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dont-feel-so-good-peter · 2 years

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𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐒𝐮𝐛!𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧, 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐟𝐞𝐦 & 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞), 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐱 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, suicide mention and mental illness mentions

Word count: 9k+

Note: I was suppose to be on break but my anxiety wouldn't let me. I swear to god this fucking flops as well, I’m quitting

Once again I'm promoting my Steven Fluff to read after reading smut

— STEVEN GRANT FINALLY HAD TO ADMIT TO HIMSELF THAT HE NEEDED HELP. Professional help that is, it took a while for him to understand that he was at his limit for a mental breakdown. He knew he needed to talk to someone other than the statue man on the street. Someone who would actually respond to when he ranted and well, he searched around for a therapist and found you.

Steven was quite nervous to start therapy, any person was really. To share your vulnerability was scary and Steven only ever been vulnerable with the lively statue by the fountain. His heart pounded in his chest as he shifted on his feet staring at the door with a frosted plane window with your last name on it. Steven was muttering underneath his breath trying to convince himself to go in.

"Don't be mental, you need this Steven. You just need help." Steven whispered to himself, staring at the plane, he saw the reflection shift a bit but he didn't move. He brought the back of his clenched fist to his eyes and rubbed them furiously. "I definitely gone mental."

With his series of muttering gradually becoming louder, suddenly, the door opened causing him to jump in his spot, taking a step back. Your head peeked out the door with furrowed brows and parted lips. Steven felt his breath caught in his throat staring at you with wide eyes. You were simply breathtaking. The way your [color] eyes stared at him in curiosity but with such softness that made him drown in those hues, losing himself all over again.

The way your hair fell over your face and your plump lips quirking into a soft smile. "Oh! You must be Steven Grant!" You beamed happily, opening the door more and stepping by the door frame. "I heard noises out here and I thought one of my neighbors was disturbing you."

Steven blinked rapidly, raising his arms in the air and shaking his hands around. "Ah, n-no. I'm sorry t-that was me! I was, uh, trying to convince myself to come in and I just-" Steven sighed heavily catching himself in his rambling. His cheeks tinted pink as he lowered his head. "I'm sorry, darling. I'm rambling."

Steven felt like curling into a ball and dying in a hole. He couldn't contain his stutters seeing a beautiful woman standing there with the softest eyes anyone, really, has ever given him. Most people ignored him but he was just glad that someone was willing to listen to him, even if he had to pay for someone to listen to his problems.

"It's okay, I see that you're nervous but come in and make yourself comfortable. Let me know if you need anything as well before we start." You said, opening the door wider for Steven to come in as you disappeared in the room.

Steven tilted his head back, closing his eyes. "Get it together, mate. This is your therapist, don't make her uncomfortable or anything." He whispered to himself, gathering his courage, and walked inside the room.

Steven felt the weight on his shoulder immediately dropped taking in the sight of the room. There were plants everywhere. Literally on the walls, near the window planes with the vines drooping lowly against the wall to the floor. It was colorful, a mushroom chair? Steven believed it was a chair in front of a comfortable green couch. The rug underneath the black wooden coffee table was a huge sunflower.

Steven smelt floral scents seeing multiple candles lit up around the room. The scent of vanilla with the label on the candles saying bath and body works. He had no clue where you got that candle from since he never heard of a bath and body works. The whole room was just comfortable and relaxing but he realize this was your living room, he worried for a moment that it was an invasion of your privacy coming to your apartment instead of your actual workplace.

"Oh, this is where I do my therapy sessions since I'm a private therapist." You said as if you read his mind coming back to him with two cups of tea in your hands. "Tea?

"Yes, please." Steven nodded, grabbing the mug from your hand. He shakily raised the mug to his lips, blowing against the steam to cool down the tea. His eyes roamed around as he saw you take a seat on the mushroom chair and sit down. "Why do you do your therapy sessions at home? Don't you think it's a bit dangerous with your clients?"

You took a small sip from your tea, raising your eyebrows up with a small chuckle. "I'm not too worried about that. I've been taking lessons in martial arts since I was a child and I still take lessons. I'm a black belt in different forms in martial arts so if someone tries, I can kick their ass."

Steven lightly smiled. "And it must be cheaper than owning an office. . ." He trailed off as his eyes landed on a cat tower with a white, fluffy cat with piercing blue eyes. The cat's tail swung back and forth on the edge of the tower as it stared at Steve. "Cat. Hello." He waved lightly to the cat.

The cat blinked its eyes at Steven. "I hope you don't mind Cleo. She's an emotional support cat, you can pet her if you like." You said, putting your cup on the black coffee table and folding your hands on top of your lap.

"Really? You don't mind if I pet her?" Steven said giddy, placing his mug on the table as well and striding to the cat tower, holding his hand out to Cleo. You shook your head as Cleo rubbed her forehead against his fingers, the smile stretched against his lips. "Did you name her after Cleopatra?"

"No, after Cleo De Nile." You lightly joked but the joke went over Steven's head as he furrowed his brows, petting the cat who closed her eyes in contentment loving the attention she was getting.

Steven felt all the worry and anxiety wash away petting the emotional support cat. He wanted an animal like a cat or dog but he couldn't take of himself well and didn't want to accidentally neglect the animal so he settled for a fish. "Cleo De Nile? I never heard of that name before."

"I was joking, Steven. I did name her after Cleopatra." You said watching the man curiously. You were taken back by how good-looking he was. The rough, brown curls fell over his head messily, slightly falling over his forehead. His tan skin glistened over the fluorescent lights showing the very dark bags underneath his brown eyes.

Your rule was not to fall for any clients because they were here to get the help they needed and to use the skills they gain to help cope with what they were dealing with. Your personal feelings didn't matter under this profession but watching this new client happily pet your cat with such delicate touches, talking to her as if she was a person and just his utter presence allured you. Especially when he called you darling, it made your heart pound.

"Do you like Egyptian history?" His voice suddenly held confidence and happiness, a sudden switch from before as his shoulder relax and he turned around to look at you with wide eyes.

"Yes. I find the concept of God's interesting after since a real one came and formed a group to help stop threats against our world, I've been non-stop researching other ones." You had to stop yourself from rambling because this wasn't about you, this was session was going to be about him but since he was ten minutes early, you could talk about whatever until the time came for the session.

"They're quite fascinating, innit?" Steven was jumping on the balls of his feet, walking to the green chair near the cat tower, and sat down. You nodded and you allowed Steven to rant about Egyptian history. The way he spoke so passionately about the subject, you couldn't help but smile seeing how his eyes would glint happily. Whatever nerves he had before were just gone.

You, at first, thought he was a shy person but he wasn't shy. No one would listen to him and that made him shy away from people because you believed when he did try to be an outspoken person, they would ignore him. You didn't feel bad for him, you felt bad for those people who are missing out on a person who was passionate and honestly funny.

You couldn't help but giggle at his puns while he talked about the history. You knew most of what he was talking about but you allowed your clients to ramble about their passions. You liked seeing how people would light up when they spoke about their passions. "And- oh, wait. I'm sorry, darling. I'm wasting your time." Steven begins to apologize, burying his face in his hands. "I rambled again, didn't I?"

"You did but I enjoyed our talk, now, it's time for our therapy session." You said, tilting your head and crossing your legs across each other.

Steven felt his cheeks tint again in embarrassment. His eyes searched for any signs of annoyance in his ramblings but there was no annoyance, just pure softness that never went away. "O-oh, of course." He cleared his throat, removing his hands from his face. "Um, I've never been to therapy before so I'm not sure how this works? Have you ever been to therapy before-" he stopped himself with wide eyes, frantically shaking his hands in the air. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry-"

"Steven, it's fine. You don't need to apologize." You smiled softly. He relaxed a bit but felt embarrassed again that he was overly apologizing. "I have been to therapy before. How I like to start with new clients is by telling a bit of myself and I tell my new clients that I have been to therapy before. I don't mind sharing this but I witness my mom kill herself in front of me. I suffered from PTSD, dissociation, and depersonalization. I went through therapy for years because of that and it helped."

Steven frowned. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

"It's okay but the bottom line of getting the help you need is admitting to yourself that you need help. You're brave enough to admit that you need to be vulnerable with someone and just being here, you're on the journey for healing."

Steven didn't know what it was but your words elevated his attraction toward you. He had to mentally cuss himself for finding any type of attraction towards you. It was inappropriate for him to find you attractive. You were his therapist, this is your job to comfort him, to help him, and guide him. He shouldn't be feeling attraction.

Steven softly smiled at your words. "I'm a bit nervous." He admitted, shifting in his chair as his eyes met your gaze to see how gentle and patient you were being.

"That's okay, with each session, it will get easier."

Steven nodded and hoped it will get easier to be more vulnerable.

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Six months have passed and Steven did become more vulnerable and looked forward to each therapy session. He grew more confident with each and every session, comfortable enough to talk about everything and anything that was going on with him.

You also saw how slowly he was growing to get better. Meeting with him every Wednesday for the past four months and watching him get better has been a delight. The bags underneath his eyes slowly decreased and he was resting a bit better with each month, there were still issues to be talked about and healed from but the overall progress made Steven happier.

And with each session, you couldn't help your hammering heart against your rib cage with each discussion, each talk of his or yours hyper fixation. It almost felt just like a talk between friends and Steven did consider you his friend. He knew he paid you to hear his problems but he didn't have many friends, in fact, none at all but he saw you as one.

And perhaps you were starting to see him as one as well. These therapy sessions have become more than just you listening to his mental problems and diagnosing him and also giving him tips and tricks to helping himself when he can't get to you. But the thing was, he has your number and often called you. He just didn't call you for when he was having mental breakdowns.

There were the late-night talks about anything that came to yours and his mind. The daily night calls that made your heart swarm. You looked forward to seeing Steven Grant each Wednesday and the phone calls each night.

"So, how's your niece doing?" Steven questioned, petting Cleo on his lap who happily purred against his lap, rubbing her head against his chest. She wasn't the only one enjoying his company, you were wearing your lazy clothing instead of your professional clothing. Just the simple change in clothing that Steven noticed in the past three weeks you changed into.

"Her first day at Kindergarten started this week. My sister sent me pictures." You beamed, pulling out your phone, and showed him the picture of your niece smiling wide at the camera with the overly huge backpack slung on her back.

Steven smiled staring at the picture. "She's bloody adorable. . ." He trailed off glancing up at you. "Do you ever wish to have children?"

"Oh God no. . .I'm more like the rich, fun aunt. I believe that not everyone is made to be a parent." You pulled your phone away and locked it. "Have you ever thought about children?"

Steven tilted his head as he thought about it. Would he ever have children? Children were a big responsibility and he was already thirty-six without children. There was no shame in having kids and he didn't know if he could take care of another human. "Time to time but I don't think I can take another human."

You purse your lips and nodded. "Yeah, I understand. And the financial stability. . ." You trailed off, glancing over to the clock. "Oh, it's therapy time."

For some reason, Steven couldn't concentrate. His eyes would fall on your lips as you talked. The way the plumpness of it would form words as you occasionally wet your lips. How the white, round glasses were perched on your nose. He liked how carefree you were around him, that made you more attractive to him but it was mental for him to feel attraction towards his therapist. The low-cut black tank top that showed your cleavage perfectly, his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed thickly trying to make it too obvious he was staring at your breast. God, how could he focus when you were wearing the smallest grey shorts that barely covered your ass.

Steven didn't like to be a pervert but his dark eyes would follow your movements around the apartment and stare at the plush of your thighs. He wondered how soft they would be around his head, clenching around him as you panted above him and called him a good boy. Praising his actions as his tongue swiftly lapped around your puffy clit. He felt terrible for thinking the most sexual thoughts about you but fuck, he wants to bury his head between your pretty thick thighs.

Steven could say he was a thigh person, he wasn't as much before but after meeting you and meeting with you every Wednesday, his kink has grown more. He could imagine the padding of his fingers roaming around the inner of your thighs to help stimulate your orgasm further. No, this was wrong. He shouldn't think about his therapist, his friend like this.

You were only supposed to be helping him. Suppose to guide him on the journey of healing. Yet here he was gazing upon you with uttermost affection and lust, his eyes dilating as he couldn't take his eyes off of you. He felt his cock twitch in his jeans, his cheeks flushed peering his eyes away from you.

This wasn't appropriate. Well, he crossed that line when he call you every night to hear the softness and sweetness lacing in your voice. He would call you just to hear it as he imagined laying next to you. Steven often went far imagined laying between your thighs as he cuddled them. Imagining his mouth around your plump breast, littering the delicate skin with hickeys. He crossed the line and crossed it further as he was growing an erection.

"Steven?" You called out.

Steven hummed out nervously staring back at you, fidgeting his fingers around as he covered his arms over his lap. "Yes, love?" He asked nervously, hoping he didn't get caught.

"I was calling your name a few times and you didn't answer. . .are you okay?" Your voice laced with concern as your head tilted gazing upon the man who refused to make eye contact. It only furthers your concern as you leaned your body down, resting your arms on your lap. "Steven?"

Steven glanced over at you. The viewing of your breast propped onto of your arms, he felt his cock harden from the sight, inhaling a deep breath. "I'm. . I'm quite alright. Peachy, love." He shudder out a response giving you a quick smile before he glanced away again.

Steven was always an oddball to you. That was something you liked about him but seeing him just as nervous as he was six months ago worried you a lot. You scooted your chair closer as your fingers brushed against his hand. He inhaled a sharp breath, focusing himself to look at you. The line between your brows evidently showed how worried you were for him. "Are you sure you're okay?" You softly questioned, rubbing the padding of your fingers against his rough, scarred hands.

Steven nodded frantically. "Mhm, I just- I think I need tea to calm me down." He muttered out a response trying to bore his eyes only onto your face but it was hard to not look down when the view of your breast and thighs were in front of him.

"Okay, I'll make you some tea." The warm, welcoming smile you always gave him made his heart swell as you got up. His eyes bore onto your frame as you walked over to the kitchen. His eyes were trained on the way your thighs would rub against each other as you walked.

Steven hated how a small crush on his therapist turned out to be more of a problem than he thought it would be. Here he was with a hard cock wanting you to fuck him where he was sitting. It wasn't right to fall for the person who he paid for to help with his problems. It was fucking mental that he did something like this but yet here he was, daydreaming of all the possibilities of what he could do between your thighs.

"Steven?" You called out.

Steven turned his head towards you, arching an eyebrow and seeing your awkward smile. "Yes, darling?" He said.

"My tea bags are on the top cupboard and I was hoping that you could grab them for me. Last time I stood on a chair to get something from the cupboard, I broke my leg." You lightly joked, he knew because he was there and dragged you to the hospital, frantically stressing out because you broke your leg in front of him.

Steven paused on the memory of your broken leg. He would have to stand up to get the tea bags for you. That meant you would see his erection. His eyes slightly widened as he froze in his seat. "We-We don't have to make tea. I think I'm fine."

You arched an eyebrow at the flustered man who was too jittery. "If you don't get it for me, I will stand on a chair and you will have to drag me to the hospital again."

Steven hated how his therapist pulled the guilt trip card. Abuse of your power he could say because you were also giving him pleading eyes, glancing over to the same chair you broke your leg on. The power you had on him, you had to know the effect you had on the man because why else would you use those eyes on him. You had to know that he would do anything for you. It was sick how Steven was acting, he was your client, he shouldn't act how he is.

"Yeah, right. We don't want that again, now do we?" Steven muttered out, standing up as he shuffled to the kitchen. You stood there with the mugs on the sink, not moving. He knew where the tea bags were, the cupboard was directly above you where they were at. "Are you going to move?" He asked, he sounded ruder than he intended to but he knew if he went behind you, you would feel his hard dick against you.

"I'm preparing. You can just get it from behind me Steven." You said nonchalantly, glancing up at him through your glasses as you rose an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're fine?"

Steven closed his eyes for a moment as his heart hammered. "I'm fine, love. I can get it from behind." He muttered loudly as he awkwardly shuffled behind trying to stay a distance away from you but his chest brushed against your back. He reached over your head to grabbed the tea bags but he stumbled over his footing as his body pressed against your back.

Your hands gripped the edge of the counter as you froze. Steven froze as well. His hard cock brushed against the plump of your ass. His heart dropped as his eyes grew wide staring at the back of you. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry-" Steven abruptly stopped as he felt the plush of your ass press against him.

Steven nervously gulp and stared at you. You tilted your head to look at him. You should be disgusted with him. Telling him to back off as you kicked the shit out of him but you stared at him with half-lidded eyes clouded with lust. "God, I've been thinking about wanting to fuck you, Steven but I had my rule to not fall for my clients. But. . .I wanted you since I saw you. You finally grew the balls to make a move, after all, that time of mind fucking me?"

Steven's jaw slacked. "You. . .You knew?" His cheeks heated up as you chuckled, nodding and turning around to face him. "And you never said anything?"

You shrugged as your lips tugged into a smirk. "I'm a therapist. I can break someone's mind without touching them. So, I know when someone wants to fuck me with a mere glance." You pressed your hand against his chest as you backed him against the island kitchen counter. "You want to fuck me. Don't you, Steven?"

Steven couldn't believe that you knew that he wanted to fuck you but didn't say anything about it. He nodded shyly as his cheeks burned brighter under his tan skin. "Use your words, baby." You urged, lifting your lips against his. Gently grazing his soft lips as his eyes fluttered from the mere touches of you.

"I want to fuck you, please let me fuck you," Steven begged, gazing down at you as your hand roamed from his chest to his cheek. The padding of your fingers intricately trailed along his prominent jawline as they weaved through his thick brown curls. Something about men begging made your cunt pool with heat.

"Patience. Remember we learned that?" You hummed sickly with a head tilt as you pressed a light kiss against his lips. He leaned in for more, craving your lips against his but you moved your head back, shaking your head. "Huh, I guess you didn't learn patience enough through our sessions. Must I teach you again?"

Steven nodded. "Words, sweetheart. I want to hear words coming out of your mouth for the rest of the night, Steven. You'll get your reward if you obey, do I make myself clear?" You remarked. Your voice laced with harshness, it was something completely different from what Steven was used to. What happened to his sweet, soft therapist who was kind and tender with him?

"Yes," Steven replied. He was eager, this shouldn't be happening. You knew this shouldn't be happening. You made a vow that you wouldn't fuck any of your clients. That any relationship with them was inappropriate but Steven Grant was different. Perhaps, the returned attraction came when you heard his heavy breaths through the phone on the nightly calls, imagining his heavy pants underneath you as you rode his overly sensitive cock into oblivion.

But he was like an addiction. Watching him slouch back against the same chair in front of you, seeing his thick thighs spread in front of you. His eyes lighting up with excitement as his lips formed in the most intricate ways. It was hard not to imagine his lips on your pussy. This addiction to your client went far, you dreamt about Steven most nights as you fall asleep with him on the phone. Sometimes, you wondered if he heard your whimpers during the night from the sexual dreams you had of him.

This was wrong. But the addiction of looking forward to each therapy session gave you a high. A euphoric high you haven't felt in so long. He intoxicated you in ways that captured you and completely destroyed you. You promised yourself that you would fall for a client but here you were leaning your lips against his as you roughly pulled him by his curls.

Steven grasp your waist as his nose bumped against yours. The kiss was sloppy, much needed as you fell victim to his addictive touches. He pushed you back to the counter as his hands roamed from your waist to your face. His hands were too big to fit on your face entirely, part of it rested on your neck as he rubbed the back of your neck with his fingers.

The plumpness of your lips moving against his made him groan as he rutted his hips against yours. Blunt fingernails scraping against his scalp made his cock twitch harder. Steven felt his skin burn as he relish in the thought of finally kissing you after months of imagining it. But he wanted more, you weren't the only one with the addiction. He was addicted to you, addicted to everything you did.

You pulled your head back hearing Steven's heavy breaths. Your eyes dilated gazing up at Steven seeing his eyes bore at you, half-lidded with that euphoric state. "Please, I want more. Please, let me taste you." He begged, falling to his knees as his hands grasped around the flesh of your thighs, squeezing.

"I don't know. . .have you been a good boy?" You asked, curling your lips into a fake pout. "Because we were trying to work on your patience and yet here you are begging to taste me. Do you truly think you deserve to taste me?"

Steven nodded frantically as his cheeks turned pink. He hated how you knew that he loved being praised. This power you were using of looking inside of his mind was terrifying yet he couldn't get enough of it. "I do. I've been patiently waiting to taste you for months, shouldn't I deserve an award?"

You hummed as the corner of your lips tugged into a small smirk. "That's dedication. Perhaps you do deserve to taste me then." You parted your lips open, the slick aroused and dampen your panties. Just the sight of Steven on his knees, begging was enough to make you crumble. His pleading, brown eyes as his brown curls fell messily over his forehead. The way he tilted his head back as he let out a small whimper when you pressed a small kiss against his forehead.

"Thank you." Steven said, shuffling closer to your parted legs. He brought his large palms on the outer part of your thighs. His hands roamed on the side of your thigh creating a tingling sensation. The callous of his hands made you shudder as he stared at your body with admiration, his tongue dragged across his bottom lip as he glanced back at you with permission. "May I taste you now?"

"Yes, you deserve it." You replied.

Steven eagerly brought his hands to your small grey shorts. He imagined all the times when he fucked you in those grey shorts but next time, he will get that chance. His fingers curled around the hem of your shorts and panties, pulling them down swiftly to your ankles. You stepped out of the fabrics as you kicked them aside.

Steven brought his eyes to your pussy. His breath hitched staring in awe. The slick dripped against your inner thigh. His eyes fluttered at the sight as he brought his lips to the inner of your thighs. The warm breath fanned against your delicate skin, shivering from his breath you gazed down at him. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't make me wait forever."

"And here I thought I was the impatient one," Steven said but you rose an eyebrow at him. Who knew he was a bratty submissive. Feeling your intense gaze, his shoulders slumped as he shrinks from your eyes boring onto him. "I'm sorry." He meekly replied.

"Another snarky comment and you won't feel my lips on your cock."

Steven's eyes widened as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again." His heartbeat against his chest, he was too excited for this. His tongue dragged against the slick that coated your inner thighs. His teeth scraped against the delicate skin as his lips formed around the skin, sucking harshly.

You sucked in a sharp breath, hissing through your teeth. His hands roamed on the outer part of your thighs. His tongue wasn't in you yet but just from his mere sucking made your walls flutter around nothing. "Steven." You breathlessly whispered as he twirled his tongue around your inner thighs, trailing litters of dark hues of purples on your inner thigh.

Your fingers curled around his thick curls as you felt his teeth leave crescent markings. Steven may be submissive but he still wanted people to know that you belonged to him. "Just taste me already." You snapped feeling impatient with his languid licks around your thighs, denying the simple pleasure of tasting of your pussy.

Steven bit back a remark. He knew if he commented on your impatient behavior again, you would walk away from him as a punishment. "As you wish." He said against your thigh, pressing a light kiss on it. He moved his head away from your thighs and stared at your glistening puffy lips. Your slick aroused further from his hickeys on you, he tried his best not smirk as he gazed up at you with half-lidded eyes. "You have a pretty pussy, doctor."

Your thighs clenched from his nickname. "Then have a taste of it." You murmured, weaving your fingers through his curls, tugging at the ends pulling his mouth forward to your clit.

Steven's hand roamed to your ass, firmly grabbing it to hold you still. He brought his lips against your clit sucking it. You let out a small yelp from the sensitivity. He chuckled against your clit, sending vibrations against you causing further stimulation. "Don't laugh."

Steven immediately shut up. His tongue swiped around your folds causing you to moan and buckle your hips against his face. His tongue flicked around your pussy, capturing the essence of your pussy. His nose nudged against your slick as he took inhaled deeply. He was utterly intoxicated by you. He brought one of his hands to your cunt, he teased you with the padding of his forefinger. His fingers moved to rub your expose slit roughly.

You rutted your hips against his mouth as he lapped his tongue around your puffy clit. You threw your head back, moaning loudly above him. His fingers pressed inside of your fluttering walls feeling your walls pull him in as he moved his fingers further in. The stretch made you gasp. "Steven, fuck. I can't wait for your cock inside of me."

Steven's lips tugged into a smirk. He couldn't wait to feel your pussy around him. His tongue lashed side to side against your clit. Your parted lips fell to meek whimpers as your thighs violently shook. With his other hand, he trailed it down underneath your thigh, grasping the meat of it as he propped it on his shoulder, further accessing your pussy.

You cried out his name as he added his middle finger feeling your walls pulsate rapidly around his fingers. Steven peered at you through his lashes feeling your hands curled tightly around his brown curls as you rutted your hips against his mouth. "Take what's yours, darling," Steven said. He felt an ache in his jaw but he didn't care, fuck, he waited for this sight with each therapy session. He wasn't going to stop tasting you.

You rolled your eyes back in absolute bliss from his tongue rapidly flickering around your puffy clit as his fingers curled inside of your pussy. He knows what he's doing what his fingers. You imagined his fingers inside of your pussy for months with all those times he would accidentally brush his fingers against your arms. His fingers were better than what you imagined.

Your legs wobbled from ecstasy. Steven was being too greedy. Too eager. You narrowed your eyes at him as you pulled his head away from your pussy. His chin was covered in his own drool along with your slick. The line between his brows showed how confused he was. "I wasn't done." He whined trying to shuffle closer to you but you narrowed your eyes more. He shrink from the gaze as he closed his mouth.

"Go to your chair. I'll be back." You threw his head back as you stepped away from him.

