#an Otp Can Do Both [insp]

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RED FLAGS ║ PART 4

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader (hints of Marc Spector x female reader)

Summary: Steven disappears and you fall into a rabbit hole trying to decode Marc’s secret message. Or alternatively: Marc needs to communicate better. 

Rating: really gratuitous and detailed sex, writers are clearly super horny.

Warning/content: anxiety, spiraling thoughts, worrying about safety of a partner, clumsy sex-shanigans, the writers being way too obsessed with how freakin' beautiful Steven is.

Word Count: 8.1k

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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You can’t believe Steven’s gone.

Flinging the quilt aside, you leap out of bed and dash into the loo. Against all logic, you’re hoping that he’ll be standing in front of the sink with a  spare toothbrush in his mouth, ready to wish you good morning through a frothy toothpaste smile. 

He’s not. 

There’s no one here but you. 

Your home is a cramped studio flat with barely enough space for a bed, small sitting area, and an even smaller kitchenette. If Steven were still here, he’d be in plain sight, but somehow you find yourself turning cushions like some kind of madwoman. Inspecting every corner of the room, as if Steven might be hiding behind your washing machine like a goddamn leprechaun. 

There’s nothing. No note left on your kitchen counter. No clothing left behind. No promised breakfast. There’s not even a text message on your phone letting you know that he had to leave early for work. 

With shaky fingers and your heart beating painfully loud in your ears, it takes you three tries to unlock your phone and select Steven from the list of contacts. You lift the phone to your ear and hold your breath, staring blindly at the mess you’ve made of your flat as it rings and rings and rings.

Finally, there’s a click and then Steven’s cheerful voice in your ear, and for the briefest of seconds, relief rushes through your veins. 

“Hiya, this is Steven. I’m not in right now, but leave me a message, and I’ll ring you back as soon as I can. Laters, Gators.” 

You stare at the phone in disbelief. Bile rises until you can taste it, sharp and burning, on your tongue. 

Steven going missing out of the blue on you is hardly novel, but his random disappearances have never made you feel like this before. Experience dictates that Steven will come back safe and sound in a day or two (or a week or two). Right now, however, that knowledge does nothing to dull the panic clawing at your throat, and it takes you a minute before you realise why this is so much worse than all the times that have come before. 

In the past, the worst case scenario was that he’d ghosted you. One more wanker who’d decided to dump you without so much as a courtesy text. But now you know better. Steven wouldn’t do that. He’s not disappearing on you by choice. He’s gone because someone else, Marc has taken over. And taken him away.

Now, you’re pacing the length of your flat, nearly in tears, the worst case scenario something you cannot even begin to fathom. 

For all you know, this Marc person has decided that you’ve gotten too close to the truth. Maybe he came to the conclusion that it’s too dangerous to have you around Steven. Maybe, last night was the last time you’ll ever get to see him. 

Back and forth you go across the room, wearing down the carpet pile as your mind spirals with worry. You pop the band on your old wristwatch in and out of place as you go, nails digging into your wrist as you tug at it until you slip and the metal pin jabs your wrist. 

Then you spot it: the writing on your hand. The long string of numbers, ten digits in all, that Marc had written on the centre of your palm last night. 

In a mad scramble, you dig up a notebook and quickly copy them down for safekeeping. You spend the rest of the day trying to decipher their meaning. 

Your first thought is that it’s a phone number, but when you try dialling it, you get an automated message that no such number exists. 

Your next theory is that the numbers might be coordinates. But when you attempt to plot them using an online grid reference finder, the results are meaningless. Depending on how you input the digits they point you to a handful of different locations—China, Romania, the middle of the Celtic Sea—none of which mean anything to you. The majority of the number combinations you try do not exist at any known map locations.

Panicked by your failure, your mind scrambles for other possible explanations. Thinking that it might be a mathematical equation or a password of some kind, you pull out your calculator and another notebook, trying to make any sort of sense of the only hint you've been given.

By the time you leave for work Monday morning, your desk is starting to look like a landfill. The wooden surface is littered with crumpled up paper and sticky-notes filled with nonsensical scribbles of numbers and letters that were the results of randomly adding, subtracting and dividing the ten numbers on your hand. If anyone walked in on your flat, they would think you’re a particularly unhinged conspiracy theorist. 

In all fairness, they wouldn’t be too far off, because you’re beginning to feel a bit like one. Haring off on one pointless wild goose chase after another, halfway to plotting out your suspicions on the wall with pins and string.

More days go by, and you spend every waking moment (and many moments you should be sleeping) trying to solve the mystery. It becomes a consuming obsession. You’re distracted both at home and at work, your poor coworkers forced to pick up the slack while your mind stays firmly on the puzzle of Steven.

Your lack of sleep leads to increasingly wild theories. You’re convinced that those ten digits are somehow the key to everything. An unfounded belief based on nothing but your own desperate hope that if you manage to crack the code, a congratulation banner and confetti will fall from the sky with a big bow-wrapped present containing Steven as the final prize. 

Unfortunately, you’re not the best at puzzles, and the galling irony is that the most qualified person to solve this riddle is the very same person you’re desperately missing. 

By the time you leave work on Thursday, you’re frustrated, exhausted from sustaining a near-frantic level of worry, and no closer to finding a solution than you were at the start. Steven is still out there somewhere, and you decide that you’ve waited long enough. Maybe even too long. He could have had his kidney harvested and be half-dead in an alley for all you know. Hurt and dying, while you’ve wasted time grasping at straws.

You’ve decided to finally file a missing person’s report with the police when you exit the tube to find a new text notification on your phone.

+x xxx xxx xxxx He’s safe.

You stare at the message for a long time, too overcome with relief to immediately make the connection between the numbers on your hand and your phone screen. When the epiphany hits, you feel like the dumbest person alive. Ten numbers… It wasn’t a puzzle or some obscure treasure hunt to lead you to Steven. It’s Marc’s bloody mobile number. It’s an American mobile number and he didn’t include the fucking country code 

He’s safe. Steven’s safe. 

Wiping what is close to the beginning of tears on your sleeve, you pull the phone closer and type out a message in reply. 

You Is Steven okay? Where is he? 

There’s no answer. 

Not that evening or the day after. And the relief you felt at first slowly drains away.  

The text is a consolation prize. It’s not Steven wrapped with a bow and wrapping paper. This is not the answer you needed, but, you try to remind yourself, at least it’s something. 

Steven is safe. 

You repeat it like a mantra in your head, and it gives you some comfort… for a while. Soon it's overtaken by an intrusive voice asking a question that you don’t want to hear. 

But what if he isn’t?

Any residual consolation you were feeling gives way, and anxiety overwhelms you as you imagine all the terrible scenarios that could have befallen Steven, each more horrifying and improbable than the last. 

You can't shake the paranoia that the matching numbers are just a coincidence. There's nothing in the text itself that says it’s from Marc. Or about Steven. It could just as easily be a timely telephone scam. 

Is there anyone who hasn’t received a random automated call informing them that someone they know has been in a car accident? There are thousands of these calls a day in the UK, scammers hoping to find some dimwit waiting for a call from a loved one. 

Maybe today, you’re the dimwit. 

You can count the hours of sleep you’ve gotten since Steven disappeared on one hand. 

You need to sleep, but even as exhausted as you are, you just can’t. Instead, you're having a staring competition with your ceiling, and so far you’re winning. 

You’re worrying yet again about Steven. You wonder where he is. If he’s really safe. What he—or Marc—has been doing all this time.

A full week has gone by, and you still haven’t heard anything from Steven himself. You haven’t had any further communication from the unknown number that may or may not be Marc either. 

Marc. 

Rolling onto your side, you stare off into the darkness of your flat. 

The concept of Marc is still an enigma to you. As far as you can tell, he’s entirely distinct from Steven. Not only are his mannerisms different, but he calls himself by another name and talks about Steven as if they’re separate people. 

There is another person inside of Steven that is markedly not Steven. 

In the complete darkness of your flat, your sleep deprived brain tries to make sense of what that actually means, but you can’t. There’s so much you don’t know.

Rolling back across the bed the other way, you reach for your phone. 

Midnight is not the ideal time to do research, but what does it matter? You’re not likely to sleep regardless. 

Your first pit stop is Google, but that does you no favours. As always, no matter what symptoms you put into the search bar, WebMD is determined to convince you that it’s cancer. 

