Moon Knight Tv - Tumblr Posts

𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐃 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭

pairing: steven grant x fem!reader

summary: working at a museum had its perks one of them being developing a stupid crush on your co-worker

warning: cuteness overload

a/n: requests are open!

not my gif!

.°•*♡

the day started as usual; not hearing your alarm, not finding a good enough outfit to wear, your hair having a moody day, the other shoe being missing, burning yourself with hot water, spilling your coffee on your blouse, closing the door on your finger and your car not starting.

what could possibly go wrong further?

probably donna putting you on inventory for being late. it bothered you for a second until you realized that steven would probably be there with you. he scurried in ten minutes after you, splattering apologies left and right.

it was cute.

he looked good today. not like he didn't every other day, but today, there was something about his hair falling just right in his face, his smile just warming up the place, his curious eyes awakening bubbles in your stomach and let's not get started on his outfit.

the button up shirt was hugging all the right places and his pants was a bit tight on his arse area leaving much to the imaginative mind, the denim jacket he was wearing over the shirt made you giddy. like you said, steven grant looked good.

gosh, stupid crush.

"y/n?" donna snapped her fingers in your face and you looked at her bewildered. how long had you been staring at steven? must have been a while, because he was now standing behind the counter scanning barcodes on multiple sweets and toys.

"you with us?"

"yeah, yeah sorry. i had a terrible morning," you lied through your teeth. well not technically lying seeing as you clearly had a terrible morning.

donna smirked, "that terrible morning have anything to do with stevie boy?"

gosh no, never.

you shook your head, "no."

looking at the clock you gasped, the next school bus should be here in ten minutes and your flashcards where no where to be found.

shit!

you forgot them on your desk. you had put a reminder on your phone last night that first thing when you wake up is to take the flashcards but you didn't even have a chance to look at your phone. speaking of said phone, it's still on charge. at home.

"no flashcards?"

"no flashcards."

donna sighed, "i'll get someone else to lead the tour today, go help stevie with the sweets and toys there would ya?"

she walked away, "it's steven."

~

"what does jellies have anything to do with egyptian mythology, it's a waste of money, honestly."

"i completely agree with you," you said and steven jumped a little, not expecting anyone to be actually listening to him.

"h-hi, sorry. i mumble a lot," he sputtered his face turning beet red. you smiled shaking your head.

"don't worry about it, steven, i do it all the time," you giggled and steven nodded throwing another sweets bag into the basket. steven looked uncomfortable, but that was from your perspective.

from steven's perspective, his heart was racing. his hands were sweating and if you focused hard enough you'd see a small tremble in his hands. why? because he was hopelessly and madly in love with you it was actually embarrassing.

the countless hours he spent staring at you as you danced across the museum, how your eyes seemed to sparkle and how you held your professional pose when a ridiculous question was asked by a pre-schooler. the smile you'd throw him when you caught him staring made his heart stop and it felt as if he would pass out then and there.

it was awkwardly oblivious the effect you had on him for everyone except you.

"shouldn't you be touring a bunch of pre-schoolers?" he mumbled as he busied his hands. you toyed with a egyptian hippo shaking your head.

"forgot my flashcards," you said and steven nodded.

"how's boss lady handling the news?"

you chuckled, "i'm probably on inventory tonight."

"looks like i'm not alone tonight," steven chuckled and you smiled at him.

"thank goodness for that," you said and grabbed the scanner from him scanning the hippos, whilst steven just stared at you.

knock it out, weirdo.

damnit, stupid crush.

~

usually, it was either you or steven in here. never both of you, but it seems like tonight the universe had other plans. probably tired of you both walking on egg shells around each other trying not to spill a love confession.

conversation flowed easily between you and steven, which was a surprise to both of you. steven whooed you with facts about egypt and you whooed him with what's happening on the news nowadays. you were an odd pair but it was rare in a world like today.

you caught steven staring at you multiple times in the past hour, and if your face turned any red shade darker, you were sure you'd explode.

"is there something on my face?" you randomly asked as you turned to him and wiping across your face.

"wh-what?" steven asked putting down a box of artifacts and looking at you putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

"is there something on my face?"

"n-no, why do you ask?"

"cause you keep looking at me as if i have something on my face," you smiled and wringed your hands together looking down.

steven gulped, it's either now or never, right?

"i'm sorry, you just look s-so beautiful."

you gasped, looking at him with wide eyes. you've probably had to much candies. the sugar is probably playing tricks on your mind. yep, that's all it was, tricks was being played.

"wh-what?"

"y/n, i've had the longest and stupidest crush on you from the moment you had walked through that doors. you had held my heart in the palms of your hands the second you said hello to me, and i knew i wanted to marry you when you said goodbye,"steven said, looking anywhere but you.

"steven, look at me," you said softly walking towards him and putting your hands on his cheeks.

"i've had the stupidest crush on you as well," you smiled. steven put his hands on yours leaning into its touch.

he smiled like a toddler. a look of unbelieve and pure excitement in his eyes. if he could he'd stare at you all night. he probably could, and he probably would.

"steven, kiss me," and he did. his lips was soft but firm. his hands moved to your waist pulling you closer to him. your hands snaked around his shoulders weaving themselves in between his locks. you pulled away and rested your forehead against his and bit your lip.

thanks, stupid crush.

𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖊𝖗 | 𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙

pairing: steven grant x fem!reader

summary: how could you possibly go to sleep when steven looks so so good wearing those glasses of his, nose deep in a book

warning: steven

a/n: just because i feel lonely i decided to write this. this is very very short but i hope y'all enjoy!

not my gif!

