#marc spector x you
marc-spectorr · 2 days ago
Fluff prompt #6 + Marc Spector please!
ˣ pairing: marc spector x reader
ˣ prompt: “i like it when you say my name.”
ˣ warnings: 1.3k wc. mentions of pregnancy. tons of fluff.
ˣ a/n: i swear the idea of this was made prior to all the baby talk these last few days okay. but hope you enjoy hehe xx
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- ☾-
“Hmm… What about Oliver?”
Marc shakes his head, his dark, messy curls bouncing ever so slightly. The way he looks ethereal, bathed in a soft golden glow of the dipping sunlight, has your breath hitching and heart fluttering wildly.
Thankfully he’s used to this— you staring, regarding him as if he’s a glorious statue sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.
Gazes intertwining, his smile distracts you for a stolen moment. Not on purpose, but it’s almost always like that with Marc. You’d never seen a prettier smile than his, though he’d argue that yours is by far more beautiful. But there’s something about his smile that simply dazes you— makes you feel like you’re floating in an endless state of bliss.
It’s quite hard to believe at times that Marc is the one you call yours. Falling in love with him had come so unexpectedly, but very easily as if it were all meant to be. Five years and counting, with your first child on the way, you still find yourself falling deeper and deeper. You could only imagine the immense love your heart holds for him… and your little one.
Speaking of which, you cross off yet another name from the list visualized in your head.
“Okay… maybe we can call him Matthew?”
Your input is met with the briefest of silence, followed by a quiet, resounding no that leads you to let out an exhale.
“Huh, who knew naming a kid would be this difficult?” Marc chuckles, his chest reverberating under your ear as the arm around you tightens, pulling you impossibly closer. “We’ve gone through how many names now— 10? 20?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we already hit the 50 mark, to be honest,” you return, eyes flickering up to meet his warm, café gaze. “Plus, we still need to come up with a middle name. It would really help if you gave me three or four suggestions. Every name I’ve brought up, you didn’t like.”
“It’s not that I don’t like those other names. I just don’t think any of them suit our little guy— get what I’m saying?”
You hum softly in response, featherlight fingertips slowly drawing shapes into his tanned skin. “So, now what? Are we going to wait until he’s born to name him?”
“I guess so,” he answers with a shrug. “Naming a baby is a big responsibility, and our son will be stuck with whatever name we choose for the rest of his life. It has to be perfect.”
A gentle hand then comes to rest on your grown belly. With a tender smile, Marc soothes the pad of his thumb over the swell of your stomach.
It still leaves him awestruck, the fact that he’s going to be a father soon. He’d painted the nursery walls and assembled the crib and other furnishings nearly a month ago. Though it felt even more real after spending the entire morning of today helping you pack the hospital bag.
A few weeks more, you’d remind him earlier. Just a few weeks more, Marc would finally have the family he’d always wanted— the one he’d always dreamed of having with you.
“Come on, Marc, we gotta think of at least a few,” you urge him with a small laugh.
He gives you a look. A sweet one, at that. Earthy brown orbs gaze at you adoringly; they mesmerize you, seamlessly indulging in delight at the mere flawless sight of you cuddled at his side.
Only Marc could reduce you to a puddle with those sparkling eyes.
You sincerely hope that your son inherits them. Those eyes, those curls, the smile that you’d never tire of seeing. Perhaps even the sound of his laughter, if it were possible.
You wish that your son would grow up to become the good man Marc is. The world could truly use another Marc Spector to brighten up everyone’s lives, the same way your Marc has done to yours.
“What about Marc?” you blurt out in the open, smiling softly.
“Marc?” he repeats. His features are unreadable, but the furrowing brow at your idea gives his puzzlement away.
“Yeah,” you nod, fingers twirling at the stray strand of hair splayed on Marc’s forehead. “What if we name our baby Marc?”
“Why would you want that?”
“Because why not?” comes your counter as you prop yourself up on one elbow. “Be it his first or middle, I want to name our baby after his father, my wonderful husband. The man who would do anything and everything for the two of us and who would love and protect us fiercely no matter what.”
Marc pauses, his mind undoubtedly reeling this all in. There are instances when he’s unable to see himself the way you see him. He’d slip into these fleeting moments of self-doubt and self-deprecation from time to time, an unfortunate habit following his tragic past.
You’re certain that this is one of those moments.
So you do the only thing that gets Marc to stop.
