RED FLAGS 2

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

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

Summary: Something strange is going on with Steven. Or alternatively: how you fix your relationship by giving Steven the sloppiest office blowjob ever.

Rating: really fucking explicit

Warning/content: unease around male character, inappropriate office behaviour, blowjob, semi-public sex. Please do not attempt to re-enact this, it will land you with HR.

Word Count: 9.3k (guys this was meant to be a short interlude… idek)

[PART ONE] [Series Masterlist][Tag List and Masterlist]

Something is wrong.

You’re naked in your boyfriend’s bed—the very same bed where he took you apart some hours ago, desperate, worshipful mouth pressed tight between your thighs. But now he’s staring down at you, that very same mouth set in an almost-disdainful line, eyes flat and blank.

It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror and seeing a distorted reflection of reality. So many of the peripheral things are the same but the essence is different somehow. Off in a way that has your heart pounding loud in your ears. 

The difference is jarring in the same way that the still-healing wounds on his torso are.  Though in this low light, the bruising on his shoulder and the cuts across his chest don’t look nearly as bad as they did when you first saw them. Was it just the shock of their existence that made you think they were worse than they are?

He clears his throat and you realise with a start that you’ve been silently gawking at his chest for the last several minutes. When your eyes fly to his face, you find him poorly suppressing an amused smirk. He’s never looked at you like that before; you weren’t even aware his mouth was physically capable of curving into such a snide expression.

You don’t know what to say to him. To this stranger of a man who has replaced your sweet, awkward Steven. Don’t know what to do with yourself either. In fact, you’re pretty sure you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights, covers still clutched to your chest. 

His brows draw together, head tilting slightly to the side as he regards you, dark eyes sharp, almost predatory in a way that makes you feel exposed and vulnerable, like an insect pinned to a display board. Your breath stutters in your chest, and a wave of goosebumps raises the hairs along the back of your arms.

Something is wrong, and you want it to stop. And if it won’t stop, you need to leave.

But calmly. Years of experience with drunk blokes in pubs and with overly-handsy coworkers tells you to act normal. Make an excuse. Wouldn’t do to alarm him.

“Is… um…  is your insomnia flaring up again? I should go. I…  really need to be getting home anyway. Early morning at work, you know.” You’re babbling nervously, can’t seem to stop as you start to gather up your clothes. You hurry as much as you can without letting go of the duvet, unwilling to lose the only barrier of protection you have against him. 

“I’ll… um… Just let me–” you stammer as you scoop your ruined tights into your handbag and grab your boots. You back prickles uneasily and you have to force yourself not to look over your shoulder and see if he’s still standing there watching you. “I’ll just get dressed and be on my way.”

You don’t look at him or wait for a response. Things in hand and bedding still wrapped firmly around yourself, you scuttle across the flat like a deranged hermit crab, relieved to find that the doorway you spotted is, indeed the loo. You retreat inside, closing the accordion door firmly shut behind you.

Encased in the darkness of the small room, you listen anxiously for any noise from the rest of the flat, but all you can hear is your heart beating loudly in your ears. You fumble blindly with your handbag, pawing through the keys and makeup and all the other odds and ends that seem to accumulate despite your best efforts, cursing yourself for not being more organised.

Finally, after an infinitely long moment of listening to your breathing come faster and faster as you search, your hand closes around your phone, and you yank it free. Your fingers are clumsy as you thumb it open, turning on the flashlight so you can find the pull cord for the bathroom light and tug it down until the room flickers with a jarring glaring brightness. 

You squint down at your phone, and the familiar background screen of you and Steven looks back up at you. Something akin to guilt floods your chest when you pull up the Uber app to secure a ride home—ETA: 6 mins. It’s followed immediately by relief. 

You need the loo, but you feel too exposed to actually sit down for a pee while starkers. It’s ridiculous really, this isn’t a Hitchcock movie, and logically you know that no one is going to attack you from behind the shower curtain. Still you opt for dressing yourself as quickly as you can. 

Fully clothed and with your escape route secured, you feel a tiny bit better, but the tightness in your chest refuses to dissipate fully. 

You use the loo and wash your hands. Catching sight of yourself in the tiny mirror above the sink, you run a quick hand over your hair before giving it up as a bad job, less worried about your looks than… than… What is it that you’re worried about anyway?  

Standing there staring at your reflection, peaky and fretful under the harsh light, you wrap your arms around yourself and wonder what the bloody hell is going on with you. You’re being ridiculous.

It’s just Steven, right? Your sweet, caring Steven. Except it’snot.

He hasn’t really even done anything untoward, and yet here you are, your heart in your throat, ready to jump out of your skin at the slightest provocation. 

He was just so oddly still. Loose and almost… relaxed in a way you’re not used to from Steven. 

Maybe that’s it, you tell yourself, trying to pluck up the courage to open the door to the rest of the flat.  People sometimes act differently after sex. (Case in point: whatever is going on with you right now.)

Maybe this is just what Steven is like once he finally lets himself relax?

The thought warms you, makes the tightness in your chest relax marginally.  But the warmth fades as soon as you open the door to find him standing in the middle of the room, staring at you.

He’s dressed now as well in the well-fitted t-shirt and dark jacket, so different from his usual oversized clothes. You note absently that it’s a good look on him, but the thought never truly takes hold because you’re too focused on his eyes, just as piercing as before.  Another shiver works its way up your spine. This isn’t just your imagination. 

Something is wrong with Steven, and everything inside you is screaming that you need to get out of here. 

Now.

“I’ll just… um… wait downstairs, shall I?”

He says nothing, and you’re glad, even though that’s wrong too. Steven always offers to walk you, but this time you’re just as happy to be away from him that much sooner.

You’re uncomfortably aware of the weight of his eyes on you as you make your way to the door and start to unfasten the frankly ridiculous number of locks and deadbolts. Even for London this is a bit of an overkill, isn’t it?

Once you finally get the door open, you flash Steven one last wave and a quick, “see you around.” You duck out the door before he can reply, shutting it gently behind you. Resisting the urge to let your head thunk forward against the wood, you turn and head for the lift, still feeling odd about the whole interaction and vaguely on edge.

What was that? Why do you feel more like a witness fleeing a crime scene than a woman bidding a fond goodnight to her boyfriend?

It doesn’t help your nerves that the hallway is dark and empty and one of the lights keeps flickering, lending the whole space an eerie feel. You almost wish you’d asked Steven to walk you down, but you want your Steven, awkward and openly affectionate, not the odd, mostly-silent man you’ve just left behind in his flat.

You reach the lift and punch the call button, prompting a deep hum as the machinery starts to move. You’re staring at the bright red LED light indicating which floor it’s on, willing it to arrive when something grabs hold of your wrist. Hard and unyielding. The persistent grip makes you flinch, jerking your hand back and spinning around to confront… Steven. 

He’s right there behind you, looming over you, looking impossibly large and menacing, and your heart hammers in your chest. You take an involuntary step backwards and clutch your bag to your chest. Your back bumps up against something cold, and you nearly shriek before realising you’ve backed into the door of the lift. 

God, what is wrong with you tonight!? 

It’s just Steven, you tell yourself, willing your rabbiting heart to slow down. (But it’s not. Something inside you is still screaming that this is not your Steven. His eyes are wrong, his stance is wrong, his fucking hairiswrong.)

And you don’t know what you expect (theworst. Oh god, since when have you expected the worst from Steven?) but it isn’t for him to take a step back and hold his hands up in the universal gesture of harmlessness. 

Harmless… right. What a laugh. Right now he looks anything but. Except…

He regards you steadily, eyes dark in his too-serious face. He’s still too still, too… much to be your Steven, but…

There’s something about the way he’s giving you space. The way the stillness is deliberate now, controlled. He’s not trying to make himself smaller—not the way Steven always does—but he’s holding himself back. The power obvious in every line of his body is being restrained in an effort to reassure you, and it’s enough to overcome the worst of your irrational fear.

There’s a tilt of his head, as he gives you a nod, one that seems to say, ‘that’s right. You’re okay.’ And as those dark eyes burn into yours, you can almost bring yourself to believe it. 

He seems to notice too, something shifting subtly in his face. His lips curve up into a small smile, but even that is wrong… almost condescending. And he tips his head slightly to the right.

It’s then that you notice your cheap watch hanging from his hand, the stupid thing looking tiny and delicate in his thick fingers. 

Oh. Oh God. You’ve made a right idiot of yourself, haven’t you? Embarrassed warmth floods your cheeks. He must think you’re a complete nutter, overreacting like that over the return of a wristwatch. 

Your eyes shift from your watch back to his face, and there’s something—the slightest quirk of an eyebrow or maybe the way that one corner of his mouth ticks up higher—that turns the expression cruel, like he’s having a laugh at your expense. 

The heat spreads and prickles up over the back of your neck, making your ears burn. You’re not even sure anymore if it’s nerves or embarrassment or something else entirely, but it rubs you the wrong way all the same, and annoyance comes to the forefront. 

Narrowing your eyes, you send him a look that would ordinarily have Steven withering, but it only seems to amuse the man in front of you.

“Thanks,” you tell him flatly, not quite daring to pop off the way you want to. Instead you hesitantly step forward into his space to grab the watch from him. The band pops apart—of course it does—leaving you each holding half of the useless thing, and you have to scramble to grab the other half from his hand under his taunting gaze. 

What is wrong with you? What is wrong with Steven!? God, you just want to be done with this and far, far away from here.

Like the answer to your prayers, a loud ding sounds out in the silence, heralding the arrival of the lift. 

The doors open behind you, and you back in, unwilling to take your eyes off the man who continues to watch you with the same expression of condescending amusement.  Once you’re far enough in, you punch the button for the ground floor, and give him a perfunctory wave as the doors close between you, breathing a sigh of relief once the lift begins to move.

