The Putz And The Perv [professor!Jonathan Levy X Fem!Reader]

If ever a man was deserving of a blow job it’s Joel Miller

A/N: joel x f!reader. blow job duh.

He comes home at odd hours and sometimes he doesn’t come home at all. It’s not even your place–it’s his. His shitty room with four walls and a peach couch sprouting stuffing. It’s not a Joel couch. He probably would have had a La-Z-Boy. 

You wait. You wait and listen to the radio. Get really well acquainted with the 80’s catalogue. You're his ears when he’s gone. It really isn’t a job, but it’s the small things you can do for him.

***

“Move over,” he mutters in a low voice. It’s the middle of the night, his hands are cold as he pushes you to the edge of the mattress. You’re an inch from rolling off before his strong arms wrap around your waist and haul you back to his chest. 

“How was today?”

“Shitty.”

“Did you eat?”

He mumbles something noncommital into your hair and squeezes you, sealing you to his front to leach your warmth.

You trace his scars that drag across his forearm. You prod the dry skin, sunspots and freckles. His mouth is nearly latched to the nape of your neck, his breath puffing evenly. He’s exhausted, which isn’t a surprise. He works day in and day out in addition to all the illegal shit he’s running. 

He’s always running. 

***

In the morning, you push him onto his back. The sun filters through his windows, spouting through moth-eaten curtains. There are dust motes in the air. The smell of dirt and Joel, which is something like sawdust and gunpowder. Wood finish. The interior of an old car. He grunts when you slide between his legs, docile because he's still threaded with grogginess. He slept in his clothes, and you take care as you gingerly remove them. 

He does peek one eye at you to make sure you aren’t some creep who’s slipped into his room to take advantage.

"It's me," you grin, and he blinks before shutting his eyes again. Typical.

You like to study him like this. He’s ruddy and baked from the sun. He’s all scrapes and silver-dark hair and his middle is soft from age. He's unnaturally strong, but some parts of him just don't tighten anymore.

Your gaze flickers from his face to the sparse hairs at his chest and then to his groin. You touch his cock, skating your nails over the shaft. It twitches, hardens almost immediately. You lower your head and take him into your mouth.

Joel stiffens, jerks a little as his knees come up and his hand flies to your scalp. “What’re you–”

You release him for a moment. “Relax, baby. Let me do this for you.”

His eyes are still foggy and unfocused, his brow furrowed so deep it might crack his skin. He’s so serious all the fucking time and you’d wish he’d just unknot himself for once. Loose the strings that bind him so painfully to his past.

You settle onto your knees before you wrap your lips around his cock, swallowing him down until the head hits the back of your throat. You gag, drool bunching around your gums as you clench the inner walls of your mouth. 

He does not expect that because he arches.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Jesus–honey–”

You place one hand on his belly and the other at his balls. You tug them, massage their weight just as you draw back enough to dip your tongue into the slit at the tip of his cock. A rumble burns through his chest. The hand on your head tightens. 

You hollow your cheeks and utilize a deliberate suction. After fucking Joel for months, you understand the things he likes: roughness, a dash of pain, and the promise of filth. You ease off before you return with a vengeance. You gently scrape your teeth along the frenulum, soothing the graze with a lick. It’s a sloppy blow job for sure, but that’s what he needs. His brown eyes stay locked on your own, his pink tongue sweeps over his lower lip as his hips buck against your chin. A muscle in his jaw spasms and his heels are digging into the mattress. He looks incredibly young as if you're seeing a Joel invigorated with his old youth because you're sucking him off like a porn star.

“You’re fucked,” he groans, head tipping back as he shudders through another round of you playing with his balls while deep throating him. “You’re so so fucked, sweetheart.”

You watch his belly tense, the tendons in his arms and throat snap to attention as you escalate the pressure, gag a little louder, stroke him faster while he stares at you with incredulity. 

You? This? Where the fuck did you learn how to suck dick like that?

“Shit,” he hisses as you feel him swell, his cock is pulsing in your mouth and against your palm like a living thing. His fingernails are scratching beneath your hair. He’s breaking….

And then he does.

He goes all stiff and hot before you feel the warm rush of his spend salt your tongue and throat. You nearly choke on it before you pull away, hand subtly pressed to your lips. You try and leave the bed, but he's already sitting up on his knees. His cock red and hanging between his legs, all flushed and wet with your spit. 

“You’re dead, girl,” he husks as he beckons you toward him. “Get back on here and turn the fuck around.”