You kiss him.
Softly and sweetly, you press your lips against Marc’s, sensing the tension in his body slowly easing away. He clings to you as if you’re his lifeline, and you draw him in as close as you can.
The kiss seems everlasting. You want it to last forever, or at least as long as Marc needs it to. You’d say you love him a million times, but a kiss— this kiss— seals the promise, declaring the truth that you’re more than glad to remind him of for the rest of his life.
When it’s time to part, you leave Marc breathless. Breathless and grounded. All worries now a minuscule thought in the back of his head. He allows himself to bask at this moment, in this reality.
In this slice of heaven that you and he have built together.
The silence breaks at the sound of his delicate voice. “A-Are you sure?”
“Only if you agree, but yeah, I’m sure. I want to name our son after you, Marc.”
Marc’s smile reappears, and it reaches his tear-stained eyes. The corner of his mouth curls with your words, his hand remaining on your bump, caressing it. “I like it when you say my name, you know? Can’t exactly explain how it feels, but hearing you say it makes me the happiest man in the universe.”
Your heart swells at the touch and his admission.
You make Marc happy, but he doesn’t realize how much he makes you happier.
“So… what do you think?”
He takes a second to form a response. And as if he needs more convincing, your son gives a slight kick from inside your womb that catches you both by surprise. “Marc Jr., huh? You like that, buddy?”
Another set of kicks and they cause you and Marc to break into a fit of giggles.
“Little Marc Jr.,” you whisper. “Of course, we can give him a nickname, so he doesn’t get confused when he’s older.”
“Well, what if we settle on Marc as the middle name to avoid it?”
You ponder for a bit, then release a chuckle. “I’m good with that. But you know what this means, right?”
Marc tilts his head, his gaze narrowing as he shifts in bed, turning to you. “What does it mean?”
“It means we’re back to square one on first names.”
A playful groan escapes Marc’s parted lips, and with a kiss dotted on your nose, he buries his head in the crook of your neck. “Back to the drawing board, we go.”
- ☾-
taglist: @milkiane @dopeqff @liaaacantwrite @raging-trash-of-mind @daydreamingchaos713 @tinysquirrrrelgirl @khonshus-wife @loonymagizoologist @thelaststraw3 @irethepotato @syrma-sensei @mad-malory @allthingsvicf @victoriaarantza @battaltt @juleslovesfics @j-n-h-p @mooonlight-and-stars @xcatnapsx @dailydoseofchoices @izbelross @mrs-holmes @avatar-of-procrastination @darthxochitl @doomsdaybby @jakelcckley @xdarkcreaturex @glitteringhippie @fleurated @kyrst1n @n0ripeaches @bxmxtx @elaine-spades @mona-has-friends @ghostlyreads @later-gators12 @rmoonstoner @lluckpng
strikethroughs i am unable to tag. let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!
moon knight masterlist
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dailydoseofchoices · 18 hours ago
- your smile, you're everything -
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✧ pairing: jake lockley x f!reader (main) , marc spector x reader , steven grant x reader
✧ summary: you're in the kitchen cooking something up for your boyfriend, jake. when you turn to look at him and he looks back at you, your heart swells. jake feels the exact same way, maybe even more.
✧ genre: fluff/soft comfort
✧ warnings: none at all, this is pure adorbs ! ♥︎ 
✧ word count: 374
✧ author's note: i'm still not over moon knight and i never will be, ok. this show is everything to me and frankly, i'm still fascinated with it. i absolutely love the moonboys and i might post drabbles of them in the future depending on how this one goes. (tagging @marc-spectorr n @slenderclaw because i love them and they share their love of oscar isaac and mk with me-) this one's short !
do i have a favorite? noooo, ofc not- (jake mi amorcito 🫠🖤)
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"You smile a lot more since we've met." You told your lover, brushing the soft, ebony curls away from the frame of his face.
Jake didn't answer you right away. As corny as it sounded to him, he was losing himself in your eyes. God, he was starting to become like Steven, when he'd stare at you like some lovesick teenager, but Jake didn't care.
He could care less at this point, especially when you looked at him the way you did, as if he was the prettiest damn thing on Earth.
"I think my magic is working," you grinned, "you have a really pretty smile, you know. Really makes my day to see you like this, baby."
Ooh, no, no, after that, he knew he didn't deserve you. If he told you that, you'd spend hours giving him a whole lecture on why you disagree with him.