Steven scrambled up as he walked over to his usual chair confused. He hoped he didn't offend you in any way. He hoped he didn't cause any harm. Million of thoughts flooded his brain as he sat down, shaking his leg up and down waiting for you. But once you came back, his thoughts disappeared into nothing as he saw two sets of fabric in your hands.

Restraints? Blindfolds?

Steven shifted in his spot as you walked over to him, bowing from your waist as you went with eye level to him. He could see the reflection of himself staring back at him through your glasses but for some reason, he saw his reflection shift when he didn't move. He blinked and the movement stop. It was just in his imagination.

"Are you going to blindfold me?" Steven asked almost too eager as he sat up straighter.

"Yes but strip for me but leave your boxers on, sweetheart." You said as a small smirk formed on your lips seeing Steven's wide eyes.

"Strip?" He gulped as he anxiously brought his fingers to the hem of his shirt.

"Yes, or else you want to talk about your problems which I'm happy to do." You said, standing up straight and shrugging your shoulders.

"No!" Steven winced at how loudly he shouted. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. "No, I will do what you ask, doctor."

"Good boy." His cheeks heated up as he pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it to the couch. He glanced over to the cat tower hoping Cleo wasn't watching but thankfully, she was somewhere else. He lifted his hips as he unbuckled his belt and took his jeans off. He complied with what you asked for and left his black boxers on. "Hmm, you can listen, unlike our sessions where you valiantly ignored my suggestions."

Steven felt embarrassed about that. For the first three weeks, he did ignore your suggestions but it was because he forgot about them. It wasn't his fault. "I'm sorry, doctor." He muttered out an apology as he sat back down on the chair.

You tsk, stepping closer to him. "Well, don't worry. You'll get your punishment." You leaned your body close to his. Your breast brushed against his shoulder as you placed his arms behind the chair. Intricately, you tied the rope around his wrist.

"What did I do wrong?" Steven asked, furrowing his brows.

"Taking a long time to fuck me so I will return the favor." You cheekily replied, standing straight as you grasp the other fabric holding out near to his eyes. "Oh, and you don't get to see what I'm going to do to you. Let's call it sensory touches."

Steven was sick to choose his therapist to fall in love with. He didn't know what was worse, you using therapy terminology for sexual acts or him loving the idea of you dominating him. The fabric-covered his eyes as he couldn't see anything but darkness. You tied the fabric around his head tightly, stepping away once you were done you stared at the sight of Steven.

Steven looked like a mess. He shifted under the tight ropes, feeling it burn against his wrist with each movement, grazing roughly around his skin. His head was tilted back as his puffy lips were captured between his teeth. His thick thighs were spread as his hard cock strained against his boxers.

Your walls clenched around nothing, feeling the arousal of your slick fall against your inner thigh. You were quiet as you admired the man in front of you. He was your patient trying to get better but here you were having him blindfolded and restrained to a chair. You licked your lips gazing at him, silently walking up to him.

Steven perked up at your silent movements. You crawled on top of Steven, your legs rested between one of his thighs. He furrowed his brows at what you were doing. He hated how he couldn't see anything but he had to rely on his other senses. "I want to touch you," Steven said, shifting underneath you restraining against the ropes around his wrist.

"I'm only allowed to touch you. Rely on your other sensors." You replied, fully sitting on his lap, straddling his thigh. Steven's breath hitched in his throat feeling the slick arousal spread across his bare thigh.

"Fuck, please. Doctor, I want to touch you. I want to watch you cum on my thigh. Please." Steven pleaded trying to shift his head to nudge the blindfold off but your fingers curled around his neck, forcing his head up.

"Be a good boy and sit there." You replied. Steven whimpered as you rutted your hips against his bare thigh stimulating your needy clit. A soft moan left your parted lips but Steven groaned feeling your wetness against him. You brought your lips against the shell of his ears, whispering "Just sit there and feel me."

Your teeth scraped against his neck as you clamped them down against his sensitive skin, sucking harshly. Steven moaned as your tongue lapped languidly around his delicate skin. Steven couldn't see anything but his senses were heightened, his cock twitched from your warm breath fanning against his neck as your mouth sucked his neck. With his sight completely covered, he could enjoy the intricate movements of your mouth.

The way your hips rutted needy and greedily against his bare thigh. He moved his wrist around the restraints as he threw his head back, whimpering and heavy breathing. Broken moans fell from your lips against his neck. The simple vibrations sent him to absolute bliss as your fingers curled roughly around his neck.

Your slender fingers clamped around his neck causing Steven to let out a low moan as you squeezed harshly. Your walls fluttered from the stimulation of using Steven's thigh for your pleasure. Watching him sitting there, like a good boy sent you to an absolute bliss. You knew he would love being praised and loved to comply, it was terrible to use your psychological analysis against him but he was enjoying it.

"Please, let me see you, doctor." Steven pleaded, panting through his parted lips. "I'm being a good boy. I'm complying."

"Patience." You replied letting out small cries of pleasure as your clit brushed roughly against his thigh. Your thighs shook violently against his as your walls pulsated coming closer to your release.

"I need to see you cum." Steven begged but it fell on death ears as you shut him up with your lips sucking his neck. His cock strained against his boxers waiting for you to touch him. Your walls fluttered as the bubble formed in your stomach. Your body spasmed, shaking from your release as you cummed over his thighs.

The slick pooled down his thigh, falling to the chair. Steven whined as he let out a huff. "I wanted to see you cum." He muttered angrily.

"Oh? You're acting bratty again. I was going to be kind enough to ride you at this moment but since you want to act like a brat, your punishment is extended." You said, getting up from thigh.

Steven's eyes widened behind the blindfolds hearing you walk away from him. "Wait, no. Please! I'm sorry." He cried out, moving against the restraints. "Darling, I'm sorry."

You didn't say anything as your fingers curled around a candle. Walking over to Steven, your other hand curled around the hem of his boxers. Pulling it down, your mouth slightly slacked seeing his size as his cock stood up. The pinkish, swollen tip leaked with pre-cum, drooling against the underside of his forking veins. You shamelessly licked your lips, you didn't know how he was going to fit anywhere in you but you liked a challenge.

"Darling?" Steven called out nervously, shuddering from his exposed cock. He felt a small relief but he could only feel true relief if you were on him. You tilted the hot liquid onto his tan skin, watching it trickle down his chest. He jolted from the sudden pain as he let out a hiss, the liquid darkening and hardening against his skin leaving red lines that stretched across his broad chest. "Oh god."

Steven lifted his hips from the pain. You saw how his cock harden from the pain. You rose an eyebrow at this. "Likes pain as well. Noted." You held the candle above his body teasingly as you brought your other hand and brushed your fingers against his tip.

His cock twitched from the mere touch as he groaned, throwing his head back. "Please, touch me. Suck me. Fuck me. Anything, doctor." He pleaded, rutted his hips against your touch.

You chuckled darkly, shaking your head. "Just because you took the pain like a big boy." Your fingers curled around the tip, capturing his slick around your hands, and twisted your hand lightly. You tilted the candle again as the hot wax trickled from the edge, falling against his burned marks.

Steven hissed through his clenched teeth as he rutted his hips against your hips. "Fuck, more. Please."

You rose your eyebrows but a smirk appeared on your lips. Your thumb massage his sensitive tip, feeling his cock twitch under your hands as you continued to twist your hands in the right way he needed the most. You tilted your head over his tip, you pursed your lips to get and spat. The drool fell from your bruised lips to his swollen tip. He arched his back from the liquid hitting his tip as you captured the essence in your hands, smearing your spit around his cock.

You poured the hot wax against his other pectoral. The dribble of the liquid fell hurriedly into hot streaks of red lines along his chest against his nipple. Steven grunted in pain, capturing his teeth between his lips as he moaned. "I don't think I can hold on any longer." He admitted as his cock violently twitched as the liquid dribbled down to the curve of his abs. "Please, let me cum."

"No." You pulled your hand away from his twitching length as he let out whimpers from the loss of contact. You stood up and placed the candle on the coffee table. You gazed at Steven. He was a panting mess as he arched his back off the chair. The red markings of the hot wax presented itself as the hues of purples littered around his neck. His hair was completely messy falling everywhere as the blindfold covered his vision.

"I've been good, please, darling. I want to see you. I want to feel you." Steven pleaded but you didn't reply, you fell between his spread thighs. He felt your shoulders brush against his legs as your hands roamed on his hands. Intricately tracing the curving of his abs, you wondered how he was ripped when he admitted to doing nothing to gain them. You were suspicious of Steven because from the admitted blackout days, you worried that there was someone else inside of him.

You didn't get that part of the therapy but you knew something was off. But now wasn't the time to think of that. "You'll feel me soon. Just endure the punishment for a bit longer." The purring in your voice brought that addictive high that Steven couldn't get enough of.

Steven nodded. You brushed your lips against his swollen tip. He hated to be edged on and to wait for you but he didn't want this to end. Languidly, you trailed your lips around his tip capturing his slick and your spit. He let out a shuddering breath, slouching against the chair as he sighed heavily in contentment. He thickly swallowed feeling your tongue curl around his tip, hitting the sensitive spot.

"Oh, fuck, love." Steven cried out, desperate to see you on your knees in front of him. Your tongue swirled around his forking veins on the spot that desperately needed attention. Meek whimpers left his parted lips. Spit blubbered against the corner of your lips, drooling down your chin as you took more of him in.

Steven gasped from the way your mouth was taking him. You shuffled your thighs together to try to stimulate the ache between your thighs but you were eager to ride him as much as he was eager to take it. Your chest tightened as he rutted his hips into your mouth, he was so needy to feel all of you around him. It was pathetic. Your cheeks hallowed as you lashed your tongue around his cock.

Steven didn't care he was moaning. He was enjoying this. Enjoying knowing that his therapist was on your knees sucking his cock. As much as he loves to be submissive, he likes the dominant parts to come out once in a while.

You knew if you continued to bob your head up and down on his cock, he would release soon. Pulling your head back, the silver string of drool and pre-cum glistened under the fluorescent lights. The string of drool wisps broke against your skin, dripping down your chin as you stood up. Steven whimpered at the loss of contact. "Please, stop teasing me. I need you."

"Don't worry, you suffered your punishment far enough." You cooed, bringing your lips against his as your fingers went behind his blindfold and untied it. Steven blinked away the darkness as he stared at you watching you pull away from him.

Steven was happy to see you finally after the torture he was put through. His eyes fluttered half-lidded gazing at the sight of you. You still wore your black tank top that showed your cupped breast perfectly and those glasses were still perched on the bridge of your nose. "Then please, fuck me." Steven sighed out.

"I will." You crawled on top of his lap, straddling his thighs as your walls teased the tip of his cock. Steven tilted his head as he lurched his hips up but you lifted your hips up with a raised eyebrow. "Patience."

"Yes, I know," Steven muttered as he slumped back down, waiting for you. Your glistening, slick folds brushed against his tip teasingly. His eyes narrowed at you, not in a condescending way but in a begging way. Deciding you had enough teasing the poor man, your dripping folds lowered down. Sliding down against his thick cock, you let out a low moan as Steven groaned, throwing his head against your shoulder.

Your fingers roamed against the muscular contours of his chest as if you were memorizing his body. Trailing the padding of your fingers against the red markings of the hot wax. Steven let out a shuddering breath from your feathered touches. You shamelessly rutted your hips on his cock feeling it nudge your cervix. He rutted his hips against yours to meet your pace.

Steven clamped his mouth against your shoulder as his wrist rubbed together. He hated these damn restraints because he wanted to touch you everywhere. He wanted to hold you close to him but you denied him of his fantasies. Your breast was pressed against his chest as your thighs rubbed against his waist. His prominent walls dragged along your inner walls so perfectly.

Steven knew he crossed many lines before but nothing like this before. This friendship bloomed from therapy sessions to you fucking him on the very chair that he sat on every Wednesday. He knew this was terribly wrong. He knew he shouldn't be doing this but he didn't care.

Steven had his red flags but this was the most prominent one. He used his resources of relief all on you now, was there need for therapy when he had you now?

Steven rutted his hips sloppily against yours. "You've been a good boy for me, Steven." You whined out, your forehead falling against his shoulder feeling his tongue lash around your shoulder as you moved your hips down his cock watching the slick glisten along his forking veins.

"I. . .I love you, doctor." Steven shyly admitted as he panted. The slapping of skin filled the air as broken moans filled out from the both of you.

Your cheeks heated up from his confession, feeling your walls pulsated around his cock. "I love you too, Steven." You admitted. You weren't supposed to fall in love with your clients but Steven Grant took your breath away and you fell for him. Hard.

Steven's cock frantically went in and out of you as you let out shaking breaths. He thrusted harshly against your cervix. As you brought the padding of your thumb against your clit. You cried out, wishing it was Steven but one day, it will be his fingers on your puffy clit again. The added stimulation enlightened your senses as you sloppily rubbed your clit. "Oh fuck." Steven cried out as your walls fluttered around him.

Sobs escaped your lips as your orgasm rippled through. Your thighs shook violently around his thighs as Steven bottomed out inside of you, letting out a low groan feeling your pulsating cunt help him through his release. You languidly moved your hips around him, Steven let out a hiss from the overstimulation as he whimpered. "It's too much." He said.

Teasingly, you rutted your hips up and down watching Steven's eyes roll back to his head as he bit his bottom lip trying to hold back his cries. You let out a small snicker and pulled yourself off of him. The mixture of cum, fell against your thighs. Your face heated as you reached over Steven and untied his wrist.

Steven brought his hands together, rubbing his wrist as he stared at you. "Are you okay, love?" He whispered.

You smiled genuinely as you nodded. He was always worried about others. It was something that you admired. "Yes, are you?" You glanced down to the red streaks on his chest that trailed down to his curved abs.

Steven nodded. "Yes but. . ." He stood up and placed his hands softly against your hips. "I need to shower but before that. . .did you mean what you said that you loved me? What about your rule that you told me about?"

You shrugged letting out a soft chuckle. "Screw the rule. I fell in love with someone who loves me for me. Not because I help you through you problems but sees me. I love you, Steven. Cleo loves you. I'd throw all my therapy rules away for you."

Steven felt a huge grin spread on his lips as he massaged your hips. "I'd throw all my Egyptian knowledge for you."

You gasped, gazing at him. "You love me that much?"

"If the multiverse was real, I would love you in every universe. And in every universe, I would give up everything to love you." Steven replied, brushing his forehead against yours as his eyes bore into yours. Your heart hammered as you gazed back at him with a huge smile. "These therapy sessions should happen more often though."

"You are scheduled for every Wednesday." You reminded him as you stood on your tippy-toes and pressed a small kiss to his lips.

"And I cant wait for the next Wednesday."

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ninebluehearts · 2 years

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Orange kinda love

Summary: Cheese doesn't like Jake. Jake doesn't like Cheese. A few situations in which your boyfriend and cat fight for your attention at the worst times..

Warnings: Cock blocking, oral sex (f receiving), minors dni

A/n: Poor Jake, man. Getting cock blocked by Marc and Steven before, and now by a damn cat 😂💕

Tag list: @hot-mess-express1

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A few months ago, when you were experiencing a depressive episode, your therapist recommended adopting a cat. "You can't just stay inside alone all day. You need someone to care for. A reason to get out of bed, ya know?"

And you knew she was right, it was just that you didn't know if you could handle the responsibility at the moment. So, you agreed to go home and think it over. But not even two days later, you showed up to a local shelter asking to see their cats. As you walked along the long aisles of kennels filled with kittens of all kinds and colors, you couldn't help but feel disappointed. You didn't feel a connection with any of them.

As you reached the end of the aisle, ready to turn around and tell the assistant that you'd changed your mind, something orange caught your eye. You walked over to the last kennel on the wall and looked inside, seeing a giant, orange ball of fluff. "Excuse me? How about this one?" You asked the assistant, reaching inside of the kennel with your finger to stroke the cats fur.

The orange cat sat up and licked his paw for a moment, then looked straight at you. He had these big, green eyes that were so intense for such a small creature. He rubbed his face against your finger, his loud purrs vibrating your entire hand.

"Oh, that one? Um, he's a little old. Are you sure you don't want a kitten? We have plenty of orange ones." The assistant said, gesturing back down the aisle.

But it was already too late. In just two minutes, this cat crawled it's way into your heart and refused to leave. "No, I'll take him."

So, after signing a million pieces of paper work and an expensive trip to the pet store, you finally got to bring the cat home. And as you laid in bed that night, the orange furball curled up on the pillow next to you, you couldn't help but notice how happy he made you already. How could such a small creature bring you so much joy?

You reached over and gently pet his side, kissing the top of his head. "Your name is Cheese now." You mumbled, smiling at his thunderous purrs. You rolled over and went to sleep, finally relaxed enough to do so.

Two years later, your boyfriend Steven asked you to move in with him. You met Marc a few months after you adopted Cheese, then met his alters soon after. Both Marc and Steven loved Cheese and got along with him just fine, it was Jake that had a problem.

See, Cheese had no problems with Marc or Steven showing you any kind of affection. In fact, he would come over and sit with you guys, curling up on either of your laps and going to sleep.

But when Jake was fronting? Cheese was up your ass. He wanted to be with you at all times, only sitting on/around you, following you everywhere. He did not like it when Jake even kissed your cheek. And Jake was at his wits end with this damn cat. So when you agreed to move in with them, Jake had plenty of mixed feelings about it, but at the end of the day, if he could wake up every morning with you in his bed, he'd put up with your annoying cat.

Considering how small your apartment was, it didn't take you and Marc very long to transfer your stuff to their flat. Both you and Cheese had little to no problems with the move, easily making yourselves at home.

You and Jake were sitting on the couch watching Jaws, Cheese taking up the space between the two of you by sprawling out on the cushion. Jake was grinding his teeth the entire movie, trying not to murder your cat. He's been there since he caught Jake kissing your neck and he showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.

Jake paused the movie and sighed, staring down at the feline between you. "Muñeca will you please stand up for a moment?" He turned to look at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Why?" You asked, though you still stood up.

Jake reached over and grabbed your hips, pulling you onto his lap. "Much better." He mumbled, burying his face against your neck.

You immediately wrapped your arms around his shoulders, enjoying the comfort of his hold. Cheese got up and stretched, arching his back comically, before jumping off of the couch and disappearing down the hallway.

It wasn't long before Jake laid you back on the couch and slowly started removing pieces of clothing from both of your bodies, the movie long forgotten. He was working on creating a rather large hickey on your collarbone, when both of you could hear a quiet scrape, scrape, coming from the kitchen.

Jake sat up and glanced over towards the kitchen, only to find Cheese on the counter with his paw on a glass cup, pushing it towards the edge. "Hey! Knock that off!" He yelled, watching as Cheese completely ignored him and pushed the cup off of the counter, a loud CRASH echoing throughout the room.

"Cheese!" You called out, standing up to put your clothes back on. Cheese ran over to you, rubbing his face against your calf with a 'meow.'

Jake walked over and started to sweep up the mess. "Fucking cock block.." He mumbled.

"Hm?" You hummed as you scooped Cheese into your arms, scratching behind his ears.

"Nothing, mi amor."

Knowing that Cheese wasn't gonna give up easily, Jake decided to play dirty. One night, after he took you out for dinner and a movie, Jake ushered you back to your bedroom, trying to beat Cheese there. Once you were both inside, he closed the door and locked it.

Jake turned and looked at you, lust clouding his vision. "I need you, mi vida. Right now."

"Take me." You whispered as you crawled onto the bed, yanking your short black dress off of yourself and into the laundry basket. You thought it was strange that Jake shut and locked the door, given that the two of you lived alone, but you didn't think much of it.

Jake walked over and crawled onto the mattress, practically ripping his shirt off of his body. "Someone's eager." You said, biting down on your bottom lip as your eyes raked over his body, drinking in his toned abs and his strong hands.

'You better watch out, Jake. Cheese knows you're home.' Marc teased, watching them from the mirror on the dresser.

"Shut it." Jake muttered, flashing a glare towards the mirror.

"What?"

'"Nothing, mi amor." Jake grabbed your ankles and yanked you towards him, satisfied with the high pitched squeal you let out. He pressed his tongue against your knee, licking all the way up to your thigh, his fingers tugging at the lace straps of your underwear. "Tell me how much you want it, cariño." He mumbled, nipping at your inner thighs.

Cheese sat at the door, gently pawing at it.

"Fuck, I want it so bad." You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Please."

"Good girl." Jake pulled your underwear off and lazily folded them, shoving them into his pocket, before leaning down and gently licking up from your core to your clit, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

"Fuck!" You moaned out, arching your back up. "Yes, right there baby-" All of the sudden, there was a loud, high pitched meow coming from the door. "Cheese?" You glanced over at the door, considering getting up to open it for him, but Jake wrapped his arms around your thighs and held you there.

He only stopped for a second to mumbled, "Ignore him." Before going back to lazily flicking his tongue along your clit. And with the way his tongue was making you moan, Cheese's meows were easily drowned out and forgotten.

Jake was holding back a grin, knowing that he won this time. But right as you were on the brink of your first orgasm, Cheese reached his paw under the door and gripped it with his nails, pulling and scratching at it with an impossible amount of strength for a cat.

'I told you so.' Marc said with a sigh.

'Ignore 'em.' Steven mumbled, too focused on the way you were spread out just for them.

Jake looked up at you, a pleading look in his eye. "Ignore him."

"But he's lonely." You said, running your hand across his cheek. "Just let him in real quick?"

"He's gonna get in the way." He whined.

"Jake." You stuck out your lower lip.

Jake stared at you for a moment, but sighed when Cheese meowed again. "Fine." He got up and opened the door, shaking his head when Cheese immediately ran in and jumped on the bed. "Maldito gato." He mumbled as he walked back over to you. Cheese may have won this time, but Jake would be damned if he was gonna let him win again.

"Cheese, no!" You pulled the stick of butter away from him again, gently picking him up and setting him on the ground. "You know you can't have butter. I don't want to upset your belly." You said, continuing to spread butter onto your toast

Jake staggered into the room, heading straight for the coffee maker. As the machine started doing it's job, Jake wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "Buenos días, mi amor." He mumbled, nipping at your ear.

"Good morning, darling." You turned your head enough to where you could kiss him. Jake slid his tongue along your bottom lip, slipping it into your mouth when you opened it for him.

"Meow" Cheese stood on his hind legs, digging his nails into Jake's leg.

"Ay!" Jake yelped, jumping back. "I'm telling you, cariño, he doesn't like me! I don't know why!" He reached down and rubbed his thigh, glaring at Cheese.

"He doesn't hate you, he just wants to protect me. That's all." You said, holding back a laugh while you stroked Cheese's back. "Hey, can you make sure he doesn't get on the counter? He's a butter fiend and I need to use the bathroom." You walked over and kissed his cheek, snickering when you heard his salty grumbles.

Jake stood there, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, blocking out Steven and Marc's laughter in the headspace.

"Meow"

Jake turned around and sighed, staring down at the orange cat in front of him. "What do you want?"

Cheese walked over to the counter and sat on the ground in front of it, looking at Jake then back to the butter; to the butter then Jake.

"No. She said not to give you any. Why should I, anyways? You're a fucking cock block. Fuck you." He turned back around and continued to stir his coffee, but Cheese meowed again, this time rubbing his face against Jake's calf.

Jake sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. But if I do this, you have to leave me to my business, got it?" He looked down at Cheese, who just blinked up at him. "Good enough for me." Jake bent down and picked up the cat, setting him on the counter and cutting a nice, thick slice of butter for him.

Cheese immediately started licking it as though you didn't feed him three times a day. "Ay, you really like butter." Jake mumbled, gently running his hand along Cheese's back.

Cheese started purring, arching his back against Jake's hand.

'Is he actually purring right now?' Steven asked, watching in amazement as Jake actually bonded with Cheese.

'Damn, who knew butter was the answer?'' Marc said, equally as amazed as Steven.

"Jake! What the hell!" You said, rushing over to pick Cheese up. "He can't have butter! Why would you let him eat that?"

"He'll be fine, cariño. Let the boy eat some damn butter." He said with a laugh as he reached over to pet Cheese behind his ear.

"Wait, you guys are getting along now?" You asked, feeling Cheese start to purr again as Jake pet him.

"I guess so."

Later that night, when you and Jake were making love, Cheese laid in a nearby chair, dead asleep. He never messed with you or Jake once, leaving you be. Jake wished he gave the damn cat butter sooner.

[Spanish -> English]

Muñeca - Doll

Mi amor - my love

Mi vida - my life

Cariño - dear

Maldito gato - damn cat

Buenos días - Good morning

#moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #moon knight imagine #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley smut #jake lockley imagine #Jake lockley gets cock blocked #poor baby #marc spector mentioned #Steven Grant mentioned #jake lockley x female!reader #Cheese the cat #💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙thoughts

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gaybananabread · 7 months

Text

TickleTober Day 1 - Anticipation

Welcome to October! I’m really excited to have these posting, and I’m hyped to see how everyone that requested likes their fics! They’ll be posting day-by-day, so if you requested #29, it’ll be posted on October 29th! Figured I’d start out with something i haven’t done yet, so here’s some Steven Universe Future! (definitely not projecting on steven whaaaat) I hope you all have an amazing spooky season, Enjoy!!

Lee: Future!Steven

Ler: Amethyst

Summary: Steven hasn’t been doing the best mentally, especially on the bad days. Amethyst has the perfect way to help, but being herself, adds a playful edge to it.

Warnings: Possible SUF spoilers maybe? A spot angsty at the start. This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!

