay in this position for a long time. 

Shaky moans and soft grunts fill the air as you watch beads of sweat slowly rolling down from his temple down to his neck and getting caught in the thin fabric of his bra. As you watch the spot darken with the moisture your gaze trails down to his hard nipples tenting the bra. You have the sudden urge to touch, to walk over and run your fingers over the sensitive peaks, to lean over and grasp them between your teeth. The urge is so strong you have to bite your lower lip in a desperate attempt to calm yourself. But it’s no use.

You’re up from your seat and over at the bed before you are even conscious of your own actions. Steven looks up at you with glassy eyes, mouth hanging open, gasping softly, waiting for what you will be doing next but still grinding his twitching cock against the almost ruined pillow. He looks so pretty it hurts - your pretty boyfriend all dressed up and aching for you. You reach out towards him and gently grab his chin, your thumb softly pressing on his lower lip. 

“My gorgeous little pet,” you whisper as you lean down to look deep into his eyes, “You’re perfect, you know that? Simply perfect for me.” Steven opens his mouth further in response, his tongue peeking out sheepishly. With a smile you slide your thumb into his eager mouth and watch his eyes slip shut in bliss as he sucks on it. 

“My pretty boy, do you want me to touch you?”

He whimpers around your digit, nodding his head quickly. Your grin widens as he caresses your thumb with his tongue.

“Tell me where, pretty boy.”

Steven opens his eyes slowly to gaze up at you. He looks conflicted - stuck between wanting to keep sucking on your finger and telling you where else he wants your hands. But you're merciful. So he doesn't have to suffer by having to make a decision himself, you gently slip your thumb from between his lips, wiping it clean on his cheek after. 

As soon as his mouth is empty he starts pleading with you. “Please touch me! I don't care where just– please I need your hands on me,” he begs, his voice raspy and hoarse. You click your tongue at him in mock disapproval, “You don't care where, hm?” Teasingly you caress his cheek with just the tips of your fingers, trailing down his neck and shoulders. He keens, his hips jerking against the pillow, the wet stain on his pretty panties growing bigger and darker. “Is this enough, baby? Since you don't care where I touch you?” He shakes his head violently, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

“Then use your words, love. Where do you want my hands?” Your fingers linger over his collarbone. “Here? Or do you want me to go lower?” Not waiting for an answer your fingers follow an invisible path downward, skimming the edges of his bra. “Want me to play with your pretty tits, darling?” Words failing him, Steven whines and nods eagerly, pushing his chest out, eager for your touch. Carefully you pull down his bra, just enough to expose his hard nipples, the straps hanging uselessly off of his shoulders. 

You reach forward and gently squeeze his pecs before drawing slow circles around his nipples with your thumbs. He’s so responsive, his hips twitching forward, fucking into the pillow, with every little touch. You pinch, squeeze and flick his nipples with just enough pressure to ride that sweet line between pleasure and pain. His nipples are flushed, the rush of blood making them stand out even more against his tan skin. You could do this for ages, just playing with those sensitive peaks while Steven writhes and moans beneath your touch.

“Please- oh stars- I’m so close,” Steven sobs, “I can’t- I can’t stop.”

You wanted to draw this out even longer, edging yourself and him until neither of you can take it anymore. But you know by the sound of his voice, the way his body trembles and by the quite impressive amount of pre-cum ruining the pillow he is grinding against that Steven has reached his limit.

“It’s alright, baby. You’ve been so good for me. Such a pretty boy,” you tell him sweetly, “You can come. Come for me, Steven.”

He breathes out a short thank you and fucks into the pillow with abandon for a few more seconds until he comes with a drawn out moan. His aching cock twitches violently, ropes of cum painting himself and the pillow, finally ruining the cover completely. You watch him come undone, his head thrown back as he pants for air. It takes a few moments for him to come down from his high. You lean forward to kiss his neck, whispering words of praise into his skin. 

His breathing slows and he leans his head against yours. “That was amazing,” he sighs, his smile audible. You agree with a soft laugh. Your gaze trails from him to the mirror next to the bed. There you see the full aftermath of your playtime. The sight takes your breath away: your boyfriend flushed and slick with sweat wearing a now ruined pair of lingerie, his cock still poking out from his panties. “Look at you, baby,” you gasp in awe. Steven's brow furrows and he follows your gaze to the mirror. His eyes widen as he sees what you had been admiring the whole time. Heat rises in his cheeks, reality hitting Steven now that excitement and arousal are no longer clouding his thoughts. “Oh dear, that's– wow I don't–,” he stammers, suddenly embarrassed, “I mean, I should probably take this off before-” 

You watch his eyes go unfocused in the mirror. The languid lines of his back grow taunt and you can feel the energy shift in the room. He looks down at himself, torn and cum-stained lingerie barely covering his intimate parts. 

