Moon Knight Fanfic - Tumblr Posts

You Look Like a Museum to Me

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Prompts - “You’re extra beautiful when you talk about this. You know you’re good at it, and that knowledge lights you up.”

Notes -  I know absolutely nothing about ancient Egypt so if anything is wrong, just go with it.

Steven fiddled with the ends of his sleeves nervously as he glanced in the mirror, seeing nothing but Marc’s slightly amused eyes looking back at him as he watched him panic over his first date with you. Despite being reassured a dozen times that he had this, that you liked him just as much as he liked you, despite all of Marc’s comforting words he still couldn’t get rid of the pit of nerves in his stomach.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Marc told him again, not even annoyed at the amount of assurance Steven needed today. It was nice watching Steven with you, watching how flustered he got and feeling how happy he was. “You’re taking her to the museum, right, giving her a tour?”

“Yeah,” Steven sighed, nodding as he wiped his slightly sweaty palms against his pants, “Yeah, she wanted a tour of the museum.”

“Then you’re gonna be just fine, you know everything about that stuff, you’ll blow her away.” Marc smiled as Steven laughed nervously before checking his appearance one last time and grabbing his bag, one more deep breath and he turned away from the mirror.

After a quick goodbye to the fish Steven was heading out the door, just about managing to catch the bus and making his way to the museum. Marc was right, if there was one thing he knew it was this, how many times had he dreamed about giving this tour and now he got to give it to you.  

Asking you on a date had been nerve wracking, even after everything that had happened lately somehow asking a pretty woman out on a date felt scarier than any of it. Marc had laughed, not in a mean way, more in a fondly exasperated way and encouraged Steven to ask you out, went back and forth with him all night with different ways to ask you and different dates that were ideal for the first one. 

“I know this stuff, I’ve got this.” Steven muttered to himself as he got off the bus, not even noticing the side glances he received from strangers. Marc did and it showed when Steven glanced in a window to see Marc standing with a fond smile.

“I’m right with you buddy.” Marc said as Steven walked up the steps of the museum and found that the words eased his nerves a bit and he took one final deep breath to steady himself before he walked through the doors. 

He spotted you straight away, of course he did, even with the children darting back and forth, the tourists looking every which way, the school group that stood huddled together, somehow Steven missed all of them but managed to see you. You were focused on one of the figures, reading the small plaque in front of it as Steven stood still in his spot, more than content to watch you for a moment. 

“She really is stunning.” Steven mumbled, whether to himself or to Marc, even he didn’t know. His eyes were still locked on you as Marc rolled his eyes fondly from his place in the reflection of a glass barrier before he took control for half a second in order to get Steven moving. 

Steven stumbled slightly but managed to catch himself, shooting Marc a glare but Marc just smiled and gestured for him to make his way over to you. 

He took a steadying breath, feeling both more nervous and at ease at seeing you before he finally did as Marc advised and forced his feet forward until he was looking over your shoulder and humming as he saw just what you were looking at. 

“Ah,” Steven said from behind you, causing you to jump slightly before you turned around, a smile spreading across your face and eyes lighting up as you met Steven’s gaze, “that there is Set. Bit of a knob actually.”

“Oh really?” You asked, not even attempting to stop the laugh that escaped you, completely unaware of how the sound momentarily stunned Steven before he shook himself and swore he would do whatever he had to to keep hearing you laugh.

“Oh yeah, completely mental really, I mean what other word is there for dismembering your own brother and having a fish eat his-“ here Steven cut himself off, already berating himself over his words but then he saw your smile widen and your whole body turned to him, giving him all your attention, your head tilting as he paused. 

He could see Marc in the reflection behind you, the reassuring smile on his face telling Steven that he hadn’t messed up, he could do this. 

“Probably best to start a story from the beginning though, eh?” He continued, encouraged by your nod, smile having yet to fade and attention still solely on him. “Well, Set used to be a hero, people called upon him for all sorts, a protector in life and death but what really made him a hero was saving Ra, the sun god, meant he had made sure the sun would continue to rise. But by the time of the New Kingdom, Set gets a bit jealous, now I don’t know about you but when I’m jealous I don’t go around murdering people but maybe that’s just me.” 

Steven paused as you laughed again, trying to commit the sound to memory before he continued.

“See Set was jealous of Osiris, jealous of the fact big brother was the ruler of Egypt and he wasn’t. It wasn’t just Set killing his brother that was odd though it was the way he did it, instead of, you know, just murdering him quietly Set throws this party, one of those fancy ones, and he brings this casket out after dinner.” The entire time Steven speaks his gaze is locked on you, watching you nod along with his words, expression shifting from smiles to questioning looks and Steven can see the genuine interest on your face, can see that you’re actually listening to what he has to say, listening to him ramble about something he liked. 

Steven couldn’t remember a time when somebody had just let him speak, let him share his interest with them without interrupting him or making a disparaging comment before brushing him off. He had known you were something special from the moment he had met you, hell actually from the moment his eyes had locked onto you but this, this moment right here, just confirmed to him how amazing you truly were, a one of a kind girl he had somehow been lucky enough to meet.

“A casket?” You asked, Steven chuckling at the face you pulled, eyebrows drawn together, nose scrunched up and lips twisting into a grimace.

“Weird right? Well after he brought out the casket he had each of the guests attempt to climb into it but none of them could fit. When it comes to Osiris’ turn, well guess who fits in the casket? Osiris does and when he does get in, that's when Set comes along and slams the casket shut, poor bugger was trapped in the thing all the while Set threw him in the Nile.”

You were more than content to continue standing in front of the glass protected figure listening to Steven as he told you the story about the god it was based on, happy to watch as his hands gestured around as he spoke, observe how his entire face seemed to light up as he got to teach you something, watch Steven be at his most confident as his knowledge seemed to give him a boost. It wasn’t a drastic change, it was only noticeable if you were paying attention, he still fiddled with the edges of his sleeves, still tugged on the strap of his bag but he seemed lighter, completely in his element as he spoke without fumbling over his words and it was a side that you guessed many people didn’t get to see, whether it was due to Steven not showing it or other people not giving him a chance to.

When Steven finished talking he saw your face soften, it was almost of fond expression with something else he couldn’t quite place and it made him smile sheepishly at you, an apology on the tip of his tongue, almost on instinct, for rambling on. He nearly had the words out when you interrupted him and your words almost made his heart ache with happiness.

“So what happened to the brother, did he just die?” You asked him. 

Steven felt his smile widen, not only had you put up with his rambling but here you were asking questions, wanting him to keep talking. It was such a rare thing that all he could do was smile at you, completely and utterly captivated by you. 

He really hoped he wouldn’t mess this up, he was already so gone for you and it was only your first date. Steven hoped to any god that might be listening that there were many more dates to come.

“Well the casket floats down the Nile for a bit before it washes up on the shore and this tree, the tamarisk tree, sprouted up to protect it. The tree was so beautiful that the King and Queen of Byblos cut it down and had it brought to their court. Osiris had a wife, Isis and she tracked Osiris down and managed to get his corpse back, all the while Set’s in Egypt and ruling as King, not a good one mind you, he switched between storms and droughts because he was the god of not only war and chaos but also storms, the people ended up turning on each other just to survive, told you he was a knob.” Steven said, pausing to let your laugh wash over him as he moved his hands to play with the ends of his sleeves once he realised he had been gesturing wildly between the two of you.

“Sounds like he was a bit more than a knob.” You laughed and Steven couldn’t stop the bright smile that spread across his face. “So what, Set just kills his brother and gets to rule Egypt? And Isis managed to retrieve his corpse?”

“Yeah, she gets his corpse back and hides the two of them again in some swampy marshes of the Nile. Once they were back though Set found out and started tracking them down. Isis knew of some herbs that could bring Osiris back and she asks for help to watch the body. When Isis is out though Set comes along and tricks Nephthys into telling him where Osiris was hidden, after he found him he went about hacking his body to pieces,” Steven paused, watching as you scrunched your face in disgust again, hoping he hadn’t put you off but you were still looking at him expectantly so he carried on, not giving himself another moment to doubt himself, “Once Isis was back she and Nephthys went about collecting all the body parts to put him back together but his, um, well a certain part of him was missing, well actually it was eaten by a fish which, you know, bit gross.”

“It was actually eaten by a fish?” You couldn’t help but laugh as Steven nodded, a bright smile still firmly in place as he chuckled along with you. “So that was it then for Osiris?”

“Well since he was incomplete he couldn’t return to the land of the living and instead became the lord of the underworld and god of the death and I can tell you that Osiris doesn’t mess around when he’s judging where you’ll spend eternity.” Steven told you, his tone filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite put your finger on and his eyes shifted just over your shoulder to look at the statue of Set. 

Steven's eyes shifted to look at the reflection in the glass casing, distracted by Marc’s amused snort that you obviously couldn’t hear, his own smile spreading into a grin as he focused on you again.

“You say that like you have experience.” You laughed and watched him laugh along with you. “So what happens to Set then, he’s the King, right?”

“For a bit, yeah but Osiris actually had a son, Horus, who battled Uncle Set for control of Egypt. The two of them went before the Great Ennead and were given contests to battle against each other. Turns out Set wasn’t very good, actually he was complete rubbish and lost every battle against Horus.” Steven explained and felt his chest warm as you interrupted him but in a way that was so different to how others usually did. 

“So Horus became King then?” You asked, unable to stop yourself. 

In all honesty Ancient Egypt wasn’t something you sought out yourself, you appreciated it and it was interesting but you had never been too eager to seek knowledge out about it yourself. However when Steven was the one talking about it, telling you the stories that matched the figures you were captivated, completely hooked on his every word, and wanted him to tell you everything he knew.

“You’d think wouldn’t you but no, actually, Set reigned for over eighty years because Ra refused to vote that Horus should be the King and because the decision had to be unanimous Set was free to be King.” Steven told you, physically feeling himself fall for you more and more as the seconds passed as you frowned, mirroring his expression when he had first read the information from one of his many books.

It wasn’t until he looked behind you that he saw a group of school children making their way from one of the figures over to the one the two of you had been blocking for a while now. You looked questioningly over at him before following his gaze, eyes widening as the teacher gave the two of you an annoyed look causing you to bite your lip and look over at Steven, a grin breaking out across both your faces as he took your arm in his and pulled you along, the two of you laughing as you leaned into each other.

Making your way further into the museum, laughs fading off as conversation filled its place Steven found himself glancing down, your arms still tangled together despite the fact that they didn’t need to be. Steven was thankful you hadn’t let go of him, he was more than happy to stay attached to you the whole way around the museum.

“Steven?” You prompted softly when the man had remained silent at your question, his gaze on you but clearly having missed you speaking.

“Sorry love,” he apologised softly and you couldn’t ignore how your stomach seemed to fill with butterflies at the word love. It sounded beautiful coming from Steven, sounded genuine and not meant an attempt to flirt that would ultimately leave you uncomfortably trying to get away from somebody. 

You really wanted him to call you love again. 

The two of you made your way around the museum, Steven rambling on happily about each of the different things that were on display but he found himself stumbling over his words at some points, your entire attention focused only on him, expression so open and he could happily stare at you all day. When he watched you mouthing along as you read from the plaques attached to the displays or when your eyebrows knitted together when you didn’t quite understand something and you would turn to look up at him questioningly, it was only with Marc’s helpful calling of his name and quick repeating of the question that he was able to stammer out an answer, memorising the way your face light up as you listened to him.

He had never made somebody smile like that, like the way you were smiling, he had never had that kind of smile directed at him and he most certainly had never been the reason somebody’s whole face seemed to light up or made somebody laugh in the way he made you, a genuine laugh that made his stomach flutter and took his breath away.

Even as he was surrounded by some of the most beautiful pieces and ancient displays that would usually occupy his attention for hours, they all seemed dull when compared to you standing next to them. Steven found he would much rather look at you, learn everything there was to know about you, than anything that was in this building.

You were as equally as distracted as Steven was, completely captivated by everything about the man, by the way he spoke, even when he did stammer over his words as he was pulled from his thoughts, how his arm felt still tangled with yours, how his eyes seemed to light up every time he looked at you. You had never felt so much for one person so fast, never realised how quickly you could fall for somebody and yet here stood Steven Grant seemingly on a mission to see how fast he could make you fall for him. 

The date lasted hours and yet it still didn’t feel long enough when the two of you stood just past the museum steps, reluctant to pull away from each other but having no other choice as you were getting ready to say goodbye, heading home in opposite directions.

“Thank you for today, I had a bloody brilliant time.” Steven told you, a smile on his face as you laughed softly, nodding in agreement with his words.

“So did I,” You said honestly, “I hope we can do it again?” 

“Yeah, yeah I’d love to, absolutely.” Steven’s smile spread into a grin and you couldn’t stop yourself from mirroring the expression, face almost aching from how much the man made you smile.

“Good, I can’t wait.” As you spoke you looked up, feeling rain begin to fall from the grey clouds above and looked at Steven. “We should probably get home before it really starts.”

“Good idea,” he laughed, seeming to hesitate for a moment before he nodded and stepped closer to you, giving you time to pull away. When you stayed as you were Steven smiled before leaning forward but instead of going for the kiss like you thought he would, he instead placed the softest kiss to your cheek before pulling away with a shy smile. “Let me know you got home safe, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, somehow the soft kiss to the cheek flustered you more than you thought a normal kiss would but thankfully Steven seemed as flustered as you. “I’ll see you soon.”

“God, I hope so.” You heard Steven mumble to himself after you had turned away and taken a few steps away from him, a soft laugh leaving you, fully agreeing with the sentiment and making your way home with a smile on your face even as the rain fell down on you, completely ready for your next date with Steven Grant. 

___________

Steven Grant Taglist -

@bxmaaa, @captainamericasdaughter15, @daisyfreshwhore, @myguiltypleasures21, @polyglot-noodle

August

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Prompts - 'It is August. My life is going to change. I can feel it.'

The change from July to August passed as easily as it always did, the weather was still warm, birds could still be heard chirping away and yet you couldn’t help but feel off. More than half the year had passed and it had passed without anything remarkable happening. The years had all seemed to pass the same lately and no matter how much you promised yourself this one would be different it seemed it was destined to be anything but. 