The past few months had been…they’d been interesting. Steven finally started getting the help he needed, and the gems had been supporting him however they could. The therapist was nice, she helped him through some of his most traumatic moments. Topics on his mom…they were still touchy, but he was getting there. He had a name for one of his problems now. “Abandonment Issues…”

There’s still days where he feels lousy. He couldn’t remember the official term, but he liked to call them “spew days.” Days where his emotions just got the better of him. Days like today.

Steven was sprawled out on the couch, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He…he felt like poop. Not as bad as he did with Connie’s “not yet,” but definitely crummy. The teen didn’t even notice when Amethyst came through the door until she flopped down next to him.

“Hey dude! Oh…Steven, what’s wrong?” He grunted, shrugging. It wasn’t a lie either, at least not completely. A combination of things was wrong, though he couldn’t pinpoint what they all were. He just…wasn’t okay.

“Steven, c’mon. Remember the whole “we talk about our feelings” deal we made?” The purple-hued gem’s expression softened, giving him a little nudge. They had all agreed that whenever something was wrong, they would do their best to communicate the problem. Steven sighed, knowing it would probably help.

“I just…feel crummy. It’s a bunch of things. Sorry…” Amethyst immediately shut that down. “Hey, hey. No. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Your feelings are valid, no matter how confusing they are. If you can’t say it, that’s okay.” Gosh, why are his friends so awesome? He held out his arms, silently asking for a hug. His friend was more than happy to oblige.

“C’mere bud.” She wrapped her arms around the 16 year old, hugging him tight. He felt a bit of the gross feeling go away, melting into the touch. He needed this. Ever since the monster incident…hugs have been his everything. “Thanks Amethyst…”

His voice was a bit too deep and airy for her liking. He needed a cheer up session, pronto. Lucky for him, she had the perfect idea. “Ya know Steven… you could use some fun. How about we play some Steven Tag, with a twist?”

A twist? Why was she smiling like tha-…oh. Oh. He pulled away from the hug, a smile tugging at his lips. “Amehe- Amethyst no!” The purple gem crossed her arms, smirking. Amethyst shifted into the present version of Steven, snickering. “You got ten seconds. You get tagged, you get tickled…better run.”

Crap…crap! He got up off the couch, backing away from his friend. She couldn’t be serious, right? “Amethyst, c’mon! You- you’re joking right? Right?” She just smirked, holding up ten fingers. She was not joking. She slowly lowered one finger, then another, then another, dragging out each word with a teasing tone. “Ten, nine, eight…”

Time to run! He took off in the opposite direction, running into the warp area. The door opened for him, his pink and cloudy room offering a nice place to hide. Steven zipped inside, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. The room, sensing his needs, quickly made a few hiding spaces. Cabinets, closets, doors, tables with cloths, a bunch of hiding spot’s any kid would think of. All of which are horrible for actual hiding. It would have to do… He ducked into the most boring closet he saw, finding a pile of blankets inside. He burrowed under them, tried his best to make sure nothing was poking out, and hid.

Amethyst finished her countdown, chuckling as she walked over to the door. It opened to her room, but that was just a minor inconvenience. She knew her way around those rooms like the back of her gem. Running over to her stack of couch cushions and rubber ducks, she shoved them out of the way, revealing the secret path to Steven’s room. Can never be too prepared for mischief. She jumped through the hole, feeling gravity shift as she landed on the soft, pillowy clouds of Steven’s room. Time for some fun…

“Oh Steven~! Where are ya, bud? I just wanna play~!” When she saw the silly hiding spots, she snickered. Just like old times… Amethyst began opening the cabinets, trying to find the teen. “You know you can’t hide from me, man. I’m gonna find ya, and when I do, you’re gonna get it~”

Steven clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his anticipatory giggles. He had forgotten how evil Amethyst was when it came to these games… The butterflies in his stomach were going wild, swarming and sending a blush to his cheeks. He hadn’t been tickled in a good while. That somehow made the fluttery, bubbling feeling worse.

Turns out he sucked at being quiet. Amethyst easily heard his poorly muffled giggles, the cloudy walls of the closet almost paper-thin. Guess some things never change. “Steven, Steven, Steven. Still a gigglebug through and through.”

She slowly walked towards the closet, stomping her feet to make as much noise as possible. She wanted him to know how screwed he was. Knowing he was already caught, he removed his hand from his mouth, letting the giggles fly free as he leaned against the door. No way was he gonna go down without a small fight.

Amethyst jiggled the doorknob, pushing against it. You’d think that it would be easy, it being made of clouds and all. But no. The manifestations were linked to Steven’s conscious and subconscious thoughts, and right then, they wanted that door solid and stable. He only forgot one thing; a towel for under the door. Shape-shifting to an ant, the crystal gem easily slipped under the door. She scurried behind Steven before shifting back, growing to a purple-hued version of him. “Peek-a-boo~”

Now, he handled his surprise very maturely. He definitely didn’t shriek and run into the door. Definitely not. His best friend snorted, snatching him up in her arms. “Tag! Ya know what that means…” Shifting back to her regular form, the gem wiggled her fingers into his sides, not releasing him from the reverse hug. He yelped, squirming around and digging his heels into the carpeted floor.

“Amehethyst! Qu-quihihihit it!” Even though he was currently taller than the other gem, he couldn’t escape the ticklish hold. The closet was small, not allowing much room for squirming or thrashing. Lucky for him, Steven’s subconscious threw him a bone. The closet poofed out of existence, momentarily startling Amethyst. She pulled him closer, hugging him tightly before she realized what happened.

“Ooooh, I get it. Someone’s a bit too ticklish for their own good, huh?” The wiggling fingers quickly resumed their tickly pattern on his sides, pulling sweet giggles from the teen. He gripped her wrists, trying to pry her hands off. That did next to nothing; the crystal gem was having way too much fun. She had completely forgotten about her Steven Tag excuse, just wanting to tickle her friend. He needed a good laugh anyways.

She knew exactly where to go to get him really laughing, his younger years giving her plenty of time to learn his best spots. Amethyst moved her tickling to his belly, slowly getting closer to his gem. Steven knew what she was doing; it was the same pattern as when he was young. Sides, belly, gem, and if he was still breathing, underarms. Normally, he’d be embarrassed of the tickling. But right now? It was actually a fun distraction from his thoughts. “Nohoho! Dohon’t you dahare!”

A little teasing wouldn’t hurt. She slowly circled her fingers around the edge of his gem, sending ticklish little shocks to his belly. Frantic giggles bubble out of him, his anticipation building as she toyed with the edge of his gem. “A-Ahamethyst! Thihis is mehehean!”

“Uh, no duy. That’s why I’m doin’ it!” She chuckled and scritched a little faster, trying to get a squeak or two out of him. And, as expected, his giggles turned squeakier than a rusty door hinge. The feeling of her fingers so close to his worst spot was killer. No amount of squirming or wiggling was helping, the butterflies in his stomach going nuts.

He caved within thirty seconds, patting her arm and speaking with a whiny tone. “Ahamethyhyst! Juhust- just dohoho ihit ahahalreheady!” That almost got her. Almost. Rolling her eyes, the teasing ended, making way for the main event.

Following her pattern, Amethyst’s playful scribbling moved to his gem, sending the crazy ticklish sensations across his whole midsection. He was constantly changing and growing, but his sensitivity didn’t seem to get the message. He squealed, kicking as his knees gave out. “COHOHOME OHON! NOHOT FAHAIR, LEHEMME GOHOHO!”

It was kinda adorable, in a dorky way. Steven had always liked being tickled, even if he never voiced that opinion. It was pretty obvious when he was younger. Recently, however, he had been drifting away, closing up, avoiding anything “childish” or “immature” to him. They now knew why, and were working towards improving his self-image and communication skills. Still, progress was slow. Seeing him laugh again…it was nice.

Amethyst was so engrossed in her thoughts that she barely noticed when Steven was tiring out. He hadn’t had much energy to start the day, and quickly wore out from the tickling. He slumped against his best friend, leaning into her as the tickling wore him down.

“AHAHA-AHAHAMETHYHYST! IHIHI- AHAHAHA!” Her smile softened when she regained focus. The scribbles on his gem slowly came to an end, her hands switching to rub the ticklish areas. He practically melted into her touch. The soft happiness from the tickling paired with her gentle attention had him on cloud nine. “Thahahanks…”

Okay, that warmed her gem. She shifted to a bear, carrying him up to his bed. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The contented drowsiness was a major improvement from his earlier gloom. Lumbering up the stairs, she laid him down, shifting back to her regular form. It wasn’t late, but one little nap wouldn't hurt his sleep schedule. Right as she turned to leave, a soft hand tugged her back. “Hey…stay?”

The warm smile on her face somehow got even softer, pitchy chuckles shaking her shoulders. “‘Course, bud. Gimme a sec.” She shifted shape once again, now a fluffy, lavender cat. Pawing at the blankets, she curled up beside Steven, pressing her soft fur against the star on his shirt. The bouncy-haired teen draped an arm over his now-feline friend. He was completely spent and ready for a nap.

A low purr rumbled in her chest at the soft gesture. Steven always found new ways to surprise them, either with kindness or some new ideal. The other gems would have likely been home soon, but she didn’t really care. Garnet and Pearl could tease all they want if it meant she could spend some quality time with Steven.

Amethyst didn’t need sleep, but it was always nice to get some; especially in moments like those. The teen was out in seconds, his friend soon joining. The day had taken a turn for the better, all thanks to a bit of playful mischief and care. Moments like those are what makes being a crystal gem all the more worth it…

#suf tickle #augtickletober2023 #lee!steven #ticklish!steven #ler!amethyst #sfw tickling community #tickle fic #tickle #steven universe future tickle #steven universe tickle #lee!future steven #ticklish!future steven #su tickle #steven universe tickling #tickletober 2023 #tickletober

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novantinuum · 2 months

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Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: 1.8~ Summary: Steven can’t help but dread the undefined cocktail of emotions that trigger this newest power… 12 shorts, each delving into Steven’s developing opinions and feelings about his “pink mode” in SUF.

Chapter 12: A scene set a few days after The Future.

Welp, this is the end, folks! Thank you so much for your patience over the years with this one.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3. Thank you!

___

Even a good two hundred miles into today’s leg of his road trip, the emotional exhaustion of this morning’s therapy session lingers heavy like a mounting thunderstorm over his head. His mind’s horizon is a murky greyish-green, and his thoughts are like scattered bands of moisture hovering up within those dark clouds. That moisture… with every passing minute it swells at the seams more and more, threatening to break the seal of his self-imposed silence and stream on through, manifesting as a torrential downpour of stress that’s destined only to overwhelm him. The logical part of him knows these unwanted thoughts will fester if he doesn’t acknowledge them, knows they’ll get caught up in the updrafts and spin into icy granules of hail that— once it finally plummets to earth— carries a far more destructive potential than its liquid kin. But there’s another facet of him— vacant and stubborn— that simply doesn’t care. After all, it’s not like the alternative is any more attractive.

In stark contrast, the real weather is drop-dead stunning. Because of course it is. The leaves are finally starting to turn, the stratosphere is spotless, and a light breeze anchors the temperature at a manageable 68 degrees.

It just doesn’t seem fair… that the world surrounding him gets to be so lush and light and beautiful while his mental space still feels like a nightmare some days. And yes, yes— ‘he really shouldn’t be so hard on himself, he’s come such a long way since March,’ blah blah blah— he knows.

He knows.

So how long will he have to put up with this constant maelstrom of mental crap?

It’s stupid, but he guesses a naive part of him believed that this road trip would fix him. That if he simply removed himself from the source of his traumas, the clouds in his sky would immediately clear… like Beach City itself was somehow the progenitor of his demons, and not his own mind.

Clutching the wheel a little tighter as he eases his way through the road’s bend, Steven sighs, his fingertips pressing visible indents into the worn pleather grip. Hmm. Maybe what he needs right now is some musical distraction. Eyes still glued to the road, he fumbles his right hand across the dashboard, feeling around for the tape deck’s play button.

As he sinks into the blissful auditory embrace of one of his custom mixtapes over the next few miles, the mental diversion is almost enough to make him forget about all the open, weeping wounds today’s talk session left.

Almost.

Unfortunately, the mood is pretty much shattered when one of the original Sadie Killer and the Suspects songs turns on.

“Don’t be scared, it’s the afternoon,” the speakers blare, the sound of his own guitar lines evident in the backing music, “Don’t be scared ‘coz pretty soon we’ll be—”

Steven smashes his pointer finger against the pause button, a dull ache settling at the pit of his stomach. Damnit, he completely forgot this mix had that one on it! Why’d he have to be subjected to this today, of all days? It just doesn’t seem fair, especially when his initial involvement and eventual separation from that band was literally the topic he brought to his therapist for discussion today! And yeah, compared to the rest of his problems this one is tiny and stupid and petty, and he really just oughta give it up and stop feeling upset about it. But like… he was a part of Sadie Killer, y’know?! He was a founding member. He played at their first few gigs… and when he wasn’t on stage, he was working double time in the back as their devoted roadie. Not to mention, he recorded some extra backing guitar for the final cut of like, half of their songs. And even when the demands of his Gem ambassador work pulled him away from being an active participant, he still considered himself one of their biggest fans.

So why is it, then, that when they decided to break up the band they never once thought to consult him? To even give him warning?

It’s prolly ‘cause they never actually wanted you as a part of their group anyways, the bitter, most miserable corner of his brain spits, a concept that— after so many productive sessions with his current therapist— he immediately recognizes as false. But entertaining the thought for even half a second is bound to have its consequences, which is how he finds himself spiraling a swift descent into the foreboding aura of crisis.

His heart begins hammering against the confines of his rib cage as that familiar, nauseating heat rises within his cheeks.

Oh, no, no, no no no— come on, it’s been so many days since he’s had a flare-up! He can’t break his streak now! And over this? At least turning pink over reminders of his many near deaths or that time he turned himself in to Homeworld for Mom’s war crimes or whatever makes sense, but this-?? Over all these silly little teenage insecurities he should’ve moved past ages ago?

Why does all this ‘recovery’ junk have to be so damned hard?

Why can’t he just be better?

His shaking form now wholly enveloped in that familiar, nauseating pink, Steven pulls aside at the next gas station he spots. Stars, h-he… he can’t let himself get this worked up in the driver’s seat. Not today. Not again. He rolls into an open spot at the furthest edge of the lot and shifts into park.

Deep breaths, Universe, he prompts himself, shaking his hands as if vying to kinetically sweep this energy right out of his system. Deep breaths. There’s no life threatening dangers here.

Sadie… Buck, Jenny, and Sour Cream… the way they communicated the band’s break up to him was unideal, but they didn’t mean to make him feel like he didn’t belong. They’re his friends, they would never do that to him. They all knew how much he cherished their act, so they probably dreaded the thought of having to issue the news to him at all and kept putting it off. It wasn’t anything personal. It’s just… human. It’s flawed, and it’s messy, and yes, it hurt him deeply— but if he wants to carve out a more balanced way of life for himself, he’s gotta learn to coexist with that feeling.

He wants this.

He craves this, he swears he does.

So why, then, can’t his whole, unified self get with the program and stop flooding his system with so much raw, unbridled diamond power that he could probably hurl this whole car straight to West Keystone? The Gem war’s over! He doesn’t even need this sheer level of hyper-vigilance anymore! Can’t he just rest?!

Still flushed pink, Steven lets out a dull huff of frustration, folding his hands together into his lap. All right, then. His usual trick of shaking it out isn’t working. It’s clearly time for more of that mindfulness technique his therapist taught him.

“Back straight… activate your diaphragm… now, breathe in for four. Out for eight. In for four, out for eight. That’s it, yes. Very good, Steven. Keep breathing. Now, focus on the fullness of your lungs… on the faint whistling of your nose as the air passes across the turbinates. Focus in on your present, on the pull of the Earth beneath you… on every muscle that’s still resisting this calm. Clench them tight— and then one-by-one, from the crown of your head to the very tips of your toes, release.”

His once frantic heartbeat slows to a resting lull. The tension drains from his aching shoulders. His breath falls even. Behind his eyelids little flickers of light play out a now familiar scenario, one that exists on a plane of consciousness halfway between a daydream and a memory:

He sits cross-legged before his gem, both halves of himself mirrored in their expression and posture. The Gem— manifesting in flat colors and harsh edges that are desperate to mimic the shadows and softness of organic life— looks all but identical to how he appeared that day, a timeless relic of traumas long past.

The Gem merely stares at him, unblinking. Unfeeling. Except… given the warm rush of pink that’s made its home within his veins, that clearly isn’t true, is it?

“You’re upset,” he says to this part of himself, a blunt observation.

Silence. His counterpart’s gaze wavers for a good while as he contemplates this allegation. Then, his lips parting:

“So are you.”

His cheeks flush, caught off guard by the cutting accuracy of the Gem’s statement. Because as much as he’d like to blame all his problems on this imagined personification of his Gem heritage and all the power contained therein, Steven Universe only exists as an amalgam, the combined sum of his parts. And those parts may have fallen dreadfully out of sync as of late, but an emotional overreaction can’t just proliferate out of control without a root to stem from.

And that root… is him.

Stars, it’s always been him. Why else would this Gem have fought so hard to save his life back in White’s head, even risking his loved ones in the crossfire if it meant carving his way back to him?

Deep inhale.

“I am, you’re right,” he nods. “I’m upset about a lot of things. And that feeling can be so hard to be okay with. But what I do know… is that we’re not living in a war zone anymore. We’re safe. I’m safe. You can rest now, I promise.”

He opens his arms in invitation, a metaphysical olive branch to this part of himself. The Gem’s brow creases inwards… ever so slight, almost unnoticeable. And then, surging forwards, he envelops him in the most fiercely passionate hug he’s ever experienced.

“You’re safe,” the Gem all but breathes in his ear. “I’m safe…”

Steven’s eyes snap open, sensing that overwhelming aura of pink finally draining back to the diamond at his core. He gives an exhausted exhale, dropping his head against the top rim of the steering wheel as he takes a moment to recover from such a huge spike of adrenaline and hard-light. And then his stomach gurgles.

Frowning, he checks his phone for the time. Past noon already. He was hoping to make it to Charm City before stopping for lunch, but it won’t hurt anything to grab a quick snack here, now would it?

He returns to his car a few minutes later with a bag of BBQ Chaaps and a fresh bottle of water, rejuvenated and ready to hit the road again. His thumb jabs the play button on his tape deck as he shifts into reverse. That same ol’ Sadie Killer and the Suspects song starts on up again.

This time, however— the violent squall in his mind having since settled into a light, manageable shower— he resolves to at very least hum along.

#su #su future #steven universe #su fanfiction #steven universe fanfic #my writing stuff

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writing-for-life · 2 months

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The Self-Love, Sex, and Pursuit of the Helm Novels: A Tragicomedy in Three Movements

Part 1~~By the Sea, I Mean in the Dreaming: A Comedy Prelude, where crack ships find their way into Dream’s Library, and absolutely everyone is left stranded.

People, I’ve done it, and I’m scared. This… erm… short trilogy has been sitting in my drafts for ages, and the unhinged Muhulhu post has finally kicked my arse into editing part 1. So here it is without further ado: fourth-wall-breaking madness, secrets about Merv and Matthew you never wanted to know, and the unholy beginning of that relationship (titles inspired by “The Love, Sex, and Pursuit of Happiness Novels” by Steven Paul Leiva).

Here’s a little excerpt, link to full story on Ao3.

And next when it’s edited: Part 2~~Bully For You (Is it sarcastic, or an expression of praise, or something else entirely? Who will ever know…): An Unhinged Interlude, where the Lord of Dreams loses his bearings (no, not those ones), and even Desire needs a stiff drink.

I am tagging the Muhulhu inception crew, but I will need to start with the founding members of the cult: @so-i-grudgingly-joined-this-site for indulging my silly ask that kicked this whole thing off, @marlowe-zara who also gave us her deep psychological insight from the get-go and @roguelov who created the first bit of fanart for this monster (and said fanart gets hinted at in the fic—Murphy is desperately trying to figure out which way up to hold that thing to make sense of it. He is a bit slow sometimes).

Further honourable mentions: @tickldpnk8 (whom we have to thank for the HelmLord) , @ginoeh , @rriavian , @4typercent , @windsweptinred , @throwingbread , @tryan-a-bex (for the best drabble ever—now you’ll understand what I wrote about the similar premise, and Lucienne indeed needs a raise 🤣), @zzoomacroom

I also dare to tag @safeuphigh because you know my more serious stuff, and this is definitely not that, and a writer who takes herself too seriously is not a serious writer. Or something like that 🤣

And @rey-jake-therapist because you always get tagged, and just because I can 😜

New weirdos and Muhulhu enjoyers are warmly welcome in our midst!

#murphy and his cool hat #crack fic #dream of the endless #morpheus #muhulhu #drat! a helmlord story #the sandman #dream x helm #morpheus x helm #crack ship #crack treated seriously #<<< but not really #I’ll never recover from these #and this is the harmless one #queue crew

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ultraintrovertedgryffindor · 1 year

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𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Steven Grant

this has been sitting in my drafts for months, but i finally got the motivation to finish it lmao. Happy Thanksgiving for those who celebrate! Gobble gobble bitches🦃

Warnings: mentions of The Blip, implied PTSD, a slight sprinkle of angst, and fluff. that's it, I think

word count | 4.3K🤙🏻

You never took the bus. In all your years of living in London, you had only ridden the bus a handful of times. You usually ride your bike most places, especially to work. Eco friendly, your friend called it, not that you really cared. But it just so happens, that your bike was stolen. So, your hand was forced.

You worked at a bookstore, and you liked it well enough. After being Blipped for five years, your parents decided to give you their store, they were getting old and couldn’t take care of it as much as they could before; plus, they thought it would make you happy and get your mind off being dusted out of existence for so long. And it did, to a certain extent. You were happy surrounded by books, but all the years you missed out on was still nagging at the back of your mind. Your therapist said it would get better with time. But other than the feeling that something horrific could happen at any given moment constantly plaguing your mind, you were content with life; but there was one thing still missing.

You weren’t the best at dating, never had been. Every time you thought you found “the one” or just a genuinely good person, they’d come with a serious hamartia that they were hiding, one that you usually would find out a good couple months into a relationship. But then again, you were also very picky as your parents would say, but you just had standards. You’d think living in such a big city would give you a few good options at least. But alas, you were probably doomed to live the rest of your life in solitude.

You didn’t really notice at first, often stuck in your own little world, but you finally realized that you saw the same man on your bus almost every day on your way to work. It wasn’t that big of a deal, if only he wasn’t so handsome. You never considered yourself to be much of a shallow person, knowing that personality is what really counts, but you couldn’t help yourself to gawk when this man wasn’t looking. Maybe it was his shy and disheveled demeanor that intrigued you, or maybe it was that you were being so utterly vain that his strong jawline and dark brown eyes awakened some primal force within you that drew you to him. But considering how horrid you are at making the first move, you’d never know.

Your silly little crush didn’t go away. It didn’t help that your bookstore was right across the street from the museum he worked at. You felt like a stalker, knowing where he worked and eventually learning his name when he forgot to take his name tag off one night. Steven. It suited him. You thought about visiting the museum once, but that would definitely be stalkerish behavior, but anyone was allowed into museums, right? It wouldn’t be weird if he were to visit your bookshop. Then again, if some dude were staring at you every time you got onto the bus and suddenly paid a visit, you would probably call 999.

Yeah, you decided against it.

It wasn’t until one early morning that forced you to confront this crush. Steven entered the bus with dark circles under his eyes, more pronounced than usual. He looked like he could’ve fallen over any given moment, he looked like he hadn’t slept in ages. You tried not to tense up when he took a seat next to you, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest. You prayed you could act like a normal human being until the bus ride was over. But then, almost half way to work, he did something you never would’ve expected. He leaned his head on your shoulder.

Your eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. It only took a couple seconds to realize that he didn’t do it on purpose, poor thing fell asleep and his head naturally lolled to the side, where your shoulder just so happened to be. You had no idea what to do. Do you wake him up? He’s just a stranger, this is weird and he definitely should not be doing this. But he looked so peaceful, and he did look like he had gotten absolutely no sleep. But would he think it would be weird if he knew you just let him sleep on you? You hoped no one else could see how panicked you looked.

You felt your face heat up as you ultimately decided to let the exhausted man remain situated against your shoulder, the bus ride was almost over anyway. You felt your nails dig into your palms, trying to focus on anything but the warm feeling that radiated throughout your body. As the bus rolled to a stop, you gently nudged the sleeping man until he sat straight up with wide eyes, clearly disoriented. He looked at you in confusion before uttering a quick apology before he made his quick escape from the awkward situation. You didn’t blame him, but you did feel a little embarrassed yourself, even though you probably had no reason to be.

You thought about that bus ride all day, your brain fogged over and distracted from your work, the bells that sounded off any time someone would enter the store being the only reality check that would snap you back from your racing mind. A part of you just wanted to buy another bike, never take the bus ever again, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to afford it, not now at least. Maybe you could just walk all the miles back to your flat…in the dark…without the proper means to protect yourself…yeah, awkward situations were more appealing than the threat of getting jumped in an alleyway.

You hoped Steven wouldn’t be on the nightly bus ride home like he usually was, only occasionally he would work late, but that just wasn’t in the works for you. How lucky. Apparently it was a busy night, people coming and going, it was a Friday to be fair. But there were no empty seats as he boarded the bus, being the last person, only one was empty, one next to you. You felt like a regular old Mary Sue. And you could tell by his expression that he was panicked, clearly not forgetting what happened that morning.