“What the- Steven! What are we wearing?!” he hisses under his breath. 

You snort, surprised yet amused by the sudden switch. He flinches and turns to you like he only just noticed you next to him. Your eyes roam over his body, watching him hungrily. Marc swallows hard. “As I was about to tell Steven: You look good. Very good.”

His cock twitches, already eager to grow hard again. You should probably thank Khonshu later for their inhuman refractory period. 

You reach out and grab his chin, tilting his head to the side so he can look into your eyes. “Marc,” his name drips from your lips like honey, ”Don't be embarrassed.” He swallows hard, nervous energy mixing with the stirrings of renewed arousal. You pull his face closer towards you and catch his lips in a short but sensual kiss.

As you part again you whisper to him, “Let me show you how much I enjoy seeing you in this,” and push him down onto the bed, straddling his thighs. Marc looks up at you with the same needy look Steven had given you before and simply nods, words failing him. 

“Very good. Just lay here and look pretty.”

How Would the Moon Boys React: To you calling them by their first name based on the internet trend below: https://youtu.be/3FOLHWDY-4c?si=ZXIl1UkcNSCdvaZ4

Steven:

You and Steven have spent the day cleaning up around the flat and running errands around the city. Therefore, you both decided it would be best to unwind by reading in bed together.

Steven comes back into your bedroom with two mugs of tea for the both of you. You peck his lips in thanks.

“Hey Steven, before you sit down, can you please pass me that book on your nightstand?”

He turns around quickly. “Who is that?”

You giggle. “Steven, can you please pass the book over?”

Steven looks at you with those puppy eyes you love so much.“Why did you call me, Steven?”

“Because It’s your name, silly.”

“I’m not Steven. I’m your honey bunny.”

“Steven…”

“Honey bunny!”

“Steven…”

“ I’m not, Steven. I’m your honey bunny and that’s that.”

You smile and nuzzle into his chest. “Yes, you are.”

Marc:

You and Marc are watching a show on television, scrolling through your phones. Then something interesting comes up that reminds you of Marc that you just had to show him.

“Hey Marc, can I show you something?”

He looks up from his phone. “What did you just say?”

You start repeating your question again.“Can I show you some…?”

“I heard that part. I meant before that.”

“Hey Marc…?”, you say confusedly.

“Oh shit… what day is it?”, he starts checking his phone and looks up at the calendar.

No important dates. He thinks. Did he leave the toilet seat up? Did he forget to do the dishes? Did he leave on a mission without giving her a goodbye kiss before leaving?

“Hello. Earth to Marc…Baby, are you okay?”

“You called me baby? You aren’t mad at me?

You giggle.“No. But I was worried you were upset.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before Marc engulfs you in a hug. “I love you.”

You wrap your arms around him. “I love you too, baby.”

Jake:

Jake is currently working on his car outside of the flat. As a good girlfriend, you decide to go out and offer him some refreshments.

When you get outside, you see him working under the hood of his car.

“Hey Jake, I brought you some water and…”

You then hear Jake hit his head against the hood of the car as he mutters some curse words in Spanish.

You look at him concerned. “Jake, are you okay?”

“Cariño, stop calling me that!”, he says exasperated.

“What, by your name?”

“My name is Jake to you. It’s babe, baby, or daddy”, he says, giving you a smirk.

“Jake!”, you giggle.

“That’s it! He carries you over his shoulders and “You won’t be calling me Jake after this.”

“But your car…”, you start saying before he quickly interrupts you.

“Forget the car. I have more important matters to attend to”, he says as he enters your flat and locking the door.

How Would the Moon Boys React: To you wearing something sexy

Steven:

Looks at you in amazement as he admires your body all around. As if you were a deity of some sort, he brings one of your hands to his lips. He then goes onto telling you how beautiful you are as well as how fortunate he is to have you in his life.

Marc:

Straightens himself out before telling you to sit on his lap. This leads to a heated make out session that then leads to cuddling, with you still sitting in his lap. Though silent, both your actions are those filled with love and respect for one another.

Jake:

Gives you the look before walking over to you, carrying you over his shoulder and into the bedroom. The night being filled with endless love making with sweet touches and whispered sweet nothings to one another being exchanged between you both until morning.