His smile grew a bit more at the thought.
When you cradled his face in your hands and softly rubbed your thumbs across his cheeks, he felt weak in the knees. It was a loving and kind gesture that Jake absolutely fell for.
"Really, huh?" He chuckled.
And it was funny to him, how he came to love your touches, cuddles, and everything in between. To think how before he hated physical touch, wasn't used to it at all but, to his surprise, you were patient enough with him, and as time passed, he became addicted to the feeling of your hands on him.
He fell in love with you each passing day, like a love-drunk fool. Marc would make fun of him for it, Steven too, even while they acted the exact same way when they were around you.
They all loved you.
"Yes, really really." You leaned forward to kiss his nose, then his lips.
"Now come on, food's about to get cold," you told him before pulling away to walk to the table, which had Jake almost let out a whine.
"One more kiss, amor?"
He heard your laughter in the dining room, the sound of it making him feel all bubbly inside.
"Why don't you sit down and I'll think about it, Lockley, hm?"
He smiled.
Who was he to refuse you?
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terry-perry · 2 days ago
Extra Protection
Pairing: Dad!Marc Spector x Mom!Reader, implied Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader (not the main focus of the story)
OC: Marcy Spector
A/N: Time for some more Marcy Spector content that's a little fluffier, in honor of Father's Day! Back when she still thought her dad was the coolest guy ever.
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Marc was set to go. He couldn't believe Khonshu called him to do this. Of course he said yes, but from what the god discussed with him about the trip, it sounded like he was going to miss another birthday. He was lucky to have married the patient, understanding soul that was you, but that didn't make things hurt less. If anything, he kinda wished you would show him some irrational anger towards him. Might make things easier.
He paused his packing to turn toward the entrance of the bedroom. His daughter, Marcy, stood there with her stuffed best friend, Kermit, in her arms. That toy pig hardly ever left her side.
"You leaving, Daddy?"
"Yeah baby," Marc sighed, crouching down so he was at eye level with the 4-year-old. "Khonshu needs me to help save the world."
"You really good at it," she said, smiling.
Marcy was aware, more or less, of not only his condition, but what he did as Moon Knight. You and Marc didn't go into too many details, of course. Really, she should just know her dad does what he needs to do to keep the world a safer place and sometimes needs Papa Steven and Papi Jake to help out with things.
"I do my best," he said to her, smiling back. "Can I count on you to take care of things while I'm gone?"
"Yes, sir!"
She gave a little salute and did her best to give a serious face she's seen him do many times. This had Marc give an emotional laugh.
"Take Kermit with you, Daddy," she suddenly suggested.
When she presented the stuffed pig to him, he didn't think his heart can get any fuller.
"Baby, are you sure?" He asked, knowing how much she loved Kermit more than any other toy she had.
"He'll keep you safe!" She reasoned. "And he's a good pillow."
His eyes teared up a little as he accepted him. He'd be sure to take good care of him.
"C'mere," he lifted her up and put her on the bed where he sat next to her. "I have something for you, too."
He turned to dig through the drawer of his nightstand until finding what he needed.
"I know your birthday is in a couple of days, but I want to give this to you now. Sorry it isn't wrapped."
He instructed her to hold out her hand where he placed a small silver bracelet. On the center of it was what appeared to be a giant eye. Its pupil a shiny gemstone Marcy couldn't help but admire.
"Pretty..." she softly stated as she examined it.
"You know how Khonshu helps Daddy be a superhero? Well he's not the only god around. Has Papa told you about Horus?"
"I think so..."
He chuckled. He couldn't blame her for not remembering every bit of information Steven throws at her.
"Like Khonshu, he helps control the sky," he explained, slipping the bracelet on her little wrist. "And legend has it, he can see everything through the sun and the moon. Because those are his eyes."
"Really cool," he lifted her hand to present the bracelet now on her. "He'll also be able to look after you through this eye. He'll watch over you and Mommy whenever I'm not here. Wear this, and you'll always be safe and feel like the strong warrior I know you are."
She nodded in understanding before scooting closer to wrap her arms around his neck. "Thank you, daddy. I wear it forever."
He kissed her temple and held her tight. Glancing up, he saw you witnessing everything from the doorway with your own watery smile. He smiled back and moved his eyes down to your wrist where you wore a bracelet identical to Marcy's.