.°•*♡

convincing steven to come to bed wasn't going to happen. he was nose deep in his book for the past hour and a half only looking up briefly at you every fifteen minutes and shooting you a toothy grin. the affect this man had on you.

you weren't complaining about the sight though.

you could stare at steven in his glasses all night. the way his eyebrows furrowed when he read something, or the way his lips curved upward every five minutes. his curls falling in his face, his stubble was beginning to grow and that tired look did things to you.

steven looked good. too good.

"everything alright, honey?" he suddenly asked and you nodded, biting the tip of your finger.

"peachy," you smiled at him.

you sat up, "whatcha reading there?"

he chuckled, "try not to laugh at me," he arched an eyebrow at you and moved his glasses out of the way.

shaking your head you smiled at him.

"i'm reading about nefertari and ramses the great."

he's doing it again, talking about something only he knows and expecting you to magically know about it. he looked at you with those puppy dog eyes, and you just arched a brow motioning for him to continue.

"ramses had about two hundred wives but nefertari was his first true love. like he wrote poetry for her occasionally, he bought her everything and built stuff for her. he always spoke well of her," he looked at you and you smiled.

"he sounds like a real gentleman."

"yeah, but the two hundred wives is a bit much isn't it?"

you nodded. he looked down at his book again, "listen to this line he wrote on her chamber of her burial site, 'my love is unique - no one can rival her, for she is the most beautiful woman alive. just by passing, she has stolen my heart.' not to sound cheesy, my love, but you also stole my heart." he smiled.

you blushed and smiled, "well if i stole your heart why don't you come join me in bed."

steven stood up and placed his glasses on the desk along with his book. he climbed into bed pulling you into his chest. you placed your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat and breathing in his scent.

he brushed his fingers through your hair and kissed your forehead multiple times.

"i love you," he breathed.

"i love you, too."

.°•*♡

𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 | 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫

pairing: marc spector x fem!reader

summary: you rarely fought, but when you did it got pretty bad.

warning: angst that turns into fluff

a/n: requests are open!

not my gif!

.°•*♡

you rarely fought, but when you did, it got pretty bad. hurtful things were being said left and right and that meant marc left the apartment fuming and you with a broken heart.

tonight was one of the nights where a fight was inevitable. marc stumbled into the apartment and an unholy hour of the night, he was beaten up and bruised and he didn't even bother to tell you how or where it had happened. he simply brushed off your questions and made his way into the bathroom.

"marc, would you just answer me!"

he grumbled and took off his shirt exposing a big scar that went from his ribs near to his navel. taking out the first aid kid that was under the sink; he grabbed some cotton and rubbing alcohol. hissing at the pain you looked away.

"what happened?" you tried again but still no answer. "marc, please i'm worried about you."

"then stop!" he hissed at you and slammed the bathroom door in your face. you gulped down the lump that was forming in your throat and walked away from the door.

you went into the kitchen and boiled some hot water, taking a mug out of the cupboard and a teabag of one of marc's favorite tea. after the water boiled you poured it into the mug and left it on the table. you also took his food out of the oven and placed it next to the tea with a fork and a knife.

when you were done you made your way into the bedroom, taking off the clothes from the day before and putting on one of marc's shirts and sweats, you also grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the linen closet making your way to the guest bedroom.

you heard marc move around in the kitchen, then you heard his plate being put in the sink, then you heard his footsteps going past the guest bedroom into the bedroom, then quickly turning around and coming to the guest bedroom.

he knocked softly, you probably wouldn't have heard it if you weren't focusing on every move he made. when you didn't answer he opened the door and leaned against the door frame.

"i know you're awake," he said but you only turned your back towards him. you didn't want to fight with him. you just cared about him. you just worried about him. all you wanted was an explanation.

marc moved towards the bed and sat down at the foot of the bed. "can you please come back to bed?"

no response.

"i'm sorry i lashed out on you."

again, no response.

"i know you worry about me, and i know i don't always appreciate it, but i do, i really do," he told you, rubbing a hand up and down your leg. he hoped that would pull something out of you but it didn't.

your eyes brimmed with tears, "honey, please. i'm sorry."

you only nodded. he climbed in behind you, pulling you flat against his chest. he kissed your shoulder to where your shoulder and neck connected and then behind your ear.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, his breath tickling your ear.

you turned around, "i care about you, i worry about you and i love you so much that if i lost you without knowing where or how it happened i wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"i know honey, i'm sorry. i'll try to be better at communicating with you."

you nodded, your thumb running over his cheek bone and light stuble. marc kissed your palm and then pulled you in to kiss your lips.

"i love you too," he said between kisses.

you smiled, "we can go back to bed now, it's kinda uncomfortable on a twin size bed."

marc chuckled and stood up taking your hand and leading you to the bedroom.

𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖟𝖞 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 | 𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙

pairing: steven grant x fem!reader

summary: since donna had put you both in inventory, why not make put of it a date?

warning: probably my lack of inspo, sorreyy

a/n: requested! also this is really really really short! Hi there! Could you do a Steven Grant fic where he surprises you to a nice little date at the museum he works at and gives you a private tour of every exhibit? Thank you! @aspie-allie

not my gif!

.°•*♡

"oh and this is just my favorite exhibit of all the exhibits!" steven exclaimed as he squeezed your hand in his. he led you through the many paintings and small statues of the many gods and goddesses of egypt.

his eyes sparkled and he carried a toothy grin. he explained about what power each god and goddess held over egypt though the years and the love story between some of them. you didn't care about any of it really, you just care about the person who couldn't stop rambling about them.

the way his voice changed a few octaves with each explanation, or the way his eyes searched for something new you might find interesting, or the way his hair fell into his face and his attempt to move it out of the way, and maybe it was for the fact that he didn't let go of your hand. you didn't mind. not at all.

steven wasn't shy, he just wasnt fond of making the first move. so when the two of you started your own private little tour of the museum you took hold of his hand, and steven didn't let go. not even once.

