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violettenebrae · 2 years ago

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Gift of Min

Summary: Marc brings back a trinket from his trip that may or may not contain an ancient sex god/aphrodisiac. Either way, Marc's not telling, and it's for you and Steven to find out.

Content: Explicit (like whoa), sex pollen, creampies sold by the dozen, refraction period we don't know her! overstimulation (cause once that boy starts he won't stop), please do not try to reenact this. If readers at home ever come across an ancient demonic box and inhales its contents the writer strongly urge you to seek medical attention.

Word Count: 8,100

MASTERLIST | MOON KNIGHT FICS | KINKTOBER

"It's pretty," you remark.

It's a small trinket box, the size of an egg that fits neatly in the palm of your hand. Worn out golden brass with finely detailed hieroglyphics painstakingly etched along the edges. Touching the surface, you notice that one of the panels can be pushed outwards. You hum with curiosity as you press down on the thing with fascination as the box gives and a panel flips. It’s like one of those Japanese puzzle boxes you got for Steven on his birthday.

“Is this a puzzle?” you ask, as you flip another panel.

Marc takes the brass box from your hand and shoves it back into his bag haphazardly. "Don't do that, it's not safe"

“‘Not safe’ how?” You ask.

Unsurprisingly Marc does not expand on his cryptic statement.

“‘Not safe,’ it will pinch my fingers? Or ‘not safe’ as in I'll be releasing an ancient demonic God from its bonds?"

Marc gives you a look. Lips curved in a downward frown with that stubborn set of his jaw. He opens his mouth, and before he says a word, you already know what he is going to say.

"You don't–"

"I don't want to know," you finish for him drolly, crossing your arms and puffing out your chest in a mocking imitation of the man.

Only Marc would interpret the verbal request for more information as ‘I don't want to know.’

Marc stands across the room from you, head tilting to one side as he observes you. His expression softens as he does, the arch of his brows rounding, the tension in the lines of his face easing. There's a gentle curve at the corner of his lips that almost qualifies as a smile.

Any irritation you had felt at his rather brusque and unsentimental arrival home after having disappeared (as he does) for over a week starts to thaw when he walks towards you.

One sturdy arm, firm and warm, comes to rest on the small of your back, and he pulls you closer, head dipping into the side of your neck as he presses his lips to your touch-starved skin. It melts away the last trace of aggravation in you.

Then his hands draw down to curl around the back of your knees, lifting you up from the floor, with seemingly no effort, as he hikes your legs around his waist.

"This is a very transparent attempt at distraction," you accuse, as he carries you across the flat.

Marc sets you down on the edge of the bed. One hand hooks the hem of his shirt, dragging it upwards, revealing the expanse of bare golden skin that has saliva pooling in your mouth, as he pulls it over his head.

That hint of a smile that’s already on his lips curves even deeper as he thumbs open the button of his jeans.

"Yeah, but it's working." He leans down, capturing your lips with his, and you probably should be more than a little bit indignant at how he's got your number, but as his firm torso presses you down flush against the mattress, you're just not.

You wake in his bed. Quilts draped low on your hips, you’ve fallen asleep without a shirt or sleepwear, wearing only your knickers and the biting cold of the flat eats into your bones and you find yourself inching closer to the warm heat of his body, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

"Morning, love," he greets you in a murmur thick with sleep. It’s soft and melodic, as he presses his lips to your hairline indulgently. No longer the curt, and impassive American tone. Instead, it's all sweet and dulcet.

It’s Steven.

You nuzzle further into him, nipping at the warm skin of his neck and revel in the way he lifts his chin to give you more access.

"How was it?” you ask against the curve of his neck, “Where did the three of you go?"

"Saint Petersburg, and a small village some hours away by train. Marc handled most of it this time, so I don’t recall much. I mainly got twenty minutes to myself while waiting for a bus in a small coffee shop, and– Oh!” He shoots up sitting upright in bed, the sudden movement sending you tumbling to your side against the mattress.

“I got you a souvenir in fact. You’ll love it." Steven is already flinging the quilt off his legs and most of the bed in one fell swoop as he jumps to his feet and darts across the room, leaving you in bed trying to regain your bearings from the sudden switch in energy.

He drags Marc’s bag into the middle of the room, and the metallic rasp of the zipper fills the quiet space. "It should be here somewhere. Sorry, sorry," Steven mumbles as he continues to dig through the contents of the bag. "I know I put it in here... unless Marc threw it out."

“Oh wow!” The sound of rustling stops.

You tilt your head, trying for a better view, but at this angle you can’t quite see what he’s holding. “Is that my gift?”

“No,” He shakes his head, turning the small object in his hands with a delicate motion. “No, this is something else. It’s some sort of artefact—Egyptian, judging from the hieroglyphics. Marc must’ve brought it with him…”

Steven holds it up against the ceiling angling it towards the light and he's squinting his eyes as if to make something out.