He’s kind of smiling.

nooooo haha don’t choke me while you’re inside of me 👀👀 ahaha oh nooo it’ll make me feel all tight around your cock if you wrap your hand around my throat to steady yourself while you keep thrusting 👀👀👀

no bc you don’t understand how obsessed I am with this fic, I love you forever for writing this💓

The text post about “ your fav is fucking his fist rn thinking of you” please lord let it be for Steve ( I’m. Late I know)

a/n: heheh it is :) 1.5k words of male masturbation ayyye. also, if you have not already, go check out @heavenbarnes’ ficlet, which haunts me everyday. please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

slow hands*

Steve jerks off— a lot.

Even before the serum, when he was just any other violently hormonal, grass-fed, free-range human boy, instinct couldn’t be denied. Even after a long period of reflection during his catechism days, he wasn’t able to make heads or tales out of why any creator might give two shits about whether or not Steve fucks his hand.

Now as a whopping 200-pound slab of grade-A, laboratory-engineered, serum-enhanced super-soldier, if he doesn’t pump one out every twenty-four hours, it’s hard to focus on much else. All of that unbridled testosterone crawls right up behind his eyes and his brain fizzles at the edges, agitated like an animal in a cage.

(So, although it’s mostly pleasure, it’s also necessity.)

He knows that it’s best before bed because early mornings or while showering requires working within the constraints of a ticking clock; if he’s got a packed schedule and needs a quick rub, fine, but not his favorite.

He knows that he likes certain activities, and if he’s looking at porn, specific categories and maybe a few performers will fit a niche—but sometimes he’ll spiral into a hundred other videos and he’s stayed up one (or five) too many nights doing that.

More than anything, Steve knows nothing beats his imagination, and he knows the best lies you can tell are ones with a bit of truth attached to them.

So, he plays a little game.

He thinks about you.  

Cheeky you, who’s always teasing him about taking life too seriously. So prim and proper, Steve, you purr, always Mr. Punctual. Aren’t you tired of being nice? Loosen up—go dancing, meet a girl, have a one-night stand; fuck with the lights on for once.

Hm. Sure he’d like to, but all he’s got is about forty-five minutes before bed because he’s frankly too busy (see: stubborn, see: not interested in just any girl) for anything else.

For forty-five minutes, Steve takes a moment of truth and runs warp speed into the burning sunset with it.

The time you put your hand in his hair to fix a flyaway before a press conference—what if you gripped it hard, instead? Your candy pink lip gloss on Friday evening—what if it smudged off on his jaw, his collar, his eager cock? How you looked lifting out of the pool with rivulets of water dribbling into the hollow of your throat—what if he pressed his cheek to it, drank from it?

(The expression that might cross your face when you realize Steve would very much like to fuck you with the lights on.)

When you kissed him on that mission in Thailand, sliding into his lap to hide the both of you in a corner nook of a restaurant. The taste of sweetened coffee passed from your mouth to his, and he couldn’t help but dart his tongue out. You playfully scolded him about taking advantage of a dangerous situation (it wasn’t that dangerous), and despite all your usual attitude, it was surprisingly cute how you couldn’t make eye contact afterwards, making him want to kiss you again just to figure you out.

Last night—when you smiled, the glimmer in your eyes like a sliver of moonlit coin and if he blinked at the wrong time, he might have missed it. Your breathy laugh, your little giggle, how you raggedly pant while you spar, he thinks about those sounds mingled with his name. Your weight, a perfect amount of pressure crawling on top of him, mapping out the expanse of his chest.

He’d be happy just to watch, finally able to see you in glimpses not bordering voyeuristic like when you zip up in the hangar or concerned when you peel off Kevlar layers smudged with gunpowder. No, you’d be relaxed and tangible, full and felt—breasts, waist, belly, the sides of your hips as you straddle him, pulling his hands toward your body and letting him touch you.

Steve sighs into the darkness of his room, sweats shucked off, lube-slick hand feeling for his already aching cock. What’s he going to think about tonight? The small of your back when you lean over the pool table? The long, graceful shape of your fingers exploring his torso? Your face dazed, tipsy-tinged after a few drinks and sweet on his shoulder?

(He would like more of that. He could make you look like that if you ever asked.)

His hips move in careful circles, testing his grip, nudging at the tunnel of his fist like how your pussy would resist the first thrust until he wedges his way past it, slipping the head of his cock into your warmth. You’d be so, so warm. So soft and tight and perfectly fitted around him.

“Ah, fuck,” Steve mutters, eyes squeezed shut.  

He fucks into his fist, the sound of slick gushing out like wet slaps, like the hot clutch of noise your tight hole would make as he’d stretch it out—as he’d stretch you out.