"i'm rambling again, ain't i? i'm sorry y/n, i don't wanna spoil the night with my rambling," he told you, and he looked down scratching the back of his neck.

you were quick to take hold of his other hand, you squeezed it and he looked up at you.

"i would never get tired of your rambling, if it meant i get to stare at you, then please, by all means, ramble away."

steven chuckled and blushed. he nodded and looked around, "c'mon just 'round there is all the fun stuff."

steven pulled you along with him and you giggled, jogging after him still hand in hand. maybe it's cliche but what you were feeling for steven was like in every fairytale book your mother ever read to you.

maybe you just believed in crazy love.

𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 '𝖓 𝖌𝖔 | 𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖈/𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓

pairing: marc spector x fem!reader/steven grant x fem!reader

summary: leave it to steven to patch things up

requested: hello!! hope you're having a great day. idk if requests are open. but if it is, can i request a marc spector x reader? he and reader got into a big fight, marc giving the body back to steven. while they grew apart, marc can see how she struggled through steven's eyes. and steven being the softie, he comforts her and asks her when she's ready so that he can let marc take control. just angst and fluff please. i'd really love it. thank you!!!

warning: i dunno man, not much ?

a/n: sorry for dissapearing for a while. school was being a pain but yeah, i'm ready for some steven

not my gif!

.°•*♡

steven made his way through the apartment. the air was filled with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. he felt and was visibly uncomfortable. it wasn't always like this. with you around his apartment always smelled like fresh baked apple pie and there where a candle on the table that was lit, the vase of sunflowers where always bright.

but today, their leaves were hanging and the colour was draining from the petals. the apartment didn't smell amazing and the candle was laying shattered on the ground. the coffee table had been moved a few inches and it was suspiciously quiet.

it could've been his ears misleading him but he heard a faint yelp. steven made his way to the room you both had shared. the door was almost never closed so he began to get worried.

what had happened?

"y/n?" he called out and knock a few times on the door, he slowly pushed it opened to see you kneeling on the floor with your index finger in your mouth.

"honey what happened?" steven stepped closer but you quickly stopped him.

"don't come closer, here's shattered glass everywhere," your voice sounded hoarse and your tear stained cheeks broke his heart. steven could sense that you had let your guard down knowing it was him instead of someone else.

instead of marc.

"angel, i have shoes on. it's you i'm worried about," he pointed out, and looked towards your bare feet. you nodded and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. steven walked over towards you picking you up and placing you on the bed. kneeling down he picked up the bigger shards of glass before returning with a broom.

"what happened?"

"it's nothing really. it's my fault too, to be honest," you sniffled. there wasn't another logical explanation.

but you can't help but worry about him. about how he's grinding steven's body. how neither of them is getting any rest. you can't remember the last time steven even ate a plate of real food.

steven quickly maneuvered his way to you taking your hands in his.

"none of that. marc has to work on his temperament around you."

you nodded and opened your mouth to say something but nothing had come out. but what if you just layed it lower then this wouldn't have had happened. maybe if you didn't want to know about their wellbeing all the time he wouldn't have said you were being clingy.

you know marc didn't mean what he had said, it was only said out of anger. you had also said hurtful things.

"could you maybe tell marc that i'm sorry. for what i had said," you asked softly toying with your fingers. steven chuckled, you were absolutely adorable.

"yeah, i'll tell the bugger."

you smiled at him and layed your head on steven's chest. you can always count on steven to make things better. tend the wounds. fix your broken heart.

"g'night steven," you yawned and layed back.

"g'night my love."

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.

Professor Grant is now living rent free in my brain

PLEASE SOMEONE WRITE THIS

I don't quite understand this, professor

I'm sorry but this can happen when you read too much fanfiction

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? 

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!

reflejo

jake lockley x female!reader

summary: your boyfriend refuses to tell you why he got a mirror installed into the ceiling of his limo. instead, he’d much rather show you.

a/n: *not my pic, it’s from pinterest* y’all this may just be my trashy threshold. like we got jake for .2 seconds and I told myself I didn’t have enough on him to write a full-length fic, but here we fucking are. also this was inspired by a post I saw that said jake is the type to have a mirror on his ceiling and closer by nine inch nails (do with that what you will). so fucking strap yourselves in this, cause good god this is something else.

warnings: porn. no plot, just pure fucking porn. I can’t really explain myself on this one, guys, it’s just horny shit. +18 content. unprotected p in v; use of mirrors 👀; multiple positions = multiple rounds/multiple orgasms; over-stimulation; tit-fucking; fingering; very rough sex; spanking; oral sex (m receiving)/facefucking; creampie; mutual masturbation (jake wants her to watch herself); nipple-play; praise kink; crying; spit kink; light choking; cock-warming; slight exhibitionism; lotta fucking dirty talk; pet names; swearing; when the cars-a-rockin, don’t come-a-knockin; it’s a long one guys.

word count: 5k (I’m not sorry)

main m.list | moon knight m.list

translations

join my taglist!

•••

“Take them off.”

Your teeth clamp down on the straw of your drink in surprise. “What?”

Slowly, you look to Jake.

He’s leaned all the way back in his seat, one hand on the wheel with the other in his lap. He’s looking at the road, monitoring the intersection. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought you imagined it. You would’ve shaken the whole thing off and gone back to sipping on your milkshake. But then his breathing grows hoarse, and his gaze slides over to you.

Without any effort, it holds you there; traps you in a corner as his tongue glides over his teeth.

“I said, take them off.”

Setting your drink down you cross your arms and raise an eyebrow at him. “Take what off?”