"Essence of Min. A gift for mankind to rise," he reads out, then he holds the box closer to his lap out of your sight again. “Huh. Min was the god of sex in Ancient Egypt. Some kind of talisman, perhaps? Or wait— seems like it’s a… hmmm.”

His words trail off as his concentration is solely occupied by the box. You hear small clicks and sliding noises, as Steven continues to fiddle and, while your own curiosity is peaked, the warmth of the bed is also much too cosy for you to leave.

“Aha–” Steven exclaims as he holds it up victoriously.

The object glints golden in the light. The bright reflection blinding to your eyes that you don’t quite make out what it is he’s holding. A small golden box…

The recognition of what Steven is holding dawns on you, and you sit up quickly, throwing an arm out, like you could stop him from doing what you fear he’s already done.

"Steven, wait! Marc said not to touch–"

Before you can finish the warning, there’s the mechanical sound of gears turning and clicking into place. A sharp hiss emits from the box, and then there's a puff of smoke.

A wisp of a deep blue flame intermingled with white, rises up in the air and stretches outwards, like branches on a tree, seeking for something. You see it. The thin branches of vapour reach out for Steven streaming between his parted lips as he inhales it with a choked cough.

"Oh God, Steven!" You scramble from the bed, fighting to get free of the sheets, nearly falling in your haste to reach him. You dash from the bed and fall to your knees on the floor next to him, not even realising you’ve dragged the bedding with you until you have to release it to grab him by his shoulders.

His eyes are glazed with a feverish sheen, his dilated pupils widening impossibly further as he stares up at you. Beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

Marc’s warning, not safe, rings ominously in your head. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is why you hate it when he keeps things from you or doesn’t explain them properly. Is it a box containing all the horrors of the world like Pandora’s? Is it just some old dust? Oh god, was the dust the cremated ashes of an ancient demon? Is Steven possessed now?

You grab Steven’s face in your hands, seeking out his eyes to see if he’s still here with you. “Steven, are you okay?”

His eyes roll worryingly to one side, struggling to focus before they finally settle on you, but it’s the pain etched onto his brows that makes the worry in your chest expand into alarm.

“I... don’t know, I don’t–” he slurs his words. Eyes slowly blinking with the clumsy movement of someone who’s inebriated. “I think– I think I’m not feeling too good. I– I feel hot…”

Oh god. Oh God. What if it’s poison? What if– Shit, shit!

Panic spreads along your spine, and you turn around towards Marc’s bag tearing the zipper the rest of the way open as you start to scramble through the contents. If it’s poison, Marc would have had some kind of antidote, surely. He’s smart like that. Right?

There are clothes, Marc’s passport where he looks like a serial killer, a gun (right, not touching that), and a notebook. Nothing that looks remotely like an antidote. No vials of neon liquid, no nothing.

Fuck.

In your desperation, you open the small notebook without thought. A folded note slides out and into your lap, and you pick it up, unfolding it to find an old, faded polaroid of the very same golden brass trinket box.

‘Gift of Min’ the caption says, just like Steven had read off the artefact before. Your eyes flit over the paper, taking in the old-timey typewritten message.

WARNING: HIGHLY POTENT APHRODISIAC INSIDE

DO NOT TOUCH CONTENTS

DO NOT CONSUME CONTENTS

AVOID EYE CONTACT WITH CONTENTS AT ALL COST

Wait, what? You read and re-read the words, trying to process the information. An aphrodisiac… Some kind of ancient viagra? Or an aphrodisiac like oysters and pumpkin seeds are aphrodisiacs? That hardly seems enough to warrant Marc’s concern.

Turning back towards Steven, you observe him. His chest is rising and falling erratically, fidgety fingers coming to the collar of his t-shirt and tugging the fabric away from his throat.

No, this is not a reaction caused by a boost of zinc in one’s diet.

Kneeling, you carefully approach Steven again. You rest one hand against the bare skin of his arm and Jesus, he’s burning up. So hot, it’s scalding against your fingertips, and you pull away from the sheer surprise of it.

“I-I think...” he’s struggling to get the words out, tongue darting out to wet his trembling bottom lip, looking like a man dying of thirst. “There's something wrong with me.”

“Steven,” you call out softly, “I think we need to get you to A&E. Can you walk? Should I call the ambulance?”

“No, I don’t–” his eyes squeeze shut, mouth clamped tightly closed for a moment then shakes his head vigorously, like he’s trying to push something away. “No. I don’t need the hospital. I’m not sick. I– I just need–”

“What?” you prompt. Lifting your hand to cup his jaw, you draw you thumb over the plane of his cheek to try to soothe the pinched pain in his face. “What do you need, Steven? I’m right here.”

He stills at your touch, slowly opening his eyes.

They’re pitched so dark they’re nearly black. For an extended moment your heart stops beating when you see the raw hunger that meets you there. A thrill shoots down your spine. A dormant instinct wakes in you, that of a vulnerable prey when it spots a predator. Run, it screams in your veins. But it’s already too late.