Of course just when you give up hope of something great, something remarkable happening, is often when your life changes most. 

It was a regular Monday and you were getting by on nothing but a few hours of sleep as you walked the busy streets with a hot to-go cup warming your hands, mind not completely awake just yet and not at all focused on your surroundings. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when you were suddenly jolted, nearly falling to the floor before a pair of arms caught you. 

“Oh god, I am so sorry, are you alright, love?” You looked up, eyes widening at the man holding you in the middle of a busy London street.

His voice was soft and it washed over you, calming your racing heart from both being crashed into and from the man himself, beautiful and captivating and staring at you. 

Of course, you hadn’t answered him and with a mental slap to your face you cleared your throat and answered the question, straightening up as you did, smiling as the man’s arms didn’t leave you. 

“I’m alright, thank you. Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You apologised, smiling softly at him, and watching as he mirrored the expression back, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at how beautiful the smile made him look. 

“Oh no, it’s my fault really, completely in a world of my own.” He chuckled and you couldn’t help but grin at him. “Oh bugger, your drink! Let me buy you a new one, if you’re not in a rush of course.” 

You weren’t in a rush thankfully but even if you had been you thought you would have cancelled any plans then and there if it meant being able to spend a single second longer in the man’s presence. 

“Thank you, you don’t have to though.” You told him but he just shook his head, cutting you off before you could say anything else. 

“No, no really I insist.” He told you, finally drawing his arms back with a sheepish smile and you felt the loss immediately but didn’t dwell on it, instead your smile widened as you nodded. 

“Then I’d like that, thank you.” You said and his whole face seemed to brighten up as he shifted his bag on his shoulder before nodding and gesturing for you to follow him. 

What were you doing, this was completely unlike you to go off with a man you’d just met, one that was a complete stranger and yet it didn’t seem like he was. Something about this man seemed to put you at ease, radiating safety and warmth and you were drawn to him immediately. 

You’d been saying you wanted things to change, months passed in the same old cycle and this was a welcome break in the chain. Perhaps August was the month for it. 

“I’m Steven by the way, nice to meet you.” Steven, it suited him nicely. 

“I’m Y/N,” you told him, sending him a smile back, completely unable to help the way it spread across your face as you looked at him. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

The two of you walked side by side, looking to the outside world like a pair of old friends or lovers out for a morning stroll. Steven, for all that he stammered and fidgeted, was surprisingly confident in carrying the conversation, rambling on about whatever came to his mind, asking questions about you, where you were from, what you were interested in and he responded in kind and by the time the two of you came to the coffee shop neither of you wanted to leave the others company. 

“If you’re, well, if maybe by some chance you weren’t busy would you perhaps like to have a drink?” Steven managed to ask and you felt your heart beat faster and your shoulders relax. “With me I mean.”

“Yeah,” you told him with a soft, almost fond breath of laughter as you nodded, watching as he grinned at you, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

As the two of you ordered Steven felt the ball of nervous energy in the pit of his stomach grow, completely outside of his comfort zone and yet something about you put him at ease and made it easy for him to take a breath and relax. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you were seated with drinks in front of you, Steven’s fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the sides of his cup. Somehow this felt more intimate than walking the streets of London, sitting across from each other under the low light of some hole in the wall coffee shop and yet, despite the nerves you both felt, neither of you could think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

“So where were you off to before we crashed into each other?” Steven asked with a grin and you felt yourself relax even more, glad for the easy conversation and the chance to memorise his features some more.

“I was heading to the museum, I have an interview and wanted to get there earlier to make sure I knew where to go.” You told him, watching as he seemed to perk up at the mention of the museum before his eyes widened.

“Oh god, you have an interview and I pulled you away from it. You really didn’t have to-” Steven began but you just chuckled softly, shaking your head, and cutting him off.

“It’s fine, really, my interview isn’t until after lunch, trust me I’ve got plenty of time and I’d rather be here with you than nervously pacing around the museum.” You laughed and watched as he relaxed, a soft laugh escaping him.

“You have an interview though, that’s great!” Steven beamed at you and somehow this stranger opposite you seemed just as excited as you were at the offer and you were glad to have somebody around who shared your excitement. “That’s really amazing, honestly you’ll love it, I worked there for a bit but it didn’t work out.” He told you, his nose scrunching up slightly as he shook his head and you couldn’t help but smile at him.

“Hopefully I’ll love it if I even get the job. What happened with you?” You asked and watched as he turned to look out of the window for a second before shaking his head and turning his attention back to you.

“Oh you know, had a bit of a nasty run in with a jackal and caused some property damage.” He told you, tone so serious that it drew a laugh from you and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing along with you.

“And yet somehow not the worst reason I’ve heard for being fired.” You chuckled before taking a sip from your drink.

Conversation flowed easily from there, somehow you felt like you had known this man, this stranger, for your whole life, like the two of you were long-time friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while and were simply spending time catching up on everything that had happened since you’d last seen one another, except in this case it was catching up on each other’s entire lives.

It was nice talking to Steven, nice to have somebody around who shared the same interests as you, who seemed genuinely interested and listened to every word that left your mouth. Something about Steven made you feel light, feel a happiness that you hadn’t known you had been missing. 

The man was a simply just a stranger who had happened to bump into you and yet here the two of you were, turning an accident into something that would change your futures, would steer you two down a different path, one where your lives became so entwined it would be impossible to remember a time before knowing one another.

You smiled as you listened to him talk, couldn’t help but silently thank the universe or whatever god what listening for sending Steven Grant your way, for having him knock into you and for having you leave for your interview with enough time to spare for meeting Steven. 

Mid-sentence Steven cut himself off, glancing towards the window next to the two of you again causing you to raise your eyebrows and follow his gaze but saw nothing so instead you turned back to him just in time to see his eyes widen as he looked back to you.

“It’s nearly time for your interview!” He told you and your eyes widened as you pulled your phone out, frowning down at the time, easily getting lost in the conversation with Steven and not realising how much time had passed before debating just how much your interview was worth if it meant leaving Steven’s side. 

If you hadn’t been waiting for this job to come around for months you might have genuinely left the interview but you knew you had to leave no matter how much you wanted to stay. Instead you looked back up at Steven with an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry,” You started but Steven cut you off with a smile, shaking his head fondly.

“None of that now, you have to get to your interview. I know you’re gonna smash it.” He told you and again you were almost taken back by how much this stranger seemed to be rooting for your success.

“It was really nice to meet you, Steven.” You hated that you had to leave, wanted nothing more than to sit in this cosy little coffee shop and just get to know everything about the man in front of you. Instead you started to stand but Steven stopped you before you could.

“I, oh god, don’t bugger this up now mate,” you smiled as he spoke to himself, watching in amusement as he shook his head before glancing up at you with a sheepish smile, “I don’t usually, well when I say usually I do mean ever, but anyway I don’t do this but you are really beautiful, I mean look at you, you’re stunning and I would hate myself if I didn’t ask you if I could see you again.” Steven rambled his way through his attempt to ask you out all the while your smile grew wider.

“I’d really like that.” You said, pulling your phone out again before handing it to him, “here give me your number.”

The two of you swapped phone numbers before walking out of the coffee shop together, each heading in opposite directions and pausing to say a goodbye.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Steven murmured, his eyes widening like he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud causing you to laugh softly, “I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I’m glad we met too.” You told him honestly, somehow feeling more of a connection with a man you’d known for less than two hours than with anyone else you had met in a really long time.

“I should let you go then I suppose, big interview and all that.” He smiled and you couldn’t help but mirror the expression. “Good luck, Y/N, not that you need it, they’d be stupid not to hire you.”

“Thank you,” You laughed, knowing you really had to leave now or you’d be late. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

“I should hope so, I think I’d rather like to have you in my life.” Steven said and the words were so honest that you couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face, feeling a soft blush on your cheeks as you ducked your head before glancing back up at him.

The two of you finally said your goodbyes, walking away with matching wide smiles before turning back to sneak one final glance at each other. It seemed after weeks, after months of pleading with the world it had finally given you an answer to your questions, a cure to the lonely, repetitive days in the form of Steven Grant. You could feel the shift when you were with him, a moment that you hoped and pleaded would be life changing, echoing Steven’s sentiment and wanting nothing more than to have him in your life.

You really hoped August was the month to change your life and really hoped Steven Grant would become a constant presence at your side. 

__________________

Steven Grant Taglist -

@bxmaaa, @captainamericasdaughter15, @daisyfreshwhore, @myguiltypleasures211, @polyglot-noodle, @alexxavicry

a spoonful of sugar

summary: marc's not very good at taking his medicine.

(I was the worst at drinking this stuff as a kid so I need validation)

cw: fluff, sickfic, marc is a little baby

You knew it was coming. Even as he flapped his hand and rolled his eyes and laughed allergies, baby, you knew. When it was eight in the morning and your early bird boyfriend hadn't even stirred, you knew. That rumbling cough wasn't an annual pollen allergy.

There was a pot of tea on the stove before he woke. You'd prepped the supplies - tissues, a damp towel, some anti-inflammatory, and were in the middle of making food when his croaky voice broke the silence. You knelt by his bed and pulled the blankets away from his sweaty face.

"Help," he rasped, "I'm -cough- dying..."

The desperate display of obvious dramatics made you grin. He was always such a tough guy; scoffing at band-aids and ice packs. It was tempting to tease but his puppy eyes were too much.

"Come on, big guy, let's get some food in you." You gently pulled the covers down to help him up, but he harrumphed and yanked them right back.

"Sod off," came Steven's weary voice from under the comforter. "Marc's being a toff and making me deal with the sore throat." A pitiful sniffle and a hacking cough erupted from his broad shoulders. The blankets shuddered as Steven raked in a breath.

"Marc, come on," you cooed, rubbing his back. "Leave poor Steven alone. I've got some stuff for you, you'll feel better."

A pause, then some grumbling as he sat up. "Poor Steven? Wha' bou' me?"

His whining was choked up by the pressure in his throat. You could see the blockage in his sinuses as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A whistling sigh left his lips. He was definitely sick. Deliriously, Marc dragged a hand through his wild, sweaty hair. He reminded you of a scruffy ragdoll cat dragged in from the rain.

With a fussy Marc in tow, you fixed a cup of herbal tea and some food. So far he just seemed congested but he needed some food to handle the medicine. He miserably blew at the steaming mug, swaying on his feet. You held him against you sympathetically. He greedily drank in the attention, sniffing louder to earn a few forehead kisses.

Marc didn't get sick very often. He was pretty good at eating well, getting sleep when he could, and exercising regularly. Usually he could sleep it off and be totally fine. Every once in a while though, he'd get kicked on his ass for a while.

The kitchen island had every box of decongestant and cough syrup you could find splayed out in a heap. You weren't sure which one he preferred, so you'd let him pick. Not one of them seemed to be opened.

He had finished half of the tea, grimacing after every sip. Marc much preferred coffee, said his beseeching glance at the coffeemaker.

"Caffeine won't help," you chided gently, standing in front of the alluring machine. He sent you a sour look and folded his arms, shivering at another wracking cough. You reminded yourself to be gentle - Marc didn't like feeling weak.

Letting him go about grabbing water and wolfing down more toast, you examined the available medicines.

He'd need some ibuprofen, and probably a decongestant. You'd give it to him now so he could take a hot shower while you changed the sheets. Airing out the flat would clear the germy air well enough.

Marc approached you warily, eyeing the pharmaceutical stash you had amassed.

"Whassat?" he asked hoarsely, ducking his chin against your neck. Petting his cheek absently, you continued your perusing.

"We need to get you some meds, honey. Do want the grape stuff or no flavor? Haven't got anything better, looks like."

You felt his lips frown against your skin. "I'll just take a shower, don't neeb all tha' stuff." he coughed again, wincing at the blockage in his nose. His breath was hot. You frowned, pressing your palm against his head.

"You're feverish, Marc, you need something more than a shower. You can take one after." Filling a glass with water, you handed him a tablet and nodded. "Take that."

Muttering, he knocked it back and slugged down the water. Sliding behind you, he made his way towards the bathroom but you tugged his sleeve back.

"Hang on, one more." You slowly measured out a dose of decongestant. The garish red syrup glug-glugged quietly, an acrid smell of medicinal berry coating your nose. Blegh, you winced. It was baffling how nobody had thought to make it a tasteless pill. Drinking ounces of disgusting syrup was your least favorite way to knock out a cold.

Turning, you carefully handed Marc the little cup. "Drink that and another glass of water, then you can shower. I'll address the sheets."

You made sure to adjust the thermostat on your way to the bedroom. Once his fever dropped he'd want some warmth to sleep in. The window let in a cooling breeze, washing away the stuffy scent of sick. London's quiet din rumbled outside, providing a soundtrack for your relaxed cleaning.

Bundling the sheets and towels into your arms, you made your way to the washroom. You paused.

Marc was hunched over the counter, glaring at something.

"Marc?"

A flicker of embarrassment, then he curled his body away and grumbled a response. Frowning, you tossed the sheets in the hamper and crossed to him.

"What've you been doing? I gave that to you a while ago."

He nodded, still scowling at the viscous berry medicine. A pause. you tilted your head.

"...You okay?"

Marc didn't respond. That little serving of medicine continued to endure his baleful wrath, practically trembling on the countertop. The spell was broken by an enormous sneeze. Marc reeled from the sound, shaking the fuzz from his head.

"I think you've intimidated it enough," you joked softly, rubbing his shoulder. "But really, honey, you need to drink that."

A familiar pair of wide brown eyes blinked sorrowfully at you. "But...it tastes foul," Steven whined, sticking his lip out for emphasis. You raised your eyebrow and poked his side.

"Spector, stop shoving off to Steven. You're the one who wanted to sleep with a window open in November, you gotta suffer the consequences."

A moment of twitching and he was back, bleary and disgruntled. Ears pink with Steven's admission, Marc hedged away from you again and tried to escape to the bathroom. His clumsy feet shuffled along the creaky baseboards. You let him have his way for a moment, but soon enough was enough.

"Marc, you've literally drunk the most disgusting alcohol ever without a second thought."

He looked at you reproachfully, trying to work Steven's angle of adorable petulance. His grumpy frown did make your heart fawn, but the wracking cough and guttural sneeze overran the knee-jerk reaction.

