hello again on the same day~~i have a valentine's day request!!
I can't decide who i prefer more, so please - pick one of the characters: moon knight (steven grant maybe) or young sirius black. i would love a surprise!!
i'd love to read an angst/fluff with this powerful question: who hurt you?
thank you, bestie!!<33
Worries
Summary: Steven shows up at your doorstep drunk and bruised after Marc gets into a messy situation.
A/N: I can’t tell you how much I LOVED this request. I tweaked it a bit 'cause I couldn't get it out before Valentine's.
Pairing: Steven Grant x reader, Marc Spector x reader, Jake Lockley x reader (if you squint) , established relationship
Warnings: Mentions of getting drunk, Bruises and cuts, mentions of blood, DID, mentions of character death
w/c: 3500+
Masterlist
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Steven woke up with a terrible headache, and stiff limbs. He groaned, holding the back of his head as he got up, eyes scanning his surroundings. The sun was starting to set. There were buildings on both his sides, a dumpster behind him. There was a door on his left, the sign above a flashing red.
“For fuck’s sake.”
It was a bar.
They were in an alleyway.
And Steven couldn’t remember even glimpses of what happened. That was not good. He struggled to stand up, the movement causing his head to spin, as he stumbled over to the wall, holding it for support. Only then, did he register the stinging pain on different parts of his body. His torso, his knuckles, his left eye, his right cheekbone. His eyes scanned the alleyway, he needed a mirror.
“Down here.”
Steven looked down, finding Jake staring back at him through broken pieces of glass. “Do you know?” he asked, his voice breaking, still trying to steady himself.
Jake shook his head, “Nothing at all.”
Steven nodded. One thing was for sure. Marc had gotten drunk. Maybe got into a fight as well.
“Steven. We have to get home.”
“Yeah I - fuck - I know Jake,” he responded. He didn’t know where they were in the first place. He started stumbling towards the street, supporting himself with the wall.
His head was pounding.
He didn’t know how to ask for directions without getting weird looks, or worse, having the police called on him. He checked his pockets, thankfully finding his phone. He took it out, debating on whether he should call you or not. Calling would get him an easy way home, but it would worry you too much.
He fumbled with the phone, realizing that it had a big crack on it.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Jake said from the phone screen.
Steven shook his head, “Something must have triggered it,” he mumbled, turning on the phone.
It was working. 25 missed calls. Over 50 messages. All from you. Asking - begging for any of them to respond. Steven felt terrible, but he didn’t want to call you. He should speak to you, in person.
He turned on the location, opening his maps app, punching in your address.
“Fuck you, Marc.”
He had a long way to go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steven was exhausted by the time he reached the house. The pounding in his head had doubled, and he’d gotten a lot of suspicious looks from strangers.
Of course he did, who wouldn’t think a man with a black eye and bruised knuckles, walking on the streets of Chicago, right after sunset wasn’t a lunatic?
He didn’t know how long it’d been since Marc was home. All he remembers is eating ice cream with you last night. He’d gotten a brain freeze and Marc had taken over. That’s all he knows.
His knuckles burn as he knocks the door. He’s mad at Marc, but he’s worried about you.
The second you open the door, he feels his heart drop. You look tired, a frown plastered on your face, eyes puffy, and hair pulled up in a messy bun. You freeze when you see him, eyes scanning him. He hopes he doesn’t look as terrible as he feels.
“Oh my god, Steven,” you mutter.
You know. You always do.
You take his hand, gently pulling him inside. He tries not to fall on top of you, pushing against the wall for support. He notices how quiet the house is. It’s never this way, and he hates it.
You bend down, and before he knows it, you’re untying his shoes, tugging at the lace. He lets you. Only because he’s too tired to do it himself.
You pull his shoes off, throwing them aside before standing up again. You brush his curls to the side, lightly pressing your fingers to the right side of his face. “We should get you cleaned up,” you whisper. Steven nods slightly, too afraid to move his head too much. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, lightly pressing down at the front.
He knows you think he doesn’t notice.
He does.
It’s a habit you’d established. You used it whenever the three of them worried you about something. Or when they didn’t come home for a while. It was a way of making sure they were there.
That they were alive.
You pulled him into the downstairs bathroom, gently pushing down on his shoulders to make him sit on the closed toilet. Steven’s head is still throbbing, but the world is no longer spinning.
He needs to hear your voice. Hear you get mad at them. He hates how quiet you are.
You open the cupboard under the sink in front of Steven, pulling out the first-aid kit, and placing it on top.