You wore a tight lipped smile as he walked towards you, the bus suddenly moving jolting him a bit forwards with a stumble, but he quickly tried to brush it off with suave. “Uh, is this seat taken?” The man asked timidly, his hand slightly shaking as he pointed to the spot next to you.

Obviously not. “No, go ahead.” You smiled, more genuinely that time, feeling that familiar heat rise up to your face as he settled next to you.

“Cheers.” He nervously smiled back, hugging his satchel close to his chest.

You couldn’t help but smirk as you noticed his eyes already started to droop shut, the man wearing exhaustion like it was second nature. It also made you a little sad. “Hope you get some sleep tonight, maybe you won’t fall asleep on me again in the morning.” You chuckled, not being able to resist teasing him slightly.

“Oh, goodness.” The man cringed at himself, turning to face you with a guilty expression. “I’m so sorry about that, miss. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay!” You cut him off with a giggle. “You don’t have to apologize, I get it. I’m not a morning person either. Sorry if me not waking you up right away was weird, I just didn’t have the heart to when you looked so tired.” If you weren’t blushing already, you most certainly were now.

“Ah, it’s not weird. I appreciate it actually. Your shoulder was very comfortable.”

“Jeez, how awful is your bed if you think this boney shoulder is anywhere close to being comfortable?” You laughed softly, a shy smile stretching across his face. “I’m Y/n, by the way. Thought you should know considering I already know yours.” You gently flicked the name tag that was still pinned to his jacket. “Nice to meet you, Steven.”

The next morning you were greeted with Steven’s smiling face, that nervousness behind it making it more endearing. You didn’t hesitate to take a seat next to him, feeling more confident now that you’ve actually had a conversation with the man. So far, he seemed sweet, shy but sweet. He definitely seemed worth your interest, you wanted to get to know him. Hopefully he felt the same.

“A gift shop-ist? I don’t think that’s a word.” You chuckled. “Why not just a salesperson?”

Steven shrugged. “Doesn’t sound that much more appealing, now, does it? Well, what do you do? Where do you work?”

“I own the bookstore right across the street from the museum. So, I guess that makes me a bookstore-ist.” You giggled at your own joke, Steven letting out a small amused snort making you feel better about it.

“Oh, a bookworm, are you?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ve always liked reading. The store was my parents, but they passed the baton over to me. I like it.”

“Huh, I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

“And I’ll have to check out the museum. Don’t know much about Egyptian history, but maybe you’ll be my tour guide?”

“If my boss doesn’t get on my arse about it. Well, eh, it doesn't matter. I’ll be happy to take time out of my super busy schedule to teach you all about all the pharaohs and gods and anything else that won’t bore you to death.” He grinned.

“Well, with you teaching me I’m sure I’ll never get bored.” You were thankful the bus finally arrived, the somewhat intense eye contact the two of you shared was getting a bit much for you to handle. “Well, see you later!” You waved as you started to walk to your workplace, Steven replying with a cute little “laters gators.”

It didn’t take too long before you and Steven got close, well, you thought so anyway. The two of you would always sit or stand next to each other on the bus each morning and night. Sometimes, you’d even visit each other’s place of work. You learned each other’s coffee orders, so you’d sometimes surprise each other with coffee. The first time you did it, Steven wore the cutest flustered expression on his face. So far, you two were friendly. Just friendly. You knew you wanted more, you just didn’t know if he felt the same, or even how to bring it up. You’d been out of the game for so long you didn’t even think you remembered how to kiss a person. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself or get rejected, you didn’t know if you could handle that.

Talking to your sibling about it, they just told you to get over the stupid fear and just ask the man out. Of course, it was easy for them to say, they were more outgoing and fearless. For once, you wish you could’ve turned off your introvertedness and anxiety. You got good vibes from Steven, he seemed perfect. Too perfect. And your track record showed that perfect meant they were less than perfect. You were a bit of a pessimist, you hated that about yourself, but it’s probably what had saved you from one too many toxic relationships. On the surface, Steven looked like he’d never even hurt a fly. You wondered what was underneath that timid exterior. But maybe there wasn’t, only time would tell.

It was a cold dreary morning when your feelings started to spiral out of control. You seemed to wake up on the wrong side of the bed, feeling sour for no particular reason. Just one of those days, you supposed. You had trouble hiding your mood on your face, Steven seemed to notice it immediately as soon as you boarded the bus. He had asked you what was the matter, but you just brushed him off by saying the weather dampened your spirit. Later, he had brought you a hot cup of coffee on his break, saying that days like these needed some warmth, which in turn made you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. You encouraged him to look around, knowing that he enjoyed reading as well. It was hard to concentrate on working when he was walking about with an awestruck expression, gently running his fingers over the spines of the various books that lined the shelves. “Do you have any books about Egypt?” Steven called out from across the room.

“Yeah, some. On aisle 6, along with other history books.” You pointed out, smiling to yourself as Steven walked to the designated aisle with a skip in his step. He asked about a specific author, wondering if their new book was in stock, clearly anxious to read it. “No, sorry.” You frowned sympathetically after looking it up in inventory. “I can see if it’s available somewhere else?”

Steven shook his head. “That’s alright. Wouldn’t expect it to be anywhere, the author isn't very well known and there's probably not many copies out there. But thanks for looking.”

And that’s when you got the idea. You weren’t good with words, but you loved buying people gifts. When the holidays rolled around, you were an expert at gift giving, you pride yourself on it. Maybe you could express your feelings by buying him this book he wanted so much. It was a bit pricey, being scarce and all, but you could afford it and you wanted to see the smile on Steven’s face, if just for a moment. Before you could think about it any longer, you clicked the purchase button.

And oh man, was it a long anxious wait for the book to arrive. You had to order it from a different country, so obviously it was going to take a while. But you were impatient, and you counted the seconds until you heard the sweet shrill sound of your doorbell ringing, excitement bubbling up in your chest as you opened the door to find the package exactly where you expected to find it. You hoped Steven would be as happy as you were, and you didn’t even want the book for yourself.

You were disappointed when you didn’t see Steven on the bus the next morning. He probably just slept in again. You were so anxious to give the book to him, but then you didn’t see him all day, which was unusual. He usually paid you a visit at least once on his break. Then another day went by…then another. A whole week passed and you started to get worried. He wouldn’t answer your texts or calls, you even went to his work to ask for him but he hadn’t been in. You never pegged him as someone who would just up and disappear. But then again, how could you know that? You were practically just coffee buddies. Guess you got the book for nothing…

It was another week before Steven started showing up again, but you made a point not to even make eye contact with him, not even when he greeted you warmly as he sat next to you like nothing ever happened. From the corner of your eye, you could see his downcast and confused expression and you almost took pity on him. Almost. You probably should’ve seen it coming, there was always some fatal flaw about most people, your blinding crush on Steven made you forget. It was probably for the best, you only would’ve gotten hurt. Terrible timing though, you were at a point where you really needed a friend to talk to.

That constant feeling that something bad was going to happen at any given moment was proved correct. Thankfully, it wasn’t half the universe getting blipped out of existence, but it was almost just as mysterious and frightening. One night, the sky completely changed. It looked like a Van Goph painting, but instead of it making you feel a sense of peace and comfort like viewing the painting normally did, it terrified you. Seeing the sky warp out of focus, it brought on some severe panic attacks. What did this mean? What was happening and what consequences would it have on the world? It plagued your mind. But even after getting Blipped, you never really talked about it with anyone, not even your family. You just kept all these feelings bottled inside, not wanting to burden anyone with your problems. With every new supernatural phenomena, you felt all these feelings begging to come to the surface. You couldn’t have that, you had responsibilities. But with Steven...he seemed like the type of person that you could actually talk to, if it weren’t for him ghosting you. You’d just have to keep it all inside a bit longer.

Stepping off the bus without a word to Steven made you feel hollow, cold without the coffee he usually would bring you as you both make jokes and bitched about the morning weather typically being foggy and/or rainy. It was one of those mornings, and it just made you feel worse. It was also a slow day, barely anyone coming into your store which was unusual, especially on a rainy day. You felt sluggish, not interacting with anyone made you feel like a lifeless zombie. You just wanted a customer, just one. But as soon as Steven walked in, you immediately regretted that sentiment.

You could instantly sense Steven’s nervousness as he walked up to your counter, hands fidgeting with one another and keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but you. “Hiya.” He spoke softly, an unconvincing smile on his lips.

“How can I help you today, sir?” Your bluntness made him blink in shock, obviously not expecting you to be so cold. You were being petty and you hated it, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was an annoying habit to be passive aggressive, and seeing the deepening frown on Steven’s face just made you feel worse.

He sighed. “Look, I-” He stuttered, “I know you’re probably wondering why I disappeared. And I know you might be upset-”

“Might?” You scoffed, biting your lip, trying not to let your emotions get the better of you. “We talked every day, Steven. And then all of a sudden, you’re gone. Without a word or reason why. So, yeah, sorry if I can’t help being a bit upset.” You chuckled bitterly, sighing sadly when you saw him shrinking away from your words. “And…I was worried. I thought that, I guess that I’d never see you again.”

“You were really worried? About me?”

“I mean, yeah. You’re, like, my only friend.” You blushed.

“Oh, wow, really?” He chuckled in disbelief.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…man, you could do so much better than me. I’m just this ball of anxiety. I don’t know how being friends with someone like me could be very nice.”

You frowned, saddened by his lack of self confidence. “Come on, Steven. Don’t be so hard on yourself. But you did seriously worry me. Where did you go? What even happened?” Steven looked up at you with wide eyes, fidgeting with the ends of his jacket. He looked like he was having a conversation with himself, his gaze becoming blank and unfocused, then looking back at you like he had forgotten you were even standing there. It didn’t make you hopeful that you were going to get an answer, and the realization made you deflate with a sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me.” You stated.

Steven gave you a sympathetic frown, his eyes already pleading for forgiveness without having to say anything. “I would, truly, I would. But I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s…complicated.”

You shook your head, trying to ignore your throat tightening and your already stinging eyes. You wore a tight lipped smile, taking a deep breath and meeting his gaze once more. “You don’t have to apologize. You don’t owe me anything, it’s not like you’re my boyfriend or anything.” You chuckled bitterly, quietly excusing yourself to the bathroom before Steven had a chance to say anything else.

You hated crying, for any reason; and you especially didn’t like crying because of someone else, it wasn’t worth it. But you couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as soon as you closed and locked the door to the store’s bathroom. You covered your mouth to muffle the inevitably whimpers and squeaks that escaped your lips. You prayed that Steven couldn’t hear you, if he was even still in the store. Probably not, you felt like you must’ve scared him off. But to your surprise, you froze in place when you saw him still at your register. You quickly noticed the item in his hands and your heart felt like it was going to implode.

Neatly wrapped in Egyptian themed wrapping paper, a sandy white texture decorated with gold hieroglyphics with a simple post-it note on top that read ‘Steven’, the book that you went through hell to get for the man but never ended up giving to him. A desperate attempt to get him to realize your growing feelings for him. The gesture felt silly now, you certainly felt silly as Steven looked at you expectantly. “Sorry, it’s just…it had my name on it.” He explained with a slight stutter. You cursed yourself for not just leaving it at home where it would be safe from prying eyes. Maybe you should’ve chosen a more subtle paper so that it wouldn’t stand out as much as the gold. “I didn’t want to open it without your permission.” Ever the gentleman, huh?

Despite not being in the friendliest mood and still recovering from your quick cry in the bathroom, you shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead and open it. If only he hadn’t found it, then you could’ve just given it away or something and never have to think about it again. That would’ve been easier.

You waited with bated breath as Steven gently unwrapped the gift, careful not to tear the paper too much, as if it cost more than seven pounds. You almost didn’t want to look at him as the actual book started to peek through, the title flashing in white bold font smack dab in the center of the cover. It was only when the wrapping paper was completely off did you steal a glance at Steven’s face.

Your heart pounded as Steven's face immediately lit up with pure happiness, a wide grin spreading across his face and his bright eyes glancing back and forth between you and the book. "It's the book I wanted..." He said in disbelief. "You...bought this for me?" He stuttered.

You shrugged. "Yeah, who else would it be for? There's no one else I know obsessed with Egyptian history."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

There was a deafening silence for a moment where Steven just looked at you with an expression you could only describe as awe, like you just hung the moon and stars and how lucky he must've been to be in your presence. But of course, your insecurities told you that wasn't the case, it would never be that case.

"Thank you..." He whispered, so softly you had to strain to hear it. "This means a lot to me, really. I'll pay you back."

"No." You said immediately. "No, Steven. It was a gift. I didn't get this for you and expected anything in return."

Steven sighed, placing the book down gently on the counter, taking a step closer to you. "Look, I-...I'm not good at not being my awkward self, especially in front of such a beautiful person. I never wanted you to be angry with me. I have a lot of secrets, and I know that doesn't sound like the type of person you'd want to spend your time with. But if you let me...I'd love to take you out. And maybe we could get close enough where I can tell you all those secrets. But I understand if you never wanna talk to me again..."

You were blushing fiercely, your cheeks heating up you could practically feel your blood boiling just beneath your skin. You never expected Steven to be so bold, even though it didn't exactly sound that bold with his stuttering and slight waver in his voice. But it flustered you all the same. You rarely ever met someone and wanted to know all their secrets, but he made it sound so alluring. Tantalizing, like learning more and more about him was some incredible journey you had the opportunity to venture on. Him disappearing for a while and not telling you why was one thing, but you could sense another red flag in that speech of his somewhere. But the way he was looking at you, his pleading eyes, those big brown enchanting eyes that you wanted to get lost in. You didn't have the heart to say anything but yes.

"You really want to go out with me?" You voiced almost breathlessly.

Steven smiled wide. "Of course I do, darling. Since the first time we had a conversation, you made me feel like I could have something in my life other than chaos. You made...you make me feel at peace."

You chuckled bashfully, practically putty in his hands already. "How chaotic could the life of a gift shop-ist be?"

"Go out on a date with me and I'll tell you. What do you say?"

"Yes." You smiled. "I say yes."

jeez, finally took a break from posting only smut lmao. i miss steven, my baby boy🥺

#moon knight #steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant x fem!reader #steven grant x f!reader #steven grant imagine #steven grant fanfiction

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 1 year

Note

Let's get Steven some therapy! After Miki's death someone tells the Therapist!reader, that Steven's not doing so well, so they ask him to come by and talk to them. After talking with him for a while the reader pairs him with a traumatized Wigglytuff (DISABLED) and the two end up helping each other get over their respective traumas.

Hell yeah therapy time

........

"Hello, Steven. I'm Dr. [L/n], Kanto's therapist for people and Pokémon alike." You greeted as you walked into the room. Sitting down in the chair near the couch where your new patient was, you looked at him with a polite smile. “But I’m not crazy about formalities, so you can just call me [y/n].”

Steven didn't answer.

All he did was just...stare down at the floor; with his hat and long hair obscuring his face, you weren't sure what expression he held, but his posture told you enough.

You didn’t take it as rude at all. You’ve had other patients behave similarly during their first sessions.

"I appreciate you responding to my letter and coming in today. I know it must’ve been hard, but..they say that wanting help is a good first step towards progress. For a lot of people, it’s tough to overcome that." You tried to start with optimism, though nothing about his demeanor changed--as expected.

For the next few minutes or so, he remained silent. You just jotted down some notes and questions to ask him, debating on whether you’ll use this first meeting as a way to get to know him (not that you didn’t already) or if he wanted to get into the topic of why he was here.

That being...the sudden death of his Charizard and lifelong companion after a freak accident with a faulty trading machine. It happened a few weeks ago, but obviously he was struggling to cope with the fact that she--his precious Miki--was gone forever

A Pokémon passing away from age or natural causes was one thing, but this was something completely unheard of until now. Nobody even thought it was even possible for one to die mid-trade.

But since then, trading in Kanto has been banned for the time being until every machine in the region had a thorough inspection done.

You knew Steven could not have been doing well, especially knowing he was the champion who endured the toughest of battles with Miki by his side.

Who would’ve thought something regarded as totally safe would be her sudden end?

Yesterday, a concerned member of the Elite Four informed you of his sudden change in habits. He apparently surrendered all of his badges, money, and Pokémon to whomever was willing to take them--essentially throwing away everything he worked for.

Usually people who gave away their prized possessions were either leaving Kanto to start a new life....or had some kind of “plan” for themselves.

That was incredibly concerning, so you sent him a PM on his computer, hoping he’ll see it. You also had your messenger Pidgeot deliver a letter just in case, telling him to come see you for a session free of charge.

Steven himself didn’t like the idea of therapy too much, but given how concerned everybody was for his mental state, he decided it was worth a try and responded to your message, scheduling an appointment.

Though now that he finally showed up, he found himself sitting in silence..and shame. It felt pointless to come here when he had so much on his mind and wondered if you could truly help him.

Not to mention how pathetic it was for him, the most famous person in all of Kanto, to hit rock bottom with nowhere else to turn except here.

You could be helping a Cubone cope with the loss of its parent instead. He was just a lost cause.

As you were about to ask Steven some basic introductory questions, you heard a very quiet murmur and perked up, wondering what he said. “What’s up, Steven?”

“..I-I’m sorry, doc..”

“Sorry? For what?”

“I just..I-I can’t do this. Not today.” He abruptly stood up, pushing the bill of his hat over his eyes as he headed towards the door. “I’ll be okay. Really. I’m just wasting your time-”

“Steven, you’re not wasting my time at all...and I know you’re far from okay.” You frowned slightly, though you noticed he was hesitating to leave right away. “I can’t stop you from walking out, but I truly do wanna help you through this. I know in your heart that you want to be here, don’t you?”

With his hand resting on the doorknob, he glanced back at you. Now that you could properly see his face, you also saw his red eyes--exhausted, puffy, and teary.

"...I just..I haven’t talked to anyone in weeks. It’s so hard...knowing they all once saw you as this great champion, only to let them down...and make them pity you.” He spat the word out.

“Champion or not, that doesn’t factor into how I treat people. You’re okay here.” You reassured him softly, praying that he’ll stay. “This is a safe space, you don’t have to hide anything. If you only wanna have one session, that’s fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with. But please..at least give this a chance.”

After having a long internal battle with himself, he decided to return to the couch, removing his hat. He sighed shakily and buried his hands in his hair, taking a few moments to think of what he wanted to say.

“There’s no rush.” You reminded. “Just take your time, okay?”

“I..feel so pathetic. Can’t even get through a damn sentence without.....” He choked back tears as he stopped, before laughing sorrowfully. “Fuck, I’m sorry [y/n]. I just..miss her a lot, y’know? Just thinking about her hurts.”

Your heart ached for him, knowing he's kept so much of this pain and suffering inside..and for him to break down during the first session showed he needed a release badly.

"I know she misses you, too. And she’ll always love you, Steven..that’s a fact. Nothing could sever the bond you two share.”

Sniffling, Steven managed to calm down a little bit, laying back on the couch to get more comfortable. He heard your pen scribbling against a paper--but he was grateful to know you weren’t some emotionless therapist who did nothing but that the entire time.

You cared. Truly, you cared for him.

“W-We..did have a lot of good times.” He spoke after a minute or two, already looking a bit more relaxed than he did before. “It feels like only yesterday when she was...a feisty little Charmander.”

‘Hm, that seems like a good place to start. Talking about the incident might be too heavy for a first session.’ You thought, jotting down a quick notation before responding to him.

“If I may ask, what made you choose her over a Bulbasaur and Squirtle?”

“Well......”

........

A month or so had passed since Steven became a regular client at your office, coming in to talk about the incident or update you on the coping mechanisms you've suggested for him. He wasn't taking all of your advice, but some was better than none.

Obviously, he still held a lot of resentment towards Mike--though he was more overwhelmed by his own guilt, believing he should've been more stubborn when his brother begged him to lend Miki over temporarily.

He confessed to having intrusive thoughts about strangling him, but insists he refused to act on them.

Of course it’s easier to blame a person than a faulty machine, but with time he learned to let go of some of the anger, coming to understand that Mike didn’t tamper with it in any way.

It was simply a tragic accident that never should have happened. Through no fault but a technical error. Not even a psychic Pokémon could’ve predicted that going wrong.

Ever since making that leap--and talking more about the good times with Miki--Steven had made good progress. You were able to tell it affected the people around him while going into town on your day off; you overheard some folks say how he looked better, and how he was even talking to his friends, Daisy, and Mike again.

It made you smile, knowing you’re helping him come out of such a dark place little by little.

During sessions, he no longer stayed silent for long periods or have as many breakdowns, though of course he was still extremely depressed over the situation. It’s not something that would magically go away.

He didn’t want any of his badges back despite being offered them, and he never attempted to care for another Pokémon or even catch one. Considering his guilt in letting go of his last team, he didn’t think he deserved any.

Since that was weighing heavily on him, you had a plan.

It’s a strategy that you’ve been using for years to help people cope with the loss of their Pokémon, and Pokémon who lost their trainers through death or abandonment--by bringing them together in a way that helps them heal in each other’s presence.

In the last session you explained this method and its high success rate to Steven, but he immediately got defensive, assuming you were trying to get him to replace Miki.

That was far from the truth, you reassured him. It took a lot of convincing, but he eventually agreed to it under the condition that the Pokémon wasn’t anything along Charmander’s evolution line.

You had a particularly unique one for him, believing that they’ll be a good match for each other once he hears her story.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t be intimidated by her appearance like past trainers were.

.........

"Steven, this is DISABLED, a level 26 Wigglytuff. But I usually call her “Dee”."

"....huh?" Steven was confused by the odd name, looking at the Wigglytuff you brought into the room.

Immediately he was taken aback by the haunted expression on her face. Not to mention her dark fur, red eyes, and wounds on her back and ear....plus her mouth seemed heavily scarred as well.

It looks like she went through hell and back.

You noticed his alarmed look and gently pet DISABLED’s head. "Don’t worry, she’s completely harmless. She’s been my patient for about a year.”

His eyes remained wide, although he relaxed his shoulders. “Oh, so um..what’s her story?”

“I just wanted to SING...”

The raspy ethereal voice she emitted slightly startled him. ‘This one can speak..? That’s rare..’

“She lost the vocal cords Jigglypuffs and Wigglytuffs use for their SING ability.” You explained. “We don’t know how or why since we’re still trying to track down her original owner. But she was reported scaring the local Ponyta population away from their usual habitats. And then she just...showed up here one day, looking for help.”

DISABLED glanced up at you, pointing to Steven. “Can I have his SING?”

“No. Remember what we talked about, Dee?”

“...people don’t have SING.”

“Correct. Good job.” Smiling, you knelt down and fed her a berry, which immediately made her chirp in happiness. Then she hobbled over to the couch, taking a seat on the opposite end of the man. He was surprised that you were able to turn her mood around just like that.

If only it were that easy--if only food could solve all of his problems.

You stood up and returned to your chair. “She used to be hostile to trainers, but she’s been making good progress. As for her move set, she can only do Struggle. For some reason, she can’t use any others even if she wants to. It might have something to do with her past trauma, so I’ve been trying to show her how she can be helpful in other ways.”

“[Y/n] helped me feel better, but...I still miss my SING.” She pouted.

“I know how you feel,” Steven remarked, looking at her in sadness. No longer did he fear this strange Wigglytuff, but instead came to realize that they may have more in common than he thought. “I lost something important to me, too..”

“And that’s why I brought you two together.” You nodded. “I believe Dee needs someone like you, a good and loving trainer, to give her confidence in using her abilities again...and you’ll gain a friend who’ll look after you. She agreed to this, though you have the final say, Steven.”

He was quiet for a bit, before looking back at you. “You trust me? Because..you know I gave up on my own Pokémon-”

“You weren’t in the best state of mind to care for them, and I’m sure they understood that.” You pointed out. “But if this doesn’t work out, it’s okay. We’ll just try something else.”

After a few moments longer, he decided to try out your method and work with DISABLED. Maybe she could be the one to help him through his pain, too.

“Alright.” He turned to her with a small smile, slowly putting his hand out. She seemed surprised, though the look on his face put her at ease, knowing he wasn’t scared. “I’ll be your trainer, Dee. Just..don’t steal my “SING” ‘cuz I don’t have that. Okay?”

Nodding silently, she reached out to shake his hand, managing to smile back. She was happy to find someone after being with you for so long, hoping for a better trainer.

Seeing that they were both ready for this, you also smiled and jotted down some notes in your book:

You’re eager to see how things will go for them.