Still, it’s not until you’re safely ensconced in the uber on the way back to your flat that you feel like you can finally take a full breath again. And as soon as you do, doubt floods into you along with it.

What in the bloody hell was that!? 

Why did you react that way? Somehow, in the veritable sea of red flags lining the road of your relationship with Steven, nothing else has set you off like this.

The whole thing seems surreal, and the farther from Steven’s flat you get, the less sure you are of what happened. Was he really even behaving oddly? Or were you the odd one for overreacting—practically having kittens over your boyfriend… what? Not fawning over you the way he usually does or nattering on about one of his interests in the middle or the night? 

Your logical mind is scrambling for some rational explanation: It’s not outrageous to think Steven might be out of sorts because he couldn’t sleep. Or perhaps you had an unremembered bad dream, and the anxiety bled over into wakefulness. Half two in the morning is not anyone’s best hour. 

But the way he looked at you there at the end, like you werenothing to him…

No matter how you try to explain what happened or excuse it away, the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach remains the same. As does the fact that, for a bit there, for whatever reason, you were afraid to be alone with Steven. 

And that’s a giant fucking red flag if you’ve ever seen one. One you don’t know if you can get past. 

You don’t get any sleep that night, and the entirety of the following workday is a fog. There’s spreadsheets and Team meetings and more spreadsheets, and thank God none of it requires your active brain capacity, because you have none to give today. Your thoughts are entirely preoccupied with last night, and trying to decide what to do about Steven.

The logical part of you votes for cutting your losses and ending things now before you get in too deep. Part of you thinks it’s already too late.

Your phone pings from your bag, and despite your uncertainty and everything that happened last night, your heart still skips excitedly at the thought that it might be Steven. Fishing it out, you unlock it, anticipating a text from Steven; expecting him to be checking in on you the way he always does. 

Except, it’s notSteven. 

Instead it’s an unsolicited picture of an unimpressive specimen of male genitalia taken under the most unflattering fluorescent bathroom light possible. Definitely not Steven. 

Hello, unwanted dick pic #13. 

God, this is what you would have to look forward to if you break it off with Steven, isn’t it? A return to the dystopian, post-apocalyptic landscape that is the London dating scene.

You don’t want to go back to unsolicited dick pics; questionable men, who are either lying about their marriage status or their profile picture; and blokes who leer at you like you’re a piece of meat hanging from a hook in the window display of a butcher’s store. 

But most of all you don’t want to go back to dating strange random men, because you want to be dating Steven. 

YoulikeSteven. 

You like his puppy dog eyes, and his awkward adoration, and his enthusiasm.  You like the silly texts that he sends you throughout the work day— random photos of cute dogs on the Tube or Egyptian artefacts with captions full of lame puns and emojis and the reason why he thought of you. 

You like all of it. 

You like Steven. You like Steven a lot. Before last night, you might even have said you were falling in lo– (No. No, you’re not going there. Not right now.) 

But last night was… not good. Quite bad, in fact, wasn’t it? You can admit that now. In the space of that last quarter hour with Steven, he made you feel scared and… and… small. And you don’t know how to deal with that from someone you’re supposed to be able to trust. 

Don’t know if you even want to try.

God, you’re a mess. 

You shoot yet another glance at the wall clock, but it’s still not half five. 

You’ve spent the last several hours counting down the minutes and seconds until you can clock out, but the more you check the time, the more it seems to drag on until you think the hands must be clinging to the face of the clock, slowing time itself just to taunt you. 

It takes an eternity and a half but then, finally, the clock ticks over. 

You gather up your belongings in a daze and bid your coworkers an absentminded goodbye before wandering off to the lift. You stare at your own reflection, distorted in the metallic sidewall as the lift descends, still fretting about Steven.

Do you want to break up with him? Keep seeing him? How the bloody hell are you supposed to know when you don’t even know what it will be like when you see him again?

When the doors open on the ground floor, you can hear that there’s some kind of commotion taking place at reception. 

“Sir, I’m going to ask you one final time: Who are you here to see?” The no-nonsense voice booms through the entrance hall of your office building 

Susan, the loveable old battle-axe of a receptionist, is giving some poor bloke a hard time again. Nothing unusual there. You can hear her barking out, “If you don’t give me a name right now, you’re going to have to leave. This isn’t a bus stop, alright?” 

“Sorry, Sorry.” 

Oh God. You recognise that voice.  

“I’m not loitering or anything dodgy like that. I’m just waiting for my… girl–uh… lady… um… friend.“

Rounding the corner, you see him. 

Puppydog Steven has returned. He’s wearing another novelty print button down and a hangdog expression. Back stooped and hunching into himself, he’s standing in front of the receptionist desk, holding a bouquet of roses the size of a carnival prize in front of himself like a shield. 

“Steven?” 

At your voice, he turns towards you, hunching further over into himself like he’s bracing himself for a blow. As you approach, you can tell he’s nervous and unhappy in a way you haven’t seen since your first date, and your first thought is that something awful must have happened, because of the contrast between last night and now beggars belief. 

“This one yours then, love?” Susan asks, still eyeing Steven like he might be about to make off with the electronics.

“Yeah, he’s um… Yeah. Thanks, Susan,” you flash her a placating smile, then turn to Steven.  

“Steven, what’s wrong? Why are you—,” but you don’t even get the chance to finish the question before he interrupts you.

“I’m sorry. Oh God,this is why I don’t— Sorry, sorry. I–” The words are disjointed, tripping over each other in his hurry to get them out, but clearly some sort of garbled apology. “Look, if I– If I did something last night that made you uncomfortable, I’m– Oh God, I’m so sorry.” 

In your peripheral view you can see Susan, working studiously at the corner of the reception desk that offers the best position for her to listen in on your private conversation with Steven. You’re acutely aware of various other onlookers who seem to all have found reasons to loiter in the reception area as well. Unless you want to be the star of the workplace gossip blasted in the office kitchen tomorrow morning, you need to move the two of you somewhere less public, and quickly. 

“Susan, can you block off one of the meeting rooms for me?”

She gives you a slightly dubious look, and for a moment you think she’ll refuse. Susan lives for any morsel of gossip to keep her entertained. But to your surprise, she does you a solid without any further prompting. 

“Room 10, pet.” 

“Thanks. I’ll owe you one.” You flash Susan a grateful smile and make a mental note to get her one of those fancy coffees she likes from the cafe around the corner for brekkie tomorrow.

“C’mon.” You grab the cuff of Steven’s shirt and tug gently.

Steven follows your lead, allowing you to pull him with you down the hallway of conference rooms. Rounding a corner, into a more secluded bit of hallway, you follow the corridor until you reach the last door in the row. The one to the conference room that affords the most privacy.

Swinging the door open, you all but shove Steven inside before closing the door behind the two of you. You flip the lock to ensure there are no unwanted interruptions before turning back to Steven.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he starts again as soon as you’re facing him. 

“Steven,Steven. It’s alright,” you interrupt, attempting to reassure him, because God, he looks miserable—every inch the cowering puppydog, just waiting for the kick he knows is coming—and you can’t bear for him to look like that.

But he just shuts his eyes like looking at you is painful. He shakes his head, the set of his mouth all misery, and then your heart skips a beat when his eyes snap open and lock onto yours with an intensity that’s startlingly reminiscent of the night before. 

“I just– Look, I—  You’re the best bloody thing I’ve had in my life in a long time—maybe ever—and… and last night was amazing. Better—way better—than anything I could’ve ever imagined.”

He’s so open, so honest, gazing at you with large, pleading eyes. You feel yourself melting despite your earlier indecision on whether you should be done with him, especially when he continues.

“Last night was perfect,” he says with fervent conviction, but then falters and looks down, apparently shy. You feel your heart squeeze at how adoring he is. “At least, I thought so. You were perfect. And I got to fall asleep with you, which was perfect too. But then I woke up and you were gone. And I’m afraid I’ve bollocksed it all up somehow, the way I always do. Good ol’ Steven, can’t pull a bird to save his life, let alone hold onto one. And it never mattered so much before, but now it does because it’s you, and…”

And he’s still talking, but you’re stuck on one particular part of that word vomit.

He said… he said that he woke up and you were gone. But that’s not right. You know that’s not right. He woke up before you, so clearly you were still there! Does he… not remember? 

You almost ask. Almost say so directly, but something holds you back. Some lingering fear prevents you from bringing up your last unnerving middle-of-the-night encounter. An absurd worry that you don’t dare mention that other, wrong Steven for fear of summoning him back.

Instead you interrupt Steven’s rambling to probe gently, “I was gone when you woke up?”

Steven nods.

“Yeah, this morning. Must’ve worn me out ‘cause I slept straight through.” He gives you a small shy smile that fades quickly when you don’t return it. “Was nearly late for work.”

You’re still reeling, your mind stuck on the bit where he doesn’t remember interacting with you in the middle of the night at all. (Maybe the idea of it being not your Steven isn’t so far-fetched after all?)But Steven doesn’t give you any time to consider; he barely even pauses for breath before barrelling on.

“I don’t blame you for leaving, of course, but I can’t help thinking that I must’ve–” he cuts himself off, gaze dropping to the floor like he can’t bear to look at you. “Look, you… you have to know by now. How dodgy my memory is sometimes. Missing dates or showing up on the wrong day and all that, yeah? Sometimes things happen that I don’t remember. I do things that I don’t remember. And I can’t bear–” 

He breaks off, swallows hard, and finally looks up to meet your eyes. His gaze is serious and direct in a way that almost reminds you of last night, except that there’s no hint of that dreadful, supercilious amusement.