He doesn’t say anything back to you. Instead, he simply looks down to where the condensation from the cup dripped onto your jeans. You frown. There’s hardly anything there, just a couple drops of a darker blue on your thigh. Spots that will inevitably dry in a matter of minutes.

But knowing Jake, the smallest thing gets him going. And as you meet his ravenous stare, your pulse quickens. Because you know him.

And you know he’s not asking.

“Jake, honey, you should be paying attention to the road.” You mumble, uncomfortably shifting in your seat as you grow more hot and bothered.

He hums, eyes retreating back to the red street light. “I can multitask, princesa.”

You gulp, becoming incredibly conscious of how exposed you are in the passenger seat. Cars line either side of you, and you realize if anyone of them looked they’d be able to see the two of you. Could easily see the activities Jake is suggesting.

“Princesa,” his voice is a warning without malice. A chilling, even tone that raises goosebumps across your skin. You let out a shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding in.

If this is what he wants…

You unbuckle your seatbelt, and the sound makes his face twitch ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t watch you as he starts the car back up and lurches forward, but you can tell he knows exactly what you’re doing.

He’s waiting for it.

Lifting the lower half of your body, you unbutton and unzip your jeans, shimmying them down your thighs until you’re just in your underwear and your pants sit at your ankles.

You catch him smile then—a devilish, appeased grin that quirks up the corners of his mouth. Raising his free hand to his mouth, he then pulls off his one glove with his teeth.

“Keep your eyes forward, cariño. Don’t want anyone to know what we’re up to, d’you?”

You nod, unable to trust your voice as his warm hand comes into contact with your thigh. Long, thick fingers clutch your leg and begin to massage the soft flesh there.

As he assured you earlier, his attention remains on the road. With ease, his one hand turns the wheel and navigates the mid-day traffic, while the other inches up to the waistband of your panties.

His fingers dip beneath the elastic and you gasp at the contact of his fingers grazing the skin just above your mound. And then, as slow as he can possibly be, his fingers stroke your folds; sliding along your seam as he spreads around your arousal.

He huffs and swallows: his adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the motion. “Mierda, hermosa. You’re this wet already? I haven’t even touched you…” He makes a sound of faux disappointment then. “Good thing, I like it like that.”

You don’t respond, not even sure if you could. So you choose to physically react; to allow your hips to buck upward into his palm until he’s firm against you.

Your heaving, strangely so from what little he’s actually done. But you are in fact desperate. A needy little thing that needs his fingers inside you. Stroking and touching you anywhere and everywhere.

And what’s worse?

You know he knows this.

It makes the game the two of you play dangerous, especially depending on his mood. On whether or not he feels like rewarding you, or just straight up punishing you.

You guess you’ll have to wait and see.

But for now, you rely on the twinge of pleasure that rubbing yourself against him brings. Your hand wraps around the door handle to steady yourself as you grind on his hand. You moan quietly, head thrown back into the headrest of the chair as that pleasure increases.

But the second you grab his hand in an effort to shove him down further, you realize you’re fucked.

Because he didn’t like that.

Jake pulls away from you, this time, using both hands to park the car in an empty lot. The second the car is shut off he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing the door open.

Oh, he really didn’t like that.

Shivering, you try to pull your pants back up. Enough that they cover you up, but not to the point where you’d have to undo them again. Because you know he’s going to rip them off anyway.

Your door is thrown open, and there’s Jake—standing before you with an angry look on his face and a growing hard-on that sits right at eye-level.

“Get out,” he grumbles, and you do as your told. Then he’s slamming your door shut, and opening the back one. The two of you stand there, staring at each other. You look at him with anticipation, but he just regards you with impatience.

“I’m not waiting all day, princesa.”

He’s mumbling to himself as you climb into the back, incoherent Spanish that you can’t quite pick up on.

You take a seat at the furthest end of the limo, watching him as he locks the door and chucks off his hat. But then your eyes catch the light on the carpeted floor. It’s a bright white sliver of light against black. Unmistakably out of place.

It takes you a moment to find the source, as you look everywhere for it. Until…your eyes gloss over it. You almost dismiss it, nearly not registering it in time.

A large, rectangular mirror that you’ve never seen before rests in the middle of the ceiling. Yours and Jake’s reflection refracts in it: a weird, flipped distortion of the two of you.

When the fuck did he get that?

“It was supposed to be a surprise.” His voice pulls you from your train of thought, back to reality where he leans over you. Taking a knuckle, he runs it over the curve of your cheek before pressing his mouth into the base of your neck.

“Why do you have it?” He chuckles menacingly against your skin, biting bruises into your collarbone.

“You’re smart, corazón… Figure it out.”

His hands are then working at your jeans, ripping them down your legs and tossing them to the other end of the limo. He’s slow in his movements and in his words, and somehow that feels off. Typically, Jake rushes. A frenzied mess of clacking teeth and rouge limbs as he fucks you into oblivion.

But this is different. You can feel it in the tips of your fingers and in your toes. He has other plans—other torturous ideas—for today.

But the mirror…

Oh.

He kneels before you then, dragging his mouth from the inside of your ankle all the way to your inner thigh. “Get down here already.”

With half a mind, you fall to the ground, allowing him to flip you over onto your back. You watch him in confusion as he leaves you to sit where you were. He works at unbuttoning his own pants and kicking them off before looking at you.

“Now, since you clearly don’t want my help—“ Fuck. “—Since you’d much rather get off by yourself…why don’t you, hm? Why don’t you show me how the princesa wants to be touched.”

“Jake, I’m so—“

“No.” He growls. “If you want to make it up to me, do what I ask… Go on, baby. Fuck yourself.”