Jake is staring at you from the mirror. He’s pissed, Steven can tell. But, Marc is nowhere to be seen.
You gently take Steven’s hand, wiping the dry blood off of his knuckles. Wisps of hair fall in front of your face, and he wonders how you manage to look so pretty even at a time like this.
“I - We’re sorry.” Steven mutters. He doesn’t know where Marc is, or what happened, but he apologizes for him anyway.
You look up briefly, tired eyes boring into his, before shaking you head, and going back to cleaning his wounds.
“Do you - do you know? What happened?” you ask.
Steven catches the way your voice breaks slightly, eyes watching you as you carefully wrap a bandage around his hand, moving on to clean the next one.
“No. No - I - we,” he says, looking at the way Jake is watching carefully, “ we were hoping you knew.”
You shake your head again, bun lightly flopping around as you do so. “No we - we went to bed, and - and everything was fine. But, I woke up and he wasn’t there and -” you don’t finish the sentence. You don’t need to, the drop of water that lands on Steven’s fingers is an explanation enough. He feels terrible, thinking about all the possible scenarios that would’ve run through your mind.
You stop what you’re doing, wiping away your tears, before looking back at him, eyes still a little watery. “Who’s we?” you ask.
He knows what you mean.
“Just Jake and I,” he whispers, looking into the mirror.
“I’m going to kill him.” Jake seethes. Steven knows he hates seeing you like this. He knows Marc would hate it too. It’s probably why he hasn’t shown up yet.
You nod slowly, focusing on Steven’s hand again. He tries to piece things together, despite how his head is still throbbing. If he’d gone to bed with you, that means that whatever had happened, happened at night. Which could only mean one thing.
“Nightmare,” he mutters, mostly to Jake, but you hear it too.
You're wrapping up his knuckles again as you nod, “Yeah, that’s - that’s what I thought too. But I wish he’d stayed and woken me up,” you finish what you’re doing, moving back to the first aid kit to get more supplies for the rest of his cuts.
“He does have a bit of an alcohol problem,” Steven says, trying desperately to lighten the mood.
You don’t laugh however, and Jake is scowling from the mirror.
“You really expected that to work?”
Steven shakes his head slightly. His mind is too foggy to be able to think straight, but he still wants to make you feel better. It’s what he does, that’s his role. To fix things, be normal.
But how the fuck is he supposed to do that with this terrible hangover?
He watches as you walk back over to him, a new set of supplies in hand, as you start fixing the cut on his cheekbone next.
He reaches for your hand, stopping you. Your (e/c) eyes lock with his, confusion evident in them, as he intertwines his fingers with yours. “It’s not your fault that - that Marc left - y’know - the way he did,” he says, hoping - praying, that you don’t blame yourself.
You nod lightly, starting to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “Say it,” he says.
He knows he can’t comfort you, not in the state he’s in. But, he can make sure that you know how much you mean to them. To Marc. And that the way he reacted, had absolutely nothing to do with you.
“It’s not my fault. I know,” you respond, smiling softly. Steven nods, satisfied.
You tilt his head upwards, chin between your thumb and index finger. He watches your face as you clean up his wound. It’s almost as if he can see the swarming thoughts, your tongue poking out of your lips lightly as you try to focus.
You might just be the best thing that’s happened to the three of them. Marc had told you about their DID the moment he felt himself catching feelings. He’d hoped you would run away, thinking he was crazy.
But, you hadn’t.
You’d asked questions, figuring out boundaries. Things that you could and couldn’t do. You’d paid attention to the tiny details, to the point where you could just take one look, and you’d know who was fronting. You had snacks for each of them, always stocked up. You always said they were “3 individuals, one body,” and that’s exactly how you’d treated them.
“All done,” you said, gently smoothing out the band-aid you’d just placed. “We’ll get the eye checked out tomorrow with the doc,” you told him, cleaning up all the supplies, and then washing your hands.
Steven stares at the mirror, watching Jake pace back and forth. Marc’s absence seemed to be really pissing him off.
You’re back in front of Steven, eyes scanning him again. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”
It does.
His head, and his torso. But he doesn’t want to tell you, already feeling extremely guilty, so he shakes his head, pulling you towards him. You wrap your hands around his head, fingers in his hair, as he wraps his around your waist. However, the angle isn’t right, causing the pain in his abdomen to double, and he flinches away, cursing.