Steven surges forward, mouth crashing into yours hard, forceful and bruising. The impact overwhelms your balance, and you fall backwards, landing on your back on the pile of discarded bedding with Steven on top of you. He catches himself with his hands on the floor, stopping just short of flattening you completely thankfully, but his weight is still bearing down on you, crushing you into the floor. You didn’t realise how chilled your skin had gotten, shirtless and exposed as you were to the cold air of the room, until Steven was pressed up against every inch of you, his body emanating a near feverish heat.

His tongue sweeps along your bottom lip with a hungry lick, begging you to open up for him, and you do. Steven is always hungry for you, he kisses you like he’s starved for it. But in the past, no matter how lost in it he got, his eyes always kept note of your reactions. This is different. Reckless even.

It sends a thrill through you, and god, this is not the time, but you can’t help the fact that your body responds to him the same way it always does. His hands come up to grip your shoulders, pinning you down as if there was anywhere else for you to go with his weight already trapping you against him.

Something’s not right.

You try to call out his name, try to snap him out of it. But with his mouth firmly covering yours, any noise you make turns into a melted groan that he greedily swallows. His hips grind into yours. You can feel the unmistakable hardness of his cock through the thin confines of his boxers, twitching hot and insistent against your thighs, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, clenching in response.

“I’m sorry, love,” he breathes, lifting his mouth from yours for a brief moment. Not nearly long enough for either of you to fully catch your breath. “I’m sorry. God, I just– I want… I need you–”

And God, when he says it like that, voice hoarse and scratched raw with hungry need, it makes you forget everything else. For a moment, you don’t remember that something is not quite right. Too preoccupied with your physical reaction to the man you love on top of you. The sensation of him breathlessly pressing urgent kisses against your cheeks and whispered words of adoration in your ear. Your heart races in your chest. It’s beating so hard it feels like it is going to burst out of its cage. Your hand snakes between your bodies, clumsily forcing it past your torsos that are melded together by the way Steven is pressed up against every inch of you.

It’s a struggle to get your hand inside his boxers. Steven isn’t helping with the way he refuses to let there be even an inch of separation between you. Your fingers touch up against the soft skin of his stomach underneath his t-shirt as he continues to kiss you breathless. Your fingers fumble until they catch against the edge of his boxers, and finally, you manage to shove your hand inside where you can feel the velvety smoothness of his cock brushing up against your palm.

You make a small circle with your index finger and thumb as you reach for the bulbous head of his cock. Fuck. He’s already dripping. Precome welling out of him until his cock is slippery to the touch as you wrap around him. The sharp tendril of excitement that shoots up your spine already has you salivating, and you feel overheated. It makes you wonder for a second if you’ve been affected by the vapour as well.

It’s difficult to reach or to control your movement in this position, but you trace your fingertips up the length of him collecting the drops of precome that are dribbling down and spread the wetness over the sensitive head of him.

His gorgeous brown eyes roll into the back of his head as they flutter close, and Steven shudders at your touch, dropping down to press his face into your neck with a choked sob.

“Sorry, I don’t– I don’t know what’s happening.” He’s thrusting into the circle of your hand, seeking more—any friction you will give him.

His brows are furrowed, pinched in the space between with what looks like pain, and your heart breaks for him. All you want is to take that pain away, relieve it in any way you can. So you shove your hand forward, forcing your grip down along the length of him until your hand is wrapped around the thick base, squeezing down firm.

He stills and groans, the deep crease on his forehead easing just slightly.

“It’s okay, Steven”, you murmur, trying to be reassuring. Moving your hand up the length of him with a gentle pressure, testing your way forward. He’s burning hot and throbbing in your palm. With each thick inch of progress, he shivers under your touch. So much more sensitive than he normally is. “It’s all right. Does this help?”

“Yeah– God, yes.” He gasps then moans into your collarbone as he ruts into your hand mindlessly.

It’s awkward, with little grace to speak of. Your arm protests the unwieldy angle, and the cotton fabric brushes up against your knuckles with each press of his hips into your hand. You can’t move much, barely able to move your hand enough in the cramped space between your bodies to properly stroke him. Not that it matters, Steven is taking what he can have, his movement growing more erratic by the second as do the noises he makes, and God, this should not be as hot as it is.

You can tell he’s already close. His shoulders are tensing, neck straining, that gorgeous jaw clenching down as if he’s trying to bite down a scream. Soft whimpering moans devolve into strangled groans and almost-growls. His skin is feverish under your fingertips, burning up like a furnace as he keeps fucking himself into your hand.

"Fuck ohfuck oh fuck, I'm gonna–" the whole of his body seizes up, a pained muffled groan wrenched from somewhere deep in his chest. He stiffens and sobs brokenly into the hollow of your throat.

And then you feel it: his cock pulsing against your fingers as he spills into your hand. Rope after rope, it’s thick and warm. It gets everywhere. His stomach, yours, up the inside of your wrist. It drips down your hand, coating your knuckles and is running a sticky mess down the heel of your hand.