He’s panting harder. You‘d look breathtaking on all fours, head turned around to see him rutting inside, jaw slack in disbelief that your body could keep taking him like this, like you could break any moment.  

The pretty, pretty whimpers at the harsh punctuation of every thrust. They’d tear loose from your throat and you wouldn’t be able to bite them down anymore. You could unravel because of him—shattering because he’ll have gotten past your defenses, gotten so deep you could do nothing but arch back for more, needing him further, needing him to know you how nobody else knows you.

Steve’s mind races through each position— every arrangement of your arms and legs in ways you’d give into because he would make the burn delicious, blurring discomfort into pleasure, and how you wouldn’t care if it might hurt because desire would be the drive— him behind the wheel taking you closer to that cliff’s edge.

He’s peeling off into the horizon now, moaning, bucking carelessly, blinded by the bright sun, by the white threatening to explode behind his eyes.

“Uhhhnn—” he looks down at his throbbing cock, swollen with friction and fiction, his other hand rolling the tender skin of his sac between his fingers. He squeezes a hair trigger tighter, in pulses, mimicking how you’d feel close to coming, begging for his release to fill you. Your hands gripping his hair for purchase, hard and frenzied, the scrape of your nails on his scalp. And finally, the abandoned, purely physical response of your body during orgasm, the undeniable wrecked wail of his name.

He’d be rough and gentle all at once, he’d make you taste yourself, clean up the mess you’ve made on him, and then he’d kiss it out of your mouth when he fucks you again. You’d be sore already, and sore the next day. He’d want to leave you aching, shuddering, babbling and delirious for more, for only him.

You’d cry, Steve, oh—my god—oh my god—feels so good, Steve. Fuck me harder, please. However you want—whatever you want, I promise.

You’d suck on his fingers, bite down when it became too much, too good. You’d shake, and shake, and shake and Steve— he falls.

Spun out, headfirst, off the steepest bluff of his inventions and crashes into open waves beneath. Your moaning mouth, your soaked cunt, your entire being an unprimed canvas waiting for his splatter.

And it’d be perfect.  

He comes in ropes, gasping into the reverberating echo of his own breath, hips still moving, back still arched, wet slick dripping down into his fist where he keeps going, using it as another coat of lube. Maybe you’d squirt. Maybe you’d put your face in your hands, embarrassed, or maybe you’d lose all control and he’ll have to hold you up.  

The second wave comes fast and better than the first.

The third, easy, only tinged with a prickle of rawness that makes his toes curl.  

Steve’s chest is sweat-slick and heaving, heat rising off his body as he evens out, throat murmuring the syllables of your name in yearning. He nudges hair off his forehead with the back of his clean hand, and then he checks his clock.

Back to reality, forty-five minutes on the dot tells him he’s still punctual, as you say.

He cleans up, stretching his back as he ambles to the restroom before returning to bed, satisfied. And when Steve tucks himself in for another peaceful night’s sleep, he wonders what you do in the privacy of darkness and if your ritual is anything like his own.

Do you shuck off your lounge clothes? Do you fuck yourself beneath layers of covers with your fingers? A toy? Grab your tits and put those same fingers in your mouth? Do you think about someone—do you think about him? His dick is still half-hard, half-raring for another session because the fourth and fifth time, when it hurts even worse, feels like coming up for breath after a drowning-- feels beyond good.

He’ll think about you some more tomorrow.  

(He’ll think about making you come four or five times.)

Eddie would put his soft cock in you just to feel it grow hard

I hope I'm in your dreams (The way you are in all of my mine) - m.g.

Synopsis: Fanboy tends to drift to the background, happy to let Rooster and Phoenix shine in attention. But maybe he's found a place to shine. Tags: NSFT, alcohol, unprotected sex (Don't do this!), penetrative sex, creampie, implied cum eating, sappy emotions, dumb stupid ending lmao but to me its funny Word Count: 1.5k AN: umm I like Fanboy and uhhh wish he had more screen time LMAO

Mickey Garcia is used to being in the background. 

Not to the extent of Bob, who sits quietly, observing everything all the time. But Mickey plays a backup role within the Dagger squad. He’s not sure when he realized it. Somewhere between following Phoenix around, laughing at Roosters antics or, hell, sitting behind Payback in the fucking plane. 

And Mickey doesn’t mind per se. He truly doesn’t it. He loves his friends and he loves what he does. He clicks with them, they each have a role to play. 

And he does well enough for himself when it comes to romancing someone. Nowhere near as well as Hangman or Rooster, but as much as they attract attention, he’s a witness to the inevitable times they crash and burn, a loyal first responder to the wreckage.