#clanask #anonymous #pokepasta x reader #fnf x reader #friday night funkin x reader #strangled red x reader #therapist reader #platonic #tw suicide mention #angst

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jamesunderwater · 4 months

Note

🔀 Prongsfoot

(doing that thing where i go back to old great asks / prompt requests because i had a bad day lol, and this one was so gooooooood) the meme was: give me a pairing and i'll shuffle my playlist and make up an AU based on the song

"here comes a thought" - from steven universe, feat. Estelle and AJ Michalka

(linking to the youtube video bc i listened to it recently when my therapist told me to and i may or may not have sobbed. highly recommend taking the 3 min to watch❤)

and damn, this shit does NOT need to be AU to work for prongsfoot, but okay, since AU is what the prompt asks for:

Everyone knows Sirius Black is one of those kids -- nothing but trouble, always trying to make life harder for his parents, does all this acting out just to get attention. He runs away and no one asks why, they just take him by the collar and throw him back through the threshold. He does drugs and no one asks why, they just give him endless detentions and suspensions. He tries to end it all and no one asks why, they just lock him up where, finally, he can be someone else's problem. Sirius knows as soon as he sees James Potter that the other boy doesn't belong there. But Sirius is selfish, everyone has always said it, and James is funny. The walls aren't as gray when he's in the room. His last roommate didn't speak, and Sirius got put in isolation for three days when the one before that spit in his face and called him a faggot. (It isn't nice to strangle people when they call you a faggot.) James talks to him, doesn't call him a faggot, asks if Sirius knows a way to get into the front desk staff's candy stash. So even though this place is evil, Sirius is glad James is here. The doctors don't really care that Sirius wakes up every night between 3 and 4am and can't breathe. They give him a round blue pill, then a small yellow pill, finally a long pink one, and then they tell him it's all in his head. Tell him to breathe. Tell him to call the night staff if he needs someone. But the night staff just sticks a needle in you so you miss breakfast and the outside hour and feel like shit when you finally get up at 1 in the afternoon. So Sirius climbs out of bed mechanically every night, takes his pillow and bedsheet, and huddles in the nearby corner. He holds the pillow and begs his body to breathe, tries to remember that it hasn't killed him any other night; it's just in his head, it's all in his head. It doesn't matter, though. Every night he's terrified his breath won't come back. Every morning he's embarrassed he got so fucking upset about it again. He is so thankful to find that James is a deep sleeper. He's so thankful, until he isn't. Until he and James fall into each other laughing on the sofa during recreation time every day, their hands and arms entangled. Until they sneak back inside during outside hour and steal three girl scout cookies each from the box left open at reception. Until they stay up past light's out and whisper about their favorite things, their plans, asking each other all the questions except the obvious ones. Then, he starts to wish James weren't so heavy a sleeper. James finds out one night when he gets up to pee at 3:43. He doesn't make a big deal of it. He sits down next to Sirius and looks him in his panicked eyes and says, "It's okay, it's okay. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here." James takes Sirius's hand and Sirius is a little less scared, finds a little more room in his chest to breathe. The two boys hold each other with a firm grip until the twisting shadows in their minds start to retreat, and tomorrow feels more possible.

dedicated to everyone who reads this and knows what the gray walls look like, or fears meeting them. it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. <3

#prongsfoot #sirius black #james potter #hp #bambibelle #the marauders #prongsfoot angst #tw psych ward #tw institutionalisation #tw suicidality #marauders fanfiction #my writing #prongsfoot*#marauders era #sirius x james #marauders fandom #tw homophobia

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ughhheragain · 2 years

Note

The moon boys falling in love with their therapist headcanons?

Steven

"Bullocks" was his very first thought when it hit him.

Steven was on the bus home, after yet another therapy session to which he had become accustomed to. After the "incident" occurred at the museum, he’d felt extremely bad about it and brought himself to accept going to therapy, on the advice of HR.

His heart had jumped on more than one occasions whenever he was in your presence. The setting — although purely profession — still felt intimate to him. During those sessions, it was only the two of you, which Steven wasn’t used to. Sure, he’d spent hours with a colleague or Donna on work duty but none of these women had ever made him feel anything else than friendly thoughts or in Donna’s case, resentment.

Being with you was something else. You’ve never made him feel like he was different, stupid or as if he’s not making sense whenever he speaks his mind. He doesn’t feel invalidated with you and for that, he’s grateful.

Another thing is that he was striked by your beauty since day one. As soon as he saw who asked for "Steven Grant?" in the waiting room next to your office, he was at loss for words.

Somehow, he managed to articulate, "Me? I- I’m Steven Grant." His knees almost gave him up when he tried to get up.

Now, I’m not saying that having Steven as your patient is an easy thing either. At times, it’s hard to keep yourself from smiling too hard whenever he gets caught up in his stories about Ancient Egypt or Egyptian Gods. To not offer to go talk to Donna yourself whenever he shares the awful things she tells him. Steven just has this thing about him that’s difficult to pinpoint.

It’s also difficult to hear him trash talk about himself and invalidating his own thoughts. He’s quick to underestimate himself and in these cases, it’s complicated to stay professional and not go to hold him close as to comfort him.

For you, Steven fell and he fell pretty hard. This leads him to stutter and become a blushing mess when he realises that you really take interest in what he has to share.

Before he finally builds the courage to invite you to dinner, he rehearses in front of his mirror, correcting himself over and over again. "C’mon Steven, you’ve never looked this silly. - What am I even doing?"

He’s also wondered if he was even allowed to invite you out. Was it against the rules?

But, turned out that he didn’t have much time to think about it because he soon came back to his senses.

And when he did so, he found you sitting across his table, in a beautifully dimmed down restaurant. "This, this can’t be," he thought, astonished. You looked beautiful, drop dead gorgeous he’d say even.

At this dinner, you talked about your potential relationship and you told him that no one could know about this, until you could figure it out.

But, this didn’t upset him.

"I- I’d love to be your secret," he admitted almost in a whisper as a warm red was painting his cheeks slowly.

Marc

It took a very long time to get Marc to open up to you. And, even when he started to, you’d always feel that he was still keeping a lot to himself.

I’d say that it took at least 5 sessions to get him to talk to you about his past without having to invite him to do so with questions.

He’s find things to fidget with while talking. Pens, his phone, this little plushy toy you keep on the couch that seems easier to play with rather than having to face your gaze.

But, with time, he’d learned to recognise that you weren’t there to judge him, at all. That feeling was very unknown to him, who’d grown up constantly feeling rejected, as if he didn’t belong. Because it was all the contrary with you, therapy sessions started to become his safe space.

But then, he realised that he’d fallen for you. For your smile, your laugh he’d manage to hear after making a self-deprecating joke — you hadn’t laughed because he was making fun of himself but more out of relief to see that he was making progress and finding light in his errors —, for the comforting words that would come out of your mouth without restraint. Everything you did or said seemed genuine for him and it was comforting.

Many nights were spent sitting on the floor, his back against an empty bed. Some times he’d have a drink in hand, others it’d be his phone as his finger would hover over your number, wondering if calling you would be the right thing to do.

"For God’s sake, shut up Steven, would you? It’s not your call to make," he’d snap at Steven’s reflection in the mirror, who’d spent the last minute trying to convince him to give it a try.

"Actually mate, it kinda is. Now, you can make fun of me all you want but here, you’re the one who’s shitting himself and not being the most courageous."

"Oh, fuck me," Marc growled, shutting the mirror doors abruptly before squeezing the bridge of his nose in defeat.

That night, he grabbed his phone and grew the guts to call you.

"Hey, Dr.-"

"Hi, Marc?- It’s late, isn’t it? Is everything okay?"

Looking back at the time at the top of his screen, which read 9PM, he closed his eyes and bit his lower lip rather strongly. "Right. Have you eaten yet?" he asked, hoping to God that it wasn’t the case.

"Actually, no. I was about to order something, why’s that? Are you okay, Marc?"

His heart swooned when realising that you’d asked him twice about how he was doing, meaning that you cared.

"I am, don’t worry. I haven’t eaten either."

Now, you knew what was coming and smiled on the other end.

"Would you like to come get dinner with me? On me.- I mean, it’s on me. Fu- I’ll pay is what I mean."

Hearing Marc actually let the stress get the best of him and stutter made you laugh in a way that reassured him. It was warm and genuine, which didn’t make him feel judged.

His heart skipped yet another beat when you said "Of course, sure Marc. I’ll send you the address, text me when you’re here."

• After he hung up, he went to grab a jacket and put it on in front of the mirror, where he had to face Steven again, who greated him with a proud grin. "See? Wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?"

Marc scoffed, adjusting his collar, "Because you’re one to speak, right."

Steven rolled his eyes, "Not fair, mate. But, you can have a laugh as much as you want at my expense, you owe me."

"For what, now?" Marc stopped to look at Steven, with his eyebrows raised.

"Well, if I hadn’t pissed you off,-"

"And you’re doing it again, see?" Marc cut Steven off and finished to tie his tie. In the other mirror, Steven closed his eyes for a second and sighed, "I’m not wining this one, am I?"

"Not tonight, brother. Tonight will be my night," he stated at Steven first and repeated the last part once again, but to him as a way to motivate himself.

a.n. here is my first Moon Knight work!! i really love writing about these two — Jake will appear soon, I just need to really get to know his character in more depth so it can be accurate —, i’ll gladly take more HCs requests <3

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davosmymaster · 2 years

Text

Fallen from Heaven, Grown on Earth -Part 3-

Part 1, Part 2.

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, very obvious hints to Marc’s alcoholism, alcohol consumption, underage drinking, Marc’s parents, panic attacks (mentioned), weapons (mentioned), near-death experiences, dialogue heavy, smut, very graphic descriptions of sex, nsfw, blood, injuries.

PAIRINGS - Steven Grant x fem!reader ; Marc Spector x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 22k

A/N - I decided to divide it again (please don’t kill me) part 4 will be out this week. Probably in the next 3 days or so, maybe even sooner. Epilogue too.

FALLEN FROM HEAVEN, GROWN ON EARTH - PART THREE

June 2006

Marc's very much awake when he receives the call.

He is sitting in his desk chair. He is all nerves and stiff muscles as he fills out the application papers for military service. It's late. Almost four in the morning. He woke up from an anxiety-driven nightmare two hours ago, chances are it has something to do with the maths final he failed and the fact that he's so stressed out that he can barely hear anything beyond his own thoughts these days. He needs a good night's sleep, maybe drink something apart from energy drinks and coffee; but his worries continue to keep him awake at night and drinking the equivalent of a half-kilo bag of sugar is the only thing that keeps him lucid. So his body will have to suck it up.

Not like he cares if he has a heart attack, anyways.

He decided to do something to distract himself. Be productive, in a way, anything to avoid lying in bed wide-eyed until seven in the morning. That's why he took the papers and started filling them up. He had no trouble with the first few pages, with his basic information and the section about his overall physical health. It almost surprises him how easy it is. He was born in Illinois, in 1987. He has double citizenship. No surgeries. No allergies. His eyesight is perfect.

And then they ask him if he has any mental illnesses.

It's like his mind reboots when he reads that, because he wasn't actually expecting it, although he should have. Marc could write a whole essay about how his DID was more of a blessing than a curse, even though he had just recently started to think that way. Steven allowed him a moment of peace when he was unable to function. Sometimes he felt as if his conscience was simply turned off, which was exactly what he needed in those cases. Other times, he was not as far in the headspace and he could actually see and hear through Steven, and even feel his emotions sometimes. Having Steven Grant in his head was a relief. Even for his parents. His mother treated Steven with more attention and affection than she had ever given Marc, even if it was not much. His father was more attentive to him, gentler. More than once Marc had found money in his pockets that his father had given Steven, right after he told Marc he would not give him a single cent.

He felt like a parasite in that house. He was unwanted. He almost would have preferred to live knowing that he was an accident, a broken condom, rather than knowing that he was a wanted child until he wasn't. When Randall was born, Marc had that typical jealousy older siblings have (not like he remembered that, but his mother had reminded him over and over again), and he thought that Randall was their favourite child.

Well, if Randall wasn't their favourite back then, once he died, he sure as hell was.

So he checked the 'no' box next to the question, despite having read the warning at the beginning about lying in the form being a reason to be expelled. He needed out, and the military was one of his last options after the rest didn't work. He knew he would have to pass a psychological test; but he wasn't too concerned about that. If he was able to lie to all the therapists he had ever had, then he sure as hell could lie to some psychiatrist too bored to do their job properly.

He looked at the page, getting lost in the black ink and the white background. He didn't even wonder if he would regret his decision; he knew from the beginning that he would. Not because of the lies, that didn't matter to him, but because of the future he was giving up on.

The university application was abandoned on the board, right next to the papers he was filling up instead. Marc had driven all the way to London Metropolitan University to get them for both of you. He didn't know what degree to choose, but as ironic as it might sound, the idea of teaching young children didn't entirely leave him cold. He thought he might even like it. His other options were philosophy, sociology and archaeology. The last one was more of a Steven thing than his, but given the choice, he preferred studying something Steven liked rather than a degree neither of them were interested in. Besides, if Steven liked the ancient world so much, maybe he would too.

He looked at both piles of papers, painfully aware of the two futures he could unfold. But as much as he wanted the second one, he couldn't afford it. Maybe when he came back from the service. Maybe in another life, if he was killed in action. Who knows.

His ringing phone brought him out of his stupor. It was violent, the way he jumped on the chair and his nerves spiked through the roof. The house had been completely silent until it rang, and he hurried to answer the call before his parents woke up, part of him wondering if something was horribly wrong. It wasn't as if people got plenty of good news at four in the morning. Plus, the only person who had his phone number apart from his parents was you.

A ragged breath was all he could hear on the other end of the line, music playing in the distance and people arguing in the background. He heard a faint sob for a split second, but it was so low that he wondered if he had imagined it.

"Marc?" you asked. "I'm... so sorry," he heard how you slurred the words. "I didn't know who else to call. I didn't know what to do. I'm so-" your voice broke. "...s-sorry I woke you up."

He heard you crying, his heart breaking in his chest and getting nailed like splinters in his lungs. He was standing up a second later.

"Hey, hey," he said, trying to sound calm, although he was the furthest from calm. "Hey, listen to me, okay? Take a breath, calm down, okay? Do it," he waited, listening to the way you breathed in a shaky mouthful of air. "Now tell me what’s wrong."

"I know it's selfish of me to ask..." you started, and he rolled his eyes. "... but I need a lift. I don't have any money on me, and my friends all left."

He cursed under his breath, but before you finished the sentence he was already grabbing his favourite jacket and shoes. He usually slept with an old t-shirt and he didn't mind being seen in his pajama pants either. He took the military application and hid it under the mattress.

"Where are you?"

As he heard you speak, he grabbed the keys to his father's car in the hall. It was in moments like these that he missed Chicago, because he'd have gotten his license way earlier than he did in the UK, which was barely a few months ago, and he'd probably have his own car by now too.

He didn't put his shoes on until he closed the front door behind him. He didn’t want to wake his parents up.

"Don't hang up," he said, holding the flip phone between his cheek and shoulder as he opened the car door. "I'm coming to get you."

There's a fight outside the club when he arrives. He can feel his heartbeat hammering behind his ears, in his wrists when his hands grip the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white, in his forehead when the vein there swells. He doesn't even park the car, but simply switches off the engine in front of the main door of the pub. He's sure he has more adrenaline in his veins than blood, and gets out of the car ready to punch his way in and out if he has to.

Then he sees you. In his peripheral vision, you are just a shadow coming out of an alley. In other circumstances, he would gawk at you in that tight black dress, but not now, not when you're shivering and a light drizzle is beginning to fall.

He closes the space between you in a couple of strides, his legs responding before him. His fingers dig into your shoulders as he searches for your gaze, your eyes locked on the dirty pavement beneath your heels. Your arms hugging yourself.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, anxiety pouring from his mouth. And you shake your head, finally looking at him with teary eyes and an unfocused gaze.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He wants to shake your shoulders, to let you know that you're not a burden, that he doesn't mind being there, that it's the least he can do as your friend for swallowing up every single one of his problems. He has always wanted to tell you how much you mean to him, but he can never find the right words.

He insists.

"I didn't ask that. I asked if you're hurt. Did someone touch you?"

"No."

He sighs, relief washing over him.

"How drunk are you?" he says, but he watches as the corners of your lips turn downwards and a black tear stained with mascara falls from one of your eyes. Your gaze is so unfocused, restless, that he wonders if you're even looking at him or behind him. "Hell, you’re wasted."

He’s affirming, not asking. You nod.

He sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Marc turns around, practically pushing you behind him. His nerves are on edge because he’s not a fan of the atmosphere the place holds, even if he can no longer hear the screams or the fighting. But when he turns around, there is no threat behind him, just a bouncer with an ID hanging from his neck.

"I need you to move the car, kid," he says. Then, he squints, looking directly at you. His gaze shifts from your face to where Marc's hand is squeezing your wrists behind him. Marc assures him that you are both leaving, but the man is not paying attention. "Do you know this guy?"

Despite the fact that he is the one on the line here, Marc cannot help but feel glad that there's people out there who still care for others.

"He's my boyfriend. He came to pick me up," you say, Marc eyes widen for a split second before he remembers he has to follow your lead, or the man will probably not let you go. Neither of you can risk to have him ask for your ID. After all, you're still seventeen, and as much as your parents have always treated him well, he's not sure what they'd do if they see you in the state you're in.

Luckily, the man lets you go.

"Get in the car, come on," Marc whispers, holding the door open for you as you get in.

He even goes the extra mile, in case the man isn't quite convinced and decides to look back. Marc's upper body looms over you as he gets inside as well, reaching for your seatbelt and securing it around your hips. He's secretly wishing his fingertips brush the fabric of your dress. What he does, instead, is touch your cold thigh with his hand, just over your knee. He hopes you see it as a comforting gesture, but the truth is he just wants to feel you close.

Marc barely registers when your fingers brush the hair out of his face. It's 2006 and he keeps it long, a few inches above his shoulders, but he knows he will have to cut it all off once he gets accepted into the military. You kiss his cheek.

"Thank you."

He feels his heart flutter.

"A-anytime," he mumbles.

Then, he leaves a kiss on your forehead. He's pushing it, a little too much, but when he looks back and the man is looking at the scene, he feels glad he let himself act on his impulses, for once.

Marc's driving. He's been doing it for a couple of minutes now. Although you're not sure how long you've been in that car. It's like there's a dirty window in front of your eyes. You can see, but you're not sure you're really watching or focusing on anything. You close your eyes when the car bounces into a sinkhole, your head lulling to the side when it weighs too much for your neck to hold. You almost moan when your temple hits the cold window.

"Shit," you hear Marc say. His fingers are brushing your leg immediately after. "You didn't faint, did you?"

"No, Marc," you reply, mouth dry and eyes still closed. Your sweaty forehead resting on the window. "I'm just resting my eyes..." you purse your lips, you keep slurring the words. "Where are we going?"

"I was driving to your house," he says. "Not anymore, though. I can't take you home like this."

You're happy with his response because you didn't feel like being alone in your room either. If his parents weren't as strict as they were, you'd even work up the courage to ask him to crash at his house. You told your parents you'd spend the night at your friend Sarah's, but she left the club ages ago, and if they see you at home in the morning they will ask you. You don't know what you're going to say, but you do know they are not going to trust Sarah anymore.

You'd say they will love Marc instead for what he is doing, but that they already do.

"Then, what?"

"This is the plan. We're gonna stop at some store, buy you food," he says. You grimace. "Don't look at me like that, you're gonna eat something because you'll be dying in the morning if you don't. You're gonna drink a bunch of water too. Then I take you home. How does that sound?"

"I guess that's okay."

You don't sound convinced, but he doesn't care.

"Great," he says, still gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to choke someone. Then, he whispers. "I wasn't asking for permission anyway."

Marc keeps his promise. He parks the car but doesn't wait for you to follow him, so you guess it's okay if you stay there. You don't feel like moving from your seat either, and your feet hurt like hell because of the high heels you were wearing. Marc buys you your favourite snacks and a huge bottle of water. He buys a beer for himself and shares a bag of sour patch, his favourite candy.

While you're eating, he asks how you even got in the club. It's not the first time you drink, he took care of that at eighteen, when he gave you a taste of his beer in the shed in your parent's backyard; but it is your first time in a club. Which makes sense, having in mind you're only seventeen.

You tell him about Sarah. He knows her because he joins your group of friends sometimes. Marc said from the beginning that he didn't like her, but you didn't listen. Her boyfriend is a couple of years older than her, and the two of them wanted to go clubbing with other friends. You were the only one who wasn't legal yet, and being surrounded by people who were older gave you an advantage when it came to not being caught red-handed when you entered the club. It worked, but honestly, you now wish it hadn't.

"Did you already fill out the application papers?"

For a second, he thinks you refer to the military application; but then his muscles relax as he remembers that there's no way you knew about that.

He takes another sip of his beer.

"I'm on it," he responds. "but I got stuck on the choose your degree section."

You respond with words of encouragement that he doesn't hear. He usually doesn't have trouble lying to most people: his parents, teachers, anyone... But it does hurt him to lie to you when he hides the fact that he’s not going to attend university. The words get stuck in his throat before he says them, and he's thankful that you never notice.

Marc forces you to drink half of the water. He also witnesses how your eyes start to focus, how the fog slowly disappears from them and your tears dry. He knows you were only crying because of how drunk you were, he's seen you cry for the silliest things while drunk -and sober-, but he had never seen you this drunk.

Having in mind you almost exclusively drink when he’s present, so he’s been a witness of every time you’ve gotten hammered, to say that he has never seen you this drunk is to say something. For a moment, when he had just picked you up, he thought you'd throw up all over his dad's car.

Marc's distracted while you finish eating. And yet, somehow, he keeps giving you some sour patch when he gets one himself. You take a sip of water, making sure there's nothing in your mouth or teeth. It takes both you and him as a surprise, when the alcohol makes all the ignored feelings impossible to avoid and you call his name. He answers, barely whispering but completely focused on you from one second to the next, and before you can process it, your lips are pressed against his.

Marc has his eyes closed, but doesn't reciprocate.

There's a moment, a single second of pure bliss when it’s over. Marc ravishes in the feeling before absolute dread sets in. The feeling, the good one, is nowhere to be found. It abandoned his body as soon as it arrived. Marc sighs through his quick heartbeat and the trembling of his hands, suddenly aware of what he's always known: he's not made to be loved, he doesn't even think he has that ability.

If there's anything he fears more than losing control, that's loneliness. Marc already suspected that you liked him, but never had the guts to say anything about it. There's a reason why dread is stronger than pleasure, why the bliss vanished so quickly. He knows love and hate are very closely related, he often experiences the former before it eventually fades into the latter. It's happened with almost every person he has ever formed a meaningful relationship with. And that's something he can't risk with you. He just can't.

It's not that he doesn't love you, he does. That he has always known. Just maybe not in the way you need him to. Maybe it is in that way and he's only lying to himself because he can't cope with the idea of his selfish ass yearning for such a kind and loving soul. He could not forgive himself if he corrupted that with his messy ways.

But he can't let himself drown in those fantasies, either. Having his brother's blood on his own hands, there's no way in hell there's a happy ending waiting for him, and the last thing he wants is making you suffer.

"Well..." your voice is the only thing to bring him back from his own personal hell. "There goes my first kiss."

There's a kind of sadness in your voice, the kind that leaves you wounded for life. It's no secret for him that you've always been a hopeless romantic. You love rom-coms, st. valentine's, flowers and chocolate. You were watching Love, Actually when you told him how you wished your first kiss to be. It had nothing to do with his dad's old car, the smell of alcohol in your breath, or Marc's resting bitch face as his brain processes what just happened.

Oh, guilt. His old friend.

"Not like that could be considered a kiss, anyway."

He watched as your eyes filled with unspilled tears. He told himself he was an asshole, but he hadn't even meant it to sound so harsh. It was a fact that he didn't consider a peck on the lips to be a serious thing.

Marc leans forwards, his knee digging on the fabric as he maneuvers his own body so he is kneeling over the seat, his eyes never leaving yours. And then, the sensation of falling into a void, not a single hand for him to hold, nothing he could reach as he fell. Fear, again, stronger than ever. He lunges forward without thinking, knowing that if he hesitates he would never do what he is about to do. And he kisses you.

It’s just a gentle brush at the beginning, little more than a peck. Then his hand landed on your neck, urging you closer. He parted his lips slightly and you followed. It was a dance that he expertly led. His tongue licked yours, gently, slowly, savouring the bittersweet taste of candy. He almost moaned, almost.

It felt like the kiss lasted years, in the best of senses. He'd later wonder how he would ever get over it. Forget it, move on. Truth be told, he wouldn't.

Before separating, his teeth caught your lower lip, pulling gently and sucking on it. A current of pride settled in his chest as he heard you moan. Your nails digging into his arms.

Just like that, it was over.

It took all of his willpower not to kiss you again as he watched you, lips parted and eyes closed as you breathed in shaky breaths. When you finally looked at him, your eyelids slowly opening as if they weighted a ton, your pupils had almost entirely swallowed your irises. If you were someone else, someone he didn't care for as much, he'd have laughed and said some cocky remark. But this was you, and his own heart was beating so fast that when he finally spoke, he had to put a lot of effort into not looking out of breath.

"Now, that's a kiss."

Marc sits properly in the driver's seat again. He starts the engine, his fingers still trembling on the gear lever as he reversed out of the car park. He needs to do something, keep his mind occupied, eyes on the road. Anything so he doesn't look at you and falls into the trap of your lips.

"Seatbelt," he orders.

"Okay."

The seatbelt is merely a distraction. All so he could make sure you were not looking when he pulled at the fabric of his pajama pants. He checks the bulge there isn't visible. It's embarrassing, really. He's half hard in his boxers with just a kiss.

He can't wait for his hormonal teenager years to be over.

"We never talk about this again, okay?"

He's been such a prick, but can't afford to give you any hopes.

"Okay."

He hates himself.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, that's okay," you respond, there's a smile on your face when you look at him. No trace of resentment or hate. "Thank you for being my first, Marc."

He hates himself even more, if that is even possible.

Marc Spector doesn't like breaking his own rules, but when he sets foot in your house after promising himself that he wouldn’t, that's the second time he does in less than an hour, counting the kiss. If he could be completely honest —and that's absolutely a him problem— he would say it out loud. He would praise you for being capable of achieving such a thing.