Unease settles in the pit of your stomach as you look up at your reflection. Red picks at your skin in embarrassment as your body curls in on itself.

You’ve never done this before, have never entertained watching yourself or having someone else watch you. But you know if you asked, Jake would stop immediately. If you really didn’t want this, Jake wouldn’t either.

So the fact that he sits and stares; waiting for you to make the first move says something.

So with as much confidence as you can muster, you hook your thumbs beneath the hem of your underwear, pulling them down slowly. Your thighs stay clenched together, as you flick them off the fabric with your ankle. The sight of your dripping pussy is open and bare; presented to him like you’re a display.

A private display that he gets to keep all to himself.

You’re hesitant as your hand grazes your belly and snakes down to your slit. Taking a deep breath, you go to touch your clit, but then Jake clears his throat.

“Remember, hermosa, this is for you. All for you. So make sure to watch yourself.”

Your breath hitches at his words. At their indication. It’s then that your knees fall apart subconsciously. Opening yourself up to the building intensity in the air. Guiding your hand down your seam, you then begin to caress your folds. A strangled sigh escapes you, relief immediately knocking the wind out of your lungs.

You look back up to the mirror and catch the effortless look of contentment on your face. The way your eyes droop and your lips purse naturally. You’re hyper-aware of how focused Jake is on you; on the show, you’re giving him. You desperately want to watch him, to see the way he darkens while salivating. But you follow his instructions, keeping your eyes to yourself.

Your breaths are shallow; nipples pebbling under the fabric of your bra. You want to take it off. To try to cool down from the heat that courses through you, but you can’t remove your hand away from your cunt. It’s as though it has a mind of its own.

Your thumb rubs your clit in small, tight circles while your middle finger teases your hole. Clenching over nothing, you ache for your own hand to finally satisfy what you’ve been so badly craving.

And so you so slowly push it in. You let out a sharp gasp, hips rolling until your entire finger is inside you. You then pull out slowly, mindful of how Jake has a perfect view of your arousal leaking out of you. You do that a couple more times before adding a second finger and curling them in your channel.

Whimpering, your other hand cups your breast, squeezing it with an elongated sigh.

“Fuck, cariño.”

Your eyes shoot to Jake, only to see him with his cock out and lying flat against his palm. His shirt is long discarded, sitting in the pool of clothes at his feet.

He sits erect, dick practically touching his stomach as his fingers squeeze himself. He lets out a hiss, eyes finding yours.

“What did I say, hermosa.”

Your head falls back to the floor. “Keep your eyes—“

“Keep your eyes on the fucking mirror.” You let out a huff and go back to riding your hand: revelling in the feeling. It feels good—fucking great to finally give your pulsing bud attention. But it’s still not enough.

You want more. You want him.

But this, in and of itself, is punishment. You grabbed his hand to fuck yourself with and now, he’s going to wait until you cum on your fingers before he even thinks about laying a hand on you.

It’s fucking irritating. Because now you’re too distracted. There’s no way you can focus on your own body when you’re too preoccupied with the way Jake touches his. He doesn’t do much more than pump himself; slowly spreading the precum all down his length. But with the over-exaggerated sounds he makes for you, you can’t help but get fired up.

You can tell this amuses him. Can see it in the permanent mischievous glint in his eyes that he knows you can’t cum now. That you’re nowhere near that peak.

He finds it funny.

Ironic.

And no matter how many times you look up to yourself in the mirror; no matter how dirty it is to watch your own hand slip between your thighs, you just can’t feel it.

You need him. So you might as well suck up to him.

Literally.

Sitting up suddenly, you stare him down. He doesn’t say anything. No sarcastic quip or harsh demand to keep doing what you’re doing.

He’s a fox. A hungry predator who sits and waits because he knows he’ll get what he wants, how he wants it.

You then throw off your shirt and unclasp your bra before crawling over to him. He watches you intently, eyeing the way you shift on the backs of your legs as you sit in front of him; on how your eyes glance between him and his cock.

“Having a hard time enjoying yourself, muñeca?” You cross your arms over your bare chest, looking at him through your eyelashes; feigning innocence in the way you know he likes. He chuckles to himself, leaning down to your level. “Or is it that you finally realize I do it better?”

You groan watching his cock bob as he sits back. The man then gestures to you, and down to his dick. “Why don’t you fix the little mess you made, —.”

It’s the one time he’s ever said your name during sex. And for a moment, a brief second, you think Marc’s fronting. Because Marc calls you by your name.

But you know better. Because Marc isn’t this evil.

Regardless, Jake calling you by your name is completely different. So it’s a powerful sign.

A sign that he wants you just as much as you want him.

Stretching your body upward, you puff your chest out, and he slips his dick along your breastbone. Taking the hint, you close your shoulders, pushing your breasts together until he groans. You arch your spine gently, squishing his cock between the mounds of flesh.

“Goddammit, cariño.” He spits. His cock moves with his hips, and in doing so, bumps your chin with every thrust. The fat head hits your bottom lip over and over again.

But then your jaw falls slack. You create a small opening for him. An invitation. And he takes it without hesitation.

If Jake Lockley had a plan for going slow; for fuelling the embers to your collective fire, that was no longer the case.

Because the second your lips wrap around him, he’s grabbing a fistful of your hair, and guiding you back and forth on him.

Forcing your tongue to the bottom of your mouth, you inhale deeply through your nose to avoid gagging. Though it’s hard because of his size. It’s hard to hollow your cheeks around his girth; hard to focus on anything other than the way he keeps hitting the back of your throat.

You try to tease him. To cup his balls as you trace the tip with your tongue. But Jake had staked claim to your mouth a long time ago. So all you could do was sit there and take it. Allow him to fuck your mouth until your eyes and your cunt are soaked.