He’s happy where he is. 

But dear god you have to be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

And as Mickey watches you raise your eyebrow at Jake, unimpressed by his antics, and he rethinks his place in the background. No, Mickey Garcia is going to woo you. 

As soon as he works up the nerve. 

Which is hard when you keep sending him cute little smiles, circling the rim of your glass with your finger, and- oh god why are you touching his arm? 

It’s been two weeks of back and forth antics, that ultimately end with him running away to the bar, or hiding outside to “catch some air.”

Bob thinks it's cause he really likes you, more than the random hookups he’s had in the past. Mickey had brushed it off at the time, but right now, watching you laugh at Coyote’s dumb joke has his blood boiling. 

“Just ask her out, man.” Reuben’s voice cuts through the chaos of Mickey’s mind. He's good like that, able to pull him out of his head when he overthinks.

But right now Mickey just takes a swig of his beer, eyes narrowed at Payback. His pilot holds his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying she’s clearly into you. Despite you fumbling the bag easily 3 different times.” 

“Shut up, Payback,” Mickey groans ignoring his embarrassment and taking another drink.

A warm hand slaps his back, and he sputters. 

“Better slow down on the beers, Fanboy. You may lose another chance to ask her out,” Rooster crows into his ear, a little too loudly. 

“Shut up!” Mickey repeats, praying to god you didn’t hear. Rooster laughs loudly, slapping his back again, and Mickey smiles at his own misfortune, wondering what’s wrong with himself. 

“Did I hear Mickey had too much to drink?” you call out, voice ringing out above the noise.

Fuck.

“Well, I certainly don’t mind taking you home. You and Payback still in that Navy house off base?” And Mickey just blinks up at you dumbly, wondering if you’re lips are as soft as they look.

“Yeah, we’re still there! I’ve got plans tonight, so I can’t take him home. Thanks so much.” Mickey's torn between thanking Reuben and strangling him, but you just smile, before gently tugging on his arm. 

“Let’s get you home, handsome.” 

The car ride is silent, and Mickey keeps glancing at you nervously. 

He’s a naval flight officer and a TOPGUN program graduate. His palms should not be sweating because of a random civilian who’s wormed her way into his friend group. 

But you look so pretty as the moon streams in through the window. 

“I’m not drunk,” he blurts out, and he winces when the car jerks slightly at his outburst. But you snort, rolling your eyes. 

“I know Mickey. I just wanted to spend some time with you alone, and it seemed like you wanted to get out of there.” 

“Oh.”

You hum in acknowledgment before shooting him a sly glance. 

“Now I’ll be a perfect gentleman, so don’t worry about me damaging your honor.”

He smiles at that, relaxing into his seat, and he tries to ignore the way your fingers ghost against each other on top of the armrest console. 

Mickey’s almost sad when you pull into the driveway of the shitty Navy housing he and Payback managed to score.

But then he realizes, one, he’s not actually drunk, two, you like him, and three, you want to be alone with him. And something clicks in his mind.

“Do you wanna come inside?” 

And you smile at him so prettily that his heart skips a beat.

“Why Lieutenant, I thought you’d never ask.”

____

He hisses, sliding his cock through your folds, bumping the pearl of your clit. A small whine escapes your throat, hips bucking against him, trying to coax him inside. 

He watches your face as he continues to thrust like this, grazing your clit, soaking his cock. Mickey’s wanted you splayed out like this for him since the moment he first saw you, desire only increasing as he’s gotten to know you. He’s not going to rush this, no, Mickey wants you to remember this, him. Wants you to want him the way he wants you. 

“Mickey,” you cry out, pulling him from his thoughts, bringing him back to this moment. “Mickey, please. Please don’t make me wait anymore.” 

He coos at your begging, thumb sweeping away the tears that barely gather at the corner of your eyes. 

“Yea, baby? You’ve been so good for me, letting me take my time with you.” You nod, lips pursing in a pout as he leans forward to kiss them. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Give you what you need.” 

You smile against his lips, reaching a hand down to keep your pussy open for him. He hums, drawing back to watch, as his cock finally slips inside you. 

Mickey shivers, hissing at the warmth of your cunt as he slowly fills you. Holy fucking shit. 

Your hands lurch out, nails digging into his forearms. “Mickey! Shit.” He sighs, chest feeling empty as you clench around him. One of his hands grips your waist tightly, and his other hand wrangles one of yours, threading your fingers together.

“You feel so good, baby. Gonna move now,” he chokes out. You nod, squeezing his hand. 