Instead, you end up trawling through NHS’ homepage well past midnight, ending up in a wormhole of health issues until you land on the symptoms for Dissociative Identity Disorder: 

They may feel the presence of other identities, each with their own names, voices, personal histories and mannerisms.

The main symptoms of DID are:

» memory gaps about everyday events and personal information

» having several distinct identities

And there it is, written in plain Arial font. The conclusion you’ve been trying not to jump to. The inescapable reality behind all those red flags Steven’s been waving in front of your nose from the very start. 

You stare at the words on the page, reading and re-reading them. You don’t know what to think or how you feel about your discovery. The only thing you do know is that you are wholly unqualified to handle any of this. 

As far as you know, you've never met anyone—anyone else?—with DID. Your only previous exposure to the disorder has been through movies like Psycho, Split, Basic Instinct… Movies that depict the character with a mental health condition as a psychotic murderer or one in the making with sensationalist glee. 

You don’t believe that of course. You know better than to expect sensitive and accurate representation from Hollywood blockbusters. That’s a bit like reading The Sun and expecting truthful and unbiased news reports.

The problem is that knowing all of this doesn’t solve anything.

All you do know is that you miss Steven. You’re scared—terrified for him—and want him back with you. 

Fuck Marc for taking him away.

The devil himself must have heard you, his ears burning. Your phone pings out in the silence at that moment, interrupting your thoughts. The screen flashes, and it takes you a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before you can read the incoming message. 

+x xxx xxx xxxx Steven will be back tomorrow. Don’t mention me. 

You stare at the phone as you reread the text once and then again. There’s no ambiguity this time; there can’t possibly be. 

Back. 

Steven. 

Steven is coming back to you. 

You barely have time to rejoice over the fact before those last three words hit you. Their meaning settles heavily in your gut, burning at the lining of your stomach until you think you might be sick all over your duvet.  

It’s a warning. The wolf is at your door. 

And just like that, the curtain’s pulled back, and you see Steven’s disappearance for what it is: a sick display of the power Marc holds over him. Over you both. A demonstration of how your life with Steven continues only at his whim. Those three words are an order and a stomach churning threat all in one. 

Mention Marc, reveal his existence to Steven, and he will take Steven from you.

For the first time, you understand why Steven has always been alone, and anger burns in your blood. Steven is being held hostage in his own body, and he doesn’t even know it. And you’re being blackmailed into lying to the man you love. 

You want to tell Steven the truth immediately. You want to scream it from the bloody rooftops. 

But you don’t want to lose him.

Selfish as it may be, you want to keep Steven in your life for as long as you can. At the very least, if you’re together, maybe you can protect him from Marc. Make sure he’s safe.

Isn’t that better than telling Steven the whole truth only to have Marc take him away from you? The only thing that would achieve is to relegate Steven back to a life of loneliness.

No. It wouldn’t do any good to tell Steven now. You can’t go in blindly when Marc has such a strong upper hand. You need more information, a plan, or at least some kind of strategy before you risk doing anything that might result in Steven being spirited away from you again. 

With your ear pressed to your pillow, you stare at the text, struggling to keep your eyes open. You turn the brightness up so far that it’s painful to look at, blinking away sleep until you’re unable to fight it anymore. 

A knock on the door wakes you. 

Squinting one eye open, you find the room flooded with light, bright and blinding. Your mouth tastes like harsh cotton, and your throat is sore when you swallow. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep last night, but it’s five to eight now according to your alarm clock. Your shoulders are stiff and aching, body protesting the lack of rest.

Sleep concussed as you are, you fumble towards the door, relying on memory rather than sight to navigate your surroundings. You don’t even make it to the middle of the room before you trip over your ottoman. 

Pain shoots out from the nub of your toe, and you barely manage to stop yourself from face planting. With a curse and a pending bruise forming on your foot, you hobble the rest of the way towards your door and unlock it. In your struggle, you don’t even bother to check the peephole to see who is at your door. 

You slide the door open, scarcely paying attention. At first, all you see is a much-too-loud novelty print and flowers wrapped in cellophane in the open doorway. Your brain stalls for several heartbeats, before you drag your eyes upwards. 

It’s Steven.

Sporting messy hair and an ill-fitting jumper, at least two sizes too large, he’s standing in front of you, hugging a fresh bouquet of flowers to his chest. 

“Hiya,” he greets you with a small wave of his free hand, a besotted smile on his face as though everything in his world is just as it should be. 

You blink. For a second, everything slows. You’re not sure if you’re ready to allow yourself to believe that this is real. If this is a dream, the disappointment of waking up with him not here will break you. 

“I got us some breakfast,” Steven says and steps inside, clumsily closing the door behind him with the side of his shoulder, “and there were these tulips at Sainsburys. Pink, your favourite.” 

He's here. Steven's actually here.

His face beams with pride as he looks up at you. “I know you said to stop getting flowers unless there’s an actual special occasion, but I thought spending the morning together after our first official sleepover is pretty special, and more importantly–” 

Your stomach drops. 

He doesn’t know. Steven clearly still thinks it’s the morning after. Doesn’t realise that a whole week has gone by since he spent the night here. 

Putting the flowers down on your kitchen counter, he turns to face you, holding up a wax paper bag with a delighted smile. 

“Et voilà! Croissants au chocolat for the lady. I’ll just pop them in the microwave real quick—I know you like them hot—and then I’ll make us some tea, yeah?” 

Steven is in your home, standing in the kitchen, smiling at you and spoiling you rotten, like he hadn't just disappeared off the face of the earth for a week. Because as far as Steven's aware, he’s been here with you all night after falling asleep watching animal documentaries. 

Right now, in front of you, he’s acting out the morning-after the two of you were supposed to have but a week too late, making you the breakfast he promised.

Your throat closes, and a liquid burn rises in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You can feel the threat of tears behind your eyes.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Steven drops the bag of croissants onto the counter and rushes over to you. “Did something happen while I was gone?” 

“No. I just–” You take a shaky breath, trying to collect yourself. 

Breaking down now won’t do either of you any good. You can’t tell him what’s wrong. Not without risking him being taken away forever. 

“I’m happy you’re here," you say, trying to fake a smile. 

You’re a rubbish liar. Always have been. It’s no surprise that Steven doesn’t buy it for a second. 

"Those are obviously not happy tears, love. What's going on? Have I done something wrong?"

His hands draw up to cup your face, one thumb skimming gently over the single tear that’s escaped onto your cheek. He tilts your chin up until you meet his gaze, and it’s like something clicks behind those sharp eyes. 

"It's because I wasn't here when you woke up, isn't it?" he asks gently.

You bite your lip. It’s such an oversimplification of what’s happened, but you don’t know how else to explain it to him, so you nod. A half-truth at best, but at least it’s only a lie by omission.

"’Course it is,” he soothes. “That would bother anyone, yeah?"

You let yourself collapse against him, hugging him tight around the middle as you bury your face in his chest. He lets out a quiet oof, but you refuse to let go and despite his obvious physical discomfort, Steven doesn't protest. He wraps his arms reassuringly around you, blanketing himself around you in comforting warmth.

“I’m sorry, I should have left a note. Don’t know why I didn’t. I was so sleep deprived that I don’t even remember leaving this morning. I must’ve thought it was only going to take a second, but the next thing I know, I’m in the dairy aisle and this lady with a stroller is looking at me funny."  

One large, gentle hand smooths over your shirt at the small of your back, and you shiver pleasantly at the warmth of the doting touch.

"I'm sorry," he says again, voice soft, "I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Closing your eyes, you take a second to let the comfort of his words and his arms around you seep in. You tilt your head upwards, pressing your nose to the hollow dip of his throat, right below his Adam's apple. He smells faintly of stale air and alcohol, covered up by the unfamiliar scent of cheap hotel soap. Your chest squeezes painfully at the reminder of his double life, one that neither of you know the details of. 

Even with Steven here in your arms, you cannot escape the reality that you’ll always have to share him with something you cannot understand. 

You don't move, instead, you press your mouth to that same spot on his throat, feeling his pulse beat steadily against your lips. 

He's here, the beat says. He's safe, he's alive. 

Nuzzling into the delicate skin, you’re rewarded with a keen gasp that makes the small hairs on your neck rise. His fingers flex against your waist with that familiar trademark hesitation, before settling there, hardly even resting against you. 