His grunts are harsh as his hips roll up into your mouth. Spit covers his cock, drips down your chin and glistens beneath the mirror every time he pulls out and slams back into you.

“Tal un boca bonita,” he mumbles, running his thumb over the side of your stretched-out mouth. “Such a good girl for me.”

Tears have begun to pool in the hollow of your throat, and the sight only seems to spur him on. Holding your head in place with both hands—one on your chin and the other tugging on your scalp—his hips buck wildly. He grows bigger, gets harder on your tongue and you can tell he’s close.

The incoherent mumbling comes back. Words that, you aren’t even too sure are Spanish, sound more like breathy moans as he fucks your mouth through his release.

Warmth fills up the back of your throat, and the salty taste of both his sweat and his cum coats your tastebuds as he pulls out.

Recollecting himself, he tries to even out his breathing. His still hard cock rests on his thigh (regardless of how much of him you just swallowed), practically perking up at the sight of you and your coated thighs.

Jake drags a clammy hand down his face and wipes away the sheen on his forehead. When he comes to—when he sees the sight of your fucked out face, the sticky smear on your lips and your tousled hair, he smiles.

Grabbing your face, he forces his tongue past your teeth and explores your mouth. He kisses you with as much force as his dick, and somehow it’s even filthier than swallowing his seed.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that, cariño?” He bites at your nose. “So.” Nips your chin. “So.” Sucks on the skin underneath your ear. “Beautiful… Hermosa.”

You sigh in response, eyes fluttering shut as he ushers you backward, until you’re flat against the ground again, and he’s hovering above you. Dragging his tongue over your clavicle, past your shoulder and down the valley of your breasts, he settles there.

His hands smooth over your thighs and stomach until they’re groping you; kneading the tissue near your sternum. “I’m gonna take care of you, muñeca. Promise.” And with that, his tongue swirls around your left nipple, while his fingers flick your right one. It’s a combination of sucking, pulling, and twisting until you’re gasping for air beneath him.

His cock twitches against your hip, resting on your thigh as he continues his assault.

“Shit, Jake,” you whisper. Your hands fly to the nape of his neck as he switches breasts, giving the same amount of attention to your right until both your nipples are raw. You feel your slick spread everywhere, as his hot hand presses itself to your ribcage. An effort to keep you still as he tugs on you, sucking mark after mark into your side.

He’s hips are gently moving against your pelvis, stroking his dick along your smooth skin until he’s ready. Until he’s sure it’s the right time. Except, he’s getting impatient with himself.

Because this is all he’s wanted to do since he woke up today, was to have you screaming at your reflection in the mirror while he fucked you silly.

But he’s more controlled than that.

Because he wants to have you a pliable sweating mess before he absolutely ruins you with his cock.

“I think it’s about time I fucked you, huh, princesa? Are you ready for that? Ready to be filled with something other than those pretty little fingers of yours?” You cry out, a loud whimper that racks your entire body as you nod fervently into his shoulder.

His grin is menacing. A sharp flash of teeth as the tension builds. As the excitement and the rush shoot down to his cock.

Sitting on his knees, he pulls you up to meet him. Your breathing is heavy against his ear as he separates your legs, adjusting your body until you’re straddling him completely.

Your skin feels like it’s on fire; a smouldering blaze beneath his rough palms.

“Up,” he snaps his fingers at you, tearing you from your haze. You do as he says, lifting your hips enough for him to manoeuvre his length. The head sits just at your entrance causing your heartbeat to stutter. He holds himself there for a moment, though it isn’t out of courtesy. It isn’t out of pity or waiting for you to get your bearings.

It’s just a ploy to make sure you’re truly aching for him. That you need his cock as much you say you do.

You shift, languidly moving your hips in hopes he’ll accidentally slip into you. “Ah-ah, no, cariño.” He holds your body up above him in a tight, bruising grip. “I thought we already went over this.” Pointing a finger at you, he waves it in your face. “It’s my turn. So, I’m gonna fuck you the way I want. And you,” his other hand digs into the globe of your ass. “—aren’t gonna’ bitch about it. Got it?”

You nod feebly, while Jake shakes his head.

You hear the sound before you feel the smack. Though it takes hardly any time for the sting to spread to your lower back. Especially when Jake spanks you again. “I want you to use your words, hermosa.”

“Yes! Yes! I’ll—I’ll be good. Just…just please, Jake—“

He slams your body down without warning, fully sheathing himself into you. All sense breadth are ripped from you. The feeling of being full, of that stuttering sensation from having no time to adjust, holds you hostage. Though, he does keep you there; keeps you both still all while being entangled.

You expect him to move, to begin bouncing you on his lap, guiding your sore ass up and down. But he doesn’t. He’s a man full of surprises: no matter how pleasurable or fucking painful they are.

He’s testing you; wanting to see if you’ll submit to him as he asked. If you’ll willingly surrender all control to him, or if he’ll have to pry it out of you piece by piece. He studies you, grim features roaming over your face to see if you’ll show any signs of disobedience.

…And he comes up with nothing.

Typically, you’ll challenge him—match his energy until both of you are clawing at each other for that sweet release. But today is not that day. Because your body throbs in frustration. The carnal desire for him, the way you crave him, grows more painful by the second.

And you’re convinced, if you don’t have him now, you just might die. And you’ll be damned if you died before that man could give you the last most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.

So you bite your tongue and stare right back at him. Still and unwavering. Waiting—patiently waiting—for him to decide what he wants.

Satisfied, he takes two handfuls of your hips and lifts you up before slamming you back down onto him. A loud, resounding slap of his balls against your ass echoes throughout the empty limo, sending shockwaves up your spine. You’re elated beyond your limits as he builds up his pace, moving in and out of you in hard, deep ruts.