He collapses onto you, unable to hold himself up. His heart is pounding so fast and so hard you feel it beating its way out of his chest where it’s pressed against you. You keep stroking, prolonging his pleasure for as long as you can, until his moans subside into soft little whimpers, body shuddering violently above you at each stroke. Only then do you finally let go, drawing your hand out from between you and wrapping both arms around his back to hold him close to you.

“Was that good, Steven?”

With great effort, he drags his head up just enough so that he can rest it against your forehead and give you a small nod, apparently unable to speak. His eyes blink almost sleepily, and there’s a sweet half-smile on his lips that makes your heart flutter.

Relief floods your chest, as you watch him. The pain-filled expression in his eyes, fades away and melts into the familiar softness you’re used to seeing there. Perhaps you two managed to ride out the worst of the storm.

“Thank you, love. That– that was,” he’s still catching his breath, his chest expanding and deflating against yours. “Amazing… So good. Incredible, and I–” he’s still rambling adorably, trying to find every positive synonym in the dictionary to thank you.

Steadying himself on one shaky elbow, he starts to pull away from you. “Thank you,” he repeats again as he raises himself up on hands and knees and looks down between your bodies.

You can’t see what he’s seeing from this angle, but you can easily guess by the way his eyes trail down between the valley of your breasts down to your belly that must be smeared with his come.

It doesn’t last long. Steven shakes his head, tearing his gaze away from you and pushing himself up until he’s kneeling, looming above you.

There’s something sheepish about his expression, eyes not quite meeting yours, and it puzzles you. Your eyes roam over him as you take in his dishevelled appearance. His cheeks are flushed a deep crimson red. Whether from the rush of excitement from his climax or embarrassment, you’re not entirely sure. His shirt is wrinkly and clinging to the roundness of his hip and– oh. Oh.

His cock is still hard. Slick and glistening in the morning light, where his boxers have slipped far enough down his hips for it to spring free, standing fully upright in attention. So hard it looks almost painful where it’s firmly pressed against his stomach.

Steven is observing your watchful gaze, peeking at you through his lush eyelashes timidly.

“Can we–” he stops for a moment. His pink tongue darts out to lick his kiss-swollen lips. Any embarrassment bleeds out of his eyes, as his pupils dilate, eating into the warmness of those brown eyes of his. He stares down at you hungrily, trying to find his words. “I’m so sorry to ask, love, but uhum... Could we, possibly, maybe– go again?”

“Uhm,” your eyes are drawn down towards his thighs where his cock twitches eagerly under your gaze against the slick, sticky mess smeared around his belly button.

Warning bells sound off between your ears, sharp and shrill, alerting you to run. It’s there in your veins, adrenaline pumping under your skin.

This is probably more than you can handle. Steven is towering over you, just as eager and hungry as before his release, without any signs of flagging exhaustion.

Realistically speaking, how long could it take before this is out of his system? Minutes? Hours? Days? Will it ever end? Does he even have a refractory period right now? You know none of these things. To think you can handle this by yourself is at best an arrogant mistake that Marc will come to scold you for and at worst it could be a danger to your physical safety.

The smart thing to do is to seek immediate medical attention. Maybe they can stomach pump him at A&E.

Bloody hell. What if it is some otherworldly horny deity!? Would that even help? God knows what Marc brought home in his bag. What if it—whatever it is—ends up possessing the hospital staff? Can you in good conscience expose the clueless civilian public of London to that?

You can deal with this, a voice echoes in your head. You can take care of Steven. You want to take care of him.

You hear your name from his lips. A desperate and eager little sound and you look up to meet his pleading eyes.

"Is that alright? Can we love? I need to hear you say it." His lush bottom lip quivering with the needy ache that you can almost feel radiating from him as you watch his fingers flexing at his side. His jaw is grinding down, and you see the small muscle there flex. Drugged and out of control as he is, he’s still clinging onto his composure by his literal nails that are currently digging into his skin, not willing to do anything without your explicit permission.

Fuck, you can’t leave him like this.

Reaching out your hand towards him, you cup his cheek under your palm, trying to soothe the tenseness with your thumb.

“Steven, don’t worry. We can go again. As many times as it takes until you feel better, okay?”

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he’s immediately pulling away from you, hands reaching for the hem of his tee-shirt as he pulls it upwards and tugs it off his head with such force that you almost expect it to rip.

It’s a miracle it doesn’t. Instead he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, naked skin lit up against the natural light of his flat, golden and slick with sweat. He is so gorgeous it makes your heartbeat stutter in your chest.

His boxers come next. Hands forcibly shoving the elastic and clingy fabric down his rounded hips, and kicks them off into the corner of the room. Then his eyes search for you. Those eyes, normally wide and doe-like, are now sharp and almost predatory again.