You react immediately, dropping down to his level, face filled with worry. “What happened? Di - Did I do something wrong?” you ask. He shakes his head, hands clutching the bruise in his side. You notice, reaching for the hem of his shirt. You look up at him, and he realizes that you’re silently asking for permission. He nods briefly, before letting you pull off his shirt, placing it on the sink.
He hears you gasping before he sees the wound himself.
It’s patches of purplish-blue, spanned across the right side of his abdomen. Your fingers hover over them gently.
“Steven,” you say, not looking away from the bruises.
He hums in response, the effect of actually seeing the cause of his pain making it unbearable.
“Who hurt you?” you ask, voice cracking with the sheer amount of anger hidden in it.
It takes Steven everything in him to not flinch away at the sheer force of the question.
Because the bruises and wounds aren’t just the results of a fight. It started way before. Before the fights with Khonshu, before all of it.
Marc got drunk because of a nightmare. And the nightmare, Steven knows, is caused by someone from Marc’s childhood. Someone who was never supposed to inflict such pain on him. On anyone.
Steven doesn’t know how to respond, so he stays quiet, watching you quietly.
He hates that he doesn’t know what to do.
“Comfort her Steven! Tell her you’re okay!” Jake yells from the mirror.
But Steven shakes his head. He knows you’d rather hear the truth, and bear it for a while, than any of them hide their pain or go through it alone.
You sigh, shaking your head. “You go sit in the living room. I’ll get you an ice pack. Do you want any painkillers?” you ask, heading out of the bathroom.
“Yeah. And a proper hug once you get back would be good,” Steven says, slipping his shirt back on.
You laugh, and Steven is grinning. He likes the sound of your happiness, even if it is topped off with exhaustion.
“Right away love.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steven had settled down on the couch by the time you returned with a glass of water, a pill and an ice pack. He took the pill immediately, wanting to desperately get rid of the throbbing in his head. He could still handle the rest fairly well.
You place the ice pack next to him on the couch, holding your arms wide open. Steven lets out a small laugh, wincing as he gets up and literally falling into your arms.
He wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck, as your hands wrap around his neck, one landing in his hair playing with the curls.
He feels safe.
You always made them feel that way.
Wanted. Needed. Loved.
He breathes in your scent, nuzzling into your neck, grip tightening as he tries to get rid of the millimeters of space between you both.
He doesn’t know if the hug is too tight, or if you can breathe, because you don’t complain, only pulling him closer. It’s as if you know. You know that he feels terrible on days like these. When he’s the one who has to pick up the pieces, wake up with a hangover. He hates it. And you know.
And you always always remind him that it’s ok to ask for help. For a hug. For a distraction.
He pulls away after a good few minutes, when he feels more stable.
“You ok?” you ask, brushing the curls out of his face.
He nods, sitting down, grabbing the ice pack. “It’s not cold anymore,” he laughs. You grin, reaching out to take it from him, but he shakes his head,“It’s ok, just say with me yeah? That’s medicine in its own right.”
A small laugh slips past your lips as you settle down next to him, his arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you into his side as your head rests on his shoulder.
“You sure you don’t want to sleep?” you ask, reaching for the remote.
“No, missed an entire day with you. I want to make up for it,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair.
“Alright then Mr. Grant, what are we watching?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Marc is trying really hard not to move. The shift had been smooth, and you hadn’t even realized, your gaze completely fixed to the TV. He wanted to keep it that way for a little longer, unsure if he’s ready to face your anger, or worse -
Your disappointment.
But as always, you seem to figure it out yourself, pausing the movie, and turning to sit with your legs crossed, facing him. “Hi,” you whispered, smiling softly.
Marc just stared at you in astonishment.
“How did you know?”
You shrugged, “I knew the second you fronted.”
He raises his eyebrows, and you giggle, “It’s your body language. Steven is more…relaxed,” you say.
He nods, looking at the TV screen. He wants you to yell at him. To tell him that he isn’t worthy of your love.
Because he always messes up.
But you don’t.
Of course, you don’t.
It’s why he loves you. Because you always give him time to explain. To think and to process.
He looks at you again, your eyes calm and waiting and so warm. It fills the empty chill inside of him, covering him from head to toe with the cozy feeling.
“I had a nightmare,” he mutters. You deserve an explanation, even if it’s the shittiest thing he could have done in that situation.
You nod, taking his hands in yours. You don’t ask him to continue, just quietly sitting there, your silence speaking volumes.
I’m here. I’m listening.
And Marc’s eyes spill over with tears, the memories flooding his brain, as he tells you why he’d disappeared.