Your whole body bounces upwards with his movements. Up and down. As though he follows the continuous melody of your high-pitched whines and his hoarse groans. It’s a visceral experience, one that doesn’t feel real the more he touches you.

“Look at you, corazòn…” he grabs your hair and yanks your head backward so that way you’re facing the ceiling. You catch his gaze in the reflection, quickly taking note of how fucking hot he looks.

He keeps you leisurely bouncing in his lap, occasionally rolling his hips forward to pull that delicious moan from you that makes your head fall back. You watch yourself react to him so easily; so receptive to every bite on your collarbone and every time your hips cant together.

“You’re doing so good, cariño. So good for me…” He forces you down even harder onto him, repeating the motions until you nearly go numb. “Wanted you to see how fucking pretty you look when you cum.”

You’re falling into him then, chin hooking itself over his shoulder and arms locking his head in place as he shoves into you again and again. Your moans have grown almost completely silent, stuttered as they tumble out of your mouth.

“You gonna cum for me?” He breathes into your neck. “Huh? You gonna’ cum all over my cock?” You’re frantically nodding again, hoping he feels the vibrations of your guttural moan into his skin. Hoping he takes that as enough of response because you simply can’t speak.

“I know you wanna cum’, hermosa. C’mon. Be a good girl and cum for me.” With a chuckle in your ear, he gives your ass one final well-placed smack. It jolts you forward and causes your clit to brush over his abdomen, sending you over the edge. With a loud gasp, you bite down onto his shoulder, allowing the waves of your release to wash over you. Your hips buck crudely as you ride out your high, rolling into him until you stop altogether.

You let out a sigh as your body releases its tension, collapsing into Jake’s strong grip. He presses a kiss into your forehead (a rare tender moment he indulges himself in when he thinks you’re not paying attention), then lies you down on your back. He stays stuffed in you, refusing to pull out even as he reevaluates the situation; as he collects himself.

He hovers over top of you, both hands beside your head as his body cages you in. The feeling of his dick pressing into you this way rips a low hum from your throat.

Nipping at your bottom lip, he brushes sweaty hair off your forehead, tucking it neatly behind your ear. He pulls on your lip with his teeth, licking over the sensitive skin as he loses himself in the feel of your kiss and the remnants of his cum in your mouth.

Exhaling sharply, he finally pulls out of your throbbing cunt so that way he can kneel before you.

“I think…” his fingers dance along your ribcage, as he clicks his tongue. He’s lost in thought, absentmindedly talking to himself in Spanish as he looks over your spent figure. He’s weighing his options; considering his next move. Because he’s not fully satisfied. And truly, neither are you. Because he’s painfully hard and you’re still painfully wet.

He lights up suddenly, as an idea crosses his mind. The giddiness in his face is an interesting juxtaposition to his usual sternness. “No he terminado contigo.”

You roll your eyes at him.

No matter how many times he spoke to you in Spanish (which was the majority of the time), you could never pick up on any of it. Could never understand what he said to you late at night when he thought you were sleeping.

You always considered Jake to be a man of few words. Always thought of him to be Marc and Steven’s alter that seemed to be less than human. A robot, of sorts. But oddly enough, when it came to sex and Spanish, he proved to actually be quite vocal.

A fact you weren’t expecting until the first time he had eaten you out. A time where he had a full one-sided conversation with you into your cunt. It didn’t matter that he was good with his mouth. It didn’t matter that you violently came on his face from the vibrations. All that was important, was that you couldn’t understand him then, and you still can’t now.

Though, as he pulls you down by your ankles, you can imagine where he’s going with this.

“You were so good for me, muñeca. So, so good…” Spreading you once again, he grabs a hold of his cock—still drenched in your arousal—and lines himself up at your hole again. “I promised you I would fuck you properly if you were good…” The thick head breaches you, twitching inside as he adjusts himself. “After all…” he slowly pushes himself further, your fluttering walks sucking him in until he’s pressed into you at the hilt. “I am a man of my word.”

Taking both of your knees, he tucks them under his arms, lifting your entire lower half in the air to meet his fully stretched-out torso. Even kneeling, he towers over you; swarming your senses as he picks up directly where he left off. He starts off at a brutal pace, thrusting into you far quicker than before; grasping at any skin he can reach to anchor you to him. It’s ragged, rushed and dirty. Filthy, beyond compare.

It’s Jake.

The post-orgasm soreness in your legs and hips melts away into something…unexplainable. It’s a different feeling, a different kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before. An amplified version of the intensity that keys itself tighter and tighter. It’s an unfamiliar, mind-numbing pressure that blooms from your pussy, up to the rest of your body. It’s heavy and all-encompassing; the quick drag of his cock building and adding to the increasing weight in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck… Such a pretty pussy.” Another thrust. “So fucking—“ and another, “tight. Joder, hermosa.” His back arches as his hips drive forward into you; into your swollen, puffy folds at a bruising pace. You can tell he’s aching to spill inside of you. To have you cum on his cock for the second time while he fills you up to the brim.

And from the way your voice has given way to loud cries, wanton moans and near screams tells you that he’ll get exactly what he wants.

“Fuck, Jake. Oh my—fuck, harder. Please. Please, fuck me. ….” You cry. “Please, make me cum.”

His eyes meet your half-lidded ones. He can see that you’re close again. Can see how sweat rolls off your forehead and the way your skin flushes a deep red. You nearly convulsing; trembling as he fucks into you. He knows you’re there for him. Because of him.