You ask him to keep you company. His chest still feels sore for your okays and your thank yous, so he says yes despite the threat of your sleeping parents on the first floor.

Before he knows it, he's in your room. He's been there a thousand times before and yet he still surprises himself by looking at everything as if it was his first. He looks at your posters, your notes splashed all over your desk, your pictures nailed to the wall. He takes a moment to admire the photos. Marc sees Sarah's face in some of them and all he wants is to rip them off and tear them to pieces. There's also a picture of him from last year. Marc's holding a guitar despite not knowing how to play a single chord. In his defence, he was just playing around with it.

Marc appears in most pictures. While some of your friends appear and disappear throughout the years, he sees himself in almost every single photo. Some of them are just pictures of him alone. He cannot help but wonder how he didn't see it sooner. It's so painfully clear how much you love him. He doesn't feel deserving of it. In fact, he has never felt deserving of any of your attentions. To this day he still wonders why you chose him as your friend.

"I'm gonna get changed," you announce, and before you can say anything he's already facing the wall.

Once you're done, he encourages you to wash your make-up off while he gets everything ready. Marc is so used to being in your house that he doesn't ask anything as he dives into your wardrobe and gets a thick blanket. The fabric will be an improvised mattress for him, given the fact that he's not supposed to be there and cannot get the couch instead. There's also a cushion. He does not get another blanket because if he does, he'll fall asleep, no doubt. His father leaves for work at seven o'clock. The car needs to be there by then and, if he can get home sooner than that and avoid questions and arguments, that'd be lovely too.

"Marc?" you ask as you come back from the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

He's sitting on your bed, but you're looking at the blanket on the floor.

"I don't plan on staying," he says. "I'm just gonna rest my eyes a little bit until you fall asleep."

He made sure to get the blanket as close to your bed as possible. He wants to make sure you're fast asleep before he leaves.

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

He blinks. He's trying really hard not to think about the alternative. He cannot believe you'd ask him to sleep with you, that's not even a possibility in his mind. He wonders if you're still drunk enough to make such a proposition.

He'd love to argue, but this is your house and if you don't want him messing around with your things, he won't. He's not used to sleeping on other people's houses. Hell, he's not used to be in other people's houses. And he's always been extremely respectful when it comes to your living space, your parents and their rules (or lack of them, if Marc compares your rules with his rules). That's why he says nothing as he puts the cushion back in the wardrobe.

"No resting my eyes then," he says, his lips pursed trying to hide his discontentment. At least, it's Sunday. He will get some sleep when he gets home. He kneels, about to start folding the blanket again.

"Marc, you can get on the bed with me."

He chuckles.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Why?" you ask him. Your face is full of amusement as he watches you wide-eyed. "Can't two people get into the same bed without having sex? You're my best friend, I thought we were past that."

There's a stupid grin on his face when you finish the sentence. Your best friend. It sounds good, even better when referring to him. He always knew you were his best friend, but he was never sure about that feeling being reciprocated. He would lie if he said he didn't feel self-conscious when you talked and hung out with other people, but he never acts on his feelings because he knows it's a fucked up thing to say, think and do. Marc always knew you were his friend, but the way in which you said best friend leaves him feeling butterflies all over his body.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

He refers to the proposition of sharing the bed. He doesn't have the strength to keep pushing you away tonight.

"Why? Are you planning on touching me, Spector?"

He's trying really hard not to fall for those bedroom eyes of yours.

"Nineteen," he says, pointing out at himself. Then, he points at you. "Seventeen. Don't wanna go to jail yet."

There's only one thing on his mind as he says that. The age of consent in the UK is sixteen yers old. But he will not do it. Not only because he doesn't want to, he just can't. He was trembling just from you pecking his lips. He'd probably faint if you kissed him again now. Not like he'd ever admit that.

"Just give it a few more months," you respond.

"Think I'm gonna stay on the floor," he finally says, kneeling on the blanket and turning his back to you when he lies down. "Good night."

"Marc..." you chuckle. "I was kidding. Get on the bed, come on."

He knows you were. At least, that's what he chooses to think. He wasn't kidding, though.

"No."

"Okay, then."

There's a brief moment of peace in which he thinks you will listen to him and just go to bed, but he should know you better than that by now. Next thing he knows, you're cuddling up with him, hugging him from behind as he becomes the little spoon. All his muscles become impossibly stiff as he feels your warm touch on his naked arms.

He feels powerless. His heart is aggressively hammering in his chest, and his worst fear right now apart from losing control is that you might hear how his body reacts to yours.

"Get on the damn bed,” he groans, shifting his arms gently, away from your touch.

"No."

He snorts.

"Okay, okay, fuck," he finally gives in. "I don't see the fucking point of sleeping on the floor if no one's taking the bed."

He tries to ignore your giggles as both of you get on the bed and under the covers. You're now facing the ceiling, while he keeps looking at your face. His hand grips your shoulder as he encourages you to face him. Your body moves slowly, turning until you finally catch his attentive gaze on your features.

"Never sleep on your back when you've been drinking," he says, although he's probably exaggerating a little bit, but one is never sure. He doesn't want anything bad happening to you. "you could choke if you throw up during the night."

You whisper back. "Okay."

Marc crosses his arms, trying not to fall asleep as he watches you, but also because he feels that’s the only way he can keep his hands to himself. Your body's warm against his, despite the minimal contact both of you share. Your pillow smells of you. He could get drunk on it. Marc's only wish is that you fall asleep soon, before either his willpower or his desire to sleep falters and he ends up doing something that he might regret.

"Sleep now," he whispers, then yawns. You do too. "Come on..."

It's not difficult to fall asleep while looking into Marc's chocolate eyes, the warmth of him right next to you. You smile, unaware of how terrible the next months will be, once the two of you get to Brighton and he confesses his plans for the future, once he leaves and never comes back.

When you wake up, he has already left.

That night you dream of bittersweet kisses and cars taking you home.

Marc had no idea why all of those memories were torturing him now.

Steven almost fucked everything up, almost got the two of them killed tonight, but Marc was smarter than blaming it all on Steven. In fact, he wasn't blaming Steven at all. He should've followed your advice and talked to him before something like a jackal attacking them happened. But he never listens, does he? No, he has to hit rock bottom at least twice, before he even considers it.

It was a close call. But if he's absolutely honest, Marc never thought his fronting problem would go as far as not being able to front even in life or death situations. Marc didn't think about God much these days —except the one god of the moon that permanently called him ungrateful in his mind, that is— but he did thank his God, the one he's always believed in, that Steven had been lucid enough through the panic attack to let him front.

Of course, he had to get alcohol after that.

He went directly for the beer. He's been drinking too much whiskey lately, and even if he didn't care what happened to him, he hated having to witness Steven taking care of a body Marc was slowly but surely getting rid of. That's how he ended up looking at the beer cans on the fridge, in a store just in front of the museum. But once he had in his hands the cheapest brand of beer he could find, he remembered that it was the same beer he had you try when he turned eighteen. You hated that specific brand of beer, hated it with a passion.

Marc remembered then you were in Steven's flat, waiting for your beloved ex-boyfriend to come back home. One thing led to another and now it seemed that Marc was reliving each and every single one of his core memories with you.

All because of a fucking can of beer.

"Are you gonna get the beer or not, mate?" a man appeared next to him, complaining because he was taking too long choosing if he wanted it or not. Marc sent him a deadly look, one that forced the man to take a step back and get lost in the crisps aisle.

If he was going home to you, then he might as well get something stronger than beer. He was going to need it, after all the memories he had remembered and his own heart breaking for the millionth time when he compared the happy memories —even the not-so-happy ones, the ones in which he was a complete asshole— to the situation you both found yourselves in.

The one friend, the one person he had always loved, the only one who was always there and the only one who he couldn't risk losing... you. Well, he had already lost her. It took you a while, but you eventually ended up hating him like everyone else did, just like his parents, just like all the friends he had ever had, just like Layla, just like Steven.

Yeah, he definitely needed more than a few cans of beer.

He left the can where he found it and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a nearby aisle, telling himself that once Harrow got taken care of, he would stop drinking so much. It wasn't until he reached the counter and saw a bag of sour patch, that he decided he was getting one of those too. Marc started drinking before he even set foot outside the store.

You were half asleep when you heard the metallic click of the door lock. It wasn't until Marc got in that you got startled, jumping slightly on your end of the couch —the furthest from where he was standing— and rubbing your eyes to get rid of the remnants of sleep. You weren't one to get sleepy easily in difficult situations, but you hadn't had a proper night's sleep since the night before you broke up with Steven.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he said, almost a whisper.

"Marc?"

He was wearing Steven's clothes, but that was the only thing that could lead to confusion. The rest, it was all so indistinctively Marc. His demeanour, the squared shoulders held high, the dark curls brushed back because of his hair-pulling mania, the wrinkle between his eyebrows that Steven never had, that constantly annoyed expression on his face, even the way he walked. The accent, despite being the most obvious difference between the two men, was also the most irrelevant.

"Yeah," he said. He walked in, carrying a plastic bag and little more than a three-quarter full bottle of whiskey. "Not who you were expecting, I know. I'm not gonna bother you much. I'll just eat something and put Steven to sleep."

The way in which he talked, pure misery pouring from his lips, made you nauseous. You had heard that tone a few times before, but never strictly linked to you as a person. All you wanted to do was grab him by the shoulders and ask him how was it possible that, after so many years of friendship, a friendship that had survived the distance and the traumas and the heartbreak, how could it possibly end like this. How could he talk to you as if you were a stranger, how the two of you could be at square one once again, not knowing how to talk to each other or what to say. At the end of the day, it had been walking on eggshells that was killing the both of you.

You didn't know what to say, so you followed him to the kitchen.

"I ordered Indian take-out," you told him as he opened the fridge looking for something to eat. "I was expecting Steven so it's vegan food, but you can have it if you want."

He took the container out, inspecting it, and held it in front of you as he locked his eyes on yours.

"Is it poisoned?"

You chuckled, shaking your head slightly.

"No, I forgot to poison it, but you should totally remind me next time."

He smiled too, a little smile that barely reached his eyes. He got the food into a plate and tried it before deciding that it was, in fact, too cold to be edible. Then, he pointed at the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table.

"Do I pour you some?"

"Sure," you answered, taking a seat. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and served you some whiskey just before he grabbed his plate, and you took a sip and said. "Maybe I should do that, having in mind your history of burning the popcorn."

"It was actually you who almost burned the house down every damn time."

And as he said that, he was putting his plate of food, fork included, in the microwave.

"Marc!" you shouted, rushing to his side and almost smacking his hand when he tried to turn it on. You opened the microwave, got the fork out. "You can't put metal in the microwave, you idiot," you said, chuckling just a second later. "So I was the one to almost burn my house down, right?"

Marc crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back against the counter.

"You got me distracted."

"Yeah, it's always my fault somehow, isn't it?"

The flat fell into a strangely comfortable silence. Marc didn't respond as he kept giving large gulps of the bottle of whiskey, until you finally reached for a glass and served him some. Not because you were disgusted at the sight of him drinking straight from the bottle, but rather because, seeing the state he was in, you wanted to at least keep track of how much he was drinking, which already seemed to be a lot.

"I already bought another coffee table for Steven," he responded so casually while he ate, now sitting on the kitchen table, right in front of you. "He was the one to clean the couch, though."

"I'm so sorry about that," you responded, a blush quickly settling on your face. "I'm sorry about all of it, actually."

Marc swallowed and cleaned his mouth with a napkin before responding.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"That's not true, Marc," you said.

It had always angered you the way he always let you get away with anything and everything, the way he never stood up for himself when it came to you and things that were really important. Some stranger on the street telling him to fuck off? Hell, he was already snapping back before the other man even finished. But when it came to friends that betrayed him or you accidentally saying something that really hurt him. Well, he always went silent. Marc Spector was a walking contradiction. He was too much of a fuckboy with any girl that showed interest in him, but with the one he truly loved… Oh, that's a different story.

You wanted to say that you were sorry for all you said. You wanted him to clarify what had happened the day Layla's dad died, because you hadn't given him the chance to explain himself. He got shot, you had just experienced how frightening it was to have a gun pointing at you, and you could not even begin to imagine how hard it had all been for him. Maybe some part of you wanted to defend him, give him the chance to say why he did it, or even tell you he didn't do it. You just wanted to have an excuse, to find out Marc was still the same good man you had once admired.

He talked first.

"I-..." he started. His hand flew to his face, he brushed the skin over his mouth with his palm, an almost nervous tick that he used to give himself the courage to say something. "I am sorry," he said. "I don't even have the words to express how much I regret putting you in the middle of everything. I know why you're here. I know about Harrow. And I'm sorry for what happened. With me, with Steven," he said. He took another mouthful of alcohol as if he needed it to breathe. He was actually choking with his own words. "I'm really sorry for what happened the other night. I'm not sorry about what I said, though. I'm not sorry for falling for you," he breathed in, brought the glass to his lips again. "I will never be sorry for that. I don't care how selfish it might sound."

One of your fingers touched the rim of the glass, not allowing him to bring it to his lips. When he stopped, you took it in your hand and left it aside.

"Was that so hard to do?" you asked him. "We could have saved ourselves so much trouble if you had said that earlier. Because you already knew how I felt, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Since when?"

"I always knew," he responded. His eyes didn't look at you when he next spoke. "Do you really think I would have worked up the courage to kiss you that night if I thought there was the slightest possibility that you might reject me?

You shook your head and brought your own hand to your eyes.

"You fucker," you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. "You made me suffer so much, all these years..."

"Believe me, you weren't alone in that," he said. "I didn't even know what I was feeling, not until I understood the meaning of wanting to be with someone. Ironically, it was Layla's aunt who made me wake up. It's ridiculous, I know, but the lady just said the right words at the wrong time and then I knew, but it was too late. And by then you had suffered enough and I had just gotten married, so I decided that letting you go was the best for both of us."

"You could've talked to me, at least."

He shook his head.

"I've never been one to talk things through," he said. "I've always been better at hiding or running away."

"And you did both."

He looked at you in the eyes, for the first time in a few minutes. Marc pursed his lips, just then realizing that it was true. He had hidden his feelings for the longest time, even from himself. When his relationship with his parents became impossible, and what he felt for you was so confusing that he could barely talk to you before he left, he fled under the pretext of his military service. He hid his feelings, then he ran away.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."

After a few minutes, once he was finished eating and pushed the plate out of the way, he spoke again.

"I can see why you prefer Steven. I don’t blame you for that."

You couldn't help but laugh, it erupted from the back of your throat, started small and only grew as Marc's confused stare kept getting more intense.

"What?"

"Steven said the same thing earlier about you," you drew circles with your index finger, over the rim of your own glass. "You two are so different, and so exactly the same sometimes." When he didn't say anything, you explained the situation. "He found your phone and asked me what I knew. I couldn't just keep quiet, he thought you were blackmailing me."

Marc just nodded.

"Marc...," you played with your own fingers over the table. "when you told me you worked for your old commander officer, I thought you had stopped after what happened with Layla's dad..."

"I didn't kill him," he said, his eyes suddenly wide, looking at you with such an intensity and fear that it was impossible not to believe him. "I know that's what you think, but I swear to God I didn't."

You held his nervous gaze, finding no trace of lying on his words. And he visibly relaxed under your watchful eye when you caught his fingers in yours, gently caressing them.

"So you didn't kill anyone," you said, but it was more of a question than a claim. The way he sat in silence before you, made your heart sink to the ground. "Did you?"

He wetted his lips, seemingly thinking twice about what he was about to answer.

"Not because I wanted to."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Marc made a gesture, his touch slipping away from yours. He tried to reach his almost empty glass of Jack Daniels, but you got it out of the way.

"Marc," your voice sounded desperate. You couldn't believe you had just talked and fixed so much just for him to keep lying to you, hiding things from you. "If you were having money troubles, if you needed help, you could have told me before going to your old commanding officer. He shot you, and now you're back at stealing things for him... and, and- now Steven and I, and Harrow..."

Your voice broke, your mind was rushing so much you had no idea what you were saying, or if it even made sense.

"Hey, hey," he said, grabbing your hands in his, drawing comforting circles over your palms with his thumbs. "Calm down, okay? What are you talking about?"

You took a shaky breath, your unspilled tears making it difficult for you to keep looking at him. The image around you distorted.

"Are you not working for him?"

"For Bushman?" he asked, he grimaced as if the idea repeled him. "Of course not."

You furrowned, a perfect question mark drawn on your features.

"They told me you stole something from them," you whispered, as if they were there to hear you. “I thought you had stolen it for Bushman. Why else would you steal?”

Marc almost instantly regretted denying your words. It was probably easier to explain that he still worked for Bushman, that he stole relics and ancient artefacts for a living, rather than going into details about how he was resurrected by an ancient Egyptian god of the moon who tasked him with killing and stealing from all sorts of people.

"That's what you kept talking about," you said. "Wasn't it? When you said you'd explain it all to me when it was all sorted, when everything was over."

He silently cursed himself, now that you had seen the recognition in his eyes, you wouldn't stop until you got the truth. He sighed, letting your hands go and pulling his hair back, his fingers getting knotted in his own messy curls.

"I told you," he tried to reason with you, tried to get out of trouble without explaining a single thing. But you were so dangerously close to the truth, and he could not risk that either. "I told you, I promised I'd told you everything once it was over. It's obviously not still over, is it?" he said, a pleading look into his eyes. "So please, it's not time yet."

"It's not time?!" you almost shouted. Your hands slammed on the table. "They almost got the three of us killed, Marc! I think it's very much time."

The tip of his tongue wetted his lip just to bite his lower lip later, a desperate look in his eyes. This time, he did reach for the whiskey and swallowed the entire contents of the glass as if it were water.

"This is what you kept talking about, isn’t it?" you tried again, hoping that he would finally snap out of it. While you talked, he rose up from his chair and walked a few steps, brushing his hair back, until he finally turned around and shouted.

"Yes! Yes, it is!" he said. "And frankly, (y/n), the less you know the better."

"You're just so impossible, Marc," you responded, shaking your head. "Can't you see? We already played that game! And look where it got us!”

He took ragged breaths, his chest repeatedly rising and falling as if he had run a marathon.

"I don't care about your fucking opinion!" he raised a hand in front of him, considering the matter closed. "If you dont trust me that its better this way, I don't care. I'm not telling you shit this time.”

His words shook you to your core. Would it be possible that Marc had closed off again because of what happened the first time, when he told you everything that happened in the tomb? Was he still mad at you for telling him he should feel guilty?

"I- I know I hurt you Marc, but I said sorry- I thought..."

"It's not about that," he said. "You could not say a thing that kept me away from you, or made me hate you, or whatever. It's not about that," he sighed, now leaning against the kitchen counter. "Listen, this is heavy shit. This is a world I don't wanna drag you into. I tried very hard to keep both you and Steven safe and very far away from it, I did.

"This is the kind of thing people will torture you for if they think you have information about it. I cannot let that happen. They won't touch you, I swear, but you have to do as I say and not ask questions. Then you’ll never see me again, I promise, and you’ll have Steven and both of you will live the rest of your lives happily ever after and pretend I never existed. That’s what you want, that’s what he wants. Your wish is my command. Now, do we have a deal?"

You could not believe the tone in which he spoke to you, nor the words that came from his mouth.

"That's..." you whispered, taking a step back. "That's what you think I want, to get rid of you?"

Marc bit his cheek.

"Is not?"

"Of course not," you responded. "I want you with me."

He shifted his gaze, now looking at the tiles under his shoes.

"More than you want Steven?" he asked, you didn't respond. He pursed his mouth into a thin line just as his lower lip started trembling, shivers taking over his body. "That's what I thought."

Marc closed his eyes shut, biting his lip trying not to spill the tears piling up behind his eyelids. It was fair, really. He wasn't crying because he wanted to, but because even though he understood, it still hurt. He could only compare it to when he hit some furniture by accident. He was okay, he didn't have anything broken, he wasn't bleeding; but the damn thing still hurt like a bitch. It was exactly the same thing. He was okay with your decision, he understood it, maybe even more than you yourself did, but that didn't mean it hurt any less.

You walked up to him, quickly getting your arms around his form. Soon his tears were flowing, his tired and weak body falling forwards as you caught him in your arms.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, burying his face into your neck. "...for everything. I'm sorry. If I could take all the pain I've caused you, I'd gladly do it."

You grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to get him away from you, just a few inches so you could look at him. You cupped his cheek, wiped away his tears with your thumbs.

"Marc," you said. "I love both of you, the exact same amount. The only thing keeping the three of us apart is the lies, the confusion, all the pain we've inflicted upon the others. I'm no saint. I lied to Steven, lied to you when I thought you'd turn me down, lied to myself when I convinced myself that I didn't want you anymore. But I do, I always do.

"I'm not just asking you to be honest," you said. "I want to help you, because I know you're too stubborn to ask for help. Even if all I can do is being there for you, I want to do that. Can't you see that I'm trying to forgive you?" you asked. "I'm willing to forget everything, to start over as if you've just arrived in England again, but I can't do that if you're not honest with me."

His glazy eyes widened, a new and restored hope filling them. One final tear fell from one of his eyes.

"Do you understand that?" you asked.

He nodded profusely, biting his lip, his teary, blood-shot eyes never leaving yours.

"Would you do that?" he asked, whispering, his voice the most frightened you'd ever heard him speak. He almost looked like a lost child, like the Marc you'd first met. "Would you have me?"

Now biting your own lower lip, you considered his words. You didn't want to break his heart, not after seeing the spark of hope in them. It had been a long time since you last saw him so alive and full of hope, so hopeful. But the truth was, there was a long list of conditions that'd have to be met in order for the two of you to be together.

"Will you be honest with me?"

He nodded once again, his hands digging into your waist, bringing you close.

"Give me a few days, okay?" he asked, then looked at the disappointment in your face. "Okay, okay, give me a day. Just a day. And I'll tell you everything, I promise."

"Okay," you responded. His forehead rested against yours, the smell of alcohol in his breath didn't allow you to drown in him, in his smell and his warmth, but the closeness still filled you with comfort. "I don't wanna give you false hope, Marc," you said, separating from him. He frowned. "You have to know that I don’t think I could get into a relationship with any of you now. Not if the other doesn’t agree with it. Surely you understand that, don't you?"

He nodded.

"I don't wanna hurt Steven. I can't keep any more lies. I need the two of you..." your voice broke, and you swallowed. "...to be okay."

Marc hugged you, his strong arms securing you tightly against his chest. A few tears fell from your eyes, staining his shirt.

"I don't want to hurt him either," he said, his hand stroked your back, up and down. "There has to be a way to fix this mess. We'll find a way. That, I promise."

It took the both of you a while to recover from the rollercoaster of emotions you had just experienced. At this point, neither of the two knew who was holding who. Both souls felt as shattered as the other, both bodies were just as tired. It had already been late when Marc appeared on the front door, but it had now become an ungodly hour in the morning.

Marc was the first to talk, almost dragging your body to the bedroom.

"Let's get some sleep, c'mon," he whispered over your ear. "Promise I'll get on the bed with you," he said. You smiled, and he mirrored you. "Yeah, I remember. No sleeping on the floor."

It was as if he could read your thoughts. He knew exactly what you were thinking.

A moment of lucidity came over you both just as your bodies hit the mattress, suddenly aware of the fact that you were going to share a bed again, for the second time in your whole lives. Neither of you did as much as getting rid of one piece of clothing. For you, it was your jeans, too uncomfortable to sleep in them. For him, it was his jacket and shirt. You wrapped yourself under the sheets and duvet, and despite doing it yourself, Marc's fingers brushed your shoulder as he secured the sheets over you, just to get his body under them a second later.

Marc found himself lying next to you for the first time since he was nineteen. Everything had changed, neither of you were children anymore, and despite that, he still felt like a helpless teenager when his eyes met yours. His desires weren't childish, either, not anymore. Now what he wanted to do to you went beyond what the flesh could offer.

Everything had changed, yet it all remained the same somehow. You had the same glint on your eyes he had always admired, the same expression even if your face had changed over the years. If he squinted he could still see the little girl he met in secondary school, the first person who befriended him when he had just moved from the states, the only person who dared to stay despite his many flaws.

He wanted to touch you, in a much more frenetic way than he did before. You were not seventeen anymore, neither was he. You're just two grown-ups who don't know how to unleash their feelings because they have bottled them up for so long that they're not sure if it will all explode in their faces once they remove the cap.

He wanted to touch you. You wanted him to touch you. In fact, you were secretly wishing for it, not daring to make a move in case you scared him away. If Marc wanted, he could slide his fingers inside your panties and not only would you allow it, but you'd be waiting for him, so deliciously drenched. He could make you come in his fingers without breaking a sweat or getting rid of one single piece of clothing. He could taste you then, undress you and bury his tongue in your wet folds as you repeatedly clenched and relaxed around him, still massaging your clit so you kept squirming under him.

Then he would whisper how long he's been waiting for that, how many times he had to take care of himself when he couldn't stop imagining your flavour, or the way you'd scream his name, eyes squeezed shut, fists gripping into his sheets as you came. He'd be embarrassed to admit how many times you were the main character of his wet dreams, so he'd keep that to himself. He'd tell you someday, eventually. You'd kiss him. He would kiss you back, put one of your legs above his shoulder, your lower back resting on his thighs as he entered you.

He wanted to. You wanted him to. Your eyes were begging him to ruin you, show you how much he cared. There was nothing to stop him now.

And yet he was still too scared to touch you.