Not for the first time this evening, you feel some lost survival instinct thrumming in your veins, urging you to run, warning you that this is not a good idea. Still you ignore it. Stay firmly in place as he reaches for you, because survival instincts be damned, you want this— want Steven. Will always want Steven.

His hand grabs onto the sides of your waist, pulling you closer. He’s fumbling with your knickers, hands so eager they’re shaking like a junkie waiting for their next hit. The delicate lace fabric snags at your hips in his hurry to get them off you, and when they won’t give, you feel the harsh tug biting into skin. A loud rip tears into the room. You yelp in surprise, before you realise that Steven has torn your panties in two.

It’s not something he’s ever done before without asking for permission first, but here you are. This is what you get for ignoring your self-preservation instincts. You only have half a second to mourn that these were one of your nice pairs, expensive ones—which you are damn well going to invoice Marc for later—before Steven positions himself over you, gripping his cock in one large hand.

Your mind goes blank, and you stare up at him in awe.

There’s still come dripping down the length of his cock, and his hand reaches over to your sticky one, scooping up what’s left on you, and using it to coat the length of his cock until it oozes down, slick and shiny under the dim lighting.

You’re transfixed at the sight of it, watching in a daze as he notches the fat glistening tip against your entrance and starts to push in, his head dropping to your collarbone as he shudders into you.

After his obvious impatience and the recklessness with your knickers, you brace yourself for a forceful shove, expecting the demanding slam of his overeager hips as he pounds into you. He doesn’t though. Somehow, even possessed and near manic, Steven still finds it within him to take his time with you. This world could be ending, a comet crashing into Big Ben, and Steven would still refuse to be rushed when it comes to you and him.

The first thrust is a slow and drawn out drag, and you think you can feel every throbbing vein and ridge of him as he stretches you out on his cock until he’s fully sheathed inside of you.

“God,” his hips stutter and jerks into you as he sobs your name with a broken moan into your skin. “You feel so good. So fucking good, my love”.

His voice is melted and sweet in your ears. It makes your insides ooze with warmth and something as sweet and thick as honey drips inside your veins. Fuck, something must be wrong with you too, your insides are burning up. It’s all white bliss invading every cell of your body. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He’s barely started, and all you want is more. To be filled up by Steven in this way forever. God, you never want him to stop.

His arms are trembling at the side of you. Steadying himself, he pushes himself up and away from you on one hand, dragging out his hips, slow and torturous until only the tip of him rests inside. You feel empty at the loss and immediately cant your hips upwards, pressing up against Steven, chasing the sensation of his thickness inside you. And as always, your sweet, courteous Steven obliges you.

Those nimble fingers come to clutch at your hips with a grip so firm, you can see the way it carves dents into your supple flesh. He holds you there, steady, as he pushes his way in, slow and thorough. Bliss crackling along the entirety of your spine, with every inch of him that he fills you with.

It’s ridiculous how pretty he is. A lone drop of sweat drips down the arch of his nose. Eyes closed shut and his face pinched in concentration. His hair is a mess, raven locks furled into tight locks from the heat and perspiration against his forehead. One sole stray, little curl has fallen onto his eyebrow, and you reach out to tuck it away. Even fucked out, most likely drugged and out of his mind, Steven is the most beautiful man you’ve seen.

The touch has him fluttering his eyes open for you, gaze searching until it locks in on your face and then sharpens into something dangerous. The look tells you he wants to eat you alive, flesh, skin and bones, he’ll swallow all of you down to the marrow. You want him to.

With your eyes still locked on his, you feel more than see his hand fall away from you as he reaches behind him until he’s caught your ankles, gripping them tight. He grabs your legs up around his waist, locking them over the luscious curve of his ass. Then he lets go and his hands come to the small of your back.

The floor beneath seemingly disappears, as he lifts you up with that surprising strength of his that you’ll never get used to, forcing your pelvis to tilt up to meet him. The new angle has him pushing in impossibly deep. It punches the breath from your throat with a pathetic high-pitched whimper. Has your thighs tensing and burning, your cunt spasming and clutching down on him involuntarily. He’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“Fuck love, fuuuuck.” His nostrils flare. He’s growling now. Voice almost unrecognisable with a raw animalistic edge scratching at his vocal cords in a way you’ve never heard before. But he’s relentless as he keeps going, pressing his way inside you.

“You’re squeezing my cock so fucking tight. Feel so good, always so good. Don’t wanna stop. Never gonna stop fucking you.”

The palm of his hand draws a long shaky line along your arm before it reaches your hand, and he weaves his fingers with yours, pinning your hand on the floor next to your head. His forehead rests on yours, eyes affixed to yours. He has you trapped underneath every part of him, and that’s okay. It’s perfect. Because it’s exactly where you want to be.

Everything is sharp heat simmering under your skin. The pleasure of it is fucking blinding. You can feel it gathering, unmistakable warmth pooling in your belly. The floor underneath you sink and float all at once, and you try to squeeze your knees together to anchor yourself somehow, but Steven won’t let you. His other hand is on your knees, prying you open even wider for him.