After all this time, it’s like he’s still scared you’re going to tell him no. As if your relationship is some kind of practical joke on him, and if he reaches for you first, you’ll laugh in his face. 

He was too afraid to mention the first night in case you’d get upset. He thought you were going to break up with him when you said you two needed to talk. It’s almost funny in a macabre sort of way that Steven doesn’t realise just how deep you’re in it over him. If he only knew of the sleepless nights you’ve suffered. How you’ve been sick to your stomach over missing him. Willing to bargain with the devil just to get to keep him. 

You kiss him again, trying to use his closeness to drown out all the things you can’t say. Pressing your lips to that sweet little spot where his jaw meets his throat. You do your best to savour the hint of stubble that tickles against your bottom lip. 

Steven shivers and then pulls back slightly, ducking his head to close the distance between your lips. A barely there touch, then Steven’s thumb catches behind your ear, timidly guiding you closer. 

That one kiss continues into several small chaste kisses, each press of his lips soft and devoted like he’s thanking you for letting him. It’s so pure, the kind of kisses that have your toes curling in delight and your ears tingling. But it’s restrained in a way that you’ve not got the patience for right now. 

Not after a whole week of his absence. Not when you’ve spent those seven days unsure if you would ever get to see him again. You want so much more than this. Can’t bear the fraction of a moment when his lips are not on yours when he breaks up his kisses to allow you to catch your breath. 

You want all of him all at once.

Your hand clutches at the collar of his shirt, pulling him in closer. His breath stutters, mouth parting slightly, and you take the opportunity to lick over the swell of his bottom lip before you bite down, trying to be gentle. 

It must be the reassurance Steven needs, because he groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening. His hands dig into the plump flesh above your hips, kneading it with strong fingers, and there it is, that eagerness and hunger for you that you’re heedlessly in love with. The duality of Steven Grant. It's desperate, sweet and almost aggressive. One hand moves to grip the base of your neck, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, eliminating the last of the physical distance between you.

It’s exactly what you need, and for a long, hot, breathless moment, you’re not thinking of anything except him. When he finally breaks off the kiss, you lean after him, chasing his lips. 

“Bed?” he asks, the word a low rasp against your seeking mouth. 

You nod eagerly and grab for him, recapturing his lips and giving him a tug in the right direction.

It’s clumsy and desperate as you let Steven manoeuvre the two of you through your flat. You’re blindly walking backwards, guided only by Steven’s outstretched hand fumbling against the surfaces of the wall to make sure you don’t bump into furniture. 

You kiss him like you’ve been held under water, deprived of air and his beautiful mouth is oxygen filling your lungs. Every step is an uncoordinated mess that nearly has you tipping over if it wasn’t for Steven holding you upright. It’d be far easier if you only let go. Would only take seconds in your tiny flat to get from the kitchen to the bed. But you’re not willing and Steven is only happy to indulge you. 

His mouth is warm and slick, hands large and firm. The warmth of his body against yours, comforting and alive. It’s all you can focus on as you forget your surroundings. Until something heavy and blunt pushes back against the inside of your calf. 

The surprise makes you lose your balance. You fall backwards, the whole room tilting as you’re sent sprawling. When things stop moving, you find yourself flat on your back, less than half a foot away from your bed. You’re still staring up at Steven’s shocked face and outstretched hands when you realise what (literally) hit you. 

Bloody cockblocking ottoman. 

The pitched dark hunger disappears from those brown eyes in an instant. Instead they’ve gone round and doelike with concern as Steven rushes forward, falling to his knees in front of you, and draws your leg into his lap.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more careful and watched where we were going. Bloody stupid of me, I practically pushed you. Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine, Steven. I’m fine. You didn’t push me. It’s alright,” you tell him. 

But his eyes are already darting over your lower leg, and his hands quickly follow, gingerly rubbing your ankle and feeling up over your calf with great care, making your skin prickles under his fingers.  It’s a credible imitation of Florence Nightingale, but as sweet as it is to have Steven tend to you, it's not the sort of attention you want from him right now.

"Leave off the fussing, please?" you ask him softly. 

“Should we–maybe I should get you on the bed yeah? You might be hurt and–”

Leaning up, you place kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, the swell of his lip, hoping to distract him. "I need you, Steven. Don't stop. I don't want to stop right now."

His eyes are still wide and worried, as his hand smooths over the bend of your knee in comfort. “You’re sure you're alright? That I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m sure.” You grab his collar and lean back, dragging him on top of you as you lie back onto the floor.  

Steven follows, letting you pull him down without a hint of resistance, and clambering forward until he’s completely above you. His large frame looms over yours on the floor, thick thighs straddling your waist, and you’re reminded all over again that one of your favourite facets of Steven is how cooperative he is. Always so eager to please you, and you have zero compunction about taking advantage.

“Take this off,” you order, tugging at his jumper impatiently. 

He nods hastily. “Right, right.” 

Ever so good at following your orders, Steven’s hand immediately reaches for the bottom of the garment. He grabs the hem and pulls, revealing a tantalising sliver of golden skin above the waistband of his trousers. You’re so focused on the slowly widening swath of his bare stomach, that it’s not until he pauses, a clumsy snarl of fabric tangled around his head and shoulders, that you realise he’s attempted to take off his jumper and the shirt beneath all in one go and gotten himself stuck. 

Honestly, you’re not even surprised. On any other occasion, you’d be smiling at his adorable ridiculousness, but it's been a week. One hundred and sixty-eight endless hours since you’ve gotten to hold him and touch him like this—uncertain if you’d ever get to—and now each additional second of delay feels like an eternity.

Finally, with another sloppy tug and an impatient groan, the tangled mess of clothing gives, and Steven’s bare-chested on top of you. He’s all strong, sleek muscles, as gorgeous and well-defined as those cut from marble on statues of Greek deities displayed in the very same museums that Steven himself tends to. 

It should’ve been obvious from the start. You want to burst out in laughter at your own naivety. Why on earth would a man who works at a gift shop and spends his free time with his nose buried in dusty old books have a body like this? How has Steven never questioned his own physique? Does he think that all men just wake up looking like this without any effort? 

The sun from the window shines soft over his shoulder and arms. The thin gold chain dangles from his long neck, glistening in the light. He is all warm and golden, soft for your hands to freely wander over the bare expanse of his skin. 

Your hand cups the back of his neck, teasing at those ridiculously soft curls with your fingers, before scraping the base of his scalp with the gentlest strength. You’re marvelling at how prettily his eyelashes flutter and the way he sighs with a blissful shiver makes you smile. 

Sliding down, your hand roams over the carved muscle of his shoulder blade, over his back, pressing a line of soft kisses on the column of his neck. They flex under your touch, as Steven keens softly and you take comfort in the fact that if there was ever proof that Steven is here with you, it’s this. The heavy weight of him on top of you. The fast beating pulse of his throat under your lips. The feel of him hardening against your belly. 

Reaching for his belt, you fumble with the buckle until it finally gives with a metallic clank. Then you shove one greedy hand under the loose waistband of his trousers, slipping it into his underwear. 

He’s hot and hard. Flesh smooth to your touch. Your fingers curl around the thick girth, giving him a firm, indulgent stroke, from base to blunt tip, tracing every ridge. Steven gasps and shudders at your touch, slumping forward like he’s unable to support his own weight and pressing his forehead into your collarbone with a quiet whine. 

You close your eyes at the sound of it, feeling him all around you. 

This is what you’ve been missing, what you’ve been desperately needing, all week. Immersing yourself in the moment—in him—as fully as possible, you draw in a deep breath and give him another stroke just to hear him make that noise again. You let his reassuring presence wash over you, try to let it convince you that he’s really here. 

Wherever he’s been this last week, he’s here, right now, with you.

Then suddenly he’s not. 

Out of nowhere, the protective weight and warmth of him is rising away. Alarm crowds your senses, and in a moment of instinctual panic, your hand shoots up, grabbing his arm. 

"Don't go!"

You open your eyes to find Steven still right there next to you. He's frozen with one hand outstretched above the open drawer of your nightstand, a look of shocked surprise on his face.  

Oh God. He wasn’t going anywhere at all, he was just getting a condom. 

Your cheeks flush with embarrassed heat at the realisation.

"Sorry," you mumble, and you duck your chin, "I just–" You don't know how to explain away your massive overreaction, and guilt claws even deeper into your chest as you find yourself offering up yet another half-lie.