So he closed his eyes under your watchful gaze, rejecting you, and after a while, he drifted off.

Some things never change.

You might have fallen in love first, but Marc fell harder and all at once. On his wedding day, out of all days, and with the person he was not getting married to.

He didn't believe in that feeling back then. He thought that, in the end, all love came to be was another imbalance in the chemicals of the brain, different to the one that had fractured his own mind to create Steven, and very different to the one that pushed him to almost put a bullet in his skull the night he became Moon Knight, but an imbalance nonetheless.

Contrary to all the other beliefs he had, he could proudly say that he himself had put that thought in his brain; no one else. This time there wasn't an abusive mother to blame, or an absent father, or a traumatic experience serving in the military. The thought was all his, his own work. And he was madly proud of it.

Because when he was younger, he craved it. He craved all kinds of love: friends, family... He craved it so much and it was so obvious, that he was terribly embarrassed by all the things he'd done trying to earn it. Because when you're a kid and your needs aren't met, you become an adult way too soon, desperately trying to give what you need to yourself.

Marc had read once, somewhere, that when you're not fed love on a silver spoon; you learn to lick it off knives. He hated the fact that the sentence shook him to his core the way it did, that it felt so intimate and raw, yet so accurate. To this day, he has yet to find a better way to describe his childhood.

After many years of seeking the feeling, begging for it, he got tired in the end, as we all do at some point. When this happens, some people turn to religion and different systems of beliefs, saying things like god will provide, and everything happens for a reason. But he didn't believe there was any other reason beyond the suffering itself, and God sure as hell hadn't provided. So he had nothing, not even a comforting thought. Nothing.

After the third stage of grief: bargaining —trying to make people like him, trying to love her mother so she would love him back—, came depression, but he had been juggling between those three stages —anger, bargaining and depression— for so long that the sadness and emptiness were already there, and so he jumped straight to the fifth, acceptance.

There was not much to accept other than the fact that he was unloveable. He got to the conclusion that he didn't deserve happiness, that he was too different and too broken to fit in. He believed himself to be a piece of glass; someone broke him, and now he couldn't stop hurting people with his sharp edges. But he also believed himself to be a bomb: he had swallowed so much anger trying to be the good kid, that he couldn't stop the imminent explosion falling over the heads of everyone around him.

Then he met you, but he was way too far gone by then.

For some time he thought he loved Layla. She was smart, beautiful, and brave. Layla had wanted Marc from the very first moment she saw him. And it didn't take him long to find out Layla was one of those people that got everything they wanted. Neither did it take him long to find out that what she wanted, was in fact, him. She liked to tease him, even in public. The first time they had sex, Marc wanted her to know they weren’t exclusive, told her he didn't want her to think he was using her either, and she chuckled and said:

"Too bad, because I am using you."

He didn't feel used. In fact, those words only turned him on more.

They had been dating for a year when Layla mentioned something about wanting to get married young. Marc didn't want to, he had never understood those kinds of rituals, he didn't get the point of them. He wanted to wait some more. In fact, he never thought about getting married before. It also didn't feel right to get married to someone he always felt only half-full with, but she insisted and he wanted to make her happy. He let her father die, after all. She deserved all the happiness he could provide.

Now they were getting married, and even then, there was something still missing. He had always wondered why he couldn't fully love Layla. She was wonderful, precious, perfect, they had many things in common. She could have anyone she wanted and she still chose him for some reason.

And he still did not love her.

He felt affection, sure, something along the lines of what he had once felt for his brother Randall before his mother tortured him into resentment, but there was no romance in his relationship with Layla. There was good sex, sure, but no unbridled love, no butterflies in his stomach, no burning in his flesh, no sense of belonging.

And yet there he was, giving his vows surrounded by a crowd of people he didn't know the names of, and the only family, the only home he had ever had. You.

The reception took place at a venue on the outskirts of Cairo, near the banks of the Nile River. It was far enough away from the metropolis for no one to bother them while the music became almost deafening. Once anyone stepped through one of the glass doors into the terrace, decorated with artificial grass to give the feeling of being in an oasis in the middle of the desert, the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx stood proudly in the distance.

Marc felt sick to his stomach being there. He wanted to get married in England, maybe in Brighton, by the beach; but those desires were never voiced. The tomb of Pharaoh Seti wasn't far, either, and that was yet another reason behind his constant discomfort.

For Marc, it was the place where he had been enslaved by Khonshu. But for Layla, it was just the place where her father died. She said she felt closer to him there, near the pyramids and under the watchful eye of the noseless Great Sphinx of Giza.

Marc could almost feel the judgemental look on the back of his head.

"Oh, Marcus you look lovely today."

Layla's aunt took him by surprise, her hands on the collar of his white shirt brought him back to Earth in an instant. He had to actually put some effort into understanding her accent, but he was thankful because she wasn't speaking Arabic. Although he might have prefered it.

"Don't scare him away, auntie," Layla responded in her language. Marc let out a relieved sigh, one he didn't know he was holding "And for the last time, his name is Marc, not Marcus."

"Surely the name has to come from somewhere, right?" she insisted in Arabic, her voice the most high-pitched he had ever heard. Then she switched to English again. Marc wondered if she didn't know that he spoke Arabic just fine. "Tell me, aren't you excited to share the rest of your life with our Layla? Should we expect children soon?"

The rest of his life? Children? He hadn't thought about that. He just stood there, his eyes wide for a second before he relaxed his featured and looked for an appropriate answer in his brain. He had swallowed the concept of marriage as just signing a paper for so long that he had forgotten what it usually meant: a life together, shared hopes, dreams and goals; in most cases, children.

In the first place, he didn't expect the rest of his life to be much longer; not if he kept serving Khonshu, at least. And children? It's not that he hated children. He actually liked them, but on other people's laps, with other people's DNA and being the responsibility of someone else. If he wasn't going to be a good father, then he didn't want to be a father at all. As long as he served Khonshu, children were not on the table.

He couldn't say those answers out loud, though; especially not to Layla's aunt. He panicked, hands wet with sweat.

"Uhm..."

"We'll see about that," Layla answered, giving him a look of concern. "We just got married, there's time."

Marc felt that presence, those eyes on the back of his head as he nodded, and he turned on his heels hoping to find Khonshu, but it wasn't him. It was the Sphinx again, looking at him.

Then his eyes caught something, a pale pink dress opening the sliding glass door to the terrace and walking outside.

You.

He hadn't stopped looking at you since he picked you up at the airport, and once you had shown up at the ceremony with that dress, he sure as hell couldn't.

One of the reasons why he wanted to get married in England, was that he wasn't so sure about you being able to attend if it happened in Cairo. The thought made him miss a few nights of sleep until your boss finally responded. He couldn't get married to Layla if you weren't there. He needed you, in every big step of his life, the same way you'd always been there before.

He wanted you for the rest of his life; however long that was.

The thought was simple, yet so revealing. It came to him in the most natural way. Accepting it was easy too. It felt like breathing or blinking, something you're not always aware of, but sometimes something happens and there it is, hidden, the only difference was he couldn't consciously stop it.

Perhaps it was more like his beating heart. There, occurring unbeknown to his eyes and mind, yet beating all the same. With you he felt full, he felt free from judgement, he felt a better person. With you, he forgot about the rest of the world.

If that was what love meant —the longing, the feeling of finally being at home, the desire of being alone but together, the comfort, the safety— he knew then, he finally knew, he loved you.

"Marc?" Layla said, pulling him from his elbow. "Shall we go with them?" she gestured to where the rest of the crowd was, but he didn't listen.

He loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you. His mind couldn't let go of that thought, clinging to it as if it was the only thing keeping him sane. He felt himself falling. From where? He didn't know. But the abyss behind his feet looked terrifying. He looked at his hands and he felt small, a little child, a scared child with his hands clean again; no trace of blood. Forgiven.

"Marc..." Layla said, again. Her eyes showed a type of concern that's there only when you truly care for someone. "Marc, you're panting."

He remembered it then. Something so obvious yet so easy to forget; the reason why he, you, and all those people were there, the wedding.

His wedding.

Marc felt how his heart skipped a beat, but tried to keep himself calm, fearing that Steven would make a sudden appearence. For a second, he wished he flatlined. He wished this whole situation was some kind of cruel joke, finding out he loved someone else the day of his wedding; but it wasn't, and his heart kept beating nonetheless. The Earth kept spinning.

He breathed in and out for a second; trying not to freak Layla out.

After a short while, Marc smiled —it was crooked, forced— and took Layla's fingers out of his shoulders. He didn't remember her grabbing him, but her nails were buried in his shirt. It was too late to pretend nothing happened, so he told a half-truth.

"I'm not feeling so good," he said, his voice was barely a broken whisper. "I think it's just the heat. I'm going to get some fresh air."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, no," he responded, perhaps too quick. "No, I'm fine. I just saw (y/n) outside too. I'll talk to her for a minute. Don't worry."

The sky was full of stars that night. The full moon was surrounded by endless sparkling spots. It was beautiful, not even comparable to the polluted air of London that barely gave a chance at stargazing. You thought it was a pity no one was enjoying the view outside, but you guessed that if you were having a good time, you wouldn't be giving any attention to it either.

There was no way of denying it; being there was one of the most painful things you had endured, and you were also horribly uncomfortable. But all those people were there because they loved Layla, and you had to be there because you loved Marc, even if you didn't know anyone, even if no one spoke a word to you, even if the only people looking at you were nosy relatives.

"Hey."

You almost jumped at the sight of Marc next to you. Instead of apologizing, he leaned on the wall while you scolded him for scaring you. He seemed not to be interested in that, so he crossed his arms over his broad chest and said nothing. He stood there, looking at you, and when your eyes looked for the night sky again, so did his.

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone for so long," he said.

You turned your head towards him. Marc squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, as if it was a pain reflex. He took a breath, held it.

"What's wrong?"

"Uhm?"

"I know that face, what's wrong?"

He froze. You witnessed how his mind became a blank canvas, devoid of any kind of thinking. His dark eyes became even darker if that was possible. Marc, from his perspective, felt his body failing him. Not a single logical thought crossed his mind, except for the fact that you were waiting for an answer.

He had tried to bury his feelings, which usually worked with most people. You had seen through it, though. Marc didn't want to scare you, didn't mean to worry you; but you had unmasked that veil of arrogance he wore everywhere and he felt naked, exposed.

"Marc..." you muttered, the words almost didn't reach his ears. "Why are you crying?"

He felt a single tear falling from his eye. His pupils looked at you as if he was a startled animal. His relaxed posture —part of that mask of arrogance— vanished from his body language. Thankfully, no more tears followed. Thank god.

He shook his head, then wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. He said the only thing that came to his mind, the only reasonable thing, at least.

"Everyone cries at weddings," he said; but you didn't look convinced. He'd have to try harder. "I'm fine. Really, I am. I'm just happy and very tired."

You nodded, but he saw in your eyes that he could not fool you.

"What happened to your date?" he asked. That was actually one of the questions he had wanted to make you. Not that he wanted you to come here with someone else, but all invitations were double. "You didn't use your plus-one. I thought you'd bring your boyfriend, what was his name?"

You shook your head. Now that was unbelievable, the fact that you were in your best friend's wedding and he didn't even know the name of your last ex.

"I don't know, you tell me."

It worked, he successfully changed the subject.

"Was it... Kyle?"

"Not even close. James, actually" you said.

"What happened to James, then?"

Up to that point, Marc had never given much thought to the people you were dating or sleeping with. He'd always get a bit uncomfortable at first, yes, especially on those rare occasions when said men wanted to meet Marc for some reason. He sometimes got jealous, but never acted on his feelings because he knew it was not his place. Plus, he had always thought that all that jealousy had more to do with the fact that he felt protective of you, that he was scared of losing his only friend, rather than the fact that he loved you. It never occurred to him before, such a wild idea. He'd known you his whole adult life and half of the rest, for so long, and he had never suspected anything.

You pursed your lips, a look of disappointment on your face; but no trace of sadness.

"Oh you know, I blew him once or twice," you said, almost laughing at the thought. "...and for some reason he thought he owned me after that, so I told him to fuck off."

Marc couldn't help but laugh. It was a relieved laugh, almost sounded like that too. And when it died out, he said:

"That's my girl."

It made you blush. Marc saw the pink on your cheeks and felt the urge to kiss them. He had never been very affectionate. In fact, Layla used to mock him saying he was one of the most frigid people she had ever met, except in bed, of course. He didn't consider himself to be a cold person, you'd never complained about that.

"I'm so happy for you," you said. "You have a lovely wife. I might soon be an auntie, right? I don't know. You've found your other half. I'm happy for you."

But Marc saw through your mask too, the same way you watched through his. Your words didn't match the tone of your voice, that trembling whisper falling from your red-tinted lips. Your smile was a sad one, deprived of all joy, of every good sentiment, lacking all that makes a smile something pleasant. It made him uncomfortable, the sight of you being miserable, hiding from him.

"Why do you sound so sad, then?" he asked.

Except he thought he already knew the answer.

"I don't know," you shook your head, an absent stare on your face. "I guess I'm scared of losing you now that you don't need me."

His heart sank, he could feel it dead and bloody at his feet. He felt many times that sour feeling, the same one that you had now. You didn't deserve that kind of pain, and he wondered, with awful terror, if he did something cause it.

"Don't say that," he responded. "I will always need you."

"You won't say that when you're changing nappies."

He gave a long, discontented sigh, rolling his eyes. He bit on his lower lip.

"Why is everyone so obsessed with us having kids?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else's ears. Then his eyes locked on you, his fingers gently brushed yours before taking them into his grip. "Listen, I will always need you. I'm not just saying that. I mean it, I really do."

Once again, that blush on your face. He wondered at the sight, just as you looked away.

Marc was having none of that. He wouldn't deprive himself of the pleasure of looking at you. Never again. If he couldn't do anything else, at least he would look, just look. That was something a married man could do without consequences, something that you'd allow, at least. The pad of his fingers barely touched your chin as he forced you to look at him again.

"I hope you're enjoying and marking my words, 'cause I won't be saying them ever again."

That made a laugh tore from your throat.

"Things don't have to change," he said, releasing you from his touch as he turned back to observe the moon. "I'm not dying. I'm not going to vanish into thin air," he said. "you're my best friend, and you know I love you, right?"

His head tilted to the side, closer to your own lips. There were mere inches between the both of you, and he could feel your breathing and smell your scent. It made him dizzy, so much so, that the desert started spinning around him. Terrified, he took a glimpse of your parted lips. He was too close.

For a horrible, awful, second, he thought he'd kiss you.

For a horrible, awful, second, you thought you'd let him.

Gathering all his willpower and strength, he stepped back, blinking and staring as if nothing had happened. Those were the only good news, nothing had happened, he had not caused a scene at his own wedding. Although he couldn't care less about what all those people thought about him.

It was at that moment that he knew it was too late. He'd have to live for the rest of his life with yet another thing to feel guilt for.

"I know," you finally said. "I love you too, Marc."

The words slipped out of his mouth. "You'll always have me. You're my only friend."

"You know I don't like it when you say that."

"But it's true," he insisted. He needed to say it, to let you know what he felt before the weight of everything crushed him down. He wouldn't be able to say it again after that, so he thought he'd enjoy it, savour it on his lips. "It's true, you're my best friend, the only one I've ever had, the only one I've ever needed. I love you, and I will always need you."

Despite his words, the whole scene felt like a farewell.

He squeezed his eyes shut once more, cursing all the Egyptian gods he knew the names of; specially Khonshu. If fate existed, he also cursed that, wondering why his destiny was so ironic and cruel, why the universe enjoyed seeing him suffer so much.

He was actually kidding, though. He didn't believe himself to be so important to have a designated path, or have gods pointing and laughing at him.

In the middle of his internal rambling, he heard a faint whimper. It broke his heart because it came from you.

"Why are you crying?"

You shook his head and wiped your tears. Then, another smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

"Oh you said it yourself," you responded, putting the cherry on top with a smile. "Everyone cries at weddings."

You left the flat in the middle of the night, before Steven could wake up next to you and everything became even more complicated than it already was.

Steven didn't call you in the morning, although he was on the verge of doing so when he thought that everything that had happened the day before was just another one of his nightmares, albeit a horrible one. If just he wouldn't have waited until he got to the museum, and checked that everything was, in fact, not another one of his nightmares, you could have talked to him for the very last time.

Instead, once he witnessed the mess the jackal had caused in the toilets and how Marc had saved both their lives; he decided that it was enough. Steven didn't know if you were aware of the supernatural that surrounded the life of your life-long best friend. In fact, there was still many things he didn't know about, but if he was sure about one thing, that was that he didn't want to put you in any more danger. Wether you knew everything about Marc or not —and he didn't trust Marc for one single second, so he doubted it— he wouldn't be the one to risk it.

Marc was ready to step in if Steven tried to go to you for answers. He didn't have the need to, though. And that was the first time in a while that Marc really felt connected to Steven. That maybe, somehow, they could talk things through and become something more than two strangers who fought for the body.

Steven, in turn, decided to seek the answers himself.

"Khonshu?" he asked, looking at his own reflection in the metal wall, but the man in front of him didn't look as incredulous as Steven was sure he looked. "The Egyptian god of the moon?" he turned around. "Oh my god, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

And it was, in fact, stupid. But as ridiculous as it might sound, a very low voice in the back of his brain told him that it did make sense.

"Is that rubbish what you told her?"

In other circumstances, Marc would have laughed it off, said something other than the truth; but right now he was forced to explain everything to Steven in the hopes that he would stop interfering in his matters with Khonshu. The sooner everything was over with, the sooner he could come back to you and fix that horrible love-hate triangle that had been summoned around the three of them.

"No," Marc said. "I wouldn't drag her into this. She doesn't know," he said. "Listen, I can't have you interfering in what I have left to do. For both our own sake and hers. So this is what you're gonna do. You're gonna lay in that cot there, and take a nice nap-"

"Sleep?" Steven could have hit his own reflection if he didn't know that all he would get in turn was a broken hand. "I'm never gonna go to sleep again!"

That was the moment Marc knew they had a long way to go.

The sensation became almost unbearable after Marc got rid of the second jackal, when Steven blamed him for eating parts of his life like a parasite, for making him lose his job, killing his goldfish, turning his life into a living nightmare, and taking away the only person he had ever loved. Little did Steven know that Marc believed it to be all the other way around. After all, Steven had gotten everything he always craved but never had: loving parents, an easy life, and the woman he had always felt undeserving of.

Hours passed, and the more you waited for a call the more obvious it was that Marc had lied to you, again. Calling him would mean to risk your relationship with Steven further into the grave now that he had Marc's phone, and calling Steven would, without a doubt, also end in disaster having in mind that you had run away from his flat. With those odds, your hands were tied. In a desperate attempt not to hurt either of them, nor to exacerbate the hatred Steven now felt for you, you were inflicting worse pain onto yourself.

Eventually, after endless hours of turning your phone on and off and walking back and forth the whole length of your flat, you couldn't take it anymore. Baby steps, you thought. You asked yourself what could be the smallest step towards easing that feeling of uselessness, what it was in your power to fix, and that's how you ended up surfing through teacher job offers. Because ironically, that was easier than thinking about Steven hating you for life or Marc lying to you and putting himself willingly in danger for whatever his reasons were.

And yet, once day gave way to night, a strange sensation settled in your chest, too overwhelming to ignore. A few minutes later you were taking the tube on the way to Steven's flat. And it wasn't until you left the underground, finally a few minutes from the flat, that you saw that Marc had called you four times.

"Where are you?" It's the first thing he said. "I need to talk to you."

"You sure do. Give me a literal minute and I'm on your doorstep."

Silence filled the line for a second before he agreed, not exactly comfortable with your angry tone. Marc sighed, tired of fighting, and the words slipped out of his mouth.

"I love you."

You hung up and walked faster. Something had to go terribly wrong.

"Oh my god, Marc."

He opened the first time you knocked on his front door, although hit might have been a more appropriate word. You heard him hiss under his breath once the door was half-open, and you couldn't help but push it all the way back into its hinges. Even under the dim orange light of Steven's flat, you could see the crimson on his knuckles. Blood pouring from the open wound, staining the door knob, Steven's colorful shirt and the floor as it flowed in large red rivers.

"What the hell did you do?" you asked him, taking his arms tightly into your hands, avoiding the blood. He, on the other hand, brushed the skin of your forearms with the pad of his fingers, leaving blood-stained fingerprints. A look of pure longing in his eyes, ignoring his wounds as if he had barely a paper cut.

"I have to talk to you," he said, almost in a dazed state. When you insisted, shaking his shoulders and looking for answers, asking him if he was hurt anywhere else, he shook his head. "No, no. I just came here and had to break all the mirrors. Steven was giving me a hell of a headache."

"I'm gonna grab the-"

"No," he pulled your arm as you tried to leave. "It's fine, really. This is perfect."

You were beginning to doubt his sanity.

You squinted in his direction, looking into his brown eyes for answers. There was a time in which you were capable of almost reading his mind, know exactly what went through his brain, his emotions. That was not the case anymore.

"Please," he said with pleading eyes, his fingers digging into your flesh. Marc got closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "Please, trust me."

And you nodded, because what else could you do.

Marc gently kicked the door shut, barely pushing it with the heel of his shoe. He guided you to the kitchen, the place in which all your fighting and making up seemed to happen lately, the now designated place for ruining and fixing and ruining again your relationship with the two of them. You shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Did you speak to him?"

"Yeah," then, he regretted his own words. "Well, not like speaking. More like screaming at me and telling me to fuck off. But you know the deal."

With your lips parted, an incredulous expression on your face, you almost facepalmed. Anxiety boiling just under your flesh.

"Oh, Marc... please, tell me you're having a laugh."

He shook his head.

"He became co-conscious earlier. Told me I was a parasite, kept being a fucking asshole, so I had to smash every single mirror here, just for him to vanish now," he said. His hand flew to his face, trying to soothe his own nerves, but he stopped it midway. "He can't hear us now. I know you wanted to talk to him, but it will have to wait. I can't give him the body now, or he won't give it back, and there's one last thing I have to do."

You couldn't stop thinking about his bloody knuckles.

"Marc," you talked with the gentlest tone you could harbor. He was anxious, restless, you didn't want to scare him further. "Marc, baby, listen. You're bleeding. Let me take care of you."

He had a blood stain on his cheek that made him look even more animalistic, deranged, than his messy hair and mud-stained clothes already made him look.

"That's the thing. I thought I could take care of myself," he said. His hands gripped the backrest of one of the chairs, right in front of you, as you stood next to the kitchen table. "Turns out I've never been able to do that. There's always someone looking after me. In my worst days, it was always you. And when something like this happens, now," he lifted his hands in the air. "Is Khonshu."

You frowned, not knowing what to say or what he meant, and he went on.

"You wanted me to be honest," he said. "I can promise you, this is the last thing I'll ever keep from you. I have no more secrets. I'm all yours from now on."

You blinked profusely, not knowing if you could trust him.

"No more lies?" you asked. The same hope in your voice you had heard in his a day earlier. "No more lies from now on? Can you promise me that?"

"I can," he said. "and I do. But you have to promise me you won't freak out, and won't put yourself in danger. Okay?" you nodded, and he insisted, walking closer. "I wanna hear you say it."

"I promise you Marc," you said. "I promise I won't put myself in danger," you repeated his words. Once he was mere inches from you, your fingers traced the line of buttons on his shirt. Something beyond reason urging you to slide your fingers under the hem of his shirt, but you didn't listen. "and I promise there's not one single thing you could say or do that could keep me away."

A little smile appeared on his face. Then, he left a peck of his lips in your forehead. He stepped back, away from you, and even if you wanted to follow him you didn't.

He stretched his arms on either side of his body and then you saw it. You saw the bandages rising from somewhere on his back, and quickly wrapping around his whole body, the hood forming over his curls until they weren't visible anymore, the cloak falling behind his back. His eyes began to glow, two bright moons growing into full moons and then covering his whole corneas. Everything in the flat seemed to be either broken or stained with blood; but not him. The suit was pristine white and gold. There were hieroglyphs written in black ink all over it.

There was something mystical, ancient and out-of-this-world in the air. You could feel it, magic blooming around you, in every single atom that surrounded you. And even if you didn't understand it, how that was even possible, you accepted it, because it was your Marc the one who wore it, the person under the suit.

Both the cloak and the bandages on his face disappeared in the blink of an eye. And Marc appeared underneath, now without a trace of blood on his face, as handsome as he had always been. He walked a hesitant step in your direction and you hit the table behind you when you backed off.

It wasn't as if you were scared of him, you never could. It was the fact that your mind could barely process how intimidating, and majestic he looked. You were having serious trouble with keeping your thoughts on track. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, the muscles in his thighs too. He even looked taller, if that was even possible.

"It's me," he said, his open palms, covered by the bandages, stretched out in your direction. "You don't have to be scared. It's still me."

"I know," you said, your voice low. "I know."

Marc walked his way back to you, as he always did. His covered fingers touched your hands, stained with his blood, but even then, the suit didn't get stained. You brought your hand to his chest, to the piece covering it, your fingers traced the golden moon there, and you swore you would've gotten an ugly cut if Marc had allowed you to reach the pointed edge of the half-crescent moon.

"When I got shot in Egypt last time," he started. "when Layla's father died, Khonshu, the god of the moon, gave me a chance to live," he said. "He exchanged my life for my servitude. I owe him. Neither Steven nor I would be alive today if it weren't for him," he waited, trying to find some kind of recognition in your eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

You frowned, looking at him but still speechless. You said the first thing that came to mind.