“Sh-She was there. And so was - so was Randall, an-and all the people I’ve killed, and -” his breath hitches, the last nightmare swimming in his thoughts. He can almost feel it all again.
Your lifeless eyes.
The blood on his hands. Your blood.
“I killed you,” he whispers, “I killed you just like everyone else, just like -”
He’s cut off as you engulf him in a hug, his face pressed against your shoulder. You run your hands up and down his back, “It’s ok, it’s ok baby. I’m here,” you whisper again and again. Marc believes it more every time you say it. Letting your voice guide him to reality.
“I woke up and I felt terrible,” he says against your shoulder. He pulls away, your hands still holding his forearms. He feels empty with the loss of contact, but he wants you to know that he knows he shouldn’t have run.
“I got drunk and then some dude started saying some shit,” he mutters, shaking his head, “Guess I was already too hammered ‘cause I don’t remember what it was. I just remember a fight”
You nod, thumbs stroking his arms gently. “But I should’ve seen the other guy huh?”
Marc chuckles, “Yeah, yeah you should’ve seen the other guy.”
You grin, bending over and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
He wants to ask you why you do what you do. Wants to know why you’ve stayed, why you aren’t angry right now.
He also wants to apologize.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but you’re shaking your head. “I do wish you’d woken me up or something, but I’m not mad. I was just worried.”
He can’t comprehend why you’re so understanding. So patient. It’s foreign to him, and he’s not sure how to react.
“Why are you still here?” he blurts out, the need to know has gotten too strong for him to keep it in any longer.
Confusion makes its way to your face, brows furrowed together, head tilted.
He thinks you look cute.
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“I don’t know why you haven't left me. I-I’m - We’re fucked up,” he says. There was no going back now.
Your arms slip from their position, holding his hands instead, “Because I love you. All 3 of you.”
“Yeah I-I know. But I mean, we’re not that special,” he laughs dryly. He hates himself for bringing this topic up. His eyes flicker to everything but you, afraid of what he might see.
“Marc,” you call, “Marc look at me,” you cup his face, as his eyes land on you, nothing but confidence etched onto them.
“I don’t see you for your past. When I look at you, I don’t see what you’ve been through. I don’t see your trauma. I see you. The man I fell in love with. I look at Steven and I see a goofy little idiot,” you pause, smiling softly, “I see Jake and I see someone who flirts so much that I feel like my heart won’t stay in my chest,” you pause again, laughing lightly and Marc is extremely grateful that there aren’t any mirrors in this room. He doesn’t want to hear their boasting.
“And Marc when I look at you, I see your strength. Your ability to stand up again no matter what happens? I fucking love it. I love how much you care about people. About Steven, and Jake.” You run your thumb across his cheekbone, and Marc has to use all of his energy to keep himself from crying again. “You deserve so much love. I know that you don’t believe it. But I will be there to remind you. Again and again. As long as it takes, because you’re mine and I’m never gonna let you go.”
Marc can’t digest it all. It’s too much kindness. He’s never been given anything in life and it feels like you’ve just dumped all of your love on him.
You guide his face forward, foreheads resting against each other.
“Even if it takes a really long time?” he whispers.
You nod. “I will remind you and shower you with love, until I no longer have a heart to love with.”
Marc smiles, and it feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest.
It’s new, this feeling, but he’s loving it.
“And I love your eyes. And your smile. And your curls. I love everything about you,” you whisper.
He pulls away slightly, an eyebrow raised, “Everything?”
Red creeps up to your cheeks, “I was trying to have a moment here you asshole!” you say swatting his arm, a smile tugging at your lips.
Marc laughs, the feeling rising from his chest and filling him completely.
He pulls you towards him, “I love you too,” he mutters, before connecting your lips.
And he means every ounce of it.
Just like you’d said, you were his, and he was never gonna let you go. Ever.
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Hi, I'm Elias, I'm a 26yo trans guy from Denmark. I write shit, I draw shit, and I get into unneccesarily tedious arguments with anons about torture apologia in fiction. I think that sums up my vibe
I've made a few posts about this already, but tl;dr: the Danish NHS has been refusing to treat me for gender dysphoria for the better part of a year now because they've deemed me "unstable." Unstable how, you ask?
I have depression.
No, that is quite literally it. Full context under the readmore.
Fighting to be heard and having the door repeatedly slammed in your face sucks peak ass, and I'm done now. The NHS is so lackluster when it comes to trans people, all of a sudden, it makes perfect sense to me why 31% of transgender Danes get HRT outside of the NHS.