"I had a nightmare that you left. Disappeared, and I couldn’t find you.” 

You can’t believe it’s your own voice that you’re hearing. It sounds so small. Ugly in its neediness. If this was any other man, you’re sure they’d be running for the hills by now. It’s a miracle Steven hasn’t. “It’s silly. Sorry.”

Steven frowns with sympathy, worry etched all around his beautiful eyes. "You don’t have to be sorry, love." He closes the drawer, condom in hand. Then he's leaning back down to press his lips to your hairline. “It’s not silly.”

"But hey, listen,” he murmurs, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “I’m not going anywhere, am I? No. Not except maybe down to the shops."

One warm hand comes to cup your face, and he’s looking at you with so much sincerity that it takes your breath away.

"I would never leave you. Never. Not ever, I swear. Not so long as you’ll have me.” He says it with such utter conviction that pain washes over you anew. 

Because it’s not really up to Steven, is it? He may not be able to stay with you, regardless of what he wants.

“You don’t know that." 

The unfairness of the situation, his powerlessness over his own life, has tears pushing hot behind your eyes.

“Then I'll come back, simple as that. No matter what happens. Even if the bloody sky falls down. Even if a fleet of flying saucers brings an army of funny little green men straight out of Mars Attacks to invade the earth tomorrow, I'll still come back to you. Always, alright? I'll always come back to you.”

The lump still sits heavily in your throat, but you choke out an amused laugh at the imagery Steven draws for you. He smiles victoriously in return. It lights the whole room, and you reach for him again, wrapping your arms around his neck because you need to pull him close and kiss him. 

In this moment, you allow yourself to believe. Against all flashing red signs pointing otherwise, you choose to believe that he will keep this promise. That whatever circumstances arise, even if Marc takes him away again, Steven will always come back to you. 

“Okay,” you say, with a smile stretching wide across your lips, and you can feel the dark weight lifting as you nod at him. 

Steven mirrors your smile, returning your kiss and that’s all it takes before the last morsel of doubt lifts. 

His hands reach down, shimmying his trousers down his ample hips. You help him, hooking your thumb at the hem to drag them down the rest of the way, and he kicks them off his ankle. 

Then finally, the warmth of his bare thighs is against yours, and you both gasp. It’s fucking bliss to feel him like this.  Naked and warm, pressed up against every inch of you, his weight holding you down against the floor, the length of him lying hard and heavy against your belly. 

He anchors himself on one elbow, as he rips the foil wrapper, lifting off of you slightly. 

You miss the contact immediately. It’s like the week apart has left you even more attuned to him, hyper-aware of all the places you’re no longer touching. You watch impatiently as he turns to one side just enough to give himself room, rolling the condom down over his cock with gratifying speed. 

His hands are steady, his movements sure, nothing like that first night where both of you struggled to make sense of the stubborn rubber in the near-dark of his flat. By now, the two of you have done this often enough that Steven knows every step of the routine like the back of his hand, clumsy eagerness replaced by practised ease. 

Anticipation and longing beat loud in your chest at the sight of him, eyes dark, cock in hand as he positions himself at your entrance. You reach for him, unable to stand the distance between the two of you, and he smiles fondly at you and leans down obligingly, resting his bodyweight on top of yours like a heavy blanket. 

It’s fucking perfect. Exactly what you need, and your body opens for him, knees falling outward, hips canting up, heels digging into the floor as you arch up, trying to press yourself closer.

He grinds forward, the underside of his cock sliding slick and wet over your folds. Pleasure rises hot and overwhelming between your thighs at the stimulation, and an unflattering high-pitched noise escapes from the corner of your lungs. It’s like your whole body is strung on a thin line of thread. Overwhelmed by the barest contact after a week of having none. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive having him inside you when this already feels like so much. You wonder if he feels it too.

Opening your eyes, you see the boyish grin on his face, radiating with pride. He does it again, angling his hips to thrust up as the blunt head of his cock glides wetly over your clit and oh fucking– 

Your hips jerk up involuntarily, pressing harder against him, and Steven gasps, eyes going wide and dark, that teasing grin wiped right off his face. 

“Fuck, Steven–God. I need–” Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and you don’t know what you’re trying to say—not sure if you want him to stop or do it again—but it doesn’t matter. You never get to finish the rest of your sentence. 

The thick ridge of his cock slips wetly inside you, and the sweet stretch of him, white and blinding, crowds out every other thought in your head. Your cunt squeezes around him at the thick intrusion, and you both moan at the tight pressure. 

He halts, stilling inside you, and dear fucking god, he’s not even all the way in.  

“God, love. You’re squeezing me so tight,” Steven gasps out, “Feels bloody amazing.” The words are soft, but there’s a clear strain in his voice, and his arms are trembling at your sides from the exertion of keeping still. 

He still doesn’t move, and you’re not sure if he needs a moment or is trying to give you one. “I feel like I'm going to lose my mind if I can't be all the way inside you. Can I–”

He hovers above you, and you can feel his cock jerking and straining against you, the only part of his body he can’t fully control. You can’t help the way your body clenches and shivers in response, and he groans, resting his forehead against yours for a long moment as you pant heavily against each other’s lips. 

“Is it alright for me to keep going?” he asks, eventually. 

You try to say yes, but all that comes out is a breathless, choked out sob, as you nod at him frantically. 

It’s all Steven needs. His hips push forward, pressing the rest of the way into you in one long, smooth stroke. The feeling is electric, robbing you of the ability to process anything except the way he fills you, stretching you out as he buries every inch of himself inside you. You can’t think. Can barely breathe. He’s embedded so deeply that there’s no space left in your lungs.

After a long moment, he starts to pull out just as slowly, his eyes fixed on yours. The pace is maddening, a thick, glacial drag that makes you feel every gorgeous inch of him. It leaves you gasping and writhing under him as he continues to retreat until only the tip still rests inside of you. 

Then he does it all again.

He’s so different when he’s like this. His eyes focused, any trace of timidness gone. Everything else, all his usual hesitation and fear and doubt, seems to fade away when he’s inside you.  It’s like you’re the only thing in his world—you and the need to make you feel good. 

Drawing two of his fingers to his mouth, he slides them between his plush lips, and you can see his tongue tracing around them before he pulls them out again, glistening with spit for you. It’s entirely unnecessary. You’re so wet it’s leaking down the length of him and onto the inside of your thighs. But the sight makes your heart race all the same. 

Steven reaches down between your bodies, hand resting above the apex of your thighs where his cock is still nestled inside you. His fingers slide, ever so gently over the slippery, sensitive flesh where you’re stretched wide around him.

“Feel that, love?” he breathes into your open mouth, “I’m right here. You’ve got me.”

His thumb catches at your clit as he gently presses down, and it has you spasming from the sharp pleasure. He gasps, jerking slightly above you, but doesn’t stop. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He continues to draws small, persistent circles over and over your clit that squeezes the very air out of your lungs, replacing everything, with a needy heat. 

Your eyes squeeze shut at the sensation. Tears stinging in the corner of your lids. 

It’s still not enough. You want more of him. Need to get closer. 

You press your heels hard against the floor, trying to get better leverage, and grip frantically at his back. Nails biting into his skin, you claw at his shoulder blades as though you’re trying to dig your way in so deep that he’ll never be able to tear himself away from you again. It’s selfish, and you know it must be hurting him, but you can’t seem to be able to stop yourself.

Steven doesn’t stop you either. It’s like he knows that you still need more, and he rolls his hips into you, thrusting deep. His hand grips at the underside of your knees, pulling your legs to wrap them around his waist to let you squeeze your thighs around him, heels digging into the curve of his ass. 

It feels like another way of telling you he’s here. Yours to use. Yours to have. Just… yours.

“Never gonna leave,” he whispers into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to the lobe as if to seal his promise. 

Right now you don’t care if it’s a promise that he might not be able to keep. Not when pleasure, bright and blistering, is surging through you with every roll of his hips. It’s too much, bordering on unbearable. You can’t make out what he’s saying anymore, just soft murmurs and vague shushing. 

It doesn’t matter, because his body is telling you all you need to know. 

Because for all of Steven’s calm and reassuring words, his actions don’t match. His actions are telling you a different story—a more desperate one—full of grasping hands, deep urgent thrusts, and bitten-off gasps. It’s like his body knows how long you’ve been apart and what it’s been missing, even if his mind doesn’t.