Every muscle and joint goes taut, seizing up. The pleasure and overwhelming bliss fill you from inside out until there’s nowhere left for it to go. It’s overflowing, pouring out along every single nerve of your body. You can’t breathe, can’t see. Can’t fucking think. It’s so much, too much, that you’re overcome. But something’s missing, and you don’t know what. It’s like you’re too keyed up, ratched one notch too high to actually come. The immeasurable pleasure spiking your veins with nowhere to go.

You clutch at Steven, fingers grabbing hold of whatever part of him you can reach. You’re drowning in the overflooding sensations washing over you, and the only thing you can think to do is to cling onto the broadness of his arm like he’s your life-raft as you go under. You pull him down until you’re surrounded by his warmth and bare skin. And that’s it. That’s what you needed.

This man is all you fucking need.

Pleasure flares out through you, and you come with an unforgiving orgasm as you squeeze around the thick hardness of his cock. The tingling heat wraps around your bones and limbs, pouring into you with a sweet, slow thickness until you are drunk with it. It stretches out for so long, you lose all sense and measure of time and reality. You could stay in this blissed-out twilight for an eternity, die here and be glad for it.

Steven’s not stopping, still thrusting into you as he moans brokenly. His cock pulses inside you as he spills into you with a shuddering gasp.

You hum with satisfaction, savouring the sensation and how full you feel. Steven fills you to the brim with his release, until it’s slowly dripping and leaking out of you he is still prolonging his own pleasure and yours with gentle, slow thrusts.

His cock drags out until he’s almost slipped free, but then he stills while barely inside you. One hand comes up to cradle your face, spanning from your jaw to your ear as he tilts you up to his mouth and kisses you.

It’s warm. It’s sweet. His thumb gently coaxes your mouth open so he can dip his tongue inside, and you let him. Your sweet gentle Steven. You’d let him do anything to you.

His hand drops from your face, palming your breast, then the side of your ribs before he grips at your hips, and presses his body close to you, and oh oh fuck–he’s–

You gasp, squeezing your eyes tightly shut at the sensation of his still hard cock pressing back inside of you, stretching you open all over again. You’re sore and oversensitive, but with how wet you are and his come still leaking out of you, there’s no resistance as you accept the thick intrusion of him no matter how tightly you clutch onto his cock, until he’s buried inside you as deep as he goes. And still, he tilts his hips and grinds down on you, nudging something inside you bright and blinding. Reaching impossibly deep in a way that has tears sting behind your eyes. Then he slides out, only to do it again. Again and again – and fuuuck again.

He keeps thrusting into you, stroke after stroke, with an unfaltering pace. His cock is still hard inside you, even as you feel him twitching inside and hear him gasping sharply in your ear from the overstimulation overwhelming you both.

“Steven, fuckfuck Steven–” You scramble for something–anything, to hold onto. Blunt nails digging into his strong forearms, with enough strength that it must break skin but he doesn’t even flinch.

He’s still rutting into you. Deep, persistent thrusts, and you can feel every inch of the hard length of his cock drag along your oversensitive cunt, stuffing you full. You’re spasming from the overstimulation, squeezing your legs as tightly as you can around his waist. But oh God oh God, he’s not stopping, even as he’s apologising.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t– can’t—fuck—can’t stop.”

You don’t know if it’s because your first orgasm never truly subsided, or if unbelievably, Steven is already working you to a second. But it doesn’t matter, it’s already happening, washing over you with each demanding thrust of his cock inside you.

Your veins are bathed in blissed-out pleasure. Static fills your ears, buzzing through your stomach, and it’s already happening again–

Fuck oh fuck, if he doesn’t stop– if he keeps going–

“Stev–” You never get to finish his name. Another orgasm overfloods you, heat and light swimming bright and sharp in your veins as it grabs hold of you and takes you under, holding you underneath the surface until you can no longer breathe, until you drown in it. Warm and blissful, sweet and ripe. It’s everywhere. Climbing between your ribs, infiltrating your lungs until it’s all you can breathe instead of air. Overtaking every cell in your brain.

Steven’s cock pulses inside you—Did he come too? God, you’re too fucked out to tell. Everything is floating, your vision blurry with tears. You’re sniffling, choking out a weak cry as Steven keeps going. Slower now, but he’s not stopping.

“Wanna feel your beautiful pussy squeeze around my cock again. Need you to come for me,” he rasps out and you are shivering as your brain starts to process the meaning of his words and the full implication of them. “Please, love, just once more. One more time, then I’ll stop.”

He drives his cock inside in one smooth and long stroke and he hits something devastating inside you. Sharp almost painful pleasure spikes your lungs, and you sob out, spasming into his touch. God oh God. You don’t know if you can survive this.

Out of nowhere, his thrusts slow to a still. All of a sudden his hereto undivided attentiveness and gaze on you tears away. He shifts his eyes sideways, gazing into the empty space of the flat. You don’t understand what has caught his attention as you turn your head in the very direction. Steven’s eyes are staring into the pitched blackness of the tv screen, like there’s something inside. Then you realise that it’s because there is.

You are never privy to their conversations as they happen. Can’t see or hear the others inside of the reflections. Can only guess what is being said unless one of them repeats the conversation for you.

Is Marc there?

Is Marc telling him to stop?

If so, you should be relieved. Happy that Marc’s come to save you like a knight in shining armour riding on a white horse, but instead of relief, you feel torn.

Jesus bloody Christ. What is wrong with you that there’s a twinge of regret at the thought that it’ll stop here?

It’s insane. Because you’re pretty sure your body reached its limit an orgasm and a half ago, and you barely know how you’re still conscious considering how hard you came on the last one. The insides of your legs have gone numb and you can’t even feel your fucking toes anymore. If only your brain could catch up and face reality.

Above you, Steven squeezes his eyes shut. He shakes his head with an aggressive force, as if trying to forcibly shake Marc’s voice out of his head.

“Ste–Steven?” you call out, fumbling his name as you utter it, your tongue heavy and slow in your mouth.

At your voice, his eyes slowly open. The black pitch that’s overcrowding his eyes, hungrier than ever.

“One more, love, jus’ give me one more, yeah?” His voice is slurred and drunk.

You should say stop. Deep down, as overcome and out of control as he is, if you asked him to stop, you still believe he has it in him to stop. For you, he would, supernatural forces be damned.

Your mouth parts, rounding your lips to say the word. But nothing is coming out. Instead you look up at Steven, heart filled with love for him, as he looks down at you in return, pleading.

“Is that okay?” he asks, and the love and worship you see reflected back in those eyes is overflowing, making your heart skip a beat at the sight of it.

You nod dumbly, signing your name and signature over the dotted line, knowing fully well that you are sealing your fate.

“One more,” you agree, “just one more, Steven.”

The room is thick and heavy and you’re not sure how long it’s been. How many rounds Steven has gone or how many times he’s made you come. Every nerve in you feels like a live wire. Overstimulated and plucked raw from pleasure. Your hands are on his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscles there.

Steven’s filled you to the brim with him, and despite how tightly you’re squeezing down, and the perfect fit of your cunt wrapped snugly around his thick cock, his come with nowhere left to go, you can still feel it, leaking out of you. It's trickling down your ass and soaking the floor underneath with each relentless press of his cock inside you.

It’s obscene, the fucking mess he’s making out of you.

Your head is heavy and dulled. Your tongue feels like it's anaesthetized where it presses against the roof of your mouth. You can’t find the words to ask him to stop—not entirely, but just for a few seconds, just enough to give you a breather—because you’ve seemingly lost the ability to speak. You’ve forgotten how to form words with your mouth, the only noises you remember how to make are moans, gasps and whimpers as his cock thrusts into you without ever stopping.

Long desperate thrusts, as his hands are gripping tightly into the roundness of your hips, tilting and slanting you just right for his cock to hit that perfect inescapable angle inside you. The one that has tears stinging behind the corner of your eyes.

Then it builds again, pleasure bright and unforgiving in your lower stomach. It numbs your thighs with the weight of it, and you don’t even know how, cause there’s no strength left in you, but your toes are curling in response, back arching up and off the floor. The ceiling is spinning, and you are tipping over, across the edge and boundaries of Steven’s flat.

“Fuck, love. You’re so tight, squeezing my cock so– Oh God, Oh God. You’re coming again aren’t you?”

A raw sob is wrenched out of your throat, because fuck, Steven is right. Your body seizes up. That’s what this is. You’re coming for him again. It rushes over you, spreading along the inside of your thighs down to the curl of your toes. You’re wrung out and exhausted even as the sensation fills you.

He pulls out, cock resting against your fluttering pussy, as he bends down to press his lips lovingly against your forehead, sticky with sweat. He’s mumbling something incoherent about how well you’re doing. How amazing you are. But for all his loving sweet words, he is ruthless. He doesn’t let you rest, barely lets you catch your breath. You’re still spasming from the aftershocks as he positions himself back between your legs.

“God, you’re so beautiful, love. I love you, I love you,” he keeps repeating, as he’s prying your legs open with his knee and notches his cock against your slippery and dripping hole.

“Love you so much,” he says, again. Then he drapes himself over you, mouthing indulgent kisses along every square inch of skin on your face he can reach. “Again? Can we go again?”

You can’t do anything but nod and close your eyes, craving it all over again despite how wrung out you are. He guides your knees up on his shoulders and rests them there as he pushes forward, bending you until he’s nearly folding you in half. Then he notches his cock against your entrance, pressing inside, and he splits you open again, filling you with every inch of that love he’s professing, pressed tight inside of you.