Mickey draws back slowly, eyes nearly rolling back at the way you tighten around him as if you want him to stay inside. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters as he pushes back in. “You’re so wet for me, huh?” You nod, rocking your hips against him as his rhythm increases. 

“Yea,” you pant. “Been wanting you to fuck me for weeks, Lieutenant.” He groans, dropping to his forearms to kiss you. It’s messy, his tongue entering your mouth, as you gasp against him. His chest presses against yours, and you free your hands, only to anchor them on his back, nails dragging against his skin. 

The room fills with the wet sound of your arousal the smack of skin against skin. His bed creaks beneath you as his hips press you into the mattress. It’s lewd and makes your stomach flip in the best way possible.

He feels so good, so warm, surrounding you and filling you so sweetly. Your hips rock in time with his thrusts, and you shut your eyes, overwhelmed with a white-hot sensation that makes your toes curl.

Mickey inhales deeply, enraptured by you, the way your body moves beneath. So responsive, so sensitive... Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes he'd do anything to keep you happy, keep you safe.

There's a telltale twitch in his abdomen, and he frowns; he wishes he could last longer, but it's too much. You feel so good, the way you tighten around him like you want him to finish. But Mickey Garcia wants you to cum around his cock. Earlier on his fingers wasn't enough, he needs to feel it.

“God, you feel so good,” he mutters into your skin, leaving kisses as he trails down your neck. “Such a good girl for me.” 

You preen under his attention, shivering under his touch. “Wanted you so bad, Mickey. Kept touching myself, pretending it was you,” you confess, feeling drunk from the way he's fucking you. 

“Oh fuck.” Mickey’s cock twitches inside you, and his brain is flooded with images of you writhing on a bad, fingers shoved in your cunt, wanting him there. “Fuck, baby. Fuck. Never leaving you empty again.” 

“Mickey, I’m close,” you whine, almost embarrassed at how desperate you are, but you can’t find it in you to care, not when Mickey’s looking at you with hearts in his eyes, his hips continuously crashing into yours. 

“I know, baby,” he whispers, and he manages to force his hand where your bodies meet, a thick finger swirling against your clit. You whine, jaw clenching as your body tenses, your pussy feeling molten as Mickey continues to fuck into you. 

It’s intense, more intense than normal, the pressure feeling monumental, and you cry out, writhing against the bed, as you cum around his cock. It feels so good, a release you've been craving for weeks.

Mickey groans, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and his core flexes, as he finally lets your warm cunt milk him for what he’s worth. 

You stay tense around him, thighs clenched at his waist, arms grappled around his torso. 

It's with soft words and gentle hands that Mickey unwraps you, pressing sweet kisses on your face. He gently removes his softening cock, soothing you with kisses as you hiss at the discomfort. 

You’re completely fucked out, chest heaving as your eyes shut. Mickey watches you with fondness and a deep ache in his heart. And something in his gut stirs. Slowly, as if not to spook you, he leaves a trail of kisses down your sweaty body, and he finds himself between your thighs. 

“Mickey?” you ask shakily, blinding reaching to pet his hair. He nuzzles into the plushness of your flesh, thumbs gently pulling your fucked out cunt apart, and he watches as his cum trickles out of you. Fuck.

“Let me do this for you, baby. Please, gotta taste us.” You whine, propping yourself up to watch him, and he grins at you, something in it shys on the side of arrogance, but it makes your heart stutter. 

As your moans fill the air, Mickey hums against your cunt. 

Everyone has their spot, a role to fill, and he now knows without a doubt, that he was made to be in-between your legs. 

having the most vile thoughts about bob + needy fucking + breeding kink

- 🪷

nsfw!

bob wants nothing more than to have a baby with you. literally all he can think about while he’s at work—that he really has tried to stop doing because he can’t keep popping a semi in front of phoenix—is how that day is going to be the day.

he would be laser focused on it. the second he gets home.

he would press himself up against you in the kitchen, half-pinning you to the island from behind as he brushes your hair out of the way to press a chaste kiss against the nape of your neck.

“how was work?” you would ask, knowing it was just a formality at this point with the way his dick was throbbing against you.

“fine, baby,” he hums as he fiddles with the elastic waistband of your shorts. as bad as he wants you, he’s not one to touch without explicit permission.

“straight to business then, i assume,” it’s light, the way it falls from your lips. and bob barely even hears it before he’s running off at the mouth again.

“please please please, sweetheart. wanna give you a baby so bad,” he whines.

“okay, bobby,” you reach one hand up to run your hand through his hair, despite the odd angle of where he’s dug his face into your neck.

you can hear him practically whimper at the admission, hands curling around your bottoms to tug them down your legs. he’s quick to pull them all the way down until they’re pooled around your ankles, giving himself enough time to undo his belt as you step out of the garment.