His hand palms at your ribs, fingers digging deep crevices in your flesh, holding you tight like he means never to let go. 

Mine, it says. Possessive and hungry. 

His mouth, for all its loving dulcet tones and cooing, never seems to leave your skin for long, sliding over your throat and jaw as if magnetised.

Yours, it promises, just as certainly.

He thrusts inside you, his hands find the bare backs of your thighs as he hooks one leg over his arm, and the new angle has him sliding in impossibly deep until it knocks the air out of your ribs. For a long blissful moment, you swear your whole chest cage is going to collapse.

His cock hits somewhere earth-shattering, and you arch up off the floor, curling into him with a shivering gasp. Heat crackles through every limb, swirling and swelling, sweet and insistent in anticipation of your climax.  It settles deep in your belly, raw and heavy, soothed only by each insistent thrust.

He’s so deep you swear you feel him everywhere, buried inside you like he’s trying to stake a claim and never leave. 

You hope he never does. 

Pushing your hips up to him, you chase the feeling of him hitting that perfect spot, as the warm heat of it flutters in your stomach with each deep stroke. It won’t take much, you’re almost there– 

But you don’t want this to end. Not yet. You want to keep Steven right here inside of you for as long as you possibly can. 

You try to relax the tension in your legs, try to push your hips back down to stave it off. But it’s no good, Steven’s hands are still on you, manhandling you into a position where you can’t escape the perfect, relentless press of his cock inside you.

Not yet, not yet, not yet…

But it’s already there, at the tip of your fingers, so close you can taste it on your tongue. A promise of rapture, whether you want it to or not, and you want to scream and cry and fight the sensation that taunts you as it hangs there. But you can’t seem to do any of those things. It’s like you’ve lost control of your body, your hips lock tight, your throat feels tight and– fuck fuck, you’re– 

“Steven, please. Not yet, I’m–”  Your eyes squeeze shut, hands clawing at the carpet, searching for something to ground yourself with. 

“I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, hand reaching for yours until he finds it and pins it next to your head. He clasps your hand tightly in his, weaving each one of his fingers between yours. “Right here. It’s alright. Let go for me.” 

That’s all it takes. The floor underneath gives under, opening up and swallowing you whole. You feel like you’re floating and falling all at once as you clamour for Steven and hold him close as you fall through the cracks off the edge of the earth. 

Your legs latch around the middle of his waist as you wring out every ounce and drop of the sensation you can. It rushes through you, ripe and overfull, filling every strand of every vein. You’re disorientated, the world narrowing into nothingness. The only thing that still exists is Steven. 

All you can hear is the way his breath is stuttering with effort. 

Can feel the way his even pace falters. Can see the way his brows knit in concentration, his face painted with bliss. 

God, he’s beautiful like this. 

Steven comes with a broken groan. 

It’s so much and so deep and somehow you still want more. Want the feel of him raw and bare inside. Even that thin separation of not even a millimetre of rubber is too great of a separator for you to bear right now. All you want is to feel him spill himself inside you, thick and warm. 

His body goes still and rigid, and then the strength in him gives under, nearly collapsing over you. He stops himself at the last second with a slam of his fist on the floor next to you, bent arms trembling with strain in an effort to keep himself upright. 

It’s a sweet and considerate gesture. He doesn’t want to flatten you with his weight. It’s also completely unnecessary because there’s nothing you want more in this moment. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down the rest of the way. It doesn’t take much of your strength, his elbow gives in and bends further, until he’s flush against you, sweaty and heavy limbs entangling with yours. 

Despite the unbearable stickiness and heat from your exertion, Steven holds you, chest still heaving against yours. His thin necklace slips delicately down over your collarbone, cool where it rests against your overheated skin. The golden pendant is pressed intimately between your breast and his chest.

The morning sun washes over everything inside your flat in a golden hue. Even the dull white of your walls turns into something warm and amber. The only sound permeating the peace is the sound of morning traffic outside. A busted old moped races down the street. Children shouting over a game of tag. The honking of cars trying to get somewhere fast. Outside it is loud, hectic and chaotic. 

But right here, inside the safe bubble of your tiny flat, Steven is warm and heavy over you, the beat of his heart drumming against your chest in a steady pace. 

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you ask. 

He kisses your forehead, uncaring of the way your skin is sticky with sweat, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he squeezes your hand firmly in his. 

“‘Course we can, love. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

~ CONTINUE ~

Once again thanks for everyone coming along for this ride. We're hoping to be posting this on a semi-regular schedule of every two weeks. For anyone who wants to be tagged please sign up to the tag list linked on the series masterlist.

We are beyond grateful for all the comments, reblogs and likes and just interest on this series, and while I can be a bit rubbish at replying sometimes, please know that your words and support inspires us to keep going with this series. 🥰

Dedication & Credits:

It takes a village huh, guys?

All my broken dishes to @the-ginger-hedge-witch because when I told her I wanted Steven to get to rawdog it, she went, "absolutely not, not when Marc is out there whoring around for all we know." (I may or may not be rephrasing but that was the sentiment).

To @radiowallet for listening to my insane and uninformed ramblings about Moon Knight and for giving me a firm guide and steering on how to write our beloved Moon Boys and making sure that everything tracks.

To @write-and-buried for inspiring me with the most absolutely deranged filthy suggestions when my smut inspiration well runs dry. I got really stuck in the sex scene for this one when I decided to in the 11th hour add a sex scene because "it felt right" then proceeding to panic cause I forgot how to write smut and she got me back on track.

And always and forever to my co-writer @thirstworldproblemss who had stayed up endless nights with me discussing the finer details of how twitchy a cock should be, how much it should leak. This series would not exist without her, she turns the rubbish I write into diamonds, she goes through every sentence once-twice-three times and she is always responsible for the best lines in every chapter, her voice for Steven is unparalleled, and I find myself falling more and more in love with this world because of her. I would not be writing this story, and most likely, at all, if it weren't for her and our friendship.

I just realized that I never posted this

You can see this dialog after u kill Toriel

Dancing with Silco 👀

silco is sitting in his office minding his own business. downstairs in the drop this song starts playing and he hears your feet off in the distance on your way to him to go absolutely apeshit

Asking Nicely II Joel Miller x Reader

Joel's jealousy burns within him, brighter than he thought it would. But you're a tough gal, you can hold your own.

Warning: implied age gap, unwelcome advances, brief depiction of violence, explicit content, fingering f!receiving, p in v, unprotected sex. 18+ only, minors DNI!

Word count: 3k

You were a bright and shining light in the darkness of a broken world, and whether Joel would admit it or not, it made him incredibly nervous. He enjoyed you, more than he wanted to say, especially to himself. He was worried that if he confessed his feelings to himself or to you, that you'd leave, or something terrible would happen. So he kept quiet, and would watch you from a distance, thinking about the way you'd fit against him in all the right ways.

He was at the bar in Jackson well past sundown. He had come to see you. You were playing that night; Tommy had asked you to. So you sat in the corner of the bar, strumming the guitar and singing as everyone quieted to listen.

Joel vaguely recognized the tune, something slow and mellow that had couples swaying together around the tables. You sang beautifully. You played beautifully. He basked in what felt like normalcy and stayed until you were done several songs later. He watched you smile as the people in the bar clapped for you.

You set the guitar in the stand, and walked up to the bar, and Joel finished his whiskey. The bartender announced last call but he stayed seated. He watched as Ben, a man about your age, sidled up next to you and began talking to you. Joel could see you beam at him, and something stirred within him.

He kept his face carefully composed. He watched you shake your head, and then look around desperately. He felt it was a call for help. He stood as people began to leave, walking with intention in every step towards you.

“C’mon,” Ben was saying. “You said it yourself, you're not doing anything tonight. Come on over.”

“Ben, I'm flattered, really! But—oh, hi Joel.” You looked over Ben’s shoulder at Joel, relief washing over you. Joel offered you a nod and Ben turned. Joel was slightly taller than him, and heavier set than him. But Ben didn't back down immediately.

The younger man squared his shoulders, looking Joel in the eyes. Joel didn't find him to be intimidating, but he did see him as a threat. A threat to you.

Ben reached for you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You tried pulling away but he kept you locked against him as the two men stared each other down. You felt uncomfortable, and you tried to pull away again. “Ben, please.”