When you come to. It’s dark in the flat, save for the low dim light from the nightstand and the pale shine from the moon looming above the large windows.

You’re on the bed, you realise, and Marc is sitting beside you, looking a little worse for the wear, his brows knitted and a grim line set on his mouth. He must have moved you.

Something soft and damp brushes up between your legs, and you realise when your eyes flick down that Marc has gotten a wet cloth and is wiping you down with the gentlest care and soft movements. Despite his brusque mannerism, he’s considerate, your Marc. Too considerate to let you lie there on the floor in a kiddie pool of Steven’s come, even if it meant disturbing your sleep.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs. His hand comes up to cup your cheeks with a gentleness that warms you from the inside out. “You okay? How are you feeling?”

“I’m–” Oh God, your voice sounds like you’re a 60 year old smoker. The word scratches against the walls of your throat leaving a painful itch. You harkle, and Marc looks even more concerned than before as you try to speak. “The box, what was–”

“Some kind of old relic that the old Gods liked to mess around with”.

You anchor your elbow to raise yourself to a sitting position on the bed. Fuck, everything feels sore. Muscles aching and burning even with that little effort. Your elbows wobble, unable to withstand the weight of your body, and Marc’s hand darts out to catch you, holding you steady as he helps you to sit upright.

“Full explanation, please,” you manage to rasp out as you throw him a pointed look.

You’re met with that familiar set line of his lips, that almost-frown, that tells you he doesn’t want to speak.

But you both know you’ve earned this one.

“It contained some sprite-creature that derives from the ancient Egyptian God Min. I don’t really know the details, but the box was meant to seal it in. Keep it from doing,” he gestures vaguely, “this.”

Oh god, so you really weren’t that far off the mark when you’d frivolously made the joke about releasing a god from its bonds.

“It’s secured by a puzzle that took experts over a decade to decode. Figures I leave Steven unsupervised for two minutes, and he cracks it,” Marc mutters. “You don’t have to worry. I trapped it back inside the box.”

“Where– how’s Steven?”

Marc lets a heavy exhale through his nostrils, reminding you of a frustrated bull with the way his shoulders are bunched up and tense.

“He’s on a time-out,” he says, as he keeps his hand on the cloth on your leg and gently drags it up your skin. “I tried to take over as soon as it happened, but he was too far gone last night. Wasn’t able to take back control until he was knocked out from exhaustion.”

Seemingly done with cleaning you up, Marc throws the cloth across the room and lands it perfectly square into the laundry hamper. He pulls himself straight, turning around as his eyes meet yours again.

“Don't be too hard on Steven when he wakes up. The stuff in the box is uncontrollable.” Marc says, pleading for the man’s case, even though he himself seems to be riding hard on Steven. Guess it doesn’t apply to himself.

He continues to palm the outside of your thighs up to your hips in a loving apology. Because it’s Marc, he doesn’t apologise with words, never has. He does it with his actions. At least that’s how it’s always been.

Until now, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly with a contrite tone, eyes looking into yours with sincere regret.

You blink at him in surprise.

The skies have parted and fallen over. Hell has frozen to the point it makes Antarctica seem cold. If you look out the windows, surely pigs must be flying across the London skies crashing into a Boeing Airbus. Because, Marc Spector, is apologising to you. With actual words.

You nod, so stunned you almost accept his apology without forethought. Except, you can definitely push this now when he’s unguarded. Squaring your cheek, you sit up on the bed, pinning his eyes with yours.

“You have to stop doing this,” you say, and Marc looks at you with a worried expression on his face, and you take his hand in yours.

"Don’t hide things from me. Especially not sketchy magical supernatural stuff. And especially fucking not when it involves an ancient crazed, sex god."

You search for his eyes, expecting him to protest, but he doesn’t. His hand just squeezes down tighter on yours as you continue.

"It doesn’t keep me any safer. I’ll get caught up on it one way or another, because I’m with you… and Steven, and Jake. That’s not going to change anytime soon. So it’s better if I at least have an idea of what I’m dealing with. It’s much scarier when I don’t know."

He’s quiet, but obviously listening.

It's almost eerie how obliging he is right now. It's the guilt, you realise as you watch the way he's slumped, eyes drawn perpetually downwards as if the floor has suddenly become the world's most interesting thing to watch.

"When I ask you what something is, tell me. That way, next time something like this happens, I'll know what's going on."

He still doesn't answer, so you tip his chin up to meet your eyes, seeking out eye contact until he relents. "Alright?"

Marc gives you a small nod. Then his eyes narrow, with the determination of a man who believes he can bend the laws of physics by sheer willpower. "There won’t be a next time.”

Dedication: You've all guessed it by now, to my one and only, the prawniest of them all!!! @thirstworldproblemss who got of her sleepy bussy just to help me beta-read, edit and meticulously do cockulations of Steven's clothing choices which kept changing throughout like it was Barbie's dreamhouse as well as the physically impossible contortions he was performing. I love you--moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooost

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