“I can’t help thinking that I must’ve done something, and I’m– I’m sorry if I– Sorry. I– Just please.” His eyes are huge, round and still so open and honest, and there’s something else there too as he continues, “Please tell me that I didn’t do anything to hurt or upset you.”

Fear. It’s fear you’re seeing in his eyes and written across his face. You recognize it now, and you think your heart might break over how scared he looks. Completely terrified over the idea that he might have hurt or upset you.

“Steven… ” You hesitate, brow furrowing as you trail off, not sure what to say or how to describe what happened last night.

“Oh. I– Oh.I did, didn’t I?” He looks vaguely sick at the idea and starts to back away, the hand holding the roses dropping to his side as he hunches into himself all over again, spewing apologies twice as fast as before. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m– Oh God,what did I do? Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ever– Or would I? Guess I did, didn’t I? God I’m– I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine why I would…”

This whole conversation has been a lot to take in, but Steven is clearly distraught, set to go on self-chastising indefinitely for something that seems to be out of his control. You hate to see him this way—it’s painful to watch his quick descent into misery and self-hatred.

“Steven—Steven!” You try to interrupt his spiral, but he doesn’t even pause. You don’t know what to say to break him out of it, so you stop him the best way you know how.

Surging forward, you grab onto the lapels of his jacket to hold him in place while you press your lips to his. It’s a little awkward—Steven is still talking, mouth open when you make contact, and you misjudged the angle slightly—but it does shut him up rather handily.

His eyes flutter closed and he melts against you with a moan so sweet that you want to tuck it away in a keepsake box and keep it all to yourself. When you pull back a moment later, his eyes are half-lidded and dazed, and he’s wearing an expression like he’s forgotten how to carry out the simple task of breathing. 

“It’s alright, Steven,” you soothe him and it is. With him anyway. You’re not sure what’s going on exactly, but you know you lo– that you care about Steven a lot and don’t want to lose him to… whatever it is that happened last night.

He blinks, gaze focusing slightly as he’s coming back to earth. Then he really looks at you. And the dazed confusion is coloured with something akin to hopefulness in those wide eyes. 

“So, I didn’t… do anything to hurt you?” Those round, pitch dark eyes are so sincere. So ridiculously vulnerable like he was never introduced to the concept of self-preservation. Steven is the living embodiment of wearing his heart on his sleeves to the point where you worry for him sometimes. 

You shake your head no, a smile tugging at your lips at the sight of him, because when that sincerity is pointed in your direction you can’t help the swell of affection in your chest.  

And it’s true. 

Hedidn’t do anything to hurt you. You were unsettled at worst, and you’ve got the beginning of a suspicion that somehow it may not even have been Steven you were dealing with last night at all.

“So we’re… um…” he pauses and licks his lips, hesitating, and you try not to get distracted by the way his pink tongue slicks over the swell of his bottom lip, “We’re good then, yeah?”

You nod, smile spreading wider despite yourself. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“You’re… You’re sure?” he presses. He’s still gazing at you with those dark puppydog eyes, uncertainty painted across every line of his face. One stray curl has furled up against his forehead as he bites down onto his bottom lip, worrying the plump flesh. 

You reach for him without thinking, wanting to reassure him, and you pull him in to plant another short, chaste kiss against his lips.

Eager for you as always, Steven meets your kiss. Soft, warm lips pressed to yours for a long moment, and then he’s licking into your mouth with a hungry enthusiasm that has your knees ready to go out from under you. His free hand comes up to wrap around your back, and you bury your own hands in his riotous curls as he kisses you hard enough to bend you back over his arm. 

Steven’s kisses are always ravenous, but this time in particular, he kisses you like he’s seeking salvation from your lips; like you’re water when he’s dying of thirst, and he’s determined to consume all of you that he can get before you change your mind.  

You have to plant your hands on his shoulders, barely managing to pull away from his lips long enough to catch oxygen into your lungs. He releases you with obvious reluctance, and your knees are weak enough that you take a moment to be sure they’ll hold you before you take a step back to look him over, drinking in the sight of him. 

Collar askew, curls a frantic mess over his forehead, kiss-swollen lips, just a hint of uncertainty lingering in those big, dark eyes.  Fuck, he’s so damned gorgeous.

And okay, yes, you want to reassure him, but you’re certainly not opposed to messing him up a little bit more in the process. Messy is such a good look on him after all. 

You sneak a quick glance at the wall clock above—6pm, after office hours. 

There may still be some unlucky souls still working upstairs in the office space, but no one is going to be using these ground floor meeting rooms at this hour. No one except you, that is, and you know exactly what you want to do with that privacy.

Grasping Steven’s collar, you tug at it to lead him further into the room. 

He follows without resistance, but clumsily, nearly tripping on the carpeted floor. Too busy staring at you to watch his footing. He’s like a puppy learning to walk on a leash, and it’s adorable. 

You lead him to the mahogany conference table, and take the bouquet from his unresisting hand, laying it down gently on the table top before pulling out one of the large rolling office chairs. A bit of manoeuvring, and you’ve got Steven standing in front of the chair with his back to the door, just in case. 

He gasps when you drop to your knees in front of him, and makes an abortive movement like he meant to catch you by your shoulders but was too slow, leaving his hand hanging there uselessly in midair.  

The rough carpet scratches at your skin through your tights, but you keep your attention on Steven as you make quick work of unbuckling his belt. 

You can see the moment it dawns on him exactly what your intentions are. His eyes grow comically large, tongue darting out in a nervous fit to lick over the swell of his lower lip.

“Wait, wait. What are you–? There’s people outside. We can’t do this here, can we?” He sounds scandalised, and it makes you want to show him just how scandalous you can be.

“It’s fine,” you tell him, nuzzling at the crotch of his jeans and breathing in the scent of him, before the soft whisper of the metal zipper being lowered fills the room. 

“We shou—oh fuck, that feels so…—Shouldn’t be doing this though, should we?”

For all his protesting, Steven is already half hard, the incriminating evidence pressing against the front of his underwear. His throat constricts as he swallows, a nervous reflex.

You still, fingers hooked into the edge of his jeans and underwear, and peer up at him. 

“Steven. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” The response is instantaneous, accompanied by a vigorous shaking of his head. “I-I– Don’t stop. Keep… um… keep going, please. If you want to.” 

“Good.” You tug down the jeans and pants down over the ample curve of his ass to his thighs in one fluid motion, and his cock springs free from the constraints, rising to slap gently against his stomach. 

“Then sit down.” You wrap both hands around his hips and give the gentlest of pushes, but he drops down so forcefully it’s like you’ve tackled him. 

He’s so distracted—eyes wide and shell-shocked and glued on you—that he nearly misses the chair, not quite making it square in the seat. The chair wheels squeak noisily, as his momentum sends it rolling backwards away from you. 

You blink in disbelief. 

"Oh bugger. Sorry, sorry. Let me just…” Steven, clearly mortified, tries to course correct, planting his feet to kick forward, but he miscalculates the trajectory and sends the chair into a spin instead. “Oh god, I’m so sorry." 

Giddy relief fills your chest, and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles up in your throat. Dear God, why are things with the two of you always like this? It’s practically a comedy of errors. 

Still, if there was any doubt before, it’s definitely gone now. This man—the man in front of you, awkward and fumbling and sweet—is your Steven. 

You shake your head and climb to your feet, still smiling as you walk over to him. Planting your hands on the armrests, you force the chair to a stop. Steven’s horrified expression, now inches from your own face, nearly sends you into another fit of giggles. 

“Stay,” you order with a fond smile. “Don’t move. Just relax, alright? I’ve got you.”

While Steven is normally very good at taking orders from you, this is one that he entirely fails to follow. His whole body remains tense, fingers flexing as they hover nervously in the air until you take them and guide them to the armrests where they grip and hold on tight.

You drop to your knees again and lean forward until you’re caged in by his spread legs on either side of you. Steven lets out a breathless gasp even though you haven’t so much as touched him yet. 

On your knees like this, your face inches away from his cock, you get an up and close personal view that you weren’t privy to the night before. The head is flushed dark pink and it shines slick with the precome that’s beading at the blunt tip. 

Even his cock is ridiculously pretty. It’s really not fair. 

This close the scent of him is even stronger, clean, with a hint of musk and something altogether Steven. Parting your lips, you ghost your breath over him, relishing the way he practically whines at the sensation, his cock twitching and jerking, more precome welling out to drip down the impressive length of him.

So sensitive, your Steven.

You dart out the tip of your tongue to lap up the runner of liquid. It’s a barely-there touch, but from the sound he makes, you’d think you had punched him square in the solar plexus. The choked-out, pitiful sob makes the blood in your veins sing. 

You do it again, just to see if he’ll make the same noise.

He does. 

Then again, and he moans, long and breathless, and it shivers through you. Makes you want to see what other sounds you can pull from him. But first you pull back for a moment.

“Shall I continue then?” you ask, pretty sure you know the answer already.

“Yes, please. God yes.” His voice is breathless, desperate, and you can’t help the self-satisfied smile tugging at your lips.

You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and it jumps in your grip, thick and hot and throbbing against your palm. You love how reactive he is. Looking him in the eye, you drag your tongue against your bottom lip to wet it for him. Then without further ado, you wrap your lips around him.

“Shit. Oh bloody–Shit.” His whole body stiffens under the assault of your mouth, and you can feel him pulsing on your tongue.

Closing your eyes, you savour the sounds he makes for you. Keen little noises and punched out gasps like you’re holding him under water and drowning him in sensations until he can barely breathe. 

His reactions, the way his cock twitches, the sweet tang of precome on your tongue; it’s all perfect, and your stomach clenches with arousal and the aching need to touch yourself. 

It’s tempting, so tempting, to slip a hand under your skirt and indulge in your own pleasure, but you want to stay focused on Steven right now. Want to be able to take in every minute detail of his response to you. So you keep your hands wrapped firmly around the base of him as your mouth inches down, taking as much of him as you can before backing off again to tease him with just the tip of your tongue. 

"Oh God, oh God, that feels amazing. You’re so–oh fuck–so good at this… I mean why wouldn’t you be? I mean… oh God.” He’s babbling. Fingers gripping the armrest so hard that his knuckles have gone ghost-white. “Pleasedon'tstop.”

It is, possibly, the world’s worst and most adorable attempt at dirty talking. But it hardly matters. Steven is so responsive to your every touch, so obviously overwhelmed, that it’s impossible to take his words the wrong way. Impossible not to be aroused by his enthusiastic reactions.

When you kiss the tip of him, he keens. When you swirl your tongue, tracing shapes against the sensitive head, he’ll cant his hips upwards, in an attempt to get even deeper. When you grant him exactly that, letting him slide him deeper into your mouth, his hands fly to your shoulder, fingers flexing there, digging in until they’re just short of painful. 

And all the while he’s watching you with awe, gaze locked on you, as though he’s afraid to look away in case you disintegrate under his hands. As though he can hardly believe you’re real.

That look in his eyes makes you burn. Makes you want to do even more for him. To make him feel as good as humanly possible. So you suck and kiss and lick every inch of him you can, your hand wrapped in a tight fist around his slick girth to work what your mouth is unable to. 

One large, shaking hand comes up to cup the side of your face, his thumb barely ghosting over the corner of your mouth where it’s stretched wide around his cock before moving to your cheek. He rubs small, soothing circles over your cheekbone, gentle even as he’s writhing under your mouth. The tender, doting touch sends pleasure skittering down your spine. 

Even now, with you on your knees for him, the man is trying so hard to hold back. To be careful with you. His hips barely hitching up to meet your mouth, as you lick and lap at every inch you can. 

“God, look at you. You’re so pretty. I can’t believe you’re actually–” He breaks off, gasping, then starts again, barely seeming aware of what he’s saying, “Your mouth feels so good. So fucking pretty, you are. Can you— Can you take me deeper?” Then when you hum an assent around his cock, “Oh God, oh please…” 

The words coming out of him aren’t even particularly filthy, but they affect you all the same. 

Heat blossoms in your stomach at how wrecked his voice is as he pants out how pretty you look over and over again. You can feel how wet you are—dripping into the already soaked cotton of your knickers. You squeeze your legs together, moaning around his cock when the pressure makes your cunt clench around nothing. 

“Oh. You’re–? Fuck. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Steven gasps out, and you pull back far enough to look up at him and shoot him a cheeky wink.

“God, you’re amazing,” he groans, thrusting up into your mouth just once, like he can’t help himself, then stilling. Whatever shyness or uncertainty had him tongue tied just a few minutes ago seems to be gone, and he starts to beg for you to “Touch yourself for me, love. Please. Fuck. Want you to enjoy yourself too. Please.” 

Hah. As though you weren’t already enjoying yourself thoroughly. 

Still, it’s no great hardship to do as he asks, so you pull off slowly, teasingly, and sit back on your heels to look up at him. Collapsed back in the chair, chest heaving, cheeks flushed and curls in complete disarray as those dark eyes burn down into yours, he looks gorgeously undone. 

God, and he says you’re the pretty one? 

You can’t help but lose yourself in admiring him for a long moment.

Too long of a moment, apparently, because his brows draw together and the light of uncertainty starts to flood those big brown eyes. His hands rise to flutter in the air, a sure sign he’s feeling insecure. 

Quickly, before he has a chance to overthink things too much, you make a show of sliding one hand down to cup your breast. Between your office clothes and sensible bra, you don’t get much out of it, but you’ve certainly captured Steven’s attention.

He looks utterly gobsmacked, mouth hanging open, and his eyes remain glued to your hand as it continues its descent down your body, and up under your skirt. His swollen, shiny cock jerking and leaking precome in an entirely gratifying manner.

You press a hand between your thighs over your clothes and gasp when even that muted pressure sends pleasure streaking through you. There’s an awkward moment as you scramble for the edge of your tights, and manage to drag them down far enough to wedge your hand under and into your knickers. 

The angle is cramped and uncomfortable, but so, so worth it to be able to rub slippery little circles over your clit. Fuck, you’re already so wet, and you can’t help but moan as you feel wetness leaking down between your thighs every time your cunt clenches.

“Oh my days,” Steven breathes, eyes as wide as you’ve ever seen them as his gaze flits between your face and the hand buried beneath your skirt. He seems to have forgotten about his own arousal entirely, totally focused on you.

And, well, that just won’t do.

When he looks up at your face again, you catch his gaze and send him a naughty smile before ducking forward and taking his cock in your mouth again. 

Steven lets out a gasping moan that sounds like it’s torn from his very soul, and this time his hips rise to meet you, no longer holding back. He’s all instincts and hunger now, and you’re reminded of the Steven who took control from you last night and drove you to three orgasms so intense that they left your legs numb in their wake. 

His cock fills your mouth perfectly, and it’s almost too much. You struggle for a moment to fit all of him, but then the two of you find a rhythm between you that lets you take him deep without choking. 

You rock your hips against your hand in time with his thrusts, and the muscles of your forearm ache as you chase your pleasure. It feels so good that you keep forgetting to time your breathing, butfuck, you barely care. Can’t help but love the burn of it down to your lungs. The taste of him, bittersweet and tangy on your tongue, is intoxicating and you could easily get addicted to this. To the uninhibited sounds he’s making at your touch and the taste and smell of him.

You’re overwhelmed, surrounded by him, head swimming with it. Or perhaps it’s the lack of air that has reality going a bit woozy around the edges as you match each roll of his hips into your waiting mouth with a roll of yours rocking against your hand. Your world narrows down to his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ears, and the devastating ebb of pleasure pours through you, building higher with each advance and retreat. 

It’s too much and just the right amount because suddenly you’re there, right on the edge. Don’t realise that you’re moaning until the sound cuts off when you shove forward, desperate to take Steven as deep as possible. You roll your hips down one last time, pressing hard against your clit, and that’s all it takes.

You come hard, white hot bliss surging through you as you convulse on the floor of an empty conference room, Steven’s cock lodged as deep in your throat as you can take him. 

Dimly you hear Steven’s shocked “Oh Lord, are you—? Oh my God!” and then a broken, breathy litany of “Oh God oh God oh God,”  but it hardly registers.

You hold there as long as you can, until your lungs burn and the muscles of your arm threaten to cramp and you’ve wrung every last drop out of pleasure you can out of your orgasm. 

Finally, shuddering with overstimulation, you have to pull back. Pulling your slick hand out of your underclothes, you flex your aching fingers, chest heaving as you suck in a long overdue breath and then another.

“Oh God, oh God, don’t stop.” The head of Steven’s slippery, wet cock glances off your equally slick lips as his hips rise to chase your mouth, “Pleasepleaseplease– I need– Fuck. Please don’t stop.” 

His cock is twitching in your hand in protest from the sudden lack of attention. The length of it is dripping from your spit, precome flowing from the fat tip as if it’s drooling, glistening under the ceiling light. 

You can’t help the shudder that works its way through you when your oversensitive cunt clenches at the depraved sight. 

If your goal was to make a mess of him you’ve certainly succeeded.

To buy yourself time to catch your breath, you press saliva-slick kisses along his hardened length, relishing the way Steven descends completely into incoherence.

Half sentences and broken off words, begging for your mouth. It’s a far cry from the man who was all shy nerves, and worried about people being outside not so very long ago.

And you love it. You love it all.

The sounds he’s making are intoxicating. You want desperately to hear how loud he can get, but there’s a little voice in the back of your head warning that this is not the place to let the volume become an issue.

There shouldn’t be anyone down by this hallway, but the way that Steven is carrying on, you worry the sound will carry far enough that your co-workers on the floor above, still in their offices, will be able to hear you two.

“Steven,” you murmur, pressing another kiss to the fat tip of him, “I need you to keep quiet for me.”

You tilt your head until you can sneak a glance at him. How utterly ruined he looks, chest heaving, rising and falling in tides, eyes dazed, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can’t help but smile, fluttering your eyelashes for his attention as you lap up the precome oozing down his cock with little kitten licks, savouring the way he shivers violently below you. 

You know you’re being mean. He’s so overwhelmed that he looks like he is going to jump out of his skin, but you can’t resist as you continue to tease him.

“You don’t want me to have to stop, now do you?” 

He whines at that, and if you had the luxury of time and privacy, you’d scold him again, drag out your fun and tease him just a tiny bit more.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Steven begs so prettily, shuddering below you as he stutters out, “I—I’ll be good. Quiet, I promise. Please, please don’t stop.”

“Good,” you say, then you lean down again and take him back into your mouth. 

His hand flies up to his mouth, and he clamps a wide palm over it in a desperate attempt to quiet himself. It helps some, but you can still hear the muffled groan that rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest. 

Your previous established rhythm falls apart. 

His hips stutter into a staccato pace as he thrusts into your mouth in a desperate attempt to get deeper. The telltale sign of his sharp jaw tensing, the small muscle there flexing. Those gorgeous doe eyes roll to the back of his head, his face awash in pleasure. 

God, he’s fucking beautiful like this. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the sight of him. 

From the way his thighs are trembling, you know he must be teetering on the edge even before he warns you with a hoarse and broken, “Close. I—I’m close.” 

You hum, and the vibration makes him hiss like you’ve burnt him. His hands come to frame your face, attempting to gently pry you off of him.

You let him pull you away just long enough to form words, hands still wrapped around him to replace the momentum with firm strokes to keep him on the edge, as he twitches and jerks in your palm. 

“Do you want to come in my mouth, Steven?”

He shivers, his eyes are shut tight, and for a moment you aren’t sure if he heard you at all. But then he nods forcefully, choking out a rough,  “Fuck. You can’t just– God.Yeah.Yes. Fuck. Please,” that has the tip of your ears tingling. 

God, he sounds ruined. 

He also soundsloud, and he isn’t stopping.

“Steven.” Your voice is flat, cutting through his desperate rambling. “Shut it.”  

A strangled moan tears out of him at your command, and somehow the suppressed noises he’s making are even louder than when he was babbling. 

In a sudden fit of inspiration, you shove the fingers of your other hand, still sticky with your slick into his mouth. His tongue drags against you, and he gasps around the intruding digits. At the same time, you lean down to take him as deep as he goes, swallowing down the urge to gag when he hits the back of your throat.

His body goes rigid, throwing his head back and baring his long graceful throat to you with a muffled groan. He suckles at your fingers, mouth hot against your sticky skin, and you can feel it the moment that he comes. His cock pulsing warm and thick against your tongue, as he floods your mouth, tangy and slightly bitter. 

It’s quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced, and it makes you want to drag out that pleasure for him and ruin him even more. 

You hold him in your mouth, tongue lavishing at the stiff underside of his cock, your own fingers pressing against his tongue as he writhes underneath you. You don’t let up, drawing things out until his thighs are shaking violently beneath you and you’re sure that the overstimulation must be bordering on the painful.

Only then do you pull away, sitting back to take in the sight of Steven. Rosy-flushed cheeks, and half-lidded eyes boring into you. He’s staring down at you like you’ve hung the stars and moon in the night lit sky one by one. 

All of a sudden, you find yourself feeling almost shy under that loving gaze. Flustered at the adoring attention from him. You feel silly to be the object of that devotion, while you’re still on your knees, knickers and chin equally sticky, and the remnants of his come still lingering on your tongue. 

You don’t know what to say or do next, but it doesn’t matter.

Before you can even try to figure it out, Steven surges forward, dropping down to his knees in front of you and closing the distance between you to crash his lips against yours. He licks into your mouth with frantic desperation, apparently uncaring that you still taste of his come. 

You can taste yourself in his mouth as well, as Steven devours your mouth with a hungry fervour that you’ve come to associate with his touch. 

It’s sweet; it’s depraved; it’s ravenous. 

It’s all the contradictions of Steven himself wrapped into a kiss. And for better or worse, it’s something you’re not sure you can live without anymore. 

Eventually he slows in his pace, until the one kiss dissolves into many, syrupy and languid in a way that makes the air around you thin. And then…

“God, I love you.” He sighs the words gently into your mouth, so blissful and contented that it takes a moment for you to realise what was said.

You stiffen in his arms as his words fully register with you. Pulling away, you draw back enough to see Steven’s face, not entirely sure if you heard him right until you see the complete adoration in his eyes.

Oh. Oh wow, he really does mean that doesn’t he? 

The expression on your face must betray how stunned you are by his confession, because Steven’s brows draw together in concern and he immediately starts apologising.

“Sorry. Should I… um. Should I not have said that? Not the most romantic moment, is it? Course it’s not. Confessing after you– you–” he stutters, clearly flustered. “Well, after that.”  He flinches, face flushing bright red, and mutters, “God, I sound like a right bloody wanker, don’t I?” 

He’s right.

This was hardly the perfect time, or a particularly romantic one. And he does sound like a bit of a wanker.

Your eyes meet, and he flinches, eyes worried and voice hesitant, as if he did something grievously wrong to offend you. 

“Did I make you uncomfortable? I did, didn’t I?” He drops his gaze, as though he thinks he’s committed some grievous wrong to offend you.  “I’m sorry, we can pretend I never said it if that’s what you want.” It clearly pains him to make the suggestion, but he makes it anyway. “I don’t– I don’t want to lose you.”

That’s the thing with Steven. 

He’s all in. 

Whatever else he has going on, Steven’s never been half-hearted about this, about you.

He doesn’t time his moments or play tactics to win you over. Whether it’s bravery or stupidity, you can’t tell, but he’s always been open and vulnerable with his feelings, even that very first night at the restaurant, when his eyes lit up at the sight of you. They’ve always been right there on his sleeve.

And right now it’s clear to see that he’s en route to having a complete nervous breakdown if you leave him hanging any longer without an answer. 

You’ve known for a while that you likedSteven, had feelings for him, and now there’s not a single doubt in your mind about how deep those feelings go.

“I love you too.” 

He looks up at you timidly from underneath those thick eyelashes with shock that’s shading into careful, dawning hope. His mouth opens as if to speak, but then he hesitates for a long moment, jaw working, like he’s too scared to ask you to repeat it in case he misheard or you’re playing a practical joke on him. 

“Yeah?” he asks eventually, voice whisper-soft.

You don’t answer him with words. 

Instead you nod, pulling him close until you can kiss him again. Removing any lingering doubt that still might remain—for both of you. Whatever yesterday night was, you meant every one of those three little words, and want to stay to figure it out. 

It’s you and Steven, red flags be damned. 

Dedication and Credits

To the city of London itself, can you dedicate a city? No? I’m doing it anyway. I’m finally home after 2.5 years of being away and I miss her so. Love of my fucking life.

@thirstworldproblemss my love, my best friend, my soul twin, clown sister. Thank you for being with me literally every single day the past year and almost a half in my pocket, on good days, on bad days, and on the boring-nothing-special days. You’ve kept me going all this time, and the best part of my gloomy days would be waiting for you to wake up half across the world and start our nonsense for the day. My life is all the better because you’re in it. Thank you for keeping me intact and in one piece all this time.

@frannyzooey the kindest, most talented, and most supportive person. You are so loved and truly one of a kind. You give so much of yourself wanting nothing in return and your presence is my life is such a gift. Thank you for always being there with a kind word when I was about to blow my freaking casket in the last year and a half. For talking me down, for being a pillar of calm and reason when I felt like dousing things down with gasoline and setting it on fire. Thank you for being you, I cannot wait to spam you with a million food photos from this day on, that’s my promise to you.

@jazzelsaur for your beautiful, curly avocado toast hair that smells like delicious onions. I love you, your baby whore

@radiowallet with your brilliant big mind. For you love of the comic and nerdy. For being so absolutely fucking wonderful and supportive and kind in a word that is anything but on some days.

@the-ginger-hedge-witch this is not a dedication. This is a call out, remember when you tried to character assassinate Brendan Fraser? Pepperidge Farm remembers. P.S. I love you dearly

Red Flags Masterlist

Summary: Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. 

{Read on Ao3}

This series is explicit as fuck. Please heed the warnings in each chapter.

Part 1:Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. Or alternatively: You get to use that ankle restraint on Steven and sit on his beautiful face. | 9.2k words

Part 2: Something strange is going on with Steven. Or alternatively: how you fix your relationship by giving Steven the sloppiest office blowjob ever. | 9.2k words

Part 3:TBC

Part 4: TBC

MIRROR’S EDGE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant

Summary: You offer Marc a trade: something you want for something he wants, but you quickly realise you may be in for more than you can handle.

Rating: really fucking explicit

Warning/content: Pure pornography, edging, orgasm denial, Marc’s dirty filthy mouth, cunnilingus, overstimulation, Steven being a loveable cock blocking meow meow, established relationship.

Word Count: 6.4k (all of it porn)

[Tag List and Masterlist]

Marc can be intense. Overly-serious. Intimidating.

There is that semi frown, a grim, set line of his lips that never breaks into a smile. Narrow, scrutinising gaze set across rich, expressive eyes. His expression is permanently serious. Grumpy and surly even. But for all of his brusque mannerism and frosty behaviour, Marc, in his own ways, can be surprisingly indulgent with you. 

Tucking you in, up to your shoulders with the quilt to shield you from the cold when you’ve fallen asleep on him. Leaving you small gifts, odds and ends he thinks you’ll like that appear at random, no note or card, no credit taken even if you confront him directly about it. Making repairs or doing chores surreptitiously, when you’re not looking.

He wants to indulge you without the flourish or the attention. It’s probably why the only place and time he openly pampers you without restraint is when he has you naked and bare. When his mouth is drowning between your thighs or his cock buried into you to the hilt of himself. 

In those moments, it’s always about you. You and your pleasure as he pulls orgasm after overwhelming orgasm out of you. It’s almost as if any pleasure that he allows himself to have in the moment is only if it’s incidental to yours. As unrelenting as he can be, when his hips snap into you with a demanding pace, you also know that he’s going easy on you. 

You see it in rare flashes in that dark hungry gaze. In the moments leading up to your orgasm, those suspended seconds where you’re hanging by a balance on the edge of tipping over. You can see it then, how there’s something more he wants, before he snaps out of it with the shake of his head and pulls himself out of the trance as you fall apart before him. If you could, you would want to prolong that moment for the both of you, when his eyes are bare and open, honest with his needs. Because it’s like he’s always holding back with you. Scared that if he takes you apart the way that he wants to, you’d break like fine porcelain in front of his very eyes. 

You see that same look in his eyes now, as you pull back momentarily from where you’re straddling his lap on the sofa, sharing heated kisses. That guilty, greedy look, like he wants more than you’re giving him, but won’t let himself take it.

“I won’t break,” you tell him. He looks up with a plastered on confused gaze pretending he doesn’t know exactly what you mean.

“Whatever it is you want to do to me. You can. I won’t break.” You swear you can almost see him emotionally withdrawing before your eyes, so you press on, “You get to ask me for things too. You know that, right Marc?”

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, mouth set in that familiar downturned line that says you won’t get anything more from him. You probably should have expected this reaction. Marc never asks you for anything for himself. Not ever. You think he feels like he doesn’t deserve to ask for anything. He guards his needs like a secret inside a penitentiary.

“What if….” You scramble for something to offer that might get him to agree, “What if we trade? You tell me what you want from me in bed, and I’ll tell you something I want from you.”

Marc’s eyes narrow in an attempt to look sceptical, but not before you catch the flash of almost-predatory interest.  

“…and I’ll even go first,“ you offer to sweeten the deal, praying he’ll take the bait.

He doesn’t agree. But he also hasn’t said no yet, which, from Marc, qualifies as a confession in your book that he wants what you’re offering. It won’t take much, just a little push in the right direction, and you’ll have him. 

"There is something I want to try with you,” you stall, watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction for interest. You don’t have to fake the heat that rises in your cheeks when you can see Marc’s hands flexing at his sides. Dragging your eyes up from those thick fingers that so often bring you so much pleasure, you look up at his face from under your eyelashes just in time to catch him licking his lips. 

“Tell me,” he demands. He’s leaning in, gaze focused and intense in a way that sends a shiver of anticipation through you.

“Not unless you promise you’ll go next.”

His eyes soften for just a moment, and the corner of his mouth hitches up just a hair, which from Marc is almost as good a full laugh. You feel a flash of triumph because you know he’s going to agree even before the words leave his mouth.

“You drive a hard bargain, pretty girl. Alright. Me next. Now tell me." 

“It’s… um… Well I– That is…” You fidget with your hands in your lap. Now that you’ve lured him into agreeing, you realise that you didn’t think this through. What are you going to ask for? What could you possibly want that Marc and Steven haven’t already given you? Especially when they’ve given you pleasure above and beyond your wildest dreams already?

Marc seems to mistake your floundering for hesitance, and some of the sharp focus in his gaze fades into an open expectant expression (well, as open as Marc’s expressions ever get anyway).  He reaches out and takes both your hands in his larger ones. 

“You can tell me. Anything you want, baby. Just tell me and it’s yours.” His eyes and hands, both warm.

“I… um…” And God, he really does mean that, doesn’t he? Marc is less openly affectionate than Steven. Less open period, but you know he’d move heaven and fucking earth to give you anything you wanted. He does it every day and won’t even let you thank him for it—pretends it wasn’t him if you try. That’s just what he’s like. 

You look up at him, into those big brown eyes, and you get a flash of those very same eyes staring down at you, feverish and greedy, as he brings you to the brink in bed. You can almost hear the low, eager rasp of his voice as he asks you if you’re close. That suspended moment when you can see the leashed hunger, the need for something more in him. And you know what you want. 

“I want you to edge me.”

Silence. There’s silence.

The intense focus is back. You can feel the weight of it on your skin, the heat of his burning gaze. The way Marc’s staring at you it’s a wonder you don’t spontaneously combust. You almost feel like you could.

“You want me… to edge you.” His voice is neutral, but his body language is anything but. You can see the tension in his body, in the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the way the muscles of his jaw flex.

You nod. “If… if that’s alright with you as well?” You hate how uncertain your voice sounds all of a sudden. Not sure where this sudden timidity has come from except that his gaze is stripping you bare, exposing you until you are unable to hide from him.

“Yeah,” Marc huffs out with a laugh. An actual, honest to God laugh. “Yeah. That’s alright with me.”  The corner of his mouth is turned up as far as you’ve ever seen it, but his eyes are all dark heat and promise as they bore into your own. 

“But if we do this? I’m not gonna let you off easy. You understand?” His voice, low and rough, burns its way through you along with the realisation that he wants this. That you were right.

You’ve finally figured out some small corner of Marc’s wants beyond just you, and you get to give it to him. Or, rather, let him give it to you. The knowledge thrills you, makes you want to give him even more.

“I don’t want you to let me off easy, Marc. I want you to ruin me.” 

He groans, deep in his chest, and you think you hear a muttered, “Fuck. Gonna ruin me,” before his lips are on yours, desperate and devouring.

With far too much ease, he slides a firm strong arm around your waist to pull you to him. His other hand urges you to wrap your legs around him, helping you to lock them around his waist, and then he’s lifting you up in his arms and carrying you across your flat into the bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. 

Before you know it, Marc is lowering you onto the bed and following you down. The reassuring weight of his body settles over you, holding you down, pressing you into the mattress. 

Popping the button open on your jeans, he drags them down your legs and off. His firm, calloused hand skates a smooth path along your skin on the way back up, dragging along the outside of your calf to your knee, then your thigh before he gently spreads your legs for him. 

The broadness of his palm covers your mound, cupping you through your knickers, and you become acutely aware of just how wet you are. The touch feels heated, intoxicating, even though he hasn’t really done anything to you yet. From the curved smile on Marc’s lips, you’re sure he can feel the way you’ve already soaked through the cotton fabric of your knickers. 

The heel of his hand grinds down against you, and the pressure is delicious, relieving the ache that’s already built for him between your legs. You can’t help wantonly canting your hips up, seeking more contact, more friction, just more of him. But his hand is already moving away. His fingers find the edge of your knickers, trailing along the ticklish skin there, and then he’s pushing them aside. 

The tip of one finger parts your soaking folds, sliding a slick line to your clit, and your whole body jolts at the electric contact.  

“Fuck. So wet already. You always get so fucking wet for me,” he murmurs against your neck, mouth sliding hot and open against your skin as he makes slow precise circles over and over on your clit. Then his hand dips lower, sinking two thick fingers into your cunt, in a perfect filling slide.

It punches the air out of you, leaving only a sweet ache in its wake. Your mind feels raw around the edges, fuzzy with the sharp spike of heat spearing through you. The heel of his hand rests over your clit as his fingers curl into you, unerringly finding all your sweet spots at once. 

He could make you come like this after only a few moments—has done just that many times before. This time he draws it out, instead, fucking you slow and thorough with his fingers, as though determined to wring every drop of pleasure out of you. And God, he is. 

You’re panting, as wet as you’ve ever been. So wet you’re probably dripping down his fingers to his wrist, but you’re too far gone to even be embarrassed because it feels so fucking good. Your body curls into his touch as he fills you just right, two talented fingers working inside you. 

The pleasure is devastating. Your leg kicks out, toes curling into the sheets. You’ve foregone all sense of shame, grinding yourself up up up against his palm in a desperate attempt to push yourself over the edge that’s dangling just out of your reach. 

You’re close, so fucking close. Your impending orgasm searing through your spine like it is ready to burn a hole through your flesh. You just need a little bit more, and Marc is giving it to you perfectly… Until he isn’t.

Marc stops.

He pulls his hand away, the full thickness of his fingers slipping out of you and leaving you empty and needy, and it’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head.

Oh right, edging. You asked him to edge you.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, breath panting as your lungs squeeze painfully tight in your chest. His fingers are glistening with your slick in the light, as he puts them to his plush pink lips and slips them in between to suck them clean. 

“That was a close one wasn’t it, baby?”

Pulling down your knickers from your legs, he drags them off your ankles, before leaning down against you. He starts from your chest, pressing, burning kisses against your breast and the ends of his curls tickle your heated, sweat-slicked skin as he makes his way down your stomach, tongue sliding down your hips as he dots kisses to your thighs, spreading your legs even wider for him. 

He stops there, holding himself above you, so close, the tip of his nose is nudging against the apex of your thighs. There’s a beat of a second, an excruciating wait for you. You don’t know what he’s doing until you hear the inhale of a breath, his shoulders rising as he’s breathing you in, inhaling the scent of you. Then you feel it, the warmth of his breath ghost over your oversensitive clit, until he finallyputs his mouth to your pussy. 

You can feel the way his jaw tenses as his mouth works you open. His tongue is a slow obliging slide through your slick folds as he hums into you. Soft and wet as he parts you. 

“Taste so good,” he murmurs, scraping his chin against the inside of your leg, until the stubble burns pleasantly against the oversensitive skin. It’s an overwhelming, visceral sensation that makes your body jolt, stomach clenching. You nearly kick him in the face, but Marc is way ahead of you, hand firm on your leg as he pins you down. 

“Easy. Easy there, baby. We’re just getting started.” 

It’s so slow and so insistent as he laps at your cunt. The bright flair of pleasure and pain that shoots through you is unbearable at this point. Your fingers dig and grip into those soft curls, pulling them tight until it must sting against his scalp, just the way Marc likes it. Hoping it’ll spur him on and drive him to distraction and just let you come. 

Your thighs are shaking. Your stomach too and every muscle in your body is trembling, pulling taut like you are at the end of a race and can finally see the goal before you. The pleasure is almost painful, and you forget to breathe, seeing spots dancing in your vision. 

“More, Marc, please—oh fuck, just like that, please don’t stop, I’m almost—”

But he doesn’t give you more, just keeps to the sedate pace he has set for the both of you. A spike of dread shoots down your spine as you now realise what you’ve actually signed up for. 

White, hot bliss spills through you with each move of his mouth, but your climax remains just out of reach, promising to be so ripe and sweet that you can nearly taste it on the tip of your tongue. No matter how much you writhe and squirm against him, Marc doesn’t let up, holding you firm against the mattress, until you’re right on the trembling edge.

And then he stops.

God, this is so unfair, you can’t—Oh God, you can’t—fuck. 

He hushes you, a sweet cooing sound into your ear as he rubs your inner thigh soothingly to let you climb down from the precipice. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs. You’re not stupid enough to believe for one second that it’s altruistic of him, its only purpose is to let you calm down just enough for him to wind you up again like a tight bowstring holding back just enough so you don’t snap. 

Everything aches, splinters burrowing under your skin. Somehow, Marc knows, he soothes the sting with his soft lips, pressing them against your skin until it subsides. The edge of his teeth skirts against the inside of your thighs before biting down. Replacing the ache with an even harsher sting that has you arching into his mouth for more. 

You can no longer tell time anymore. Time is just an abstract concept, as Marc repeatedly leads you by the hand to the brink of orgasm, climbing up that white peak only to abandon you there, pulling away from you to admire the view. 

It’s torture and pleasure all wrapped up in one confusing overwhelming parcel. He takes you to the edge and pulls you back twice more with his hands alone before he adds his mouth into the equation again. Everything is a blur after that, you can’t feel the mattress pressed to your back, and you swear you are floating out of your body.

The pleasure slows again, hot and molten until it drips syrupy sweet between your legs onto his tongue. You’ve already given in, don’t try to move without his permission, no resistance left in you and you don’t know why he still hasn’t let you come yet. 

“Marc– Oh God. Please! Just let me—” 

He cuts you off before you’re able to finish your nonsensical blabbering. It’s just as well, in your current state of mind you’re hardly able to string up anything coherent. 

“You asked me, remember? What I wanted. This is it.” Those expressive eyes are burning into yours, predatory and hungry like he is about to devour you whole. “This is what I want. Want to have you falling apart from my fingers. In my mouth. On my cock. Begging.”

All you’re capable of is whining in response, and he keeps talking with that low rasp in his voice. 

“Beg for me, pretty girl. Beg me to make you come.”

You do exactly that. You’re well beyond the point of shame or inhibitions. The only thing left in you that passes for a higher function is your need to come. 

“Fuckfuck, Marc, please. Please just let me come. I need it. Oh God. I need to come.”

"I don’t think you do,” Marc says, lips curving upwards, as he raises himself onto his knees, “Not yet.”

You make a high pitched noise of denial, reaching for him as he moves away, but he ignores you.

“You knew what you were doing when you asked for this.” Those deft fingers make quick work of his belt, and he shoves his trousers down over his ample hips before dragging them off entirely. “You came to me, not Steven.”

In the mirror, you can see the carved muscles of his arms and back flex as he pulls off his shirt, and then he’s naked in front of you, all smooth tanned skin that looks almost golden in your bedroom light. 

“Warned you I wasn’t gonna let you off easy." 

And God, he did. But you can’t bring yourself to care when he’s looming above you, wrapping one hand around his hard cock that’s slick and shiny-wet with pre-come dripping from the flushed tip. You’re practically salivating at the sight of him.

"And I’m not done with you yet.”

Strong fingers circle your ankles, and he yanks you down toward him, under him. Dropping down to cover your body with his, Marc notches the fat tip of his cock at your slick entrance.

You brace yourself for penetration, already anticipating the sweet stretch of him, but it doesn’t come. You roll your hips up, desperately seeking the angle that will get him inside you, unable to understand why he’s not already fucking you. 

“Did you want something, baby?” Marc smirks down at you as you writhe underneath him. He’s clearly enjoying himself, the bastard. “Maybe you should try asking nicely.”

“Please,” you manage to pant out, more needy whine than actual coherent sound.

“Please what?” Marc demands.

“Marc,please,” you whimper.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.” He’s still wearing that fucking smirk, and he’s gazing down at you expectantly. If you didn’t know any better you might think he really doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but his next words remove all doubt. “You want my cock in you? You’re gonna have to say it for me.”

“Your cock. Want your cock. Need you to fuck me. Need you, Marc. Please.” You force the words out, half pleading, half almost annoyed, but his eyes light up as soon as you start speaking, gleaming with something like pride, but darker, more urgent. The look on his face is captivating.

“That’s my girl.” And then he pushes into you, and you forget about everything except the weight of him inside you.

The first slide as he fills you up with his cock is fucking heaven. A sweet aching stretch that sends pleasure singing out along your every nerve. Your thighs tremble where they bracket his hips, nearly numb with the tingling heat that’s spreading quickly outward. 

You can’t stay still, your body arching against him without any input from you, clenching down around the delicious girth of him, and you swear your eyes roll back in your head, your vision flickering. 

With that infuriating control of his, Marc lets you writhe on his cock for a moment before he pulls back, nearly all the way out. Your hands fly to his shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep him close. All you hear in your ear is a dark chuckle, and then he slams himself back in. It’s so mind-meltingly good your vision darkens and you swear you see fucking stars from it. 

He doesn’t stop. He drives himself into you with harsh, deep thrusts. The pace is hard and fast. Pleasure rockets through you with each press of his hips into yours. It spreads up your stomach, twining along your legs and up your stomach and wrapping your chest in warmth, coalescing into a tight knot of bliss that ratchets tighter with every stroke. You can feel your orgasm building, and you arch up to meet each of his strokes, straining for completion. 

Then he stills. Thrusts deep and holds there, and it’s almost enough. 

Almost…

Would be enough if he would just–

But he doesn’t, and your orgasm starts to slip away. As close as you had been, it feels like torture, and your breath comes out as a sob. You think… you think you might actually be crying this time, tears stinging your eyes at the loss. Anger sparks in your blood. Never mind that you asked for this, wanted this. 

Youneed to come. 

Your cunt clenches and squeezes around the hardness of his cock and it twitches and jerks in response. Those beautiful eyes of his slam shut, as he bites out a curse. It’s the closest to a loss of control you’ve seen from Marc all evening. 

So you don’t stop doing it, fuck, you don’t think you could will yourself to stop squeezing around him even if you wanted to. Muscles contracting and clutching down in a way that’s beyond your control when you’re rewarded with a half-aborted thrust. You’re not sure if you’re trying to tempt him into fucking you again, or if you’re just that desperate that you think this alone can make you come.Either,both, you don’t even care, too blitzed out on adrenaline and the withdrawal of pleasure. You don’t care how you get it as long as you get to come. 

It’s maddening, your hips are desperately trying to seek some friction that will be enough to push you over, trying to chase your orgasm. Almost—fuck, almost, pleasure shoots through your stomach, sparking along the line of your spine. Even if Marc doesn’t help, you’re sure you can get there by yourself. Your muscles lock tight, and the pleasure hums and sings through your veins. You’re gonna, fuckfuck, you’re gonna— 

Before you can, he pulls out of you, and you cry out, your empty cunt clenching around nothing as you shudder and pant your way through the aching loss. Every nerve screaming for the release he’s denied you. 

"Oh no you don’t. That’s cheating, pretty girl. You don’t get to come that easily.”

A sob tears through you, and you don’t even care how pathetic you must sound. “Please, please let me have your cock.” You sound like an actress in a bad porno, but it doesn’t matter how ridiculous you sound if it gets you what you want. 

It seems like your desperate attempt was all for nought. Marc doesn’t move any closer. The look in his eyes, the mischievous curl of his lips tells you that there’s no chance in hell he’s going to give into you. 

“You gonna be a good girl for me? Hold still while I give you my cock?" 

"Yes, Marc. Yes! Please just…" 

"I don’t think you are.  Only good girls get fucked like that. Show me you can be a good girl. Show me you can take more for me.”

His eyes burn into you, pupils blown so wide that they’re almost pitch black in their intensity. As much as you need to come. As much as you’re sure that you are going to die if he denies you again.You want this more. To be the centre of this man’s attention, the object of his devotion. To have his intense gaze fixed on you like you’re the only thing that exists to him in this moment, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. You don’t ever want it to stop. 

You think you understand it now. Why Marc wants you to beg for him this desperately. Why he refuses to let you off easy and won’t give in, stringing out these moments when you are on the precipice of your orgasm, desperate and floundering. Why he’s driving you to this unbearable point only to withhold it from you again and again, even as you’re shamelessly begging for him until your voice is hoarse, each cry burning and scratching in your throat. 

What is begging if not a desperate declaration that youneedhim? That when you’re both stripped of overthinking, down to your most basic self, until only needandwant are left,youneedhim. 

That’s why he wants to hear you say it now, when he’s worn you down to the point where you have no filter. 

He won’t believe it otherwise. 

Because deep down, Marc fundamentally views himself as someone who is unwanted. This is the one moment, when you’re shameless, needy and blissed out of your mind, with no pretence that he can allow himself to accept otherwise. 

So you meet his dark, greedy gaze, and you give him what he wants.

“Fuck. Marc, please. Want you.” Your panting, barely coherent, but somehow you manage to get the words out. “Please! I need you. Need you to make me come. Please please please, Marc. I want you. Just want you. Please.” 

“I know you do, baby.” He pets a hand across your hair, his eyes soften, and you can see that he actually believes you. “Know you do.”

Pleasure strikes hot and deep as he thrusts back into you. And it’s fucking perfect. That sweet burning ache builds immediately, deep and consuming, and you only want more. You’ve grown addicted to it. To him.

He’s not stopping, hips thrusting into you, and blissful pleasure swirls tight and insistent somewhere deep in your belly. 

This is it. You’re sure of it now, this is it. Marc is going to let you come.  

Your eyes clench shut, too overwhelmed to keep them open as you let the sensation take over. 

And then it stops. 

Again. 

Oh God, you can’t. You’re going to die. This man is actually going to murder you with orgasm denial.

"One more time. Just one more time for me, then I’ll make you come. You can take it for me, baby.” His voice is gentle, coaxing. The softness in direct contrast to the way you’re crying and begging now, nearly hysterical. 

“Nononooo,Marc,please. I need– Oh God. I can’t– Please. Please!!”

Despite his promise, he doesn’t move. Holds there, locked deep inside you. You don’t even have it in you to resist or be angry anymore, because you are sure that you have already died and this is hell and you are being punished by some malevolent god. 

Instead, his warm hand comes to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing against the apple of it.

“You alright there, love?”

That’s different. The intonation is different from Marc’s flat one, a valley that rises and falls. You blink. Eyes fluttering open to gentle brown eyes filled with open adoration and so much love. 

Steven… Steven’s here in Marc’s place. 

“You sounded… a bit not good… Did Marc take it too far?” There is genuine worry for you in his eyes as he looks down on you, even though you both know that Marc would never do anything to hurt you.

Andoh bless. Your sweet Steven heard you begging and crying and has swooped in to save you like a white knight. It makes you wonder how desperate you must have sounded, how loud you must have been crying out for him to think you were truly in distress. 

“Want me to make you come?” Steven asks with such sincerity it makes your heart swell with affection. 

If you weren’t so keyed up, you might stop and explain the situation. If you weren’t so out of it, legs aching with muscle strain from your exertions of being denied over and over again, you might refuse his offer and ask for Marc back.

But you are pushed beyond the point of rational thought. Marc’s stripped you of every conscious thought, until your prefrontal cortex has incinerated any brain cells that may have once been there. Your decision-making skills are shattered. All you care about, all you can think, taste, feel, is your desperate, consuming need to come. 

So you nod, instinctively saying the only word you are capable of saying throughout this evening. 

“Please.” 

Steven breaks out into a beaming smile, boyish and sweet that lights up the whole room with it. 

You reach up and tangle your hand in his hair, pulling him down to you so that you can kiss him hard.

“Steven,” you pant into his open mouth, “Need you to move.”

“Right.” He says decisively and starts to pull out, but then he gasps and his hips immediately stutter into you with an abortive half thrust. He shivers and drops his head down against your collarbone, panting hard, only to raise it again a moment later with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs apologetically. “A bit far gone, at the moment I guess. He was closer to the edge than I thought. But let’s see what I can do for you, love.“

His hips pull away and a whine leaves your lips, before he thrusts back in—your half-whine turns into a choked dying sound as you feel him deep and hard, filling every inch of you. 

“Fuck, fuck, Steven.”

He groans, hips adjusting his angle, hands pulling greedily into your thighs as he lifts you to him, until he strikes something devastating inside you that has your muscles locking tight in euphoria. It’s like he knows, because he thrusts into you, just like that, again and again with a hard and rough pace. 

His pace falters only for a second as his head whips into the direction of the mirror, catching his own reflection and then he frowns. 

“Just a tick,” Steven mutters, and for some unfathomable, unthinkable reason he slips out of you, moving away from you, one leg already climbing out of the bed. 

The sound that comes from you is inhuman, as you claw and dig your fingernails into the meat of his arm hard enough to break his soft skin. “Steven! No. Don’t stop.”

“Sorry, love. I’m sorry, just— Sorry. Just give me a moment.” He climbs the rest of the way out of bed, and you don’t understand what he’s doing or where he’s going, refusing to ease your grip as he pulls the sheets to drape it over the silver surface of the mirror. 

If you were more coherent, you might spare a moment to consider why Steven is covering up the mirror, but you aren’t. Your mind solely focused on the fact that Steven is going to satisfy the desperate aching need that burns hot in your stomach. To finally give you the climax you’ve been denied so many times. 

He climbs back into the bed hurriedly, almost snagging himself against the covers. Then he’s back, notching himself at your entrance and slides all the way inside, until he’s flush against your hips. The reassuring heat of his skin pressed alongside every inch of yours as he grinds his cock deep. Sparks of heat lick your spine as he grinds into that perfect spot. 

It doesn’t last long. Edged as you have been, brought to the precipice of your orgasm again and again until you’ve lost your mind with the pleasure and torture of it, it doesn’t take long at all. You can already feel the telltale sign of warmth pooling in your belly, spreading outwards. 

Steven doesn’t stop. You know he won’t. Steven is always desperate to please you, doesn’t have it in him to deny you of anything, and you love him for it. His hips slam into you, again and again, with a frantic pace, deep and indulgent, just like you need him to.

You want to tell him that it’s good.Perfect. Praise him for always taking care of you, but you can’t form the words. All you can do is cling to him as everything inside you ratchets higher, tighter, so much more intense after being denied for so long.

Pleasure spills and spills, flaring out against every inch of your skin, flooding your senses. It’s chaotic and too much, bright spots blinding your vision as you come, harder than you ever have in your life. 

Steven still isn’t stopping, pushing deep into you as his thrust doesn’t slow its momentum. You try to ride out the pleasure, bucking your hips as you grind up against him, but it won’t stop. Oh fuck—it’s not stopping. “Steven, Steven—I’m… fuck I’m—” The blinding bliss spikes through your blood, hot and piercing. You’re not sure if it’s the start of a second more intense orgasm or if your first just never ended. It’s all blissful heat and sharp-edged pleasure, spearing throughout your body until it erupts in your veins. 

It’s pitiful the way you’re sobbing, whining and keening for him, as he continues relentlessly with his strokes, until you feel him spill into you with a broken gasp. 

Maybe it’s because you’re so completely overcome or maybe you’ve lost your sense of time, but it feels like he comes for ages, body tense and heaving above you. Finally, he stills, collapsing down onto you, and you lay there like that for a long moment, panting into each other’s skin. 

Eventually, Steven bestirs, lifting himself up on an elbow to grin down at you.

“That was… Wow. I mean, that was amazing, is what that was. You’re amazing.” He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead and lips and then moves away from you. 

Even as over-sensitive as you are, you barely flinch as he withdraws. Instead, you feel sleepy and sated, reality gone blurry and faded at the edges, and you struggle to keep your eyes open. 

You blink, and then Steven is there. He has a warm, damp cloth that he uses to gently wipe you down, murmuring quiet praise and affection all the while. You drift off with the cotton-soft sound of his voice in your ears.

By the time he rejoins you in bed, you’re dead to the world.  

You wake up to the morning sun filtering through your bedroom window. Muscles still aching from the previous night, you stretch and open your eyes, only to meet dark eyes bearing down on your sleeping form. 

Marc does not look happy. 

His eyes are narrowed, brown drawn with more than just his perpetual semi-frown. His gaze is intense. If you didn’t know him as intimately as you do, you would describe it as intimidating. 

“Took you long enough to wake up,” he says, with an unmistakably sarcastic drawl that tells you you’re in trouble. “Steven must have really worn you out.” 

Climbing out of the bed, he walks over to the mirror, movements brusque as he tugs the sheet off. Once the silver reflection reveals itself, he turns back to you, pulling at your ankle to drag you to the end of the bed, before he settles himself back onto the mattress. 

With one strong arm, he lifts you up and into his lap, handling you like a weightless ragdoll to position you where he wants you to be. He manoeuvres you until you’re sitting in his lap, leaning back against his chest, and pulls you back until he’s pressed tight against your back and you’re both facing the mirror. 

His hand wraps around your throat, and even though there’s hardly any pressure, your pulse jumps excitedly to meet his thumb resting against the hollow of your throat. Tilting your face to his, he licks into your mouth, claiming it thoroughly. Possessive, hard. He doesn’t let go until you’re out of breath. 

“I wasn’t done with you when Steven interrupted. Guess that means we have to do it all over again, baby.” He narrows his eyes at himself in the mirror. “And I’m not tagging out this time. You hear me, Steven.” 

You can see Marc observing you in the mirror. That dark hungry gaze reflected back at you. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t try to snap himself out of it. Fully allowing himself to give in to the bare primal need in him without restraint. 

“You remember what I told you last night?” he whispers into your ear, and his breath fans hot and burning against your hairline. “Still not gonna let you off easy.” 

One hand skates alongside the inside of your thighs, nudging your legs with his knees as he spreads you open, putting you on a debauched naked display for the mirror.

For Steven.

For Marc. 

“Make sure you beg real pretty for Steven and me this time,” he taunts, and his fingers part your slick folds, spreading you wide and glistening in the mirror and making a depraved display of you.  

Excitement buzzes in your blood. You knew full well there was going to be a consequence when you asked Steven to make you come. That you weren’t going to escape without repercussions. But that’s alright. You’ll take whatever punishment that Marc deemed fit. No holds barred, nothing but joy and excitement singing in your veins as Marc decides to take from you exactly he wants. 

It’s just what you wanted. 

Dedication and Credits

To my eternally suffering co-pilot @thirstworldproblemss for spending her incredibly busy time clowning around with me and my horny self. For being the best co-writer any gal can ask for. For being the absolute best partner ping-ponging ideas, sharing one single brain cells and sharing brain-wave transmission. For looking at a wonky sentence I wrote that I am about to yeet out, and knowing exactly what I actually wanted to say (even though that’s not what I wrote) and fixing it with her sheer brilliance and genuis. For just being shrimply the best.

To my no.1 comic gal, @radiowallet with her endless support and advice. Your big beautiful brain is my favourite encyclopedia and you are the best. Check out her amazing story Funny Girl, featuring Dieter Bravo from the Bubble, a pitch perfect that makes me feel like I am on the set of SNL.

To my dinowhore @jazzelsaur as I am serenading Goodbye to you by Michelle Branch for her departed puth. Check her insanely, envy-inducingly good masterpiece Stay on the Screenplay featuring Dieter Bravo from the Bubble. It is Hollywood angst at its best.

To my parachute buddy @the-ginger-hedge-witch for the encouragement and helping me fix my tattered pieces. Her legendary: The Crush featuring everyone’s favorite emotionally blocked DEA agent Javier Peña are the things that dreams are made of.