“gonna put a baby in you, sweetheart. gonna make you a momma real soon,” he hums as he lines himself up with your entrance.

he’s always been a little needier than other guys you’d been with. a little more eager. but ever since you’d started actively trying to have a kid. good lord, you could barely get him off you. not that you were really complaining, though, either.

“oh, bob. please,” it’s almost a gasp the way it slips off your tongue. the stretch of him still heady despite having been in the same position this morning.

“i got you,” he coos. “always got you.”

oh god this has me going absolutely feral, ugh what i would give to have sam fuck me like this-

Training Day

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Characters: Sam Wilson x woc!reader

Summary: The one where training with Sam leads to other things

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: look….it’s smut. choking, semi public sex, female receiving oral, spanking (once really) unprotected sex (wrap it before they tap it), creampie, daddy kink (just the name used once), size kink because sam was so gd beefy in tfatws and it makes me feral 

A/N: SAM WILSON PIN ME TO THE WALL CHALLENGE. This one goes out to my main Samhoes @ritesofreverie​ & @certainaesthetic​ This is obviously set after TFATWS so Sam is Captain America (AS HE SHOULD BE). The divider is by @firefly-graphics

DO NOT repost or translate my work anywhere. Reblogs are always welcome, and let me know that you enjoy my fics.

Keep reading

SUB!ADRIAN THATS ALL I GOTTA SAY JUST SUB!ADRIAN😩‼️

Be Good For Me - Adrian Chase x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Im so sorry for whatever the hell this is i don't know what came over me no i am not ok do not ask i've just been thinking about him all day so uh . yeah. this has been in the drafts for a while but i just decided to finish it today so </3

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT JUST PURE UNAPOLOGETIC FILFTH HONESTLY, use of restrains/being tied up, thigh-riding, orgasm denial, hand-jobs, vaginal sex, dirty talk, sub!adrian :)

Word Count: 2.2k

••••••••••••••••••

Adrian's cock was rock hard, probably harder than it had ever been before. His wrists were tied to the bedposts (the restraints not too tight, but tight enough to ensure that he couldn't just slip himself out of them), his legs spread wide for you as he awaited your return. Shaking, sweat glistening on his skin, his face contorting in a pained pleasure as he bucked his hips into the empty space.

If he listened closely enough, he could hear you singing along to a catchy pop song in the kitchen. He imagined that you were dancing around, a smirk on your lips as you thought about your boyfriend, alone and tied up in your room, his cock vieny and angry and desperate for you to relieve him.

That thought alone was enough to illicit a whine from his throat.

Adrian knew what he signed up for when he agreed to let you restrain him. Truthfully, it was something he had fantasised about. Sure, he liked to be in control sometimes, but there was nothing more he loved than to submit.

He just never expected you to be this ruthless.

You had been pushing him to edge for the best part of an hour, only to pull away completely at the last second and leave him writhing and desperate for more.

This time, you had been gone for almost ten minutes, and it was killing him. He was so desperately horny, and he was getting pretty fucking pissed off about it as the minutes ticked by agonisingly slow.

"Fuck!" He spat out, glancing down at his cock. The tip was swollen and leaking with precum.

Only a moment later, he heard your footsteps coming down the hallway. You pushed the bedroom door open, leaning against the side frame, a mug in your hands. You wore only a button-up shirt you had stole from his drawer. "Did you say something?" You asked casually.

"I..." All words were lost on him. "No." He answered finally

"That's funny, because I thought you did." You raised your eyebrows at him, your features breaking out into a grin when you saw his eyes flick between the your face and the mug in your hands. "Oh, it's coffee." You replied, lifting the mug. "I would have made some for you but you... y'know, kinda have your hands tied." Oops. You couldn't resist. The look he gave you was deadly, but what the fuck could he do about it? His hands were literally tied.

You raised the mug up to your lips, taking a sip of your coffee, smirking when you heard a groan come from his throat, his eyes now firmly trained on the shirt which had ridden up your thighs.

You gave him a sweet smile, "Oh, just look at you, baby. You look so sweet like this. I wish you could see yourself." You mumbled, making your way over to the bed, placing your mug down on the nightstand.

You stood over him, reaching down to push his hair away from his forehead, smirking when he glanced up at you, his eyes filled with hope.

So, he tried his luck. "Please. Please touch me. P-please... I can't... I need you to touch me. I've been so good for you." His tone was frantic, a pitch higher as he desperately tried to plead his case.

He truly did look so cute like this, that much you couldn't deny. He was a beautiful boy anyway, but there was just something about seeing him all tied up, pupils dilated and lips agape as he begged you that made him all the more pretty.

You chewed on your bottom lip, your gaze glancing down to his cock, swollen and hard and waiting for you to bring him to his release. Surely it wouldn't hurt to touch him, just for a minute.

"Well... you are being so good for me. So patient..." You whispered, climbing on the bed, moving to straddle his waist, sitting yourself just above his cock. "Tell me what you want from me." You demanded, your hands running up his toned chest.

"I just want you to touch me. Just touch me. I just need to feel you. Fuck! Please!" He begged in that whiny voice.

"You want me to touch you?" You spat into your hand and reached around slowly. "You want me to touch you... here?" You asked sweetly, your fingers now wrapped around the base of his cock, his hips bucking up into your touch instinctively.

"Yes! Fuck-... Yes, please." He corrected himself quickly, knowing he wouldn't get anything from you if he wasn't polite about it.

"Such a good boy." You mumbled, your thumb rubbing circles on his chest as your other hand remained stationary on his cock. You could see he was desperate to move, desperate for any kind of friction. So, you relented. "Okay. I'll touch you. But you have to promise to be good. Don't cum until I say you can, do you understand?"

Adrian let out a low hum, but it wasn't enough. You needed an answer. "Adrian... do you understand?" You repeated, a warning in your voice.

"Yes." He panted out, squeezing his eyes closed.

"Good."

You began fisting his cock, slow and steady, watching his every movement as you pump your hand up and down. You keep track of his reactions. The way his eyes screw shut, the way his brows furrow together when you run your thumb across the head of his cock. The way his jaw clenches and his breathing starts to sound more like panting right before he cums.

He looked fucking beautiful like this, completely at your mercy. It took everything in you to not just allow him to cum there and then, just so you could watch every single twitch of his lips and every expression that flashed on his features as he came.

But you weren't about to allow yourself to break so easily.

You pulled your hand away at the last moment.

"Fff- Oh, fuck. No. No. Please. Come back. Please." His hips met the air, wrists tugging against the restraints as he searched for that last bit of friction to push him over the edge. He moaned and whined, his legs shaking, writhing underneath you, a plea for you to give him anything more.

"You were about to cum." You stated simply.

"N-No... I wasn't!" He protested weakly, still panting under you.

"Don't lie to me. You were about to cum. I told you that you weren't allowed to do that until I said so, didn't I?"

"Y-yes! You said that!" He spat. Oh, he was seething. He had gotten so close, so close to just letting go and cumming in your hand. He didn't care about the consequences anymore. Whatever you dished out afterwards, he was prepared to take.

"Watch your fucking tone." You scolded.

You moved to stand up then, but a strangled whine from his throat caught your attention. You looked down at him, eyebrows raised, daring him to speak. And he did. "Fuck... No... Please don't go. P-please don't leave me here again. Fuck. You're so beautiful. You're so pretty. I want you to stay here. I wanna look at you. I wanna see you cum. Please... Just- Fffuck--.... use me. Just don't leave. Not again."

"You want me to use you to make myself cum?" You let a slight smile grace your lips as he nodded quickly, mumbling, "Fuck. You're lucky you're so cute..." as you inched down his body (not missing how his eyes flickered down to the wet patch you had left on his lower stomach) eventually settling on his thick thigh. Your legs were situation on either side, and your hot, sopping cunt was pressed against his skin.

You began to grind your hips, pressing your cunt down against his thigh. One hand slipped up to your shirt, popping the buttons open slowly until your chest was exposed to him.

Adrian just watched you quietly with hooded eyes and parted lips, almost in awe of you as you rode his thigh. He watched the way your breasts bounced as you rolled your hips against, the way you let quiet moans slip through your lips whenever your clit brushed against his skin.

You leaned forward, angling yourself in a way that meant your clit was pressed firmly against his skin. He was being so good for you, so patient and pretty and perfect, watching you fuck yourself on his thigh. You couldn't help but breathe out a laugh when he let out a yelp as your fingers curled around his cock unexpectedly, stroking languidly, keeping in time with your own movements.

The pressure on your clit was delicious, and you could feel your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. His quiet moans and whimpers, his hips bucking up to meet your fist, only spurred you on, urged you to grind your hips down faster against him, watching him watch you come undone on his thigh, his eyes flickering from your face, your chest and your cunt.

When you came, you came hard. You threw your head back, eyes squeezed shut, letting out an almost pornographic moan as waves of pleasure ripped through your body. Adrian groaned underneath you, your hand now loosely gripping his cock while you rode out the rest of your orgasm.