Joel watched, clenching his fists. Anger began pouring into his chest as you glanced at him, a fleeting look that he couldn't read. He stepped towards Ben. “You had best listen to her.”

“Or what?” Ben sneered. You wormed your way out of his grasp. He turned his head to look down to you, and that's when you closed your hand into a fist and punched him.

Ben stumbled back from the force of the blow, and Joel stepped between you and the man. The bar went silent, the remaining people fixing their eyes on the trio. Joel might as well have been a wolf, hackles raised and growling as Ben touched his jaw. Ben glared at Joel, spitting out, “Son of a bitch.”

“Move along now, son,” Joel replied, preparing himself for the imminent fight.

You breathed hard, your fury written across your face, and when Ben looked to you, you held his gaze and cocked an eyebrow. You wanted to dare him to overstep again, especially now that Joel was here. Your knuckles throbbed from the impact of the blow. It made you feel alive.

Ben scoffed, shaking his head, and turned to leave. Joel stood between you the whole time, waiting for the door to close behind him before turning to you. He looked you up and down, asking silently with his eyes if you were okay. He reached down, grabbing onto your hand, looking at the red skin over your knuckles. One of them had split, and was dripping blood.

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head to the right. “Let's get you outta here.”

•••

Joel sat across from you and tended to your wounds with gentle hands. He had a clean rag in his hands that was soaked in alcohol; you commented that he was good at this. He wiped the area around the split, and then dabbed at the wound itself. 

You resisted the urge to pull your hand away at the sting, but you held firm, watching him as he furrowed his brow. “I've patched myself up enough to know, I guess.”

Nodding your head, you sighed. “I shouldn't have punched him.”

“If you hadn't, I would've,” he quipped. “No one gets to touch you like that.” 

Amusement beamed at your eyes as you looked at him. You had seen the flash of jealousy in his eyes earlier, and you could see it again more clearly now. “My my, is Joel Miller jealous?” 

Joel froze, clearing his throat, and you knew you had caught him like a rabbit in a trap. “No.”

“Uh huh,” you teased. He frowned, setting down the rag before standing. Your smile disappeared. You didn't realize you had struck such a strong chord. 

“I should get goin’.”  

“Hey,” you said, reaching out and grabbing onto his arm as he tried to step away. “I'd like it if you stayed.”

The man locked up again, his gaze snapping to yours in an instant. You rose from the chair. “Please?”

He sighed. “Suppose ya did ask nicely.”

You grinned up at him, and then your hands moved, one resting on his chest and the other on his neck. He was still, his breath hitching. His voice was deathly quiet when he whispered, “What’re you doin?”

Pressing your body against his, you tilted your head up. “Something I should've done a long time ago,” you whispered back, and then you kissed him. 

He whined. Almost silent, but it was there, swallowed by your mouth as you moved your lips against his. You began to pull away when he didn't respond immediately, fear of overstepping suddenly at the forefront of your mind. 

Then, his hands pressed into your lower and upper back, keeping you from backing away. He kissed you back, and he kissed you hard. It was zealous and feverish, growing more intense as the hand you had on his neck inched up and back into the hair on the back of his head. You were pressed backward into the table. Joel pulled away, you whined in protest, and then you were lifted by your hips up onto the surface.

His lips returned to yours, and you couldn't help the moan that escaped from your mouth as his tongue darted out, licking over your bottom lip. You met him, tongues tangling together, as you spread your legs to accommodate his body between them. You could feel wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. You could feel the heat of the moment possessing you—Joel possessing you—and you gasped for breath when he pulled his head away. His touch left wakes of fire, tingling sensations burning across your skin. You needed more. 

“Maybe I was jealous,” he growled, and you shuddered. “Maybe I've been thinkin’ of this for weeks.” 

Your cheeks flushed at his admission and your eyebrows furrowed. “Well, maybe I've been thinking about it for months.”

His eyebrows raised, and then a smirk slowly played across his lips. “Darlin’, all you ever had to do was ask.” 

You swallowed, playing with one of the buttons on his flannel. “Joel,” you started, looking up at him through your lashes. “Take me to the bedroom.”

He didn't waste a second, hooking his hands under your knees and lifting you with a soft grunt. You directed him down the hallway towards your room. You expected him to throw you on the bed, to tear off your clothes, to bite you, to claim you, and you wanted these things. But when he laid you down with the softest hands, gentle and easy, you realized that you'd take any piece of him he'd give to you. His tenderness would not go unnoticed. 

He licked his lips as he looked over you, splayed out on the bed beneath him, and you felt shy. You turned your head, trying to hide, and he gave you a ‘tut tut’ with his tongue. “Look at me.” 

You did as he asked, and he followed it with a, “Good girl.” Your body shook in response, your cheeks burning again. He chuckled. 

He leaned down, grabbing your hands and pinning them together over your head. He told you to keep them there as he kissed along the side of your neck. He undressed you methodically, undoing the buttons on your shirt, one by one. You could feel your impatience growing. “Joel.” 

He hummed in response. The last button came undone and his hands found your bare sides, running up and down them before taking your breasts in his hands. He squeezed them gingerly, feeling their weight in his palms. You couldn't help squirming. You struggled with not moving your hands, you wanted to feel over him, too. You resisted the urge to touch his shoulders, to feel the muscles underneath his button up. You wanted him, more in that moment than you'd ever wanted anything else. 

He undid the button and fly on your jeans, and he pulled them down and away, leaving you clad in only your underwear. He breathed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He looked at you with feral eyes. You could feel it in his gaze: he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.

His fingers hooked around your underwear, pulling them off in one motion. Your hands fell then, touching his arms. He looked at you, a domineering flame in his eyes, and in one smooth motion he grabbed onto you and flipped you onto your side. A smack landed on your asscheek, stinging the skin. You yelped, and then shuddered. He chuckled. 

His palm rubbed over where he'd slapped you. “What did I say?” 

“Not to move my hands…” you whispered. 

“Don't disobey me, darlin’.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Good girl,” he repeated. Your eyes closed, mouth watering at his praise. You never thought it would sound so good. He rolled you back onto your back, and came to lay beside you, propping himself up on his elbow as his other hand came to your thigh. He rubbed, and then squeezed, and then inched his way up towards your pussy. 

You shuddered in anticipation. You wanted him to touch you in the spot only you had touched. He stopped moving, and you whined in protest. Your arms stayed above your head this time. You looked to him, and his eyes were watching you. 

“I wanna make sure,” he mumbled. “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “But…”

He tensed. “Yes?” 

“I haven't done this—” you started, and then felt yourself hesitating. You felt embarrassed. “—this kinda shit before.” 

His eyebrows raised and he squeezed your thigh. “You're sure you wanna do it with me?”

You didn't hesitate this time. “I do.”

His middle and ring finger brushed up over your folds, palm resting on the junction of your thigh and pelvis. Your eyes closed, and you could feel him lean and kiss your forehead. “Alright then.”

He brought his fingers to your clit, pressing against it in slow circles—testing the water. You gasped, nails digging into your palms to keep your hands from moving. Your thighs shook ever so slightly. Joel's lips found your neck, your head rolled to the side, and he kissed your skin, leaving little nibbles in his wake as he traveled down and then up again. One finger sunk into your entrance, and your thighs jolted closed. 

He waited until your legs fell again to pump in and out, and you couldn't stop the groan that left you. Joel's breathing was loud in your ear. 

He sunk another finger inside of you, slowly stretching you. His fingers were so much bigger than yours, long and thick, and he played you like an instrument. He found which spots made you cry out, and he pushed and rubbed them until you were a sweaty, babbling mess in his hands. You tossed and turned your head, his lips by your ear, encouraging you. 

“Doin’ so good, darlin’,” he whispered. “So wet, so tight. Oh yes, right there, huh? That's the spot. Yeah.” 

Your hips bucked off the bed as he curled his fingers. Your hands shot down to your sides, gripping the blanket underneath you. He chuckled, sending shivers down your spine. You couldn't focus, his fingers driving you to insanity. You knew that this would be bad for you, because you would never stop craving this. Every time you'd see him, you'd want him more than you already did. He knew it too. 

His hand shifted angles, his thumb flicking at your clit as his fingers continued their ruthless assault. “Joel.” 

You whispered it like a prayer. 

“Cum. For me, darlin’, please.” 

He flicked twice more, and everything that had been building in you exploded. Your legs slammed closed around his hand, and he moaned with you as you cried out. The waves crashed into you, carrying you further from reality, small movements of his hands driving you forward into the deep waters you recognized as Joel. You were putty in his hands. Your eyebrows furrowed, your mouth open, and Joel couldn't help but watch as you came on his fingers. He was mesmerized. 

You began to come down, twitching and jerking, and then trying to scramble away from Joel's movements. It was all too much for you. It was overwhelming. Everything was loud, your combined breathing, your heart slamming in your chest and the blood pounding in your ears. You reached to grab his forearm, digging your nails into his skin, and he finally slowed to a stop. You shook like a leaf.

He kissed you then, his lips soft against yours. You realized then that he was still fully clothed, and you reached for his belt. He grabbed your wrist, stopping you from undoing it as he pulled away. You groaned, trying to express your discontent. 

“Patience,” he said, ducking his head to take your nipple into his mouth. He sucked on it, flicking it with his tongue, making your back arch. He pulled away with a ‘pop!’ and you fell back onto the bed. He got up, taking off his shirt and undoing his belt. He kicked his boots off, then his pants and underwear followed, and you saw the sight you had been literally dreaming of for weeks. 

He was a broad and beautiful man, scars and hair covering his body. You followed the trail of hair down from his navel, and your eyes widened at the sight of his cock. It was long, thick, curved up and weeping with precum.  He got back up on the bed.

You felt nervous. Joel could see it. He took your face in his hands. “If you wanna stop, at any point, you just tell me,” he reassured. 

“Okay,” you replied. “I will.” 

He nodded his head, hands going down by your sides to hold himself up as he climbed over the top of you. His cock rubbed against you, your wetness coating him. He trembled. 

His cock pushed into you, and your breath hitched. The stretch of him entering your pussy stung, and your hands shot to his back, gripping him. He didn't say anything, just slowly but surely worked his way inside of you. He sighed when he finally seated himself. You were breathing hard, and sweat had gathered at your temples. 

“I'm gonna move, darlin’.” 

You nodded, opening your eyes to find him staring at you. Something shone in his, something warm and almost loving. You wanted to drink it up, sit in this moment forever. He was looking at you like nothing else in the world mattered to him. He moved then, his thrusts deep and heavy. 

It felt so goddamn good. 

You cried out, and he reached down, encouraging you with his hands to wrap your thighs around his hips. You did so immediately, and it allowed him somehow even deeper access. You moaned, then gasped, then whispered his name. He hummed. 

“Faster,” you whined. He obliged. 

Each increase of pace was followed by squeezing him harder with your legs, or digging your nails into the skin of his back, and you cried out louder each time. 

He wasn't quiet, whispering your name, whispering praises, telling you how good you were for him. He moaned when your hips shifted off the bed, trying to meet his thrusts. 

“Excited, huh? Do you like when I make you feel good, sugar? F-fuck. You're so god damn tight, feels so damn good.” 

“Mhmmm! Yes, Joel! I can't—I can't—” 

“Can't what?” He crooned, brushing a hand across your cheek. “We both know you can cum for me again.” 

That did it for you. You unraveled again. Your hand came up, grabbing onto his hair and pulling him down onto you. His body covered yours, pressing against you, his face tucking against your neck. He moaned loudly, and you shook, unable to even do much as breathe as you tightened around him over and over again. His thrusts became heavier again, more sporadic, and then he was cumming, too. 

He fell against you completely, barely holding himself up. You gulped in the air when you felt like you could breathe again, resting your cheek against the side of his head. Your hands slowly relaxed. 

He moved after a couple minutes of silence, pulling out of you before rolling to lay by your side. You immediately curled up against him.

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

“No no,” he replied. He gave you a smile, a genuine broad grin. “Thank you.” 

gifset for the girls and the gays

carved out of stone

joel miller x fem!reader

Premise: The way you fuck is a reflection of the world around you — rough and hard. Joel is determined to show you what it means to be gentle.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: descriptions of rough sex, biting, bruises, penetrative (p in v), oral (f receiving), passionate sex, lots of emotion, creampie

The way you fuck is a reflection of the world around you. 

Hard, rough, and chaotic.

Whatever the world took from you, it returned with cruelty. There isn’t any softness left, at least not enough to stamp out the desolation. Gentleness is a reckless act when the world is set to kill. It’s a wild risk, one you aren’t willing to take.

Joel can't blame you. He isn’t exactly preaching peace and love, but you…

You grind against him hard enough to make him flinch, dig your nails into his back until you draw blood, you suck until pools of broken blood vessels litter his neck and chest. Whether you’re on your knees with your ass in the air or taunting him until he shoves you against a wall, you’re always searching for more.

Faster, sharper, rougher. 

He gets it. He doesn’t do kind, but sometimes he can’t tell if the noises coming out of you are from pleasure or pain. He doesn’t want to hurt you either — he may be tough, but he isn’t cruel — but you never tell him to stop. You demand it. More shoves, more thrusts, more bruises. It’s the only way you seem to be satisfied.

It's easy for him to get dragged into your ruthless wake. You push and jab at his cold exterior until he responds with his own snarls, fucking you with as much catastrophe as 2003. It’s been so long since Joel let himself get wrapped up in another person’s body like this, and truth be told, he needs it just as much as you need it.

It takes him a month of bruising touches and slapping skin to realize that maybe this is the only way you know how to do it. 

You are fury and power presenting as flashing eyes and tight muscles. Any time he tries to go slow or be gentle — shit, not even gentle just light enough to not require a first aid kit — you look at him like he’s speaking another language. It's the same look you gave him at Bill and Frank’s house.

“Leave it alone.”

The piano lid slams down in a shriek of out-of-tune keys. You whirl around, eyes wide and mouth open like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Good. He saw the way you were eyeing the piano when you arrived.

You huff, placing your hands on your hips. “Why? It’s not like they’re going to use it.”

“No.”

If this were a cartoon, there would be a rising red line washing over you with flashing warning lights around you. Your annoyance is building. Pressing your lips into a tight line, you try to reason with him. “The strings are steel and copper. High quality too. We could use them.”

He knows you’re right. Raiders will eventually break through the gates and strip the house of all its worth. It's only a matter of time, but he'll be damned if it happens on his watch. Not here. Not this home.

"No."

Your nostrils flare, teeth grinding as you grit out, "It's gonna happen any— "

“It's not up for debate. Go shower and stay the fuck away from that piano."

It's not that you're unnecessarily cruel or heartless. You have a heart, it's just carved out of stone. The Cordyceps buried you in a steel wool blanket, swaddled you until you found comfort in pain. This started as way for both of you to thread anger and loneliness into satisfying primal needs. Gentleness was never included.

When he leans in to trail soft kisses down your neck, you retaliate with a snarl and shove. If he tries to hold you close, you claw at his back like a cornered animal.

It isn't until one night in Jackson when the chance at something less intense presents itself. He has you pinned to the mattress, his hips digging into your own as he traps your arms to your side. He doesn't say anything, only watches you from above and wonders...

His silence makes you hiss, “What?”

Remaining silent, he leans down to nudge the tip of his nose against yours in forewarning. Maybe you'll get the hint. He gets as close as resting his lips against yours before you bare your teeth.

“No,” He grunts, pushing away. “No biting.”

You roll your eyes, but comply. This is a game you’ve played before. Joel tries to be sweet, kiss you, caress you, make you feel all lovey dovey until his patience dries up and he fucks you against the nearest surface. 

Only this time your wary look doesn't deter him. He risks moving a hand up to trace your bottom lip, a delicate touch you barely register through your haze of lust.

“What are you—?” You trail off as he presses his lips to the side of your mouth. Your shallow breathes tickle his ear, your body stiff under his mouth. He kisses you again, following the line of your jaw until he stops at the sensitive spot under your ear.

“Do you trust me?” He murmurs, lips hovering over your ear as you let out a frustrated huff of breath.

“Yeah, but what the fuck…” The slow, deliberate press of lips inching down your neck flusters you. They feel so...kind. Like liquid sunlight seeping into your pores. The only roughness is from his stubble and chapped lips.

He stops when he sees the constellation of discoloration and bite marks littering your skin. They’re taunting him, laughing at his attempt at softness. He retaliates with a long, slow lick. 

“Joel,” His name comes out a whisper of a breath this time. When he pulls away to meet your gaze, your expression is one of confusion. His gentleness leaves you entirely unprepared. You shouldn't be relaxing like this.

“S’okay,” His thumb traces the hollow bags underneath your eyes. “D’you want me to let up?”

Your brows wrinkle as if it’s a trick question. The tips of his fingers continue to stroke your cheek. Your answer is a snort of frustration, paired with a forceful twist of your body as you glare something nasty at him. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I will. We’ll get there."

The joint in your temple bulges against his palm, "Then hurry up.”

"Yes ma'am." He mutters, not wasting a moment to lean down. You two often end up closer to chewing than kissing, but now it's slower. No bites, no blood, no clanking teeth. Your lips move tentatively against his as if you’re learning how to do it all over again. It's hot and slow, his stubble scratching against your cheek as you start to feel less like a steel cable ready to snap.

Good. That's good.

Joel takes your relaxing muscles as a sign to lift his weight off of you. Readjusting, he presses his mouth to the space between your breasts to be rewarded with a tiny, high moan that makes you shudder.

“You’re shaking,” He whispers. “D’you wanna stop?”

You shake your head no, eyes shut with your lips parted for raw breathing sounds to escape. 

“Hey. Look at me, baby," He's expecting it to take more for you to open your eyes, but they shoot open almost immediately like you've been electrocuted.

“‘Y gotta use your words. Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Keep going. It’s just…different.”

“I know, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

You nod an okay before he kisses the space between your breasts one final time before moving on to nuzzle your breast, his hot breath fanning over your nipple. It grants him a little moan from you and, fuck, he wants to hear that again. He wants to find all your tender spots hidden between the steel and fire.

You straight up whimper when his mouth closes over a nipple with a wet press of lips and a teasing tongue. As he starts to suck, his arms shift so he is closer to holding you than pinning you down. He's slow, leaving open the opportunity for you to pull his hand away as his hands skim your sides, following the curves of your thighs before settling along the softness of your belly.

But you never do, not even when his fingers brush along the waistband of your underwear.

“Can I taste you?” He’s tentative, attempting to keep his breathing even despite his cock getting distractingly hard. 

“Y—Yeah. Want your mouth on me.”

“Okay, I’ve got you.”

He takes his goddamn time, too, starting another wet trail of kisses down your stomach, his hands massaging the warm skin of your thighs, coaxing them open for him. You comply, but not without trying to push your cunt towards his face. He pushes down on your hips, keeping them flush against the bed.

“Stay still.”

If it were like any other night you would have pulled him by the hair down to your cunt. But tonight isn’t another blazing fire of barred teeth and bruising touches. You concede, lifting your hips to help him slide your underwear off as a show of good faith.

“You…Joel…” You can’t hold onto his name, it keeps darting away as he settles between your legs. Using his hands to spread you wide open, he dips down so he is close enough to smell your wetness, but far enough away that he can still hold your gaze.

You’ve seen men look at you with awe, with terror, and some with a kind of possessiveness that has you reaching for a weapon, but never the way Joel is looking at you now. He’s studying you, like he can’t quite understand how he’s earned your trust.

“You’re so—” He begins slow and slurring because he can't find the right words to say.

“What?” It comes out a challenge, if only because you don’t know what to do with the way he’s looking at you. It’s unsettling, something new. You hope he looks at you like that again. 

The bite in your voice makes him smile. He shakes his head, letting the scratch of his beard rub against the inside of your thigh before running a hot drag of his tongue against your cunt. 

You moan louder than expected, embarrassment making you snap your eyes shut. He builds you up slowly, his tongue finding spots the send shocks of pleasure through you, keeping you on edge as you open yourself up to him. He wants you to melt for him, drip like warm honey. No more of this shattering to a million pieces bullshit, he wants you to know how else it can feel.

And the sound you make when his finger nudges into your wetness —

Fuck.

He’s made you come plenty of times while buried inside of you, but there’s something about watching you fall apart with his mouth on your cunt that is just unbearably hot. He can feel his cock leaking a small puddle of precum on the sheets.

“I’m so close,” You whine his name, eyes shut so tightly he’s worried you’ll never open them again.

“C’mon, baby. Open your eyes. Let me see you.” He whispers, the caress of his fingers as tender as his voice. He’s desperate, adding another finger to coax you to look at him.

When you do, you look completely disarmed as you pant.

“What do you need, baby?” He coos your name, his words punctuated by the wet sounds of his moving fingers. “'Y want me to stop?”

“Don't you fucking dare, Miller.”

He returns to wrap his lips around your clit. He sucks tenderly, intimately, a contrast to the bitterness around you. This time you don’t shut your eyes, you watch him with as much conviction as he is watching you.

When you come, it's a gasp that swallows you up from the inside before it has a chance to escape. His eyes never leave your face, watching as your lips tremble in silence as your cunt grinds against his face.

His face is a mess too when he comes up, pressing his body against yours until his hard cock is leaking against your bellies. He is half expecting you to knock him on his back and climb on top, pin his arms to his sides as retribution for his little stunt.

But you surprise him when you curl around him, pushing your head up to find his lips. There is something weirdly hot about your wetness smearing and transferring from his beard to your chin only for Joel to dip down and lick your face clean. Or maybe it's the way you seek comfort in his embrace. It's hard for him to tell with how hard he is. He's sure he'll come on your stomach any second when you’re breathing, “Get inside me,” between kisses.

“We don’t have to,” His words clipped, his attention focused on not blowing his load. 

“Now, Joel!” You groan, desperate and bratty as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“Not gonna last long,” A weak argument when he's reaching between you to grab his cock.

“Don’t care. I need you." You breathe. Plead.

For a heartbeat, he stills, giving you the chance to back out even as you reach down to his hand, your knuckles bumping as you guide him to run his cock along your slit.

“D’you really want this?” It's his turn to sound bewildered, a silent question in his words that makes the air heavy: can I show you softness?

"Yes," You reply, shifting when you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Your hand lets go of his, moving it up to wrap around his neck. "I want you."

His gaze keeps hold of yours with an intensity you can practically taste as he pushes in. You moan at the steady rock of his hips, each thrust bringing him a little deeper until he’s bottomed out inside you.

This is...new.

Slow and tender, it leaves you exposed to his adoration. You hide away into his neck, his heartbeat thumping against your ear as he reels his hips back, pulling out until only the head of his cock remains before burying himself back in one fluid thrust. Heat rises through your body, warming you up until you're melting. Your hands wrap around him tightly, scared you'll melt right through the mattress.

"Good. You're doing so good for me."

This is the first time you truly feel each other. It isn't some ambiguous tight pressure; you actually feel every vein of his cock pushing against your heat. Again and again, he rocks inside of you like there is nothing else left but you.

"Tell me," He grunts, his Adam's apple bobbing against your temple, "Tell me how it feels."

"F—feels so fucking good — oh, fuck — I need to—" Your words slip off your tongue, dissolving on his warm body. Struggling, you instead pull him forward until your lips are slotted against his. It's not even a kiss, just lips pressed against one another. Connected.

For as unnerving as this is, you don't want it to stop.

Joel’s throaty voice crooning the sweetest words, him thrusting until pleasure grows alongside blooming release. You want to freeze this moment in time, put it into one of those little snow globes you collected as a kid, save it forever.

You don’t expect to come again, but then his thumb presses down on your oversensitive clit until everything builds back up again.

"Give me one more. C'mon, baby, squeeze me. Come for me."

It isn't long until the jagged hot climax sparks up your spine, your muscles clenching down around him as you cry out his name. You’re still simmering in the afterglow, your blood boiling like you're laying on top of a bed of embers. Joel finds his own release soon after, your name heavy in his mouth as his cock throbs sticky pulses of cum inside you.

Using his last bit of energy, he pulls you on top of him as he falls back onto the bed, his softening cock is still buried inside your cunt. He's not young anymore, he's not about the get hard again but he still stays buried inside of you, if only to feel closer to you.

Your face is still pressed against the side of his neck when he feels an odd wetness there. He's about to mumble your name when your next breath is a shaky sob. You try to control it, hold your breath only to hiccup from the pressure in your throat.

"Shit, sorry," You choke, tears smearing against his neck. "Don't know why—"

"Don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed —"

"No," You cry out, your hands gripping his arms hard. "It's not that. I liked it, I'm just...Fuck..."

"S' okay. I got you." He nods, his arms heavy as he holds you closer to him.

You’re digging your nails into his arms again, but this time he doesn’t mind. 

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