Irritated that his tactics weren't working, Marc slumped onto your shoulder. Chuckling, you rubbed his back, rocking him side to side. His hands were insistent, tugging you backwards. You realized, almost too late, that he was trying to angle himself closer to an escape path.

"Spector-"

Before you could grab him, he had disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

You sighed. At least he was showering.

The laundry was done, and the apartment sufficiently sanitized by the time Marc reappeared, damp hair curling around his ears. He looked a little brighter. His eyes were clear and his cheeks a healthier ruddiness rather than feverish.

And, just like before, the little cup of syrup lay sitting on the counter for him. He was visibly bothered when you hadn't forgotten.

"Meds," you said firmly when he moved in for a kiss. The comment offended him, and he tried to peck you anyway. You put a hand over his mouth and pushed gently, handing him the cup.

"I don't wan' to," he rasped, lip curling. "It tastes like lighter fluid - cough - and I don't feel better anyway."

"How would you know, you haven't taken it?"

Marc huffed, dramatically folding his arms and turning his nose up.

"Marc."

Your tone made him duck his head. It was funny to watch him squirm; his reluctance almost reminded you of Steven. Usually he would bite the bullet and do anything that made him uncomfortable with nothing but a shrug. Hell, you'd seen him clean Steven's sick off the toilet after a night out with less of a reaction.

Sympathizing a little bit, you poured a glass of orange juice and slid it over.

"If you drink the medicine really fast, you can wash it down with juice."

Marc grumbled, still wrinkling his nose.

"Does that work?"

"Hmmm no," he huffed, folding his arms tighter. "I thin' you should gib me a kiss 'cause you're bein' meab," he garbled, voice strangled around the congestion. You bit down a laugh, trying to seem sincere.

"You can't even talk, Marc, I am not gonna kiss you."

The admission made his head snap up, eyes terrified. You worked this new angle, putting your hands up and backing away. "I don't want your germs."

He protested quietly, hands reaching out.

"Hug?"

"Meds."

"But-"

"No buts," you said, tone gentle again, "come on. Just a second. It'll take like two seconds and then you can drink some juice and go lay down. Yes, I'll lay with you," you acquiesced at his narrowed gaze.

He was stubbornly refused. "Marc," you sighed, dragging a hand over your face. "You'd be done with this by now if you just drank it."

"I don' like it," he bit out. Unbelievable. You stared at each other for a moment, disdainfully scowling at the situation.

"You know what, fine," you griped, taking the cup in your hand. "Pick a number between one and five."

He blinked, but relented. "F...four," he wheezed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. You held up four fingers.

"I will give you four kisses if you drink this."

He brightened. "snfff- wait, I meant fibe."

You leaned forward and nudged his nose. He tried to grab you for a kiss but you ducked back, taking the opportunity to grab his jaw gently. Eyes hazy and loving, he smiled at you.

"Open," you said softly, tapping his lips and winking.

Marc obeyed, clearly expecting a kiss. Instead, you gently tipped the medicine to his lips. Marc yelped at the sharp taste. He fussed and balked, struggling not to choke. You shushed him, tipping the cup until it had all dribbled past his lips.

"Drink it quick, honey, there you go, all done-" You shoved him the glass of juice, coaxing him to finish the dose. Marc spluttered and gagged, wincing at the taste. Eyes watering, he glared at you.

"Tha' was rude," he pouted. You cuddled him up and kissed his forehead.

"Yeah, but now you can go snuggle into bed." This outcome placated him greatly, nuzzling into your shoulder as you situated the bed. Marc jabbed your side insistently and you paused to give him a kiss.

Wrinkling your nose, you nodded. "Wow. Yeah, I can taste that. It's pretty shit."

He threw his hands up, rolling his eyes as you giggled. "Sorry for torturing you," you teased, peppering his cheek with light kisses.

"Fuggin' waterboarded me with that," he grouched, suppressing a grin at your doting affection.

The blankets, still warm from the dryer, were tucked high around his drowsy face. You lay as close as you could, draping your arm over his side. Marc snuffled and coughed for a few moments but was asleep soon, breath puffing hot against your neck. You monitored him for a while, hands gently stroking his hair before succumbing to your own nap.

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The London Daily Ride

09:33

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". Every day, a new opportunity to discover the lovely little quirks of a stranger; becoming more and more familiar. That is, until someone else shows up. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (can be triggering), Touched-starved!Steven, sex (future chapters). # Word Count: 1.3k [read me on AO3] · [next chapter]

There is comfort in being alone.

A bliss in enjoying yourself endlessly with no prying eyes. No expectations from anyone.

Yet, there’s a fine line between solitude and isolation. Withdrawal. Sometimes, you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, and occasionally, you would slip. Going to bed later than you should, burying yourself in one of your hyper-fixations. Not only avoiding social occasions, but preventing the chance to create them altogether.

Still, there is comfort in that. Even in that. Trepidation. A sheltered world you have been masterly building; the possibility of negative interactions denied at its borders. No trespassing. Only safety. That’s the bubble you’re in, that early morning on the bus. Absently seated, not even aware of your own body, since you’ve spent the last few weeks embedding your mind into passion, like a hammer on a nail, geeking out. You have no energy for anything else.

The bubble is about to burst. You don’t want that. Yet, it needs to. It needs to since, out there, strategies of coping are required. Every so often, even a disdainful look from the local cashier is all it takes to shatter to pieces. And of course, being a woman entails, before all, being sharp and quick enough to know in seconds if a stranger’s eyes should be avoided. Men’s eyes. You’ve read the statistics. Experienced some yourself. You know that even when you know them, there’s a risk.

Such is the world. And thus, such is the need for the bubble. Even when alone merges into lonely.

That’s when you see him.

Not much worth a look.

He's on the driver’s side of the standing area, seated backwards. A countercurrent. A perfect diagonal; opposing your figures. Between, the automatic gates of the bus intermittently opening and closing, as the passengers get to their destination or are entering; taking shelter from the cruel Londoner’s rain. Your eyes caught the head tilting down, as he’s clearly drowsing off, and you smile. That’s the little but meaningful details that you like to observe. When the empty interactions slip to reveal authenticity. Even for a few precious seconds.

When you lie in your bed at night, what will you remember? The day passes in a rush, always occupied or preoccupied by work. If not, responding to emails and messages, watching endless feeds on your phone. All that, the long-term memory part of your brain doesn’t care for it. It is devoid of emotions. During the night, the brain will implacably select what is worth keeping. What will you remember, in the dark of a room, after a long day?

The odd-ish, luminous, mischievous details that made you feel, you bet.

It's what makes the difference between boring repetitiveness of the days and fondness for a new one coming.

So, you observe him with new-found attention. Like witnessing a scene in a theatre. The smell of rain on coats tingling your nostrils. The tip-taping on the windows, insistently conveying a sense of shelter in your chest. Your outfit hugging your flesh into reassurance; humid vest, yet clothes underneath dry.   

Not much worth a look. It’s true. His clay-grey gabardine seems to fall too big on his shoulder, even if it isn’t. There, droplets of rain are holding on; still not quite dried. He’s dressed proper, with a shirt almost the same colour; a tad darker. Your eyes descend to his shoes. Navigator shoes. And your smile widens: Typical dad shoes, you think. They are taken care of. The leather has recently been polished, and you nod lightly in appreciation that you know isn’t needed from anyone. However, they aren’t neatly tied as one would expect. Tidy, but distracted, you deduce. Next to the paradox embedded in his shoes, a black saddleback. Effective, yet not remarkable. And you wonder if people, co-worker or friends, would state the same thing about its owner. Your eyes drag across his figure, ultimately coming back to the top. You can’t see much of his face, leaning forwards. Only his mane, a mess of brown -you can only guess- soft curls; damped by the dreadful weather of the day.

He must be narcoleptic, you deliberate. Following the movement of the bus as it takes its turns, you see his head lolling to the side; only to land on the man in his 50s seated next to him; reading a newspaper. The businessman, aquiline and imperious nose, bothers to shoot an exasperated side-eyed look. Still… he says nothing. It’s not really a kindness, but it warms your heart anyway. That alone would have sufficed to light up the coming night. It makes your smile-turned-into-grin need to be tamed. You force yourself to observe the linoleum of the bus, constellated with shoe marks brought by the heavy rain -small dull mirrors- to regain control of the muscles of your face. 

The next bus stop comes. The newspaper-man folds its adjective and gets up. The other shoots its head straight up, one eye half hooded, the other wide; a literal sketch from a comic book. Promptly, he’s apologising profusely, running on sudden adrenaline. And you notice two things: One, a lovely, distinct Londoner accent. Two, how the phrases coming out of his mouth sound a bit boyish.  "Oh sh -. Oh, So-Sorry about tha’. I didn’t mean to- I-" and he offers a contrite smile. "Don’t get much sleep is all."

And as the older man folds his copy of the London Daily, stepping out indifferently: "Y- Yeah, okay. Goodbye then.” And he waves. 

"Thanks for the shoulder!" A full chuckle is menacingly creeping up your throat, as a powerful fondness melts your core.  It’s hard not to see yourself in him. Apologising for things that aren’t really serious, or demanding one. Apologising to someone that doesn’t have the appreciation for it. Now living under your chest, something tender has made its home. Despite that, a sting. As you realise that just a few seconds after he has waved goodbye, he turns his head to consider the dreadful weather by the window and his expression falls. A disappointment of sorts, perhaps, to see the disregard in the other’s reaction. And you think again: Why can’t people just be nice? Not nice. Just decent. In the back of your mind, Humperdinck echoes the end of his refrain: "Lonely is a man without love". Any kind of love, you think. Even from a stranger.  After that, you don’t allow him out of your sight, but he doesn’t notice. His hands laying on his laps with no purpose, he looks behind him, at his right, then at his left -the empty seat-. Then, he looks up at the bus's hanging screen with narrowing eyes; mouth opened. A new stop, people in, people out. By the time he’s in your line of sight again, he has fumbled a book out from the bag near his feet, adjusting his glasses on his nose and frowning at the pages. The glasses of a librarian. Or an archivist. And you wonder again, if what you imagine somewhat defines the person he really is.

Oh, bless him, you think.

Hardly anyone reads in the bus or the train these days. Yourself included. The dopamine-inducing-apps are too hard to resist. A book always seems too much trouble, with a significant chance of missing your own stop when your brain finally settles into the reading. Instead, you much prefer observing the passers-by, searching for the details. You examine his deep frown. His ravish looks from time to time; as he must be reading a particularly interesting passage. His fingers fumbling to crook a corner, you fantasise, for him to read again later. Undeniably, if not found in others, love can be found in other passions.

And then, the realisation hits you. What you’re witnessing has an intimate familiarity. The bubble. His bubble. Laid bare for everyone to see. Yet, no one is paying attention.

No one, except you.

The London Daily Ride [2]

09:37

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". You summon all you might to speak to him. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (triggering), Hot/Sweet!Steven, Slow Burn. # Word Count: 3.4k [read me on AO3] · [previous chapter] · [next chapter]

Four minutes. It’s all it takes. And he’s looking at you, only manifesting utter shock.

To be frank, you are as well. Seeking contact outside your comfort zone is no hobby of yours, and yet, here you are. As you’re waiting for the next bus stop, in the delimited square of the standing area surrounded by seats and passengers, your eyes have struggled to recover their independence. Irremediably drawn to the silhouette hunched over his book, glasses on his nose, unconditionally absorbed by his reading. From where you were, you couldn’t decipher the nature of the paragraphs, yet you couldn’t miss a collection of photographs in black and white with recognizable figures of Egyptian gods. As one of his hands had reverently skimmed over some parts of the illustrations, you had observed the brush of his fingers, divulging his lingering admiration. Your chest has squeezed itself into a delicious awakening.  The sleeve of his rumpled jacket revealing his wrist, his golden skin was at odds with the rain. Not fitting quite right in the decorum. Like a misplaced ray of sunshine in a greyscale.  Your organs are unsure if they are misplaced as well. Your stomach seems to be in your throat. Your brain, either nowhere to be found or racing like an untamed horse. Your skull, a shell for raw emotions. It requires a few seconds to realise that your body, part by part, is coming alive anew. The link that had been severed for several weeks is blooming again. You shift your feet. Detect the vibration of the large motor coming up to you. Feel the pain lodged in the arches of your feet, standing so still until now that it hurts. Your stomach grasps that it’s hungry. You forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

Outside, it’s pouring. Inside as well. Overwhelmingly. For a few seconds, you are both blinking at each other, and you feel as if it would be the perfect timing for recorded laughs from an invisible public. But no lines of dialogue come to you. You can only blankly stare at him. 

"Sorry, wha’?"  His voice. Boyish tone. Authentically wondering. A detail to add to your collection of appreciation. You can’t tell if the irresistible pull that drowned you in is fascination and yearning; or if it’s his bubble of comfort calling your own until both collide.  Either way, you observe his book like a lifeline as he continues. You’re not yet ready to cross his gaze. You have time. You always get up a few stops in advance. "Ah, loud noises here, yeah?" he says, pointing around aimlessly, leaning slightly towards you, so you can hear him better without raising his voice too much. "Sorry, I didn’t quite catch tha’."  So, you repeat the question you prepared; or rather, blurred out while you were positioning yourself to wait for your bus stop. "Good read?"  Two words. It’s barely an ask, and it’s missing a verb. Cue the laughter. You don’t know if it’s you or your question that’s missing substance. And who asks yes-or-no questions anyway? How could it even create a conversation? Somehow, it does. He does .  "Oh, that?" he closes the books to display the back cover, and he laughs softly, oh so softly, that with the racket of the bus, the rumbles of conversations, and the tumbles in and out of passengers, you could almost have missed it. It has an unmistakable endearment as his head falls to observe the companion of his ride. "It’s an astonishing read," he corrects with a kindness of his own. "Absolute marvel, if you ask me."

You feel his gaze returning to you as he explains in considerable detail how Howard Carter, anything but a true Egyptologist or archaeologist, and after five years of unsuccessful and costly searches in the Valley of the Kings, had ultimately made one of the greatest discoveries in History. Mister Carter, aged 48, was yet to fulfil his dreams about ancient tombs awaiting in the dark belly of the Valley. And on the 4th of November 1922, deeply buried into the protective Egyptian sand, below what was thought to be an ancient village, the door of the Tomb of Tutankhamun was in front of him, the seal of ropes and clay still on the entrance, unbroken. You’re not sure when your eyes unfocus plainly, your mind conveying fantasised images of oil lamps shining on treasures; the flickering flames revealing them for the first time in three thousand years. And then he looks at you, truly looks at you, with a burnt sienna that reminds you of the ochre steppes beyond the desert, where untamed Arabian horses are free to ride at full speed. And his traits become very still, until they are overcome with a gentle sadness of sorts. The one you’ve seen before, as the newspaper man had stepped out indifferently. He stops himself as if he was doing you a mercy.

"Look at me, rambling." And he adds with an apologetic smile: "You prob’ly don’t want to hear about tha’." 

It takes you a few seconds to travel back from the depths of Egypt in its early 20s to rainy London and a cramped bus. You breathe. You observe him. Hands on his closed book. You don’t reinforce his false interpretation. You redirect instead.

"I heard that Carter was on the verge of giving up when he found the tomb. Wasn’t he helped by a Lord of some sort?"

You tend to forget many things, yet you don’t forget little fun facts about an inspiring story or piece of history. Your memory is as good as the interest you have in the documentary you’re watching late at night on the history channels, while sorting through your files for the next day’s trials.

Eyebrows raised, mouth briefly closed, a quirky little smile is twisting his lips.

"Well, someone knows her British archaeologists." He lets out a tittering laugh; somewhat astounded: "That’s amazing."

His eyes meet yours with directness and fortitude. A swirl of spice and espresso that you are somehow sure that will never quench your thirst.

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’m afraid my brain only remembers bits and pieces when it wants to." You shrug with no embarrassment. "I’ve got no control over it whatsoever." 

For a few seconds, he smiles, as if he would precisely understand what you meant. And then, he frowns.

"Sorry, I don’t mean that in a creepy way, but …" You can feel how truly puzzled he is, yet can’t quite put your finger on what .

What he says next leaves you in the same state.

"I’m not imagining this conversation. Am I?"  Then, he’s slightly frowning a little bit more with an almost comical disarray: "… Am I?" You like how the second time he says, Am I? like he's actually wondering. And indeed, it doesn’t feel like any ordinary London rainy day now, does it? Something has shifted from the well-constructed routine that you typically experience in the morning. The frightening and marvellous premonition that what’s happening is important . Like the tide withdrawing after a muted earthquake… or was it just the vehicle trembling beneath your feet? Maybe, just maybe, this was a shared feeling. 

As silence drags itself, you realise that he somehow needs confirmation. Looking expectantly at you. 

"You’re not. Absolutely not."

You hope that the hint of doubt isn’t coating your voice. At least, you feel real. 

As if he’s now a bit lost, he’s vaguely looking at his book. With the commotion of the bus, you can’t make out what he’s muttering to himself. However, you can deduce that your confirmation is not enough. 

"If I could …" 

His eyes focus on you again.

"Wha’?" 

"Prove it to you?" 

The hissing of the double-decker has its stops makes you almost trip, and you’re only still standing vertically thanks to one of the yellow poles. Just like that, the shared bubble bursts. Without warning, still with red glasses on his nose, he gets on his feet instantly.

"Oh, bugger! My bus stop!!" 

He gasps so hard that a few heads turn around.

Now, he’s frantically shovelling his book into his saddlebag as the bus is departing again. Then, he stands next to you, breastless, his possessions against his chest with one arm, the other almost over your head, hanging from one of the ceiling handles. A source of warmth unexpectedly at your side. His glasses now crooked, he offers a contrite smile. You don’t know if it’s just the embarrassment of missing his stops or due to your sudden proximity.

"All righ’, that settles it then." 

You tilt your head in interrogation.

"If this was a dream, I wouldn’t look like a knob now, would I?" 

And just like that, he has the power to reunite your bubbles again. He’s so close to you, huddled in the standing area with other travellers, that his minty heated breath is tingling the skin of your face as he’s laughing softly. A smile hidden all along at the corner of your lips blooms into a laugh.  

It sure feels unreal to me, you want to say, but the whisper doesn’t even leave your lips. Time’s up.

"I better jog on before I miss my stop again… Nice meeting you," he says embarrassingly, not knowing what to do with his busy arms, wanting to probably squeeze your hand but thinking better of it before rapidly taking off his glasses, precariously balancing on the bridge of his nose. Your raincoat brushes his grey-clay gabardine as the bus is stopping again and finally opens its doors. He squeezes himself between the others, stuttering and apologising while making his way out. He adds before he gets off: "I will see you… on the flip-flop."

On the flip-flop? 

Stepping out, he’s sheepishly smiling at you before partly disappearing behind the automatic closing doors. His face takes on features expressing pure dread, as he seems to realise he has omitted a crucial element. Through the doors, you hear him shout at the departing bus:

"THE NAME IS STEVEN BY THE WAY" 

The belly laugh you get after that has been the best you’ve had in years. You don’t care about the passenger sending either a concerned look or a smile to share your hilarity. It's the kind of laugh that fills one’s core with ease and light. When you brush the corner of your eyes to dry saline drops, you are desperately, positively wrecked with joy.

Morning after morning, Steven becomes part of your daily routine.  His illuminating smile. His wave. Your cheerful “Good Morning!”. Your re-found sense of comfort. The usual empty seat on his left becomes yours. Habits have the reputation of dying hard. You enjoy loneliness until your craving for connection is so strong that you can finally rejoice at the prospect of long conversations with your friends and parents. A coping mechanism that served you well these recent years, creating distance when everything becomes too much. Allowing your mind to be consumed by objects of desire and passion. Plus, what law firm would complain about the ability to work intensely for eight hours straight? Your addiction to seclusion has its ups… and lows. At one point, you can feel how your mind is desperate for an authentic interaction. As starved as your stomach that morning in the bus. However, you perceive that for Steven, starvation ignites from elsewhere. There’s no self-infliction. No harmful habits are involved. He did not choose seclusion; not like you. Seclusion seems to have chosen him. That’s when your endearment turns into something more profound. Steven isn’t really the shy guy that you first thought; avoiding social interactions. On the contrary, as you observe him day to day, it turns out that’s the other way around: Steven is so driven and desperate to connect with others, with so much enthusiasm … that it becomes awkward for most people on the other end. And that’s what most people are afraid of: deep and uncompromised consideration, with an intent to genuinely bond. And who is brave enough to let the mask down before a stranger? You understand what Steven can’t. People fear the possibility of attachment —his intent to truly bond— because they fear vulnerability.  Steven was the opposite of everything you ever knew. The opposite of masculine stereotypes. Gentle. Caring. Willing to be vulnerable . Even the choice of his food was a far cry from the raw, bloody, virile steak. More than that, the more you come to know Steven, the more you come to redefine falling in love. Until now, you had experienced the rush of falling. The intense months of passion and then the degradation throughout the years. You had always thought the butterflies were the predictable sign of true, unyielding attachment. The sign that someone is a match for you. Then … Why was it never good enough to sustain a relationship? The fire of passion is all good and well. However, what good is it when comfort is never built? When the wood is lacking, and there’s no fire left; what is left? As one would expect, there’s always a bit of nerves to a new encounter, but it had become abundantly clear that even if there was alchemy, meeting Steven each morning wasn’t the nerve-wracking experience that you ordinarily had with men. Instead, it was soothing. Your favourite TV show after a strenuous day. The purring of your little black and white cat on your lap. Your decade-old copy of your favourite book that has lived in your high-school backpack, dog-eared pages, spine broken, yet losing none of its powerful story. Steven was all that and more; conveying a tranquillising warmth that felt like home . When we are loved through passion and passion alone, what interest does that person really have in you ? Besides the butterflies? Besides the attraction? All that’s left is a fusion of well-matched bodies. And when the chemical reactions finally fade, as the neural pathways are used to the rush of hormones, what is left to celebrate? In your hard-earned opinion, passion is more about losing oneself in another than truly knowing the other. Lonely were some nights in your tiny flat cramped in the heart of Camden. Lonelier it was to be loved by someone who believed that passion could build and solve all. And for a time, you were no exception.

So, when Steven naturally places his hands on your shoulder, as any friend would, showing you a paragraph of his readings about an artefact, saying: “Oh, no, no, that’s impossible. You’ve actually never seen it?". Your head says no. “Oh, all righ’ then. You’re in for a treat now, aren't you! I’m pretty sure you’ll love it. Come by the museum Thursday, yeah?”. You’re convinced that that guy doesn’t want the passion . He merly wants to share his favourite place to ever exist in the world. Romance has nothing to do with it.

When Steven holds his sides for laughing too long, one morning, when you compare Donna to a velociraptor, you feel as if you’ve known him for years, and is this what a best friend feels like ?

When you gently nudge him to point out at the window an advertising sign for Cammas Hall, revealing how you absolutely adore going to the countryside, just north-east of London, and Steven leans in so very close to you, as to make a confession: “Their maize maze is mental, innit? Ah! Say that three times fast. Maize maze, maize maze … ”. And you laugh; you know there isn’t an ulterior motive. No excuse to get close or physical. The glimmer of copper in his eyes tells another narrative. Again, he just wants to be a part of, to make you a part of .

When Steven sits in silence beside you, exhausted from his sleep condition, and finally drowses off; only for his head to fall on your shoulder, your heart doesn’t hammer. You run your hand through his oh-so-soft brown curls to clear his face; to ensconce his head in the crook of your neck, as a mother would do for a child. The tenderness living under your chest radiates and encompasses the both of you. You just want him to be okay. And you can only hope that it is the same for him.

In fact, you’re pretty sure. Because it’s another element with Steven: he doesn’t make you doubt his attention or his building affection. He lays it bare, for everyone to see. Just like his bubble. Every paper is about superheroes these days. It’s filling the news and every talk show. They aren’t talking about unsung heroes, those from ordinary life; those who lay bare their hearts.

There is no game here. No “can’t wait to get to the next base”. As if Steven would be forever happy to have those simple moments to share. Alchemy is just a bonus. Not the other way around.  I’m not imagining this conversation, am I?  You swear that sentence could have come straight out of your mouth.

You think again about your loneliness, your “almost-addiction”, and how it shields you from the bad … and the good. With Steven nearby, seclusion appears to be less attractive. And the outer world feels like a decent place again.

Changing harmful habits is a challenge. Yet, with the right person, it seems to fall like the scab of an old wound, rather than a vivisection.

It was both wonderful and terrifying … that one person, one encounter, could change so much. 

The picture of Steven Grant is constructing itself. Even its flaws.

Attentive, caring, devoted to what he loves.  A sensibility and sensitivity like an acute nerve, exposed to the elements. You know all that. That’s why when Donna crushes his hopes to be a tour guide yet again, you truly question how those devastating interactions are pretty much all the socialising he gets. He has colleagues, but friends ? Surely, this isn’t healthy. Adding to that, his sleeping condition is bringing questions to the surface, when one morning, he’s thrilled about his new puzzle, a new variation of the Rubik’s Cube. A tetrahedron that will undoubtedly keep him awake this time . 

"Oh, it’s ace. Yeah, it’s amazing. New shape, new algorithms, you know what I mean?"

"So, you’re able to sleep," you point out a cup of warm coffee in your hand, sitting next to him. "It’s just that you … won’t?" There’s nothing accusatory, you’re just pointing out the incoherence. 

You’re working in a law firm, for God’s sake. Finding incoherences and counter-arguments is what you do. Your ex had a lovely little nickname for that, calling you “The Scalpel”. Acute questions. Pushing and inquiring where it hurts. Incisive . “Can’t you stop analysing and arguing on every fucking point all the time? Just … let it go ”. At that time, you were pretty sure you were mostly cutting through bullshit. But now, Steven is at your side, vulnerable and sensible and right, this time, it’s different, don’t be such a fucking scalpel, dumbass, you admonish yourself.  

The white of his eyes is more visible, and his forehead wrinkles, as he stares wide at you. He babbles a confused explanation; how of course he can sleep, but, you know, his body wants to get up and wander about, he’s not an insomniac or narcoleptic or anything now is he. And he laughs awkwardly— and he crosses your eyes again and oh, oh— he realises that’s exactly what you assumed. But yeah, nothing to worry about, the sleepy part was fine, it’s the dreams you see. The vivid dreams that make Steven exhausted and how is this a medical condition you think racingly; when dreaming is more exhausting than living ?

There and then, the perfect picture that you’ve assembled of Steven begins to crack. Like an oil painting, as time does its work, the thick layers of paint begin to split and break. Reluctantly showing the rough sketches under; exposing the wood beneath. You were wondering how deep the fractures were. If the cracks you were witnessing were just the thin upper layer of varnish giving up, in need of light restoration. Or were the lacerations so deep that they would eventually break the painting apart? If it was ever the case, would Steven be the whole piece of work; or merely a section of it ?

But you don’t press . You do not invade and question. No arguments or counter-arguments. 

Somehow, you think you understand.

Aren’t we all parts and pieces, holding together by sheer will? 

The London Daily Ride [3]

Not in Service

# Pairing: Jake Lockley x female reader (light Steven Grant x female reader) # Synopsis: Sweet and kind Steven is part of your daily rides on the morning bus. However, today, Steven isn’t stepping in. Instead, someone else shows up.  # Warning/Content: Angst, Character Study, Unhealthy/Toxic relationship, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (kind of). # Word Count: 3.2k [Part 1] · [Part 2] — [read me on AO3]

Today is different. Today is not the same. He’s not. That, you can immediately tell. He enters the bus, and from the first step on the linoleum, a deep glaciation makes its way into your ribs and freezes solid the core of your chest. The reflex of hailing him a “Good Morning!” buries itself in your throat, and you swear suffocation is only a breath away. Strange, isn’t it? To know someone so well and not recognize them? For a second there, you wonder if a case of face-blindness can happen overnight. You hope so. The alternative is far more devastating. 

He takes three decided steps. He sits where he usually does, perhaps the reminiscence of a habit. Inspects its surroundings; his mouth shut in a tight line, as if he was finding it almost distasteful. You think for a few seconds that even the clothes are different, but they aren’t. The clothes are Steven’s. You can recognize one of his favourite shirts; geometric patterns of white and malachite that echo The Great Green; Osiris. His clay-grey jacket. And yet, it’s like witnessing a different actor embedding the role of your favourite character. He makes a sudden move to adjust the clothes more tightly wrapped around his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Runs a firm hand through his hair to keep them back. His face free from the curls that normally frame his forehead, his features are stern. Implacably indifferent. Then he leans back with ease, crossing one of his legs nonchalantly, an arm laying on the other passenger's empty seat. As soon as he makes himself comfortable, his eyes meet yours. Shit.

Caught red-handed. You couldn’t have been more obvious, but you just didn’t think he was really paying attention. Steven is often daydreaming or laser-focusing on your conversations or the book on his lap. Steven is a lot of things. However, he doesn’t pretend. He does. The thin and almost invisible hairs on the back of your neck bristle. You look aside. Then, through the window and you wish the blush of shame away, and of course it does nothing. Ever tried to order veins not to dilate? Of course not, you fucking idiot, you think, trying desperately to gather yourself. Your peripheral vision warns you that his silhouette is not moving. A controlled halt, your instinct feeds you. Similar mannerism, you would assume, of a military sniper seeing the head of his shot. You’re the one being studied now, and the burn creeps even more at the surface of your skin. Treacherous carmine is rising to the surface of your cheeks and making its way towards your aching chest. You can’t even think straight. This is a nightmare, and it’s not stopping. The sense of familiarity like smoke slipping away between your grasping fingers. Steven is there, but he’s not. An outsider made its way onto his insides. Something is terribly wrong. Like an Ushabti being inhabited by another essence. You do not dare to cross his eyes. The birth of your neck and now forearms, warning with goosebumps. And for good reason: is there anything more horrific than seeing someone you care for vanish in front of your eyes? Whether it be illness— physical or mental? Horror is no jumpscare and neither is a good story shared at night around a bonfire. True horror is a familiar scene being torn apart by a single, disquieting detail. A detail that you know to be of importance yet always seemed ordinary before. His eyes. His eyes are not the same. A void is replacing your guts. Nothing feels tangible. You’re hollow. Uninhabited. Unlike the man you think you knew. Breathe, you try to remind your sympathetic system. And think. And your brain does. He’s kick-starting the gears, running with the urge to feel safety through comprehension. Regaining control through knowledge, that’s what you’re good at. Coping. Organising thoughts. Then arguments. Sometimes, the scalpel is useful. Your mind begins to pinpoint why it has triggered such a nuclear reaction in your core. 

Through the weeks, nearly a month and a half, Steven had become a familiar figure in the urban jungle. A bubble-sharer. A comforter. Losing that was breaking the new builds of a welcomed refuge. No refuge, no familiarity. No familiarity; thus, anxiety. Even more so: the primal fear of losing someone to an unknown alterity. Hell is other people, would say Sartre. For you, hell was just people you didn’t know.  It has only been a minute. Sixty long seconds, since he has pinned you down with the two black holes that are in place of his eyes. Seven forced, slowed cycles of breath. It’s only then that you are able to conjure your sight to cross his. You feel the rush of adrenaline roaming your back as you discover the expressionless face of Not-Steven. The unfamiliarity of his familiar traits pierces your sternum. A stillness you’re unused to, you realise, as Steven was always fidgeting in some way, unless consumed by his favourite subject or by you. Shame is making its way back onto your cheeks, but you hold on. That’s when there’s finally a reaction. Desperately slow, you see one of his brows lifting lightly. His pupils are graphite. But you hold on. By the same reflex and the same logic when facing a wild beast. Only a fool would turn around and run, offering their spine as a perfect prey. And as of now, you can’t be spineless. 

Though beneath the fear, beneath the urge to stay put like a deer in the headlights, you can feel a deep contraction grasping your lower insides. At first, you mistakenly recognise it as a light menstrual cramp, and yet, it’s not quite the same. Flirting with pain, the ache is putting its claws deep between your legs, as the reptilian part of your brain registers the blown wide irises in front of you as a sign of arousal. It’s clear now that the panic you’re experiencing has just become adrenaline; confused about its own role. Conjure a fight or flight response? Or conjure an unforgiving blaze? Flames licking at your lower lips, your jaw contracts. And as you’re thinking to drop your sight just below to greet his mouth, he grins. 

Fuck. 

There are teeth behind a smile. 

The expression doesn’t reach the corner of his unlit iris; two endless pits that summon to fall down. The only adjective that comes to mind is perverse. Still, you’re not quite sure if it should define his or your reaction. From there, you can only hold on to your seat. Quite literally. A wildfire amidst your entrails. It reaches your breasts with an undignified ripple of pleasure. You can feel your eyes drawn to his pursing lips, unable to detach themselves. He lifts his head lightly and, with an unsettling tranquillity, begins to whistle. At that distance, you can’t make out the tune. Only snippets are meeting your eardrums; the rest is engulfed by the sound of the hydraulics of the bus; hissing when stopping, the engine rumbling steadily, people talking. Even if there was nothing else but a vacant room, your brain wouldn’t be able to compute anyway; far too discombobulated by the flux of steroid hormones and thus by the roaring in your ears and far lower organs. How many minutes does it last? Off and on, he’s letting you go from his sight. Still sneering and whistling, looking serenely around. Then he’s getting back to you. His head is nodding gently from side to side. Stopping the pursing of his lips for a few, long, seconds, before resuming his tune again. Little mouse that you are, he’s letting you go from time to time before clawing his way back to you.  The encounter is violent. No words are exchanged, but there’s knowledge lingering in the air. You know. And he knows you know. He makes a blatant show of it. A power-play already won. The twin hypothesis that goes on in every telenovela just won’t hold when it comes to him. To Steven. Or whoever else might be in there.  The bus hisses to a halt, and with an excruciating noise that seems to break your stupor, the doors open to deliver more passengers. Amongst them, a fairly older woman with long grey hair obediently gathered in a low ponytail. Reflexes built over years spent in the capital make you stand on your own two feet. You don’t even feel them. To tell the truth, it comes as a surprise that you’re able to be in a vertical state at all. Your bus stop is nearly a few stations away. Your mind hyperfocuses on the new stimulus. A recomforting tunnel of attention that allows that wild sympathetic system of yours to ignore all other factors and regulate itself. Don’t look. Don’t feel. You’ll deal with all that later. For now, focus. As the older woman is waiting to pass in front of you to the newly spare seat, the spark of her golden pendant catches your eye. You recognize a highly stylised ostrich feather. Steven has been thorough when putting his passion into words. You can easily convey his voice: warm and pedagogical, patiently explaining. And it’s suddenly as he’s close to you, almost whispering into your ears:  The feather of Maat is at the heart of Egyptian civilisation, as he could have gently reminded you. It’s lovely, innit…? How can such a light little thing have such weight in an entire civilisation? The Weighing of the heart, you mean? You question the phantasmagorical version of Steven. You can almost hear him chuckle. It’s the point of convergence of your attention. Yeah, yeah. Deciding if you’re worthy of the Field of Reeds and all tha'. But that’s for when you’re dead. For the likes of us, you see, the feather is a reminder: to live in peace is not easy. Your brain raises an eyebrow, requiring more historical facts that you had somehow memorised. To be honest, focusing on what was coming from Steven’s mouth was hardly a problem. There were times; you wished to absorb all of him, as if you were one. To abide by the feather… is to tell the truth. As I said: Not easy, you know? The Egyptians were quite right about this one. It’s really the only way to prevent chaos. He seems to be looking through your eyes, as Egyptian gods would do with their statues. And for now … it’s not looking so good for me, is it? What ?

“Tranquila, señora, tranquila.” You stumble. You're unsure if it’s due to the moving bus or to him. With your eyes on the attribute, you didn’t see him coming. He’s near her, near you. Replacing Steven. Offering the traveller his seat, as you entirely forgot to move enough to allow the lady with the Feather pass through. You had just stood there. Body frozen; mind racing. Oh God, oh god, oh god- You’ve been dissociating again. How long was it?

“Tak’ a seat,” you overhear him say. It’s not Cockney, yet some of the sounds are the same. The accent isn’t truly Spanish either, despite the use of it. East Coast American is your best guess. Is he faking that? It sounds like blasphemy compared to the beloved accent you’ve come to know. The gears in your brain want to pinpoint the details, determine exactly where you’ve heard that before. Where exactly? No. Stay focused; stay in the present. Stay present. Don’t escape elsewhere and hide. What’s happening now? Well … To begin with, he isn’t talking to you. Good. Second, you sincerely hope he won't offer you anything. Not a seat. Not a sentence. Not even a word. Steady now, you scold yourself. Still standing vertically, you pivot your feet to make your way well in front of the automatic doors. Grabbing one of the yellow poles of the bus; holding it dear like a lighthouse in a storm. Looking straight ahead. The Exit. Third and finally, just like a two-year-old toddler learning about object permanence, you hope that if you don’t see him, he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t see you.  “Why don’t you take a taxi next time, querida?” Realising he’s at your side electrifies your whole body. You can’t move. Heart drumming like the fluttering of a hummingbird. And yet, deep below, arises a fire that you snuff out violently. Silencing the truth. Your mouth is dry when you respond: “No.” One strangled syllable. It’s barely an answer. Not even a sentence. In any other context, it would have been incredibly rude, however, you both know it’s a blatant excuse for an interaction. And you can’t decide if it’s a positive or negative one. All you can feel is your weakening knees. And the brushing of his sleeve against yours, paced on the swaying of the bus. “Está bien, está bien…” he tempers with a faint smile in his voice. Is he enjoying this? He pauses, and from the very corner of your eyes, you make out his shape; scrutinising. “Even if I’m the driver? Aguas, querida… I could take it personally.” Is he a cab driver? What’s a cab driver doing on a bus, then? You don’t understand. You can't think properly. You focus, so your voice doesn't waver. Focus on what? You grip the yellow pole a little tighter. 

“Not interested.” Let me out. Let me out. Let me-

"Mh," he hums and your skin prickles, "pero que pena, no? Together, I’m sure we’d break the devil’s dishes." You don’t recognize the expression. It sounds misplaced. How is Steven doing that? Is he doing that? No, no. He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t a fucked-up role-play. That, at least, is clear. So, who is to blame for Steven’s disappearance?  You ultimately lay your gaze on him, utterly confused, trying to keep it all in. The sting. The shock. The blaze. The echo of security you’re used to experiencing with Steven is still there. And presently, so does the dread. He doesn’t say anything. Most people fill in the blanks; are uneased by silence. Not him. He is simply keeping his eyes on you. Not willing to let go. Relishing. Like the red halo of a hunting rifle. Trying not to alarm the prey while still keeping its aim on it. A hot swelling in your chest torches its way into your abdomen. “We don’t need to break anything.” You don’t know how you had the guts to say that. Maybe it’s just your subconscious acting as a relay. Or maybe you’re just trying to convince yourself.  He responds again with silence, keeping his mouth shut in a thigh line. This time, he shoots. His huge hand swiftly snatches yours. Holding it down. You gasp for air, but nothing comes.

Before, your respective sleeves were only grazing. Now, his fist is crushing yours. It’s painful. It’s warm. And because it’s forced, it’s guilt-free. Your eyes plunge, and they can see a hidden rictus that wants to lash out. Pulling you closer to him with a lingering strength; as if he didn’t need any in the first place. As he perfectly knew that your resistance was merely superficial. With a mix of aversion and elation, you feel the heat of his other hand penetrating your coat, as he enters one of your pockets. Even through layers and layers, your skin detects his flat palm against your side with an accuracy that scares you. Your flesh and very bones feel the low humming of his muscles, ready to take more drastic measures. You think you might faint. This is too much; and at the same time, it leaves you wanting. The sheer potency of his grip; his control over what comes next oddly puts your mind at rest. He’s the one with his hands on the wheel. His fingers following the curve of your belly resume their descent, and as you think he might capture you into oblivion or perhaps fondle you, the warmth disappears altogether. He is holding your phone. Thumb on the home button. It unlocks.  “Thought I didn’t keep an eye on you, mh?” His fist still crushing yours and the yellow lighthouse are your sole anchors left to reality. In overlong, agonising touches of his large digit on your screen, you observe him enter a phone number. How? How had he gained access? Steven hadn’t. And a moment of shared intimacy was yet to come; to be able to steal your phone in the middle of the night, protected by a moment of shuteye.

Your whole body hums back and trembles. He must have noticed the treacherous tremolo in the heart of his hand, but once more, he uses silence as a weapon. The dull glow of the screen is the only change you can see on his stern face. Then, he locks it anew. The screen goes black, like an echo of your brain. In less than a breath, the weight of your phone is back in your pocket, and the growing pressure that was crushing your fingers withdraws. It all ends the same way it began: abruptly, rough. Raw. He adjusts the side of your jacket; admonishing, commanding: “Don’t lie to yourself.”  If you think that you couldn't redden harder, you’re deadly wrong. Before that mouth of yours can barely utter a word or your eyes can even glance at him with indignation, the bus is coming to a full stop. You feel yourself losing balance, however, to be fair, it was already lost on you a few minutes ago. The halting vehicle makes you miserably collide, and it’s like you’re a wave crashing on concrete. He doesn’t budge. The arch of one of your brows bumps against his collar bone. The rest of you collide with him, and warmth envelops you like a cape. Your synapses register your body pressed against his, your breast crushed against his torso. And it’s another surge, far more devastating, that arises within you. You hold on to the grey jacket of Steven. Steven. When you ruthlessly pull away, as the gates are opening, the grin is back on his lips. Little mouse that you are. “Todo bien, cariño?” You don’t even respond. The exit begs you to step out. And you do. "If you need a ride into the city," he informs, nodding at your pocket, "the name is Jake Lockley." You don’t look at him, fearing that the two black holes would engulf you without the mercy to ever spit you out again. You refuse to break anything owned by the devil, but you sure as hell head out of the bus as if he were himself chasing you.  Your feet are finally on the concrete. Solid. Yet, your mind doubts the earth could still support you. The doors hiss shut behind your back. Your breath is erratic. Your body reduces to trembling limbs. The grumble of the motor fades away, but the guilt stays. Your phone could burn a hole in that fucking pocket.

Your brain could recognize the charismatic pull of an avoidant relationship in any circumstance. That was it. Logic is screaming at the top of its lungs about how you recognize those patterns now. Through hard-earned experience. Never again, you have sworn to yourself. And to your therapist.

The signs are there. The adrenaline. The magnetic pull. The consuming thoughts. The unbearable focus that eclipses anything or anyone else. You can feel the hyperfixation building itself up as you’re thinking. Replaying again and again small details that ignite your reward system in a fucked-up way. A broken player that you thought you had fixed after several years of therapy.

No, no, no- This can’t happen. You swore.    That part of you is healed.

Don’t lie to yourself.

It turns out that the brain can rationalise all it wants; what’s between your thighs doesn’t give a shit about toxic patterns.

tranquila : easy; don’t worryestá bien : fair enough; all right querida : dear; paramore break the devil’s dishes :  [brooklyn slang] have a wild time aguas : [guatemalan slang] carefull

# Dedication : To @grumpyahjumma, who is such a sweet human being <3 Thank you for existing ! # Taglist : @pri00r  , @medivalpersephone , @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough  , @thebadasssass  , @griffinkid2187  , @fandomtrash465  , @randomchick546 , @romanarose   , @galactic-galabee  , @actuallyanita  . # A/n on DID : Hello there <3 I want to stress that Jake Lockley isn’t the “evil side” or “bad side” of the System. Jake is probably more of a Protector. Everything here is through the subjective point of view from the Reader; her own experience, projecting her past traumas. The goal will be to overcome those conceptions; hence the perception of Jake. Generally speaking, please know that people experiencing DID do not have what fiction would call “a beast” or an “evil Alter" (as in the movie Split, for example). When an Alter has persecution tendencies, it’s mostly towards the System itself. Thank you!

I’m an absolute weirdo so here’s my hot take-

We should be shipping frenchie and jake. Why? Because why not? It’s at least… more sensical to me then some of the odd questionable ships this fandom comes up with- (I say that in the nicest way possible of course)

If any one wants to ask about why I ship these two and about my head cannons for them feel free to leave an ask or a comment I would love to post about it!)

So… about my post from earlier- yes I already wrote a fan fic for Jake and frenchie because I absolutely love these two- (possible trigger warning: drinking?) this is just… hurt comfort angst mostly but with a lovely soft ending.

Fic name: drunken confession.

It was a cool February afternoon, Jake was at front, fully alone at this point. While Marc and Steven where oddly dormant. Jake had nothing to do. Not a single request from khonsu it wasn’t like he was close enough with Layla to hangout with her but even if he was she was out on a mission herself a solo one. And strangely enough the feeling of being alone was bugging him it was strange for him to have both Marc and Steven be completely dormant even just for a day or two. He was considering bugging frenchie. He lingered over frenchies contact anxious to text him. Though Jake had his own “spot” in this “shared life” with Marc and Steven it was still… strained he didn’t know how or where to leave off with friendships and if what he deemed friendships where actually friendships.

The only one he was sure of as his friend was frenchie. It was a odd sort of strained friendship for sure on and off communication for years. Yet every time they did talk it was like nothing had changed. Like they didn’t just randomly stop talking for a while. It was like naturally setting clock work with these two they some how felt so readily comfortable chatting. It was some thing jake didn’t feel often with others and at times in his solitude in the back of the mind space he would linger his thoughts about frenchie he wondered if he thought to much about his “friend. But I digress. As Jake thought out these things it was like some sort of force read his mind and sent him a sign since he was to frozen to text frenchie himself

A message from frenchie.

“Hey- are you free today?”

“depends on who you need.” Replied jake

“Well I’m hoping for Jake but I’m guessing this is Marc right now?”

“Jake speaking currently. No idea where the other two have faded off to.”

“That’s oddly perfect” Jake saw that and raised an eye brows.

“What’s that mean by that?” He answered back

“It means Do you want to grab a drink with me? We haven’t hung out in a while I mean we have but just not the two of us alone is all.”

Jake found himself baffled. Yet smiling like an idiot as he saw the text.

“Sure, what bar?”

Frenchie sent the address and said he would be waiting- Jake got into some casual clothes. Slicking back his hair a bit with his fingers and a tiny bit of hair gel before putting on his hat.

When he got to the bar he entered and looked around for frenchie, he was at small booth seat section alone instead of at a bar stool near the counter like they usually sat at jake noticed this little change and thought it was odd, frenchie saw him as well and locked eyes with him and waved him over “over here mon ami!” He said with a smile jake went over to the table and frenchie stood up to give him a little side hug before sitting back down

“Long time no see my favorite friend-“

“Wow you pick favorites?” Jake chuckled “any ways wow I’m surprised you picked a booth this time, what’s with that?” He asked casually with a smile

“Just wanted a change of pace I guess.” Replied frenchie

“Every things been changing recently huh?” Mumbled jake

“It has- but change can be a good thing, no? At least it seems to be good in your case right?”

A waiter then came up and took there drink orders they ordered some basic rounds of beers before they went back to talking

“I mean it is pretty good mostly since I get to talk to you again.”

“Aw you flatter me mon ami,” frenchie smirked “so catch me up on your perspective. What’s new for you?”

“What’s new? Well damn a lot- don’t tell Marc and Steven I told you this but there both dating each other now- some how? There constantly pinning over each other- it’s kinda gross to be honest-“

“Hah! I had a clue that was the case.”

“Observant as always, Jean.”

“But why do you call it gross?”

“Because I have to deal with seeing them be all lovey dovey with each other- it makes it so awkward since we all share a body- let’s say they let me front- meanwhile there in the back of the head making out or being sickeningly sweet together.”

“How about Layla? You talk to her much? I know the other two are in a shared relationship, no?”

“Si they are, but I don’t see Layla that way. Don’t think I ever will to be honest. It always feels like I’m an unwanted guest with those three. Though good for them for what they have- hey enough questions about me- how’s your quest to find a boyfriend been going?”

“Uhg I gave up months ago- turns out being an amputy is a turn off to most. And the ones who aren’t turned off end up being creeps.”

“Well there missing out on you as a person- and more importantly missing out on the chances at getting free plane rides for life.” *the thing about free air plane rides was a joke but the first bit was sincere*

They received there drinks and thanked the waiter,

Jake started to drink his as frenchie continued the conversation “I guess your right. It just I’ll be honest the loneliness is some thing unbearable.”

“You’d be surprised but I get it.”

Frenchie raised an eye brow as he raised his glass about to take a sip “but your never alone at least most of the time.”

“There’s loneliness in reality having no one to stand by you then there’s loneliness in feeling outcasted.”

“Ah… wise words so very unlike you.” He seemed to tease and jake rolled his eyes playfully

“Yea well with no one to talk to for a few years it leaves me to think a lot.”

*frenchie took a long swig of his drink* “Uhg enough talk about loneliness and solitude- we have each other’s company! That’s what matters right now to me.”

“Now that I can get with. You see you have Even wiser words then what I said before.”

“I guess drunk words are the wisest-“

“Drunk? but this is your first drink- you really becoming a lightweight on me?”

“Light weight? In your dreams! I pre-gamed before You got here-“

“Wow what a shock.”

“Nothing to crazy just a martini or two- they had this really interesting pomegranate one I’ve been dying to try.”

“Really? That sounds interesting.”

“Yea but I didn’t want to be an embarrassment to you is all- you know me drinking a “prissy” drink in front of you-“

“Prissy drink? Really? That’s some thing only Marc would get embarrassed about-you know that, actually hold on watch-“ *he waved over a weighter after he finished off his first pint of beer once the waiter was called over he ordered one of those drinks frenchie mentioned and frenchie for himself another pint.

“Wow what a gentleman proving a point by getting a “girly drink” if only I could find a man like you-“ frenchie joked- (but in all honesty he was being serious ooP)

Jakes cheeks where nipped red and it could have been a mix of the alcohol or the way frenchie teased him.

“Trust me you wouldn’t want a guy like me”

“Why wouldn’t I? You have an amazing jawline- you can drive- hmmm what else- your a good listener and we have great chemistry-“

“Says the guy who’s 10 times cooler then me you fly planes and shit.”

“Cooler? I take that as an insult you know! If any thing I’m HOTTER then you-“

“Wow tooting your own horn there huh?” They were joking back and forth, Loki flirting as they moved on to other little topics.

“You know what- I gotta ask Jake-“

“Hm? Waht is it?” *he muttered as he finished off his third drink*

“Steven and Marc those two- there… what’s the word- not gay- gay and straight- what’s the English words again…” (when frenchie was tipsy he would often let certain English words slip his vocabulary)

“Bisexual?”

“Yea yea that right? I never thought Marc would be you know-“ 💅🏻 he did the hand motion)

“Yea same never thought that- I mean I thought Steven was just gay like- actually gay for a while until he showed interest in Layla-“

“Hey hey off topic listen… hhhh… uh… what was I saying again.?”

The two laughed a bit like idiots

“How… how about yourself jake?”

“What what about me?”

“Are you… straight gay thing too? like Marc and the British one?” *he rested his head on the palm of his hand

Jake went silent and his face was redder then before he lowered his gaze, not sure how to answer.

He sort of froze for a second and frenchie noticed the tension for a moment- then Jake chuckled

“not sure… I've never been able to explore the possibilities, you know?”

“Well is there any one you ever thought was hot?”

“…. One person.” Jake said stoically but on the inside he was over thinking “shit am I bisexual? Or just gay? Or… can Jean Paul see more about me then I do about my self“

“Oh? Who’s that person?? I just gotta know-“

“I won’t be sharing that.”

“Oh come on~ at least give me a hint!~ is it some one you know?”

“Si”

“Is it a guy or girl?”

“… guy-“

“OOH- ok ok hmmm… we’ll To be honest jake you don’t know a lot of people…and I doubt it’s the others residing in your head…sooo… is it meee~”

Jakes eyes went wide and he tipped his hat down over his face a bit- “In your dreams-“ *he chuckled trying to seem calm but he was clenching his teeth a bit.

“You know I can see through you Jake~ if you wanna make out just say so~” this was a joke of course- frenchie was just teasing a bit.

“For fucks sake can you not?” *jake snapped a bit and taking off his hat and clenching it before knawing on the brim a bit angstily

“Aww no need to be shy, if you wanna hook up say the word I wouldn’t mind, especially with a hunk such as yourself-“ frenchie misunderstood jakes reaction as simply a flustered one

“Jean- I mean it- stop it.” *jake said between knaws on his hat his eyes filled with tears he was overhwkened and frenchie though Loki shit face drunk had a sort of “oh shit I fucked up” moment

“Jake- I-…shit I didn’t mean to make you upset I was just joking! I was just- just teasing you know? I know bad timing I shouldn’t have-“ he tried to seem calm and smiled awkwardly trying I make the situation better

“Out of all the people… Can you not fucking make fun of me? I thought I could confide in you- fuck…”

“Jake- you can confide in me I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to make you upset really.”

“I just don’t get any of it- I’m trying so fucking hard trying I get it I’m a dumbass for even- for… having these thoughts… it wouldn’t even work- god what am I… people are staring I can tell people are staring and it’s all your fucking fault-“ he said through clenched teeth and jaw

Frenchie went silent as Jake layed his head on the table trying to ground himself frenchie stopped drinking and focused on what he wanted to say through his drunken haze jake was over thinking every thing and he was mumbling a lot- “I’m obvious I’m so fucking obvious- he thinks it’s funny- I’m a fool- why did I even humor the conversation- I couldn’t do this even though I want to- I can’t- fuck how would the others react? They wouldn’t even let me date Jean Paul even if I wanted to… would they…? even if he wanted to date me back- is he still here- did he leave? I need to lift my head up eventually… my head is pounding- why can’t one of them be here to take things up- why can't I go back- why can’t I shut myself off right now- where’s the help when I need it. Where’s the person who cares about me-?” He couldn’t even tell his internal thoughts from his own outward rambling frenchie moved his hand over to jakes head and gently fixed strands of jake's hair back in place

“Jake…” frenchie said softly and when he did Jake seemed to freeze up and tense like stone for a moment before softening enough to lift his head a bit just so he could look up to frenchie. tears where streaming down jakes face and frenchie finally spoke

“I… you mean so much to me- I didn’t mean to hurt you like this-“

“I deserve to be hurt…”

“No jake you don’t.”

“I do… that’s my whole purpose I take the punches. I don’t get… how You see me as more then that-“

“Because you are more then that.”

“No im not-“ Jake said once again with a frustrated snarl*

“To me you are more then you say you are. I…. I was heartbroken when you were gone- I thought… I thought I made that clear- I really didn’t mean to tease you… I was mostly poking fun at my self jake.”

“How would you be poking fun at yourself it’s not like you want to kiss me-“

“… Jake- wow your just… *he roled his eyes* “I love you- I don’t just want to kiss you I want to be there for you, and I always will be there for you one way or another no matter how long it takes for you to fully open up- I’ll be here for you. Even when you where gone all that time- I wanted to be there for you…” *he took his hand off of jakes head and rested then on the table* “I guess drunk thoughts aren’t always the wisest huh?”

“But they tend to be true ones…right?”

“True-“ frenchie smiled softly

“You… actually love me…? Romantically…? Or just…”

“Yes romantically Jake-“ he said abruptly

“…but…what will the others…”

“Fuck what the others think! Listen if Marc and the British one-“

*jake interrupted frenchie for a moment to correct him and tell him stevens name*

“YEA OK SO IF MARC AND STEVEN AND LAYLA CAN MAKE THERE THREE WAY GAY-straiGht relationship woRk- we can make this work to!”

“But how… how can it work? I’m usually tucked away… do you really want to have some one as inconsistent as me as a lover?”

“Love finds a way, it always does, my love for you won’t ever fade jake, it never did. All I really tried in the past was to move on from my thoughts of you and it never worked- i would happily wait years for you- I’ll be here every step of the way- we can discuss with the others a proper schedule… we can- we can make it work- I promise-“

“What if I’m not good enough-“

“You say it as if I’m good enough.”

“Jean your more then enough your so much more-“

“And that’s how I see you to-“ he reached his hands to jakes and held them gently before giving them a little squeeze*

“I still can’t believe any of this… is actually happening…” Jake said with his face a pink glow. He was happy- he was worried this was some sort of dream or something- he was anxious he would wake up and this would be all over or even worse? The next day they would pretend it never happened because they where drunk.

“I… really can’t believe it…” he pulled his hands away slowly* “how do I know we won’t just sweep this all under the rug by tomorrow…?”

“You think I would sweep this sweet confession under the rug? What do you take me for? Heartless?”

“No not at all- I just… I don’t know-“

“Here- I’ll prove it to you-“ *he took his unfinished glass of beer and chugged the final gulp for courage before standing up*

“What are you doing??”

Frenchie then stood up on the seat- “MAY I HAVE EVERY ONES ATTENTION?”

“Oh my fucking goD- Get doWn-“

“I’ll shoUt it louDer if I haVe tO-“

“your gonna get us kiCked oUt-!”

“WELL THEN SO BE IT! HEY EVERYONE YOU SEE THIS WONDERFUL MAN RIGHT HERE? WITH THE MOST HANDSOME EYES YOUVE EVER SEEN? I LOVE HIM! I LOVE HIS SMILE I LOVE HIS HAIR I LOVE HIM! I LOVE EVERY THING ABOUT HIM EVEN HIS QUIRKS!”

*some people stared and some one in the back mumbled “queers-“ while the bartender roled there eyes like this was a normal every few days occurance that had gotten annoying

Jake got up and pulled frenchies arm so he would sit back down. “Your so… fucking stupid…” he said with a smile as he started to chuckle- this was a smile that frenchie hadn’t seen in a long time, with softly lidded eyes and such care free relaxedness. And frenchie melted seeing jakes face relaxed and happy like this. As Jake was laughing happily about all of this the owner of the bar came over and interrupted the two “hey you guys gotta get going your making to much of a scene-“

“Fine so be it!” Said frenchie as he payed for the drinks- also leaving a nice tip for the waiter who had been taking there orders

And so they left the bar side by side- frenchie hesitating at first before grabbing hold of jakes hand as they stepped outside

“…so… what now…?” Jake asked softly as he noticed frenchies hand wrapped around his.

“Up to you really… we don’t need to rush any thing if your not ready, just know I’m here.”

Jake gave a nod and let go of frenchies hand for a moment there was jsut content silence between the two before jake turned to frenchie and giving him an unexpected bear hug

“Te amo…” jake muttered softly as he hugged on

“"je t'aime aussi"

Two sides of the same coin [M.S & S.G]

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Navigation

Pairings: Marc Spector (with a hint of Steven) x gn!reader

Words: 1.8k

Summary: What was supposed to be a quiet evening in bed turns tense when Marc pushes you to open up about your thoughts

Warnings: Slightly insecure reader, crying, soft Marc, fluff. As always lmk if I missed anything

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Late evenings were your favourite; it was wonderful to be able to find comfort no matter the season. In the winter you could look out at the cold snowy roads in the comfort of your bed, wrapped up in a big blanket; and now - in the early stages of summer - you could watch the sun set slowly behind the buildings, still somehow wrapped up in your blanket - or actually Steven and Marc’s blanket. Late evenings were also the time you could lay in each other’s company in complete silence - alone together. You had told Steven early on in your relationship that being able to be with a person and do your own thing was something you strived for and of course he couldn’t have agreed more. 

Luckily for you, it seemed as if Marc was very on board for that particular agreement, which is how you ended up in bed glancing from your book to his face every few seconds - even at times just abandoning the words on the page as they blended together in favour of looking at the beauty that was Marc Spector in his most relaxed of states. 

Just as you thought the evening couldn’t be anything but peaceful a small annoying voice in the back of your mind crawled through your head only to get louder by the second. It was the same voice that seemed to manifest its way into your brain whenever you spent time with Marc; it wasn’t as if you didn’t enjoy his company - you most certainly did - it was the thought that he didn’t enjoy yours that filled and overtook the entirety of your thoughts. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Marc chuckled lightly, snapping you out of your thoughts as he moved closer to you on the bed. 

Quickly diverting your eyes your focus fell back on your book as your shoulders drew up in a dismissive shrug. 

“No reason… just thinking,” you murmured with a smile, hoping he would let it go and not question you further. 

Your wish however wasn’t a success. The book in your hand was slowly removed and placed on the other side of Marc and his body was now completely against yours. With a gentle grip, he diverted your eyes to his, giving you a soft smile. Marc’s gaze was gentle - never as gentle as Steven’s - but gentle in his own way. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he pressed lightly, his thumb smoothing over your jaw as he kept you in place. 

You nibbled lightly on your bottom lip - a stupid habit you had picked up from living with Steven for too long - your fingers fiddled in your lap as you thought of what to say. You were sure Marc could see the thoughts scramble around behind your eyes, but he sat patiently and waited for whatever you had to say. 

“It’s nothing really… silly stuff,” you smiled, laying a hand on top of his on your face. 

Marc hummed thoughtfully, “I would’ve believed that if it hadn’t taken you almost a whole minute to think of an answer.” 

“Well it is silly,” you argued, voice drawing on a whine. 

“If it’s so silly, why won’t you tell me?” Marc chuckled, grasping your hands and holding them in your lap, starting to grow a little concerned when you kept redirecting the question. He threw a small glance towards the mirror where an equally concerned Steven stared back. 

You noticed the glance, even though you pretended that you didn’t. Now Steven would be concerned as well… great. 

“I don’t know if it’s really haha silly… more like I’m being really stupid silly,” you murmured, your palms feeling sweaty in Marc’s grasp. 

“Okay, baby, you’re scaring me now. Please, just tell me… I promise it’s not stupid,” Marc tried, brows furrowing and creating a crease between them - one you so desperately wanted to smooth over with your thumb. 

You swallowed down the huge lump that had suddenly caught in your throat, feeling the heat rise on your body. It was stupid - you knew that - just a stupid insecure thought that you had let fill your head. And even though you had tried to bury those feelings you couldn’t help the way they always seemed to show up whenever Marc was out. 

“I- I… you know… well, I’ve just been thinking,” you stuttered out with a nervous laugh. 

“Hey hey, baby, breathe,” Marc cooed gently, squeezing your hands in his larger ones. 

A deep gulp of air filled your lungs, doing little to calm the anxiety that had settled in your stomach. 

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t mean it… but you know I love you, right… I would always pick you and Steven?” 

Marc nodded slowly, bringing your knuckle up to his lips quickly to place a kiss on the soft skin before letting you continue. 

“I just can’t help but- but sometimes think that if Steven hadn’t chosen me that y-you wouldn’t have. I just hate to think that you’re stuck with me if you… you don’t want to be,” you mumbled out in a rush, feeling the quickly building sting of tears in your eyes. Prying one hand out of his grasp you fist at your eyes, “sorry, I told you it was silly.” 

Marc looks completely stunned, a flash of hurt passing over his features, but he was quick to hide it when he zeroed in on the tear that slid down the apple of your cheek. He felt guilty in a sense - guilty that he in any way made you feel like he didn’t want you as much as Steven or that he was just stuck with you - because that was furthest from the truth. 

If he was being honest, then yes he was confused and a little weirded out the first time he took over the body only to find out Steven - somehow - had managed to get a partner; not only get a partner but successfully keep a partner as wonderful, caring and understanding as you. Yes, you were awkward and a little weird at times, but Marc found it quite endearing… you were just so unapologetically you. 

And most important of all you loved him - you loved him even though you didn’t have to; you stayed with them both even though Steven was the one you had originally met. So, to hear you air out the same insecurities that lay within Marc was a complete shock. 

“You really think that?” Marc softly spoke - voice so low it was dawning on a whisper. 

Your shoulders lifted into a shrug as you sniffled, “I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that way… I mean, you just woke up one day and suddenly had a partner that you had absolutely no say in choosing,” you tried to cover the pain in your voice with a shaky laugh, “you and Steven are so different in so many ways.” 

Marc’s hands were gentle - tentative- as he pulled you in between his legs and hugged you tightly to his chest, “hey you listen to me; yeah, I won’t lie to you, it was surprising waking up to find a sweet little thing such as yourself prancing around in our kitchen in only my shirt…” 

Your face heated, warmth spreading throughout your body at the memory of the day you met Marc. 

“… but even though I was surprised and confused I couldn’t be more grateful that Steven somehow managed to convince you to date him. And I’m even more grateful that somehow I convinced you to date me too.” 

You lifted your hand to his cheek, feeling the stubble under your fingers, “you didn’t have to convince me of anything and neither did Steven,” you whispered. 

“No matter the reason, you still chose to stay, my precious understanding baby, and I thank my lucky stars for that,” Marc chuckled, pressing his forehead against yours.

A soft smile lit up your face, your eyes falling closed at the gentle touch of his hands along your back, his fingers scratching and caressing your hip. You loved Marc like this - so gentle and careful with you - letting himself be vulnerable; you’re sure you have Steven to thank for that with the way he always pesters Marc to be more open with you. 

“I’m sorry for overthinking… I just get in my own head,” you whispered, leaning your head on his shoulder to snuggle into the crook of his neck breathing in the familiar comforting scent of the men you love. 

“Don’t apologize, I mean it. I’m sorry for not making it clear enough that…,” Marc began his voice lowering to a whisper, “- I’m head over heels in love with you.” 

Heat spread across your face and neck as the sweet words flowed down to warm your heart, making the organ thump more vigorously. Marc’s breath was warm on your face, his lips lingering on your cheek, brushing softly against the skin. 

“I love you too,” you sighed contently, letting your eyes drift shut, soaking up the affectionate pecks that Marc left for you. 

Only a minute of peace passed between you before Marc’s chest shook with a chuckle and a scoff. 

“Steven’s jealous,” he whispered to you as if Steven couldn’t still hear him. You giggled at that reaching up to stroke his cheek gently. 

“I can take care of that.” 

Marc hummed, leaving one last peck on your cheek before his eye twitched and a different kind of softness spread through them - undoubtedly Steven. No matter how long you had known them it never failed to surprise you just how obvious the change was; even the smallest things were clear giveaways to who was fronting - just in how they carried themselves and most obvious of all the accents, of course. 

“Hi, Stevie,” you whispered with a grin, keeping your head on his shoulder as you had with Marc, blinking up at him with a lovesick look in your eyes. 

“Hiya, darling,” Steven matched your tone with a shy smile, “just wanted a cuddle as well.” 

Wiggling impossibly closer to him, you basked in the warmth he produced and exhaled contently, “I think I can manage that.” 

Steven tightened his hold on you, his fingers gliding up and down your arm holding you with such care you couldn’t help but feel like the most important person in the world. The steady hum of his voice was enough to put your mind and body at ease, letting his warmth engulf you and lull you to a state of pure bliss - teetering on the edge of sleep. 

“I’m glad you and Marc got everything sorted,” Steven spoke softly in between his humming. 

A tired hum of acknowledgement and a low ‘me too’ was quite frankly all you could manage in your dreamlike state, but Steven didn’t seem to mind; a small gentle smile spread on his face as he looked upon your shut eyes and your peaceful face. 

“I love you, darling,” was the last thing you heard before sleep finally dragged you under.

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A/n: to be notified of future writing follow @saintlike78slibrary and turn on notifications ✨

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.

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.

Plush Size

Marc Spector x fem! reader (Implied moon boys x fem! reader)

Summary: Missing the MK System, you decide to make a plush toy of Moon Knight for yourself, so that you have something to cuddle with when they are on missions for Khonshu. While this plush ends up being used for that particular reason, the moon boys are shocked to see that you are no longer as clingy to them as you once were. This leads them to become touch starved, resulting in them hiding the plush.

You miss them all very much. It has only been a day since they left but you miss Marc, Steven, and Jake very much.

Though they have been on missions longer than this most recent one they are currently on. Nevertheless, it’s true when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

As you look through Pinterest to look at sewing machine projects that you want to do. You see some pins on how to make dolls. This sparks the idea to create a doll in the form of your boyfriends’ Moon Knight persona that you could use to cuddle when they are gone. With this newfound inspiration, you get to work.

_________________________________________

3 Days Later…

Marc is currently fronting as he enters the key to your shared apartment. Though this mission was shorter, the desire to get home to you was what kept him going.

When he locks the front door, Marc notices the silence within the house. No tv nor music playing in the background.

Imagining the worst case scenario, Marc grabs his gun from his travel bag and begins walking around the house in preparation to fight to the death for you. He hears both Steven and Jake from the headspace, trying to reassure him that you are safe and more likely to fall asleep. Though he appreciates the reassurance from them both, Marc’s mind can’t help but wander to think the worst.

As he finally approaches the door to your shared bedroom, Marc finds you asleep on your bed. Although, instead of snuggling into his side of the bed like you normally would when he was gone, Marc is shocked to see you snuggling up with a plushie that looks nearly identical to what he looks like when he wears Khonshu’s ceremonial armor as Moon Knight. Marc smiles to himself as he returns to his regular clothes, beginning to strip to nothing but his boxers and crawls into the bed to get well earned rest.

________________________________________

In the coming weeks, Marc notices how often you cuddle with the plush version of himself and is a bit restless to say the least. Though Marc is happy you have something to remind you of himself when he is away, the feeling isn’t there when he begins to notice that you sometimes even hug the mini him when you both are lounging around together in your room or living room.

Despite Marc always being a bit closed off at the start of your relationship, you helped him open up. Once feeling as if he had to wear the world on his shoulders, that feeling slowly faded away when he was around you.

No longer receiving those cuddles as often as he was once used to, Marc begins to devise a plan. One that will ensure he gets your attention.

________________________________________

As you finish showering and changing into your pajamas, you exit the restroom and enter the bedroom.

When you walk to the bed, you notice that your Moon Knight plushie is no longer laying on the side where you normally sleep. In shock, you look under the bed to make sure it isn’t there. Noting it isn’t there, you move your pillows to see if they aren’t under the bed.

“Marc”! Have you seen mini you?”, you ask.

Marc comes in and says he hasn’t but agrees to help you find him (unbeknownst to you that he hid it).

________________________________________

Thirty minutes of you two looking and not having any luck. Defeated, you lay on your bed a bit upset.

Marc gets into bed next to you and wraps his arms around you. He is a little shocked by the fact that you are upset about this.