Adrian wanted to touch you. He wanted to touch you so bad. It was taking everything in him to not force himself out of the restraints, hold you through your orgasm then fuck you dizzy.

"Oh, fuck..." You panted out, your head tilted back, looking at him through your eyelashes. "That was so fucking good..."

I wouldn't know, he wanted to say, but he kept it to himself. He was sure he had softened you, broke you down. He was sure you would be kind to him now. And he was right.

"Do you wanna cum?" You breathed out, shifting back up until your cunt hovered just above his cock.

"God, yes." Adrian moaned out.

"Do you think you deserve to cum?" You inquired. Hell, you were becoming impatient now. You wanted him inside of you.

"I-I don't know... Do you think I deserve to cum?"

"Yeah. I think you've been good for me. So good." You ran your finger across his lip before leaning down, kissing him softly.

Then, you sank down on to his cock. Slowly, slowly, slowly. You sighed in relief at the feeling of your walls stretching out to accommodate him. You loved to tease him, to keep him on the edge, but there was nothing you loved more than feeling him inside of you.

Adrian, on the other hand, was about to lose his fucking mind.

He knew he wouldn't last long, not with your tight cunt squeezing his cock just right. He had been waiting for this all night. Waiting for you to slide yourself on to his cock and fuck him until he came.

"Oh fuck... Fff-... I love this cunt. I love being inside of you. You're so beautiful. So perfect. Treat me so well." He babbled as you sat still on his cock, "So good to me. My perfect princess. Looking after me so well. F-fuck... Please... Let me cum. Wanna cum inside this sweet pussy."

A few rolls of your hips and he was cumming inside of you. He remained quiet at first, and you watched his face twist, his neck straining, eyes squeezed shut until he let out a guttural moan from the back of his throat. It wasn't long until he was bucking his hips into you, cursing and pulling at the restraints, moaning your name along with 'i love you's' and 'thankyou's' as he shot rope after rope of his hot cum inside of you.

You pressed your lips against his as he rode out his orgasm, mumbling that he was your good boy and you loved him and that he had been so, so good for you.

Reaching up, you tugged the restraints loose, allowing his hands to roam freely once again. He wrapped his arms around your body, clutching you tight against him, whimpering against your shoulder while you peppered kisses on his cheeks, forehead and nose.

"You good?" You whispered, sitting up once his whimpered moans had died down and his breathing had settled. He was still inside of you, still rock hard, though you weren't surprised since you had had him on the edge for almost an hour.

Adrian glanced up at you then, a dazed and lazy (yet still shit-eating) grin on his lips. "Fuck yeah. Never been better. Ready to go again, actually."

You raised your eyebrows, but not in shock or disbelief. More because you expected that response from Adrian. "You wanna go again?"

"Fuck yeah, I do."

"You're insatiable." You mumbled, leaning down to press your lips against his, his hand coming up to cup your face. You had planned on running him a hot bath, making him a cup of coffee and cuddling up to him with a shitty Netflix horror movie, but Adrian's plans differed wildly from your own.

"Hey, can I fuck you this time?" He asked excitedly, sitting himself up against the bed frame.

"....Fine."

••••••••••••

tags because im a big dummy and i forgot (if you've already seen this then ignore </3)

@juniebugg @bvcksmurdock @neptuneswritingwork @cressida-clearwood @withahappyrefrain @all-the-captains @lindenvale @tinalbion @ladamari68 @flower-slut00 @milfodyssey @madmax2191 @andromacher @myguiltypleasures21 @osnapitzandi @flutterskies @emmaflag17 @trash--blog @jlclvsjpm @papitas-con-sal @thedamchii @abbynx @lunaticsandidiots @skateb0red @fenderenderender @possessedxparrot @transias @aprilfire18 @the-a-word-2214 @winterrfalconn

realistically, venom could make his dick however long and thick you want it to be. love that for us.

OH MY GOODNESS THIS WAS JUST PERFECTION??? I LOVE LOVE LOVE IT

while we untangle

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

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

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

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

“What?” He shakes his head. “Who-?”

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

Who? What? Where?

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

Who are you? Who are you?

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

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

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

“I’m - do we know each other?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“You okay?”

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

That terrifying, obnoxious jingle of music.

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

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

He doesn’t know what else to say.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Steven. You’re very pale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should question that. Who?

You know who.

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

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

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

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

He wants to feel this.

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

It feels familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At some point, they get naked.

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you moan softly. “Oh - shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ours. Ours. Ours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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