And I'd rather not have to turn to the black market, so rn I'm hoping to get a prescription with GenderGP. The issue is, I'm poor as fuck and can't afford the start-up fees for the forseeable future - unless I do something like this. I hate asking others for money, and I hate it even more if I'm not in a place where I can give anything in return. But I also recognize I'm in over my head with this, so. If you've got a cent or two to spare, I'd be grateful as hell.
I've mathed it out, and my best estimate is that I need around 3500,- DKK / $500 USD. Again, this is just to cover the initial subscription as well as mandatory consultations/blood tests. I should be able to cover the prescriptions on my own, as well as further tests/consultations down the line, so I'm hoping this is a one-and-done sort of thing.
Also, important note. We're in a global cost of living/housing crisis and this isn't a strict life-or-death situation. If you're in a tough spot right now, don't send me anything, that'd just make me feel worse about asking. I appreciate the thought but you gotta take care of your own needs first. Peace and take care ✌️
So I've been dealing with major depressive disorder since I was 11. It runs in my family, and as you might imagine, after 15 years of living with this thing, I've learned how to manage it pretty well by now. I know what it's like to genuinely be unstable - and if I were in a place like that, no problem, I'd be open about that. I wouldn't be making decisions like this. I know myself. You kind of have to when you're dealing with a chronic mental illness.
Here's where I am right now: I've got no suicidal ideation, been clean from self harm for four years, no psychosis, no inpatient admissions for the last five years. I live on my own, take my meds, and I'm keeping my life in order. Depressed, yes, but about as stable as someone with my history can get, and ask anyone who knows me, me wanting to get on HRT isn't some spur of the moment decision. I've done a fucking decade of soul searching, and a few years ago, I finally (duh) reached the conclusion that living as a woman isn't something I can even fake being content with - believe me, I've tried. I'm well aware of the scope of medical transition, but I'm settled in who I am. And I just want to live like me now. That's the only thing I want.
If it counts for anything, my partner and family have supported me through this, which has been priceless obviously, but it also goes to show that me saying "I'm capable of making medical decisions" isn't purely a personal assessment. I'm pretty sure they'd speak up if they thought I was being unstable about it or whatever
But the CPH clinic for sexology, who have consistently refused to listen to me telling them all this, have somehow magically aquired divine knowledge on my capacity to make adult decisions about my own body, and on the basis that I have MDD, they're refusing to even set me up for a preliminary interview - one that would preceed a 6 month full-team psych evaluation before the prospect of HRT would even come up. They said in their latest refusal that they wont accept another referral from me until a year after my last in-clinic conversation with them, which happened on October 24th, 2023 - meaning that with the NHS, if they accepted my referral come October (which I don't have much faith they will), the earliest I could possibly get on HRT is April 2025. Arguing for my own sanity would've sucked enough as is, but it's made harder by the fact that they won't even talk to me. You're a trans guy who would like healthcare, but you have a mental illness? Good luck, you're on your own. Long live the Danish bureaucracy.
Dysphoria makes me fucking miserable. I'd rather not have to write a sob story here, and tumblr is like 80% trans people so I guess a good portion of you can imagine why waiting another year for the possibility of maybe-perhaps-if-all-goes-well getting on HRT would not actually make me less miserable about it.
So. I'm sitting down next week along with my mom to file a formal complaint with the patient's rights committee. I don't know what to call this other than some form of discrimination on the basis of mental illness, because nothing in my current situation would prohibit me from making medical decisions for myself. And I honestly don't think that a complaint is going to do much, but I intend to make it obnoxiously long, because by law, a specialized doctor and an attorney have to read through the whole thing. If you can't beat 'em, make 'em read 50 pages of you going into detail about why you think they suck, right
And yeah, like I said, in the meantime, I'm trying to go via GenderGP. It'd be nice if my poor ass could get HRT via the NHS instead of having to pay out of pocket, but apparently the bar for entry requires that you 1) have gender dysphoria to the point where it impedes normal function and 2) somehow aren't mentally ill. Who wrote these rules? Some 60yo cis guy in a suit in Christiansborg, I imagine.
Feel free ask about anything relating to this whole situation, I'll be as open as I can about it, cause I understand that if you're going to give money to someone, you want to know what it's going to. Though I hope you understand I'm not going to doxx myself more than I already have now, or give you my entire medical history - only what's relevant to my current situation.
I know Denmark is a welfare state and on a global scale we're doing alright, but I hope you don't mind if I say this: This shouldn't be happening as often as it does. Fuck the Danish NHS.
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