Curious to understand why that is, he asks: “Why are you upset about losing the mini me”?

You answer.“Because it’s something to remind me of you when we aren’t together. Also, I figured it would be a good substitute for when you don’t want to cuddle me as I know I can be a bit too much sometimes.”

Everything begins to make sense to him. Marc goes to your closet to get something. When he comes back out, you see that he’s holding your missing plushie.

“I’m sorry I hid this from you”, he says ashamed. “I missed your cuddles and thought that mini me was taking away your attention from me. Despite what you may think, I love our cuddle sessions. It’s because of you, I feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Can you forgive me, baby?”

The moment Marc finishes, he is shocked to see you get up from the bed and grab the plushy from him. You put the plush on your bed and pull him in for a hug.

“You know you can ask me for cuddles whenever”, you say.

Marc looks at you with puppy eyes, “Can we cuddle now?”.

You take his hand and lead him both to your bed. Both of you get settled in with Marc laying his head on your chest as you run your fingers through his curls. Staying this way until sleeps takes over.

Loving you is a losing game

Marc Spector x fem! reader (Steven and Jake are mentioned briefly)

Summary: Marc meeting you was one of the best things to have happen to him. However, the demons of his past make him feel otherwise. You help him see that the love you share is one that should be fought for.

A/N: This is what I thought while listening to the song Arcade by Duncan Laurence. Of course with a happier twist.

A/N 2: Purely for entertainment purposes, so please don’t come after me. As I said, I'm still getting used to writing pieces like this.

Marc Spector’s life has never been easy. From the trauma of his young brother’s death to everything he’s during his time as Khonshu’s avatar, he’s felt like a ticking time bomb. Though he’s tried to use his time as Moon Knight to right his wrongs, it never feels like it’s enough.

When he meets you, he begins to see that there is more to life than vengeance. Marc begins to let himself enjoy your presence when he and you hit it off at the gym.

You weren’t a gym rat by any means but you had started a membership in the hopes of getting in shape and learning self-defense by using their punching bag. Seeing you hit the bag by yourself catches his attention and he begins to give you some pointers on how to improve your stance. Over time, this leads to you becoming sparring partners and eventually exchanging phone numbers. Although,this leads to you all regularly hanging out outside your sparring hours.

The day he asked you out was a shock for him because not only did he actually let himself be brave enough to ask the question but you eagerly accepted his invitation. It’s even more surprising to find out that one date led to another. Then another until you both have officially unofficially started dating.

Despite everything going well, he knew that there were things he needed to tell you. About his DID. His past. Being the avatar to an Egyptian deity in exchange to right the wrongs from his ugly past.

This then leads him to begin feeling self conscious about himself. His inner dialogue begins to consist of questions such as: What if he didn’t deserve this chance at happiness? What if she thinks I’m crazy or thinks I’m making this up?

Marc then begins to hear his mother’s voice. Telling him that he is unworthy of receiving love and will only continue to destroy all the lives that he surrounds himself with. Steven and Jake try to snap him out of this but Marc is paralyzed. At this moment, Marc only thinks one thing.

“I have to break up with her before I hurt her”, Marc thought.

_____________________________________

“Marc, this isn’t funny. Stop joking, you say.

“I’m not joking. I think we should break up,” said Marc.

“But why, Marc? Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course, you didn’t. You’ve been the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“Then why are you doing this?” You take your hand in his, looking at him sadly. “Please, tell me why you’re acting as if I’m a disease.”

“Imthedisease.” He says as if he’s trying to rip off a bandage.

“What, baby?”

“I said, I'm the disease. I seep into innocent lives and destroy them.” He looks at you tearfully.

“Marc, that’s silly. What are you talking about?”

Marc then begins to explain everything. From the death of his younger brother to the lives he took during his time as a mercenary. He also makes sure to mention that he is the vigilante, Moon Knight, and has two other individuals living within his head. He concludes all of this by saying, “Loving me is a losing game.”

Once he’s done explaining all of this, Marc is waiting to see your reaction to all this. Will you call him crazy? Run away from him? Scream?

Instead, you take his hands in your own.

“Loving you isn’t a losing game, Marc,” you tell him. I love you and long as we have each other, we can face whatever life throws at us.”

At this, Marc pulls you into a big hug. He lets himself break down because he knows that you’re here to stay and love him. For his strengths and weaknesses, through good and bad times. He knows you will be there for him.

As you two are still embracing, he starts to believe that he is worth loving after all.

Inner Healing

Marc Spector x fem! reader (Steven and Jake are mentioned briefly)

Summary: In the heat of a moment, Marc raises his voice at you. This leads you to get hurt but not for the reason that Marc is thinking.

Warning(s): angst that ends in fluff/comfort.

Marc had a stressful day. Between arguments with Khonshu and the back and forth conversations of his two headmates, he feels as if he’s barely hanging on by a thread.

Currently, the two of you are having dinner together. You’re telling him a story about something that happened to you at work during a zoom meeting. Although, you start to take note of Marc’s zoned out expression on his face. Something that happens when he has a lot on his mind.

Taking this into account, you decide to bring up your concerns to him.

“Marc, are you okay? You haven’t been talking much tonight.”

He nods.

“Are you sure?” You try reassuring him, taking his hand in yours. “I'm here for you, you know?

Your voice starts to get lost with the other voices in his head. Though he’s trying to hold it together, he can no longer keep it in.

“I said I’m fine!!! Now stop nagging and leave me alone!!!”

As soon as he sees that shocked look on your face, regret is instantaneous. As he is about to open his mouth to try to apologize, your reaction is what catches him off guard.

Rather than yell back at him, you nod and take you hand away from his own. “Okay.”

The rest of dinner is eaten in silence as he sees you keep your focus on your plate rather than look him in the eyes.

_________________________________________

As Marc lays in bed, he begins to wonder about the events that happened tonight.

Why did I have to yell at her? She was only trying to help and I made her feel terrible.

“That's what I’m wondering”, responds Steven.

Jake murmurs “Tu es un idiota” as well as a few other phrases that Marc cannot fully understand but gets the gist of what is being emphasized. That he was a jerk to the woman who loves him so much, despite his faults.

As Steven and Jake go on with their reprimanding, Marc is trying to figure out what the next step is. Though he knows he needs to apologize, he isn’t sure how to when the woman he loves won’t even acknowledge him.

Just then, Marc sees you walk into your shared bedroom. Though he’s initially happy to see you, he is shocked to see you grab a pillow and blanket and decides to break the silence between you.

“What are you doing”?

“I’m getting ready for bed.” You say without looking at him.

“Away from me?”

“I figured…after what happened tonight, you want space.”

“Babe, please…”

“It’s fine, you don’t need to explain. I’m sorry…”

“I’m the one that should be apologizing. I yelled at you when you were only trying to help.”

“But you wouldn’t have yelled if you weren’t upset with me.”

“Babe, where is this coming from?”

Though you are reluctant, you decide to bring up your thoughts.

“Growing up, my dad used to yell when he got angry. Sometimes even yelling at me for no reason. Though his feelings were never truly directed at me, I couldn’t help but feel that I had something to do with it. Therefore, I figured that if you yelled at me, it must mean I made you…”

Despite being unable to finish, Marc brought you in for a hug. He now understands. You were upset because you thought you were the cause for his anger. But that could be further from the truth.

It was actually you that made him happy. Something that, since Randall's death, he had not felt. He felt whole again because of you.

Yes, despite how absurd it was for him to say it, you were able to give the impression that the man with DID wasn't broken. For they all loved you back just as much as you loved them all. So that he knows how much you mean to him, even if he has to spend the rest of the night cuddling with you and whispering sweet nothings, he will. Because it is what he intends to do for the remainder of your lives together, as well as tonight.

How Would the Moon Boys React: To you calling them by their first name based on the internet trend below: https://youtu.be/3FOLHWDY-4c?si=ZXIl1UkcNSCdvaZ4

Steven:

You and Steven have spent the day cleaning up around the flat and running errands around the city. Therefore, you both decided it would be best to unwind by reading in bed together.

Steven comes back into your bedroom with two mugs of tea for the both of you. You peck his lips in thanks.

“Hey Steven, before you sit down, can you please pass me that book on your nightstand?”

He turns around quickly. “Who is that?”

You giggle. “Steven, can you please pass the book over?”

Steven looks at you with those puppy eyes you love so much.“Why did you call me, Steven?”

“Because It’s your name, silly.”

“I’m not Steven. I’m your honey bunny.”

“Steven…”

“Honey bunny!”

“Steven…”

“ I’m not, Steven. I’m your honey bunny and that’s that.”

You smile and nuzzle into his chest. “Yes, you are.”

Marc:

You and Marc are watching a show on television, scrolling through your phones. Then something interesting comes up that reminds you of Marc that you just had to show him.

“Hey Marc, can I show you something?”

He looks up from his phone. “What did you just say?”

You start repeating your question again.“Can I show you some…?”

“I heard that part. I meant before that.”

“Hey Marc…?”, you say confusedly.

“Oh shit… what day is it?”, he starts checking his phone and looks up at the calendar.

No important dates. He thinks. Did he leave the toilet seat up? Did he forget to do the dishes? Did he leave on a mission without giving her a goodbye kiss before leaving?

“Hello. Earth to Marc…Baby, are you okay?”

“You called me baby? You aren’t mad at me?

You giggle.“No. But I was worried you were upset.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before Marc engulfs you in a hug. “I love you.”

You wrap your arms around him. “I love you too, baby.”

Jake:

Jake is currently working on his car outside of the flat. As a good girlfriend, you decide to go out and offer him some refreshments.

When you get outside, you see him working under the hood of his car.

“Hey Jake, I brought you some water and…”

You then hear Jake hit his head against the hood of the car as he mutters some curse words in Spanish.

You look at him concerned. “Jake, are you okay?”

“Cariño, stop calling me that!”, he says exasperated.

“What, by your name?”

“My name is Jake to you. It’s babe, baby, or daddy”, he says, giving you a smirk.

“Jake!”, you giggle.

“That’s it! He carries you over his shoulders and “You won’t be calling me Jake after this.”

“But your car…”, you start saying before he quickly interrupts you.

“Forget the car. I have more important matters to attend to”, he says as he enters your flat and locking the door.

How Would the Moon Boys React: To you wearing something sexy

Steven:

Looks at you in amazement as he admires your body all around. As if you were a deity of some sort, he brings one of your hands to his lips. He then goes onto telling you how beautiful you are as well as how fortunate he is to have you in his life.

Marc:

Straightens himself out before telling you to sit on his lap. This leads to a heated make out session that then leads to cuddling, with you still sitting in his lap. Though silent, both your actions are those filled with love and respect for one another.

Jake:

Gives you the look before walking over to you, carrying you over his shoulder and into the bedroom. The night being filled with endless love making with sweet touches and whispered sweet nothings to one another being exchanged between you both until morning.

How Would the Moon Boys React: To the Towel Prank: https://youtu.be/uECGeNk4cd0?si=e9RLZKJ2f7oymQt1

Setting the scene for all the situations with the boys:

You recently have seen the towel prank online and decided to try it out on your boyfriend(s). Therefore you set everything up in the bathroom by making it look like the camera is recording with the music playing in the background, dancing to it as you wear a strapless shirt and pair of shorts under your towel.

Steven:

When Steven walks into the bathroom to see you dancing in your towel, he decides to join in the fun. The moment you take off your towel, Steven’s eyes widen as he pushes you out of the camera to cover you up. This results in you both accidentally falling down, laughing with one another at the silliness. Nevertheless, he is relieved to see you aren’t actually naked and that nothing was being filmed.

Marc:

Marc looks at you a bit awkwardly when he finds you dancing in your towel in the bathroom. Once you take off your towel, he jumps in front of the camera. Once he sees you are wearing clothes under your towel, he gives you an evil look before pressing kisses to you all over your face.

Jake:

Jake gives you a seductive look as he sees you dancing to music in your towel. Before you can fully open your towel, Jake is already ahead of you and is already covering you from the camera’s view. Carrying you and having you wrap your legs around his waist as you look into each other’s eyes with love.

A/N: In case it wasn’t obvious, Marc and Jake were already aware of the plan you had. Hence they weren’t freaking out the way that Steven was.

HALLOWEENTOWN

Marc Spector x female reader

A/N: As I mentioned in the previous story I posted, I love the Halloweentown Series. Therefore, I wanted to implement it with a moon knight story the way I did with Crescent City’s Hunt Athalar.

Despite Marc not being big on Halloween, you begged him to have a Halloween movie marathon with him in honor of the American holiday aimed at scaring people as well as having them buy big bags of candy. With reluctance, he agrees. As he hopes that watching a few scary movies will cause you to want to get scared and cuddle with him since you hate scary movies.

____________________________________________

Boy was he wrong.

“Come on, Marc”, you say pleadingly. “You said you’d have a movie marathon with me.”

Marc grumbles. “That was before I knew we’d be watching kiddy movies.”

You pout. “Hey. The Halloweentown series is not kiddy.”

Marc chuckles at your pout. Not laughing at you but more giggling at you attempting to look serious, yet failing miserably at it. “Is too.”

Seeing that he’s still not convinced, you decide to come in with your greatest weapon. Your puppy eyes. You don’t use this often but when you do, Marc cannot resist you.

You give him puppy eyes. “Please, Marc? I promise, only one Halloweentown movie and you won’t have to watching anymore after that.”

It doesn’t take Marc long to eventually agree to your Halloweentown movie marathon.

Though it may not be scary movies that result in you getting scared and cuddling him, Marc knows that he will still be having a great time with you. As anytime with you is time well spent in his book.

____________________________________________

“What? Kalabar had a son? I didn’t see that coming”, Marc exclaims flabbergasted as he munches on popcorn.

You nod, smiling at the fact that Marc had gotten invested in this series. In fact, when you tried telling him that you could change the movie to a horror movie of his choosing, he declined saying that you might as well start the second movie.

By the end of the finishing the fourth movie in the series, you and Marc are cuddling and eating candy with each other as you talk about how the first and second Halloweentown movies don’t compare to the third or fourth ones.

Perhaps the thing you loved most about this was that for tonight, Marc enjoyed himself with things that some might consider childish. For it has been so long since he was one.