A new look of determination flashed across his face. Messy curls cast shadows over already dark eyes as they zero in on you. With a tick of his jaw and a clench of his stomach, he hikes your legs up further and leans over you, nearly folding you in half like a piece of paper.

Wailing at the new position, you slam your head into the floor with a loud thud. Jake takes the opportunity, and wraps a large hand around your throat, holding you still. Applying just the right amount of pressure, your mind slips into a fog.

You’re gasping, agonizingly so, as you paw at Jake’s chest, trying to gain some sort of control. Except you can’t. Because you are a complete mess. More so than before. Crying and babbling his name over and over as he pistons into you at this new angle. Every time his cock slams into your cervix, your pelvis raises into him. He moves so quickly, that you don’t even have time to breathe every time he bottoms out.

Your legs lock around his shoulders, so high-up on his back that you worry your body will break in half; splintering millions of delicate shards.

But regardless of your minuscule worry, Jake moves so unaffectedly. His strong body pounds into you relentlessly, bending you at the hips on his cock as though he won’t get another chance to do so. As if this is your last time together.

Though after today, after learning what he can fucking do, you know for certain this won’t be your last time.

His hand moves up your throat and takes hold of your chin, squeezing your cheeks together with his fingers. “Open up, cariño.” The second the thin line of your mouth breaks, he’s spitting inside of it, tongue following suit.

You feel the electricity consume your veins, spreading throughout every part of your body like a forest fire. The flames of your orgasm lick at your pelvic bones, teasing and taunting and raging on with every snap of Jake’s hips.

He’s grunting in your ear, way past the point of being able to talk to you and way too enraptured with the sight of your fucked out face.

You’re both there. The onset of your impending releases makes you both manic. The feeling of bliss is so close and so sweet, that you can practically taste it.

Looking up at the ceiling, you see yours and his reflection again…

…And the sight is obscene.

You watch the rapid movements of his hips, the rippling of the muscles in his back, and the way he so easily engulfs all of you. He’s massive. Truly, the only part you can see of yourself is your trembling legs and your head, that pokes out from beneath his broad shoulders. Your face twists with pleasure, with the elated buzz you’ve slipped into, as Jake continues to lightly squeeze the sides of your throat.

To say your reflection is pornographic would be an understatement.

You’re crying again, pent-up tears slipping down your cheeks as your body shakes. “M’so close, Jake. So, so, so fucking close. Please, please—wanna cum. Wanna…wanna…holy…fucking shit, oh, fuck!”

As though a bucket of cold water was dumped on you, your orgasm rips through your body; tearing and shredding at any piece of you that was left untouched. The fire in your belly scorches you, leaving scars and burns in its wake. You’re screaming in response, though you’re so far gone your voice sounds like it’s millions of miles away.

As your climax slaughters you, it also claims Jake as its next victim. He’s slamming into you, bristling at the vibration of your cries until his cock tightens and spills.

Your shared warmth drips out of your fluttering hole, only to be fucked back into you as Jake slowly moves, possessed by the lasting end of his own orgasm.

“Fuck, cariño, that—“ it’s his turn to collapse on top of you. Though he’s far more careful to avoid squishing you beneath the dead weight of his aching limbs.

You both are breathing heavily, grasping for any of the thinned-out air that hangs in the back of the stuffy limo. Desperately trying to refill your body with oxygen and not the smell of sex.

Jake lies beside you, pressing a gentle kiss into your shoulder while rubbing soothing circles into the curve of your hip.

Your head turns to look at him. “I like the mirror.”

He laughs then. It’s a lovely yet rare sound that rattles your bones and makes your heart burst.

“Es todo para ti, mi corazòn. Todo por ti.”

•••

Translations

reflejo - reflection

mierda - shit

joder - fuck

tal un boca bonita - such a pretty mouth

no he terminado contigo - I’m not done with you

es todo para ti; todo por ti - it’s all for you; everything for you

•

Moon Knight Taglist (+18)

@amaragray @izzy-laufeyson @eclecticlokibytomhiddleston @bitch-please-i-am-lucifer @bibli0thecary @a-certified-whore @gummywurme @superfanmixromancepony @theartofteendays @butterflyslys @timothee-nook @piratewannabe1013 @themadhatt3risbored @23victoria @nikitawolfxo @bookfrog242 @markijackson @kaqua @jekaelemen @lukespatterson @theamuz @lokisnumber1whore @anthonys-viscountess @loudlibrary @tillthetimecomesalong @avengers-bucky @lewickedgal @spectorfilms @stevestevesteveiheartsteve @dopeqff @lolitstiana @serrendiipty @bunnyrabbit-01 @justanotherkpopstanlol @officialholyagua @chaoticevilbakugo @keepingitlokiii @melancholyy-hill @v0idl1nq @silvery-luna @theimpalasdoctorin221b @urmomdotcom5678 @stxrrylunatic @sageteaturnerandsmut @blindedbyyourgrace17 @daddyjackfrost @mrmoonman @perpetuelledaydreaming @littlemisscaptainfandom @plutoneu @notabotiswear @all-in-the-fandoms @freyafriggafrey @m00kn1ghts @buckyisperfect @marvelwh0resworld @eternallyvenus @moonspectorreads @iloveyou3000morgan @gardenof-venus @animelover18 @ayocee @jessicajonesgf @noahspector @im-a-marvel-ous-hoe @wordle233 @mattymudrocks @demirunner @girl-from-rj @team-flashh

blackouts are a bitch

Steven:

Marc Spector: Stop kissing my wife!

Steven Grant: Don’t you mean “our wife”?

Jake Lockley: …wait, we’re married? How long has it been since I asked the tour guide out?

Jake lockley once he meets Steven grant because he a bit of a asshole

Marc's just in the background laughing

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.

arthur harrow upon entering any room: