ULTIMATE WARNING!!!

PLEEEASE read this chosoyuki fic it's amazing and it has a lot of yuki character study and made me cry and I need to scream about it somewhere!!!

archiveofourown.org/works/51203806/chapters/129379996

reflection

Bohrap music video november 1975

A zoomed shot of John just looking straight into your soul

pre-calc teacher: in order to figure out whether or not a graph has continuity you need to ride the graph

pre-calc teacher: *traces graph with finger on projector*

ENFP: *looks at INTJ*

ENFP: ill ride ur graph ;)

INTJ: hot

Hiiiii I love your Steven x reader fanfic u really deserve all the followers, it’s really well made.

Well I wanted to see if I could request a smut, since I’ve fell practically in love with the character of Steven, I wan te d to ask if u could write a fanfic where he is really submissive and shy, and the fem reader is more like dominant and teasing with him.

Nothing more, I will let you do the rest, I know u will amaze me either way. Thank u so muchhh

Devotion || Steven Grant x Reader

-> Rating: 18+

-> Word count: 2.8k

-> Steven’s late night routine of solving the Rubik’s cube has become somewhat of a guilty pleasure of yours. [ I hope that you enjoy this fic that I wrote! Thank you so much for your support and love on my previous fics, and entrusting me to write this idea. Big thanks to @foxilayde for beta reading and editing, I love you! ❤️]

Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!

TW/CW: Can you tell I have an Oscar Isaac hand kink? Sub!Steven and SoftDomme!Reader. Fingering, use of the word ‘Mistress’. Yet another relatively mild fic for me!

Shk, shk, shk.

The sound pulls your attention from the poetry book that you borrowed from Steven’s shelf of miscellaneous works to keep yourself busy. It wasn’t often that your concentration was compromised by noise, after all, you had been sitting beside the fish tank. The buzzing of the filter and the trickle of running water pushed to the back of your mind as you read through each sonnet.

Usually, when you participate in something you enjoy, such as reading, you find it hard to shake your undivided attention. Steven once commented that “bombs could blitz London for the first time in almost eighty years, and you would still insist upon finishing the page”. He certainly wasn’t wrong- there is a discipline to your leisure time. It’s not often you can carve out a moment of peace for yourself.

The sound of Steven solving a Rubik’s Cube over and over though? That is something you simply can not ignore.

Perhaps it’s obscene for you to find such a mundane thing so intensely *erotic*. You can’t help but be captivated by the way his nimble fingers rotate each layer of colored blocks with such practised speed. His gaze is intense as he navigates the cube, though you know he doesn’t need to study it so closely: Steven’s skills are such that he can solve it without even looking.

Despite your best efforts, you can’t control the urge. Your eyes leave the pages of poetry that had captivated your attention, and instead focus on something a lot more aesthetically pleasing and less mentally taxing. Your pupils seem to drag your vision towards the scene in front of you entirely against your will. To the shk shk shk.

Upon seeing it though, you can’t exactly say you regret yielding to your compulsions. Steven’s head rests back against a navy blue pillow, sprawled across his bed in a white cotton T-shirt and grey boxers, bathed in the silver moonlight that leaks across the mattress from the window that he had left open in order for you to read- despite you insisting that the light from the fish tank was sufficient enough. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks absently at the ceiling, his mind clearly elsewhere.

The sight is stunning, but your eyes zero-in on something even more engrossing. Steven balances the edge of the Rubik’s cube on the meat of his right palm, holding the little puzzle and solving it single-handedly. The joints of his fingers bend and crease as he reaches across the width of the plastic cuboid; tanned knuckles turning a pale shade with the stretch and the pressure as he turns the selected row to its desired position.

In the low lighting, the veins in the back of his hand are a pale greeny-blue colour against his olive skin and they stretch down to the joint of his wrist. His metacarpal bones protrude under his skin with certain movements, before disappearing back into his flesh upon his return to a less strenuous hand position.

Upon completing the puzzle, Steven’s stunning coffee-colored eyes glance down at the cube. He pinches opposite corners with his thumb and forefinger, rotating the game with his middle fingertip on an axis to assess and ensure that each of the colours are settled in their relevant groups. When satisfied, he undoes all of the work, scrambling the rows, this time with two hands, and beginning again with his head settled against the pillow as he stares at the beige ceiling.

“Steven?” You sound his name. It feels odd in your dry mouth, as though the syllables don’t fit between your lips. There’s a pulse thrumming in your chest and between your thighs as you feel your composure begin to slip.

Steven doesn’t hear you, your voice barely surpassing the volume of a whisper. Instead, the shk, shk, shk of the cube rows falling into place answer you in your expectant silence. The pad of his thumb strokes down the ridge of the cuboid with gentle precision and it’s enough to push you over the edge.

“Steven.”

The springs of Steven’s mattress creak slightly as his body jolts upright, shocked out of his concentration. There’s nothing on earth that could prevent him from focusing on you when you use *that* tone of voice with him. The kind that ramps up his blood pressure tenfold and straightens his spine to attention.

“Yes?” He responds cautiously, not entirely sure what he had done to deserve that timbre of voice. His eyes settle on your face, searching for some understanding of just how he had turned the atmosphere in the room without even realising it.

“Are you intentionally teasing me?” You ask him, tone even once again as you close the book that had settled in your lap. You don’t bother to bookmark the sonnet Steven had ‘interrupted’, the poem abandoned amongst the pages as you return to its rightful place on the bookshelf. Like a child with a Christmas present in April, it no longer held your attention. You’ve been gifted something far more fun to play with.

The panic that settles into Steven’s expression makes you feel as though your blood is fizzing beneath your skin.

“Tea- No! No, I wouldn’t dream of it, I- Have I been doin’ something wrong?” He stumbles over his words as he tries to justify a crime he didn’t even know he was committing. He drops the Rubik’s cube blindly on his bedside table, unintentionally showing his utter devotion to pleasing you. You know that Steven would throw himself at your feet and praise you until his knees bled if that was what you desired.

Standing with effortless grace from your chair, you’re careful to articulate that preeminence throughout the subtle movements of your body as you pass the floor towards the bed. The barely-there sway of your hips that makes Steven’s eyes follow the motion with his eyes left and right like a pendulum is how you know you’ve got him.

“I think… you got tired of me not paying attention to you, so you decided you were going to show me how quick those fingers are. I think,” you reach his side of the bed and bend slightly to rest your hands on the duvet. “You were trying to show off.” You point out with a playfully accusatory tone. Steven sits up in bed, staring up at you with painfully innocent eyes.

“No, I- just the puzzles, help me stay up…” Steven is quick to try to correct the record, motioning haphazardly around the room when he trails off, as if wordlessly filling in the gaps left in his answer: that staying awake keeps Marc at bay.

“Oh, they help you… stay up, huh?” You teasingly muse, eyes dragging down the length of his body in an attempt to make him even more jittery. It works.

“Oh no- bollocks- not like that!” You love seeing him struggle to form the words, to explain himself. You know it’s because he’s thinking of all the things you could do to him if he said yes. His words won’t leave his throat because pictures of you have infested his mind make him slow to form coherent sentences of explanation.

“Then what? Tell me, Steven. What is it like?” You whisper, quickly shifting the mood of the room again by taking hold of Steven’s face. His chin is cupped by your palm, perfectly manicured fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his cheeks and forcing his lips to purse. He looks adorable this way, owly-eyed and cheeks flushed as he hears your voice drop an octave.

His cheeks radiate heat and his eyes are cast low, down in his lap, as he finally answers. His voice is soft, words a little slurred and mispronounced with the awkward grip you have on his face, pushing the inside of his cheeks into the sides of his teeth. “‘S whatever you like, Mistress.” It takes you a little by surprise, the readiness Steven has to submit to your will, so much so that a long moment of silence washes over the two of you.

In the quiet, Steven doesn’t move an inch, eyes stuck to his lap as he impatiently awaits your answer. His body is board-stiff like his spine has been glued in place, and his face burns a light mahogany. It’s hard not to become engrossed by the image, to want to take a photo of the way his lips are smushed together in your grip. He’s so pretty like this.

“Mistress can think of a much better use for your fingers. Don’t you agree, Steven?” You ask, loosening your fingers and brushing your thumb against the curve of his cheekbone, allowing him to nod in earnest. You’ll forgive him for not responding verbally, for not using honorifics. This time. His eyelashes flutter as his iris’ flick back up to your face. He looks at you like you’ve offered him a winning lottery ticket when you release your grip. “Get to work, then.”

Steven reaches for you swiftly, nodding his head with enthusiasm as he anchors his hands on your hip bones. He doesn’t pull you towards him as you had expected, instead he pushes you back, forcing you to take a few steps in order to put some space between you and the bed.

“What are you doing? I asked you to use your fingers.” You question gently, and Steven climbs from the mattress onto the sandy, hardwood floor. He’s on his knees in front of you as he pulls the waistband of your pyjama shorts down over your otherwise naked hips and helps you step out of the discarded clothing. The realisation that you’re not wearing any panties causes him to whimper and the sound causes heat to pool in your abdomen.

Failing to answer immediately, Steven’s fingers wrap around your calf. He massages the muscle while gently lifting your thigh over his shoulder. Your heel is pressing into his spine and his other palm is careful to steady the foot on which you are balanced by resting a firm hand just above the back of your straight knee. “I wanna watch what I’m doin’ Mistress.”

Before you’re even able to fully digest exactly what Steven had meant, he’s sweeping those deft fingers through your hot, slick folds. The pleasure that rips through you so suddenly makes your quiet moan of bliss sound so distant. Your knees tremble as he drags the length of his index finger, tip to knuckle, across your clit, and you find yourself scrambling to grab ahold of his curls in a desperate attempt to steady yourself.

“Ohh~” You gasp breathlessly, head tilting backward as the spark of ecstasy skits down your spine from the base of your neck to the tips of your toes. Steven’s fingers are delicate, his finger joints adding an extra layer of sensation as they pass over your clit with an effortlessness akin to the way his fingers work that fucking Rubik’s cube.

“This good, Mistress?” Steven asks softly as he daintily sweeps the tips of his fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness on his fingerprints before using the lubrication to circle your clit in quicker, smoother circles. He knows how you love it when he calls you that, always using the softest, neediest voice when he speaks each syllable.

You struggle to think of a response, as though every possible answer, verbal or otherwise, has entirely slipped your mind. The hazy defocusing of your vision is disorientating- your eyes are crossing and you no longer know north from south, left from right.

Steven craves verbal validation, you know this well, but you can’t grant him a “good boy”, not with the way his fingers twirl you with a shk shk shk and undo you like a puzzle.

The only thing you have to offer him in return for his skilled efforts is the validating grip of your shaking hands in his ebony locks.

Under any other circumstances, Steven’s face being so close to your cunt without eating you out would be embarrassing. But when you glance down at him, double vision slowly focusing on his expression, you can’t help but note the reverence that blooms in his irises as he gazes at your pussy. He is watching with rapt interest- your clit, your folds, your puffy throbbing flesh, all gleaming with slick in the moonlight.

Steven always manages to make you feel worshipped without uttering a single prayer (though he is on his knees now). His eyes are evidence enough of his utter devotion and admiration. He would never allow you to think for even a second that you were not divine.

“St-Steven,” you gasp as his finger continues its steady, circular motions that pull your pleasure tighter, “Inside.”

There’s a hesitation in the repetitive sweep of your clit.

“In... side- what? In- I don’t…”

His halting voice voice drops slowly like syrup dripping from a pot as you take ahold of his wrist. He’s playing with you, acting innocent, and you don’t have a single fuck to give that he’s flipping the game, flipping you like a cube in his palm, You tilt his hand by pushing on the meat of his palm with your thumb, angling his fingers just right where you’re soaking, where his fingertips slip inside of you to feel the source of your need.

“Oh-… Ohh. Yeah- You mean…”

You swear, you swear you see a self satisfied smile behind Steven’s eyes as he works his fingers inside of your cunt ever so slowly, teasing the give of your walls around his digits. He can feel your cunt flutter around him, your quads trembling under his palm where he continues to hold your unsteady body upright.

Hips rocking forward onto his knuckles, you whine softly in a wordless attempt to tell Steven ‘yes, just like that, you’re doing so good’. Spurred on by the little noises that leak from your throat, he curls his fingers inside you, searching for that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes, the spot that he knows is going to buckle your knees.

“Like this?” He asks softly, looking between your eyes and your glistening cunt. You know he doesn’t need to ask, the bliss is written across your expression in the form of your mouth pulled into a weak ‘o’ shape and your eyes rolling back into your skull as the bone of his knuckle presses up against your clit weakly. He’s being cheeky. You’ll remember this.

For now, though, you’re entirely helpless to the swell of your orgasm that he raises so easily from your cunt. The slip of his fingers through your folds, the wet punctuating rhythm is violent in your ears as you teeter on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm. Breathing raggedly at the ceiling, your head tilts back, bending your body in a half-heart arc and your toes curl into the delineating sand.

“S-Steven-“ you gasp weakly, thighs beginning to shake as he eases the orgasm out of you with such practised elegance- that it feels like a complete separation from his nervous, innocent personality. It’s moments like this, with his thumb pressed to your clit, and deft strong strokes twisting inside you, that you thank Marc for Steven’s subconscious skills because you’re cumming.

You’re cumming, and it’s blinding. White flashes across your eyes, almost like tv static as the image of Steven watching you come apart between your knees blurs before you, then doubles. It’s impossible to tell in the throes of your orgasm, but tears are building and spilling from your eyes. Steven’s fingers are drenched as they work you through each wave, the wet sucking sounds of his fingers guiding your cunt through the gates of heaven bounces off the walls of the moonlit flat.

Realisation that his free hand had been the only thing to keep your feet steady sinks in as the roiling pleasure fades to a simmer. Steven presses his palm to the small of your back, no doubt stopping you from falling backward in your rapture. Perhaps you should expect nothing less, but the small action makes your heart swell at the knowledge that he’ll always look after you.

“Hah…” Your chest heaves as you chase air with the expansion of your lungs. Each dose of oxygen adds to the afterglow that seems to settle so deep in your body and coats your bones like honey. “Aren’t I more fun to play with than some puzzle cube?” The joke makes Steven grin, his eyes crease in the corners the way they only do when he hears or sees something he truly finds funny.

“More easy to solve, too.” he chuckles, stroking his knuckles down the insides of your thighs in a gentle action to ease you down from the clouds he had catapulted you to. He looks so pretty for you like this, on his knees with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose-

Wait. What?

You slap his shoulder playfully, limbs limp with exhaustion. “Take that back!”

He kisses the top of your thigh tenderly, “Only joking, mistress.”

The way he runs his nose softly along the top of your thigh is a stark contrast to the bulge in his boxers and the wet patch in the fabric where his cock had leaked precum: the side effects of taking you apart and putting you back together again.

“I think it’s my turn to play with you.” You murmur softly, caressing the curve of his cheekbone and pushing your fingers through his curly locks with a smile. “On the bed, baby. Let’s see if Mistress can’t make you cum one-handed too.”

END

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better call saul 2.03 “Amarillo”

characters with the same energy

flipped off God and walked backwards into hell

gays really out here dressing like John deacon during the queen live aid performance