"Are you an Avenger?"

That made him laugh, but he simply shook his head, a wide grin still lingering on his lips.

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

Giving a hesitant touch, both your hands gently brushed his biceps covered by the suit. The fabric was strangely soft, but it was secured, attached to the body like a second skin. There was not one single thread out of place, and when you tried to pull from one end of the bandages, tried to find his own clothes or skin, you only found more cloth underneath.

When you looked into Marc's eyes again, he had a cheeky expression on his face. His eyes weren't glowing anymore, but they had a glint in them that was so characteristically Marc's.

"I think you like it a bit too much," he said.

"Oh," you chuckled, "I do."

Your fingertips caressed the fabric, travelling upwards until they reached the hem of the suit in his neck. Marc held his breath as your cool fingers made contact with his warm skin. He took your hand and pulled it away, placing it on his chest, close to his heart. He stepped forward, even if you thought it wasn't possible for him to be closer, cornering you against the table. One of his knees was now between yours.

"I meant it," he said, the most honest expression you had ever seen on his face. "...when I said I didn't want to hide anything from you anymore. That's why I'm here, telling you this. I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Cairo-"

"What?"

"I have to. Harrow has the scarab, he's trying to unleash ancient powers he won't be able to control," his hand cupped your cheek. "I have to stop him. If this goes right, it will be my last mission for Khonshu. It it goes wrong... well, the whole world's fucked."

You shook your head.

"No," you bit your own lip, anxiety blooming on your pupils. "How- how is any of that your responsibility, Marc? That's- that's madness."

"Shh..." he shushed you, his arms holding you tightly against him. "I'll be back soon, you don't have to worry about me."

"What if you don't?" you tried to get rid of his arms around you, but no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn't do it. "What if you get killed?"

He sighed, finally letting you free. Marc got rid of the suit. It shattered around him, disappeared without a trace, the bandages vanishing into thin air. Then, he held his knuckles high, just so you could observe the state of them. There was nothing there. There wasn't blood, or splinters, or one single scratch. Nothing, not even a thin white scar.

"The suit protects me. See?" Marc gently grabbed your chin and lifted your face to look at him. "I swear I'll be back. We both will. Then, the three of us will have a nice and long conversation. No fighting, no more Khonshu, no more mercenaries or weird artefacts, no more lies. I promise."

Your voice was barely a whisper when you spoke, the tears that had pricked your eyes moments earlier had vanished, but the knot in your throat did not suffer the same fate.

"How long will you be in Cairo?"

"I'm sorry..." he pursed his lips. His face pressed against your temple seconds later. He left a kiss on your hairline. "I don't have an answer for that. But I'm gonna call you every day and let you know we are okay, alright?" he smiled, now his forehead resting against yours. "How does that sound?"

"Horrible, actually," you bit your lower lip again, eyes squeezed shut in front of him. "I don't want you anywhere near that... genocidal maniac."

Marc's fingers caressed your skin, his gentle fingers barely touching you when he brushed some hairs our of your face. Despite everything, he was smiling.

"You've always taken such good care of me," he said, "but you don't have to worry now. I promise I'll be back."

You wanted to contadict his words, tell him that there was no way he knew how everything from this point on would unfold. Sure, his suit and god protected him, but to what extent? If Marc had these abilities, what were the chances of Harrow getting similar powers on his side? Still, you couldn't voice your concerns. It was a lost cause to argue with Marc when he was so sure of his decision.

So you sighed.

"I suppose you won't let me go with you."

His lips formed a thin line. He shook his head.

"Too dangerous," he said. "The only positive thing about Harrow having the scarab is they won't be here to bother you. They don't need us anymore," he paused, looked at his right, his eyes focusing on Gus' tank. "And I need someone here to take care of Steven's fish."

You rolled your eyes, a huff leaving your lips. He chuckled for a second, amused by the current of emotions showing on your face. He took one of your hands, his fingers intertwined his yours. And your other hand was quickly buried in his curls.

"You have to come back to me," you said, then he sensed a shift in your look, a more intense gaze, and he knew you weren't talking to him anymore, even before you parted your lips. "You too, Steven. You take care of each other."

Steven wasn't conscious at that precise moment, and Marc didn't want to bring up chaos in that situation, so he didn't dive into the headspace looking for him, but he would definitely tell Steven about it. Marc owed you that, now that he wouldn't allow the two of you to do something as necessary as saying goodbye.

Add to that the fact that Marc wasn't as sure of coming back in one piece as he made it seem, and the thoughts were soon tugging at his heart.

Marc wasn't so sure about Steven covering his back, but Marc wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. He wouldn't let anyone take Steven's happiness if he was there to prevent it. Once he came back, Marc would give him everything he took from him, he would mend it all. How, he didn't know, but if Marc was something, that was stubborn.

He wouldn't lose another brother. Or another part of himself, for that matter.

It wasn't until he felt a gentle pull from his curls that he snapped out of it.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked.

There it was, those kind eyes on your face. Your tone, sweetened with honey-flavored affection. He shook his head before your question, getting closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone as he worked up the courage to kiss you.

"Can we sleep together?" he asked, although he didn't mean it to sound as bad as it did. "Like we did last night. I really liked that."

He sounded so Steven right now. So soft, so unlike himself. And it wasn't until then that he remembered. Steven was him, a more gentle and open and vulnerable side of him, but him nonetheless. Marc was letting himself be vulnerable and soft, for the first time in a long while, and he would not feel guilty about it.

"Of course," you answered, your finger quickly crawling up to his neck, looking to start unbuttoning his shirt. It surprised both of you, even himself, when Marc didn't stop you. But his breath was still caught in his lungs. "What about your luggage? Do you need help with it?"

He drew a breath, as the cool air of the living room hit half of his chest. His eyes looking down at where your fingers tried to unbutton the last pair of buttons.

"All my things are in a warehouse in Central London," he said. "I'll grab a few shirts on my way to Victoria station."

You sighed, not entirely convinced with the sound of that. He was most certainly going to forget many things behind, but you figured he would have to manage.

He slid the sleeves of his shirt off his body. His now naked torso was warm, warmer than you remembered, and you had to fight the urge to bury your nose in the hole between his collarbones, looking up at his face instead.

"Can I at least accompany you to the station?" you asked.

Marc smirked, but shook his head.

"Don't make things more difficult," he said, then kissed your temple. "But I really appreciate that."

Soon, the two of you were back on Steven's bed, avoiding the sand on the floor as best you could. You took one of Steven's old t-shirts, expecting that to make you, at least, feel a bit closer to him. You needed them both with you, as you were sure Marc would leave in the blink of an eye; as he always did. And then you'd have none of them for god-knows-how-long. You also took one of Steven's shorts, even if they were most likely to slip from your hips. Part of you was begging for Marc to take those off as soon as you hit the bed; but you weren't so sure of that, having in mind how he had closed his eyes and drifted off the day before.

You hated the fact that your last conversation with Steven before they both left for Cairo was so tumultuous, so full of hatred. But you should have thought that before, both of you, because we never know what your last words to someone will be.

"Do you want me to say something to Steven?" Marc asked, knowing that you would have liked to at least say goodbye, and that he was taking that chance away from you.

"Tell him I love him," you said. Marc's mouth turned into half a smile. "I love you too, you know that."

Marc nodded. You might not be only his, but he is only yours.

His head rested on the pillow. Both your gazes locked into each other. Marc got closer, his body warm with only his boxers on, his big hand crawled its way under your arm and got hooked on your back, splashed there, covering as much flesh as he could. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed.

"I love you too," he said.

It was the first time he said those three words sober, meaning them, really, truly, meaning them. Marc had always avoided saying them, even the first time he let you know about his feelings a few days before, he had not used the verb love. And now that it was out of his mouth, out of his chest —finally— and lingering in the limited space between your mouths, he felt finally free from a baggage he didn't know was holding.

"Say it again," you whispered, and he loved that.

"I love you too."

His warm breath was all you could breathe in, being in that position, body pressed against him, eyes closed and heart wide open.

"Again, please."

"No," he chuckled. "Words aren't enough. Let me show you."

There were mere inches between your mouths, inches he closed as he threw himself against your lips with urgency. His hot breath in your mouth, so indistinctively him, tasted sweet in a way nothing else could. By then you had long forgotten how good of a kisser Marc was, and it took you by surprise when both of you found yourselves fighting for dominance, frenetically trying to taste each other as much as you could. His hand then left your back, that kept you pressed against him, and crawled its way to your jawline. The moment his fingertips touched your neck, and you moaned, Marc felt himself die and come back to life. You melted under his touch, and the kiss went from violent to lazy and wet and almost dumb.

This time, it was you who nibbled on his lower lip. Marc moaned, fingers digging into your shoulder as he tried to find and keep his sanity. The other hand, the one under your body, fisted the sheets.

Neither of you could believe what was happening. If you ever told your younger self —or even just a version from a week back— that you'd have some day Marc Spector moaning from your kisses, she would have lost her shit. If Marc had ever told his younger self, he'd have freaked out.

He pulled himself away from you, barely enough to admire your face, with the last ounce of willpower he had. You were both panting, out of breath, a faint red colour adorning his features, curls pointing in all directions.

"I think that's clear enough," you said.

He frowned for a second, seemingly having forgotten what led him to kiss you in the first place.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Hope it is."

"...because you won't repeat it?"

His smirk grew bigger.

"Who said such a thing?"

He pecked your lips a couple times, with a big grin still on his face, just before he moved and kissed your exposed cheek, the one that wasn't against the pillow. His hand buried itself under the hem of Steven's shirt, finding your waist below and pulling you against him, once, then drawing gentle, lazy circles over your naked flesh with his fingertips. He fell like a deadweight over the pillow just seconds later, still drawing circles, caressing all the skin he could reach; legs entangled with yours.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin, but he wouldn't be able to say if the cause were his attentions, the cold, or any other thing. Before he could stop himself, his touch dived further into your body, your stomach sinking away from his touch as he brushed the flesh there, but he didn't stop. Before he realized, his middle finger found the hem of your panties.

His eyes were locked in yours, and they hadn't changed its expression, as if nothing else was happening beyond two lovers looking into each other's eyes. But you knew somewhere, deep down, he was asking for permission. It was either that, or he wanted you to beg. And you did.

"Marc..."

The sound that came out of your mouth was half a whisper, half a moan, but beyond that, it was clear as day what it really was: a plea.

He parted his lips, drawing in a heavy breath. His fingers played with the hem, just to leave it alone and deciding to touch you —gently, without preassure— over the fabric.

He faked a puzzled face, frowning, as if he didn't know exactly what you wanted from him.

"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

You closed your eyes, now laying on your back and hips looking for a friction you couldn't find because he retrieved his hand, slightly, but never too far away. You looked at him, head lulling to the side.

"Marc... please."

He could have played with you all night, teasing you, making you beg. You saw it in his eyes, that he was capable of that and much more. But that night he was too eager, too needy. He had waited and imagined that moment for years, and now that it was happening, he was hard as a rock in his boxers. He couldn't wait, and a voice somewhere in his brain told him that it was cruel of him to make you wait any longer. But that didn't mean he had to rush things.

Marc leaned in and left a kiss on your clothed shoulder.

"Want this?" he said, a breath getting stuck at the very end of your lungs as his fingers pressed and massaged over the fabric of your panties.

"Yeah...," you gasped. "I want you. Marc, please."

He caught your mouth in his, savouring not only your mouth, but also the feeling of having you under him moaning his name, having you exactly as he had always needed you, imagined you. His open-mouthed kisses only made the pleasure and excitement more obvious, a pool of warmth growing in your insides.

Marc threw the covers away from you, leaving his laying position at last, now kneeling next to you on the mattress. With one hand he grabbed the hem of Steven's shorts, and pulled them so hard you could hear the seam unravel. You helped him pushing your hips over the mattress and prayed that the damage to the piece of clothing wasn't very serious. Not before you drowned in the sudden lightning bolt of pleasure that the sound brought to your body.

Then, Marc leaned in over you, trying to find the light switch just over the headboard. The bedroom space, only lit by the moonlight that poured through the window, became brighter as an orange-toned light bathed both bodies. You had to actively retain a gasp as you looked at Marc. The shadows created by the light definitely suited him, created shadows and light points making him look broader and his eyes darker, pupils wider.

His lips parted, breathing heavy as he looked at the way you slipped out of Steven's t-shirt. Your breasts on display, only for him to ravish on the sight.

"Lights stay on," he said. "I wanna see your pretty face when you cum."

He didn't even wait for a reaction, his fingers setting aside the fabric of your panties, his fingers now massagging up and down your naked flesh, not really with a path or a plan in mind. His other hand palmed his erection, hidden by the tent the fabric of his boxers had formed.

Marc kept the fabric out of the way with one hand, while he brought the fingers of his other hand to his tongue, wetting it with his spit. He buried those fingers in your folds, once, a low grunt leaving his lips when you moaned. Once he had them soaked, the pad of his fingers drew tight slow circles over your bundle of nerves.

"Oh, Marc..." you moaned. From your spot, you had a perfect sight of his shoulders and back, but also part of his face. Many of his dark curls fell over his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. "...Ah... I-isn't it- better if you get..." he looked at you, not leaving his work unfinished for one single second and proud of the way you weren't able to finish a single sentence. "...get them off."

He pulled harder from your panties, the fabric getting deliciously buried in all right places.

"What's the fun in that?" he smiled.

You gasped, the pressure too intense to keep any type of chit-chat. Panting, you tried to reach for his arm. As your grip tightened around his hot flesh, your head left the pillow to get a visual of what he was doing. You could barely see anything beyond your abdomen rising and falling with your spasm and heavy breathing, but that accompanied by Marc's stoic and focused face, was enough to send you back to the pillow, your body way too heavy for you to hold any of it, your muscles and bones melting over the mattress.

"Marc..." he looked back at your face when he heard you whimper. "Marc, I need you closer."

He left everything he was doing, earning a huff from you, but even then, you felt the luckiest woman on Earth when he leaned over you, this time resting his weight on his elbows at both sides of your body. One of his hands brushed a hair that you hadn't noticed on your face, and he kissed your lips, quickly pulling away just a few inches.

"I'm right here, baby," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

That was just a blatant lie, but one that could comfort you for the time being.

He lowered his face to lick a long stripe of skin on your chest, in the valley between your breasts. The sound that came from your chest sounded like a wounded animal, but Marc didn't mind. He massaged one of your tits, creating the perfect preassure right before he caught the nipple in his mouth. He licked, sucked, until they were perky and standing proud in the cold room. Although the flat seemed everything but cold in that moment. He gave the same attentions to the other one, not wanting to neglect a single inch of your body.

You buried your fingers in his hair as he did, massaging his scalp, pulling gently from his curls and drawing little moans from his mouth. When he was done —because it looked like he would give you a death glare if you interrupted his meal— you pulled his hair, trying to catch his lips again in yours.

He kissed you again, wet, hot and heavy tongue playing with yours, the saliva falling from one corner of your mouth for a moment before he kissed it away. The palm of your hand slipped over his hard flesh, not even stopping against his abs but instead going even lower. When you finally found the fabric of his black boxers, your fingers touching over the sensitive skin of his head by accident, he let his head fall over your collarbone. His heavy breath on your skin making you shiver.

You tried to reach for his member, but it wasn't like you had the best sight from that angle, so you failed. Luckily, Marc was too needy to behave as he normally would and guided your open palm to his covered cock, grinding against your touch.

In his mind, he was being harsh, not letting you touch him without asking permission first, not having all those gentle touches, caresses and complicit looks he was having with you. It didn't even feel like fucking. And he figured that maybe he wasn't fucking. Not at all.

He moaned when you pulled his hair, yanking his head back from your collarbones. You kissed his cheek, your lips never leaving his skin. And as you did, you touched him, pressing your hand and moving it up and down on his long shaft. When it became ridiculous the fact that he still had those boxers on, you pushed him back on the mattress, laying on his back so you could get rid of his boxers. He let you, looking at your much smaller hands pulling from the hem of his boxers until he had them around his knees. And he kicked it off of his body, while you took his heavy cock in your hands and gave him a stroke. His thighs trembled.

"You're so good to me," he said, his thumb caressing your neck while his other fingers rested on your nape. "I don't deserve you."

You quickly turned to him, almost snapping your head in the process.

"Don't say that ever again," you said. Marc gasped as you stroked him, his head leaking pre-cum, coating your fingers. But even with that serious expression on your face, you didn't stop jerking him off. "You deserve me. You deserve good things."

You leaned, now laying next to him on the bed. Marc's arm surrounded your body, he hooked his fingers in your waist. Reaching for his cock again, you kept giving him gentle strokes. He nodded in your direction.

"No, I wanna hear you say it now."

You increased the speed, barely, but even with that, he wasn't able to do so much as keeping his eyes open and take ragged breaths.

"Say it, say you deserve good things."

"I-" he tried, squeezing his eyes shut, panting. His other hand digged in your arm. "I deserve good things."

How had he ended up in that situation, that he kept wondering about. He rarely ever let a woman take control, but for you he could get used to it.

"That's my boy.”

He felt the familiar rush, the ticking bomb inside of him trying to implode just as you said that, and he quickly yanked your hand out of his body. He couldn't come yet, he wouldn't.

He behaved like a madman. He certainly felt like one, while getting over you and getting rid of your panties the same way he did with Steven's shorts earlier. He pushed your knees, your legs open for him; and before you could get used to the feeling of having nothing to cover yourself, he was already leaving wet kisses on the inside of your thighs.

Your weight was resting on your elbows, because you wanted to be able to see his pretty face. Even if he did nothing, you still wanted to look at him. You never got tired of that face, of his expression and focused gaze. Marc's too perfect not to be admired.

There was a moment of hesitation when he looked at you, as if he was asking for permission before lowering himself against your folds. You nodded for him to continue, and without breaking eye contact he buried himself between your legs, wet lips and skillful tongue eating you out, kissing, licking. Whatever he did, whatever pace he set, it felt like an thunderstorm suddenly bursting through your insides.

Between moans, you saw him roll his eyes, close them. That was when you knew that he was doing it for his own pleasure, not yours. His hands stopped you in your tracks when you tried to move your hips, slapping the tender skin of your thighs and leaving an angry red mark with the shape of his hand. He didn't let you move, long fingers and open palms keeping you open, still and available under him. His heavy tongue felt as if he was licking fire into your skin. Then, he put two fingers in and pumped, opening you up and getting you ready for what was about to come.

Marc said something, but you could hardly hear anything beyond your pulse, your own moans and half-hearted screams. You had never been as loud in bed as now, and it was frankly embarrassing how much you wanted —needed— him right then and there.

Even when he spoke, he never stopped pounding his thick fingers into you.

"You taste so fucking good," he said, before licking a long stripe between your lips. "I can’t believe I’ve missed this," he licked again, enthusiastically lapping at your bundle of nerves. "Come for me, baby. Come in my mouth."

He curled his fingers, knowing damn well what he was doing, sending you directly to rapture. His praise was well-received, triggering one of the most shattering orgasm of your life.

Marc held your hips, pushing you into the mattress as your thighs tried to close around his head. He moaned as if he was the one coming, his tongue licking around as if you were made of the most delicious sweet.

"That's it, there you are," he said, chin glistening below the dim lights, a cheeky smile on his face as he propped himself on his elbows, took the fingers out of you and licked them clean. "...my sweet girl. You come so good."

He lunged forward, looking for a kiss. You tasted yourself in his tongue, in the way he was passing the flavour into your mouth; and you couldn't help but moan into his mouth too. The whole thing was so nasty that it turned you on even more, the all-consuming fire burning in your skin —longing for his body— never fading, not for one split second.

You pushed at his chest and shoulders back, guiding him on a sitting position in front of you. He had a frown on his beautiful face, and you couldn't help but lean in and kiss the small wrinkle between his eyebrows and the swelling vein on his forehead.

"What you're up to?"

Marc said it with a grin on his face, but even then you could see the confusion.

"You'll see," you responded, crawling your way up to him, Your fingers looked blindly to grip the soft curls in the back of his head. Your lower body sitting over him, facing him, your thighs over his and his erection twitching when it brushed the inside of your thigh. "I think you'll love it. No one will ever fuck you like I do."

Marc's breath was caught in his lungs, he never thought you could talk like that; and it was certainly a first that he wasn't expecting.

He loves it.

"Are you gonna ride me?" he asked, looking into your eyes with so much desire and impatience that even if you weren't, you wouldn't have denied him anything. "Are you gonna ride my cock like a good girl?" then he brushed your hair back, the pads of his fingers lingering over the skin of your neck for way too long. Then he whispered. "Do you want me to lay back?"

"No."

He hissed when you touched his erection, hard as a rock in your hand, and held his breath as he watched how you propped yourself on him, just to slowly —almost cruelly— lower yourself on his cock, inch by inch, until he finally bottomed out, your thighs once again sitting on his lap, your heels digging into his lower back as you hooked yourself around him in a tight hug.

Marc had to close his eyes to keep himself from floating away, but still held your body against his chest. It wasn't until he felt your face against his collarbone, your ragged breath over his skin, that he came back to reality.

"You okay?" he asked, almost whispering. His open palm caressed your back in a comforting manner, up and down.

"Yeah, yeah," you responded. "Give me a second."

"All you need."

You were way too full, full to the brim. You could almost feel the pressure of him in your lungs, not letting you breathe. But soon the uncomfortable sensation faded, only leaving the pleasure and eagerness behind. Your arms embraced him over his shoulders, hugging his broad back and all of him as best you could. You'd never have enough of his boiling-hot flesh. You lowered your face against his neck and sucked and licked until he had a cute love bite blooming over his tanned skin.

"If you do that again," he sucked in a breath. "...I'm not taking responsibility for the things I'll do to you."

You chuckled, kissed the bruised skin and wondered if you felt like pushing his limits; finally concluding that maybe today wasn't the day.

“Just a little gift” you whispered against his ear, goosebumps erupted on his neck and shoulders “to remember me by.”

“I could never forget you.”

Your forehead rested against his, heavy breaths coming from the both of you; breaths that became even heavier as you rolled your hips and slowly sank yourself into him. Marc grunted, fingers digging deeply in your hips as the pace picked up.

"You'll be the end of me," he said between breaths.

He then hooked one of his arms around your waist. He held your lower back, but also pushed you up and down on his length, quick to begin thrusting from underneath as best he could. Even with those odds, his hips didn't falter, his thrusts were hard, slow and deep. You moaned his name against his mouth, and that's when his hand grabbed your neck, thumb and index getting buried just under your jaw.

Were those stars or black dots in your vision? You didn't know, maybe both.

"So precious," he said, and his grip on your neck faltered as you reached for his wrist, nails scratching his flesh. "Do you like that?"

You didn't respond, but your fingers cupped his hand and squeezed, urging him to do the same. Marc chuckled, and brought you in for a peck on the lips. "No, that's..." he gasped as he felt you tighten around him "...already too much. Fuck, I'm so close, already. What the fuck are you doing to me?"

Finding strength in his words, you gripped his shoulders and rode him. Faster, deeper, if that was even possible. Marc opened his mouth to complain, but went silent as his own eyes rolled back.

"F-fuck."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, trying not to cum yet. He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking there from the force. His fingers dug deeper into your waist, succeeding in their task of trying to slow down the pace when, finally, your muscles started to ask for a time-out.

"You little bitch," he complained, his hand left your neck and gripped your cheeks, a dull ache spreading beneath the grip that, unexpectedly., made you clench around him. "I'm not coming first. You are coming first. Am I clear?"

"Y-yes," you responded.

He didn't wait, couldn't wait. Marc reached for where you both joined, quick to find your swollen clit almost brushing his own groin, not without coating his fingers in spit. And he drew tight circles, his arm guiding you to keep sinking yourself around him. The head of his cock pulsing and hitting the right spot inside of you, time and time again. He was determined to wear you out.

"Give me another one, come on," he said, muttering to himself. "I know you can do it. I can feel you."

And so you did, the powerful blast of pleasure spreading everywhere from your centre, thighs stiff and unmoving over his, both your hands fisting his hair until a low grunt left the back of his throat. Your vision went blurry just before you closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his.

"I got you," he said through clenched teeth, following closely behind.

All he needed was a few more thrusts, feel your warm and tender skin against his. You were everywhere, all his senses could record were you against him: your back under his touch, your fingers on his nape, your body sitting over him, thighs drenched with a mix of sweat and cum. He grabbed your body closer, as if it wasn't close enough, and let himself fall into the void. His eyes squeezed shut as his own orgasm shattered everything around him. You heard him moan and struggle against your ear.

Both of you panted as you came down from your high. Marc never let you go, he knew better than that now. Your hand slipped over his shoulder, falling over his heart and feeling his quick pulse underneath.

Marc buried his head deeper into your collarbone, trying to quiet down a mix of contradicting thoughts clouding his mind. It wasn't until then that he realized he should've, at least, pulled out; instead of spilling himself inside of you without even asking. It wasn't until then, either, that he realized that leaving for Cairo would be a hundred times worse, that being away from you would be one of the worst things he would've to do. Again.

And he would still not have it any other way. Never. Not in a million years.

"You're alright, baby?" you asked him, caressing the back of his neck and shoulders with one hand.

"Mine," he whispered, the sound so muffled you hardly heard it. "I can't believe you're finally mine."

He felt tears pricking in his eyes, but didn't let go of them.

"Oh, silly," you chuckled and kissed his shoulder. "I've always been yours."

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