He had reassured you beforehand that this didn't have anything to do with avatars. No way in hell was he going to involve you and especially your little girl in the business. The gods had simply wanted to find a way to thank Marc for putting a stop to Ammit as well as make up for not believing him and Khonshu about Harrow.
They didn't expect for him to request this. They accepted it, nevertheless, assuring him no harm would come to you or your daughter as long as you wore the bracelets. An extra form of protection as he did Khonshu's bidding.
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blushstories · 2 days ago
colourful people - s.g/m.s
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summary: strangers to friends to lovers with steven grant, and eventually marc spector.
word count: 5k
warnings that slowly descend into disclaimers: canon level violence, angst, threat to reader, blood, fluff, worried!steven, protective!marc (eventually), swearing, hurt/comfort because i cant resist somehow. wound patching so needle, maybe too much dialogue??, made up valuable object with no historical basis for plot, btw title is kinda related to that fanta ad about colourful people bc while i hate capitalist advertising i liked that one, a large serving of plot because i can’t help it, jake hasn’t been acknowledged here (yet), timeline is janked
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You met Steven Grant at a bookstore. Fingertips tracing along the weathered spines of the second-hand section, you searched for a copy of your favourite poetry collection. A thrill ran through you when you recognised the white font printed on the spine and you reached out to tip it out of the shelf, only to be met with firm resistance. Tugging again, it persisted.
You followed the top of the book, only to find two fingers gripping onto the same pages on the other side of the shelf. You dipped your head down, looking across the top of the books to meet a pair of curious brown eyes in the aisle opposite. The moment your eyes locked, the hand retracted with a hasty apology. 
“I’m so sorry. You have that one – I’m sure there’s another.” Through the gap above the books, you watched his figure continue down his aisle to the right before you could respond. You closed your parted lips and swiped the book from the shelf, mirroring his movements until you reached the end of the aisle, looking around you to find who the endearing voice belonged to. Turning the corner, you stopped short of walking straight into somebody, clutching the book to your chest. 
His eyes were wide, shoulders tensed with the effort of putting on the brakes, too. He let out a relieved huff as you lowered yourself from the balls of your feet.
“Sorry!” He said, eyes dropping to the book in your grip. “Oh, it’s you!” As soon as the words left his mouth he averted his eyes, as if he were afraid to have embarrassed himself. You chuckled. “You like Marceline Desbordes-Valmore?” If his already sunshiney countenance could get any brighter, it did. “She’s my favourite poet. Been looking for a copy like that for ages. Problem is –” “They’re stupid rare,” you interrupted, looking a little sheepish when he nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “You can take it, you’ve been on the hunt a lot longer than I have,” you smiled. He seemed to recoil at the thought. “Oh, no! You found it fair and square,” he said warmly. You bit your lip for a moment, and to your delight figured out a win-win-win solution
“Tell you what: I’m gonna buy it. But… you could give me your number, so that when I’m done, I can give it to you. Then you keep it, because I have too many books,” you said. The stranger’s eyebrows raised, and he seemed to freeze in place for a second before blinking himself out of it. “Sorry, are you asking– do you…?” You smiled, nodding. “I’m Y/N.”
You left the bookstore with a rare edition of your favourite poems, an uncontainable smile, and a piece of paper slid into the front cover:
I’d love to know your favourite poem.
xxx xxx xxxxx
Steven Grant
He was listed in your contacts as “steven :]”.
You had texted him the name of your favourite poem in the collection. He replied within five minutes.
steven :] 13:43
Mental. Mine, too! 
Soon after that it was coffee dates, picking him up from his work. The first few times you arrived, he insisted on showing you around the exhibits, ancient Egyptian history spilling from his lips and into the space around you. He brought inanimate objects to life with his knowledge and stories of some forgotten legend, his hand ghosting the small of your back while he guided you around. You couldn’t believe he was working in the gift shop and not as a tour guide. 
“And that’s the Ennead. Kind of.” He gestured to a poster advertising the exhibit, and your eyebrows dipped in confusion. “I thought you said there were nine.” His eyes lit up, and he smiled knowingly. “There are. Marketing really mucked it up, didn’t they?” You chuckled and nodded, popping a pink smartie into your mouth. “They should really recruit you, Mister Encyclopaedia,” you said as you both moved on to gaze at the art on the old pottery and vases. “Wouldn’t that be brilliant? Donna, though, already ruled out the tour guide.” He stopped in front of an old pot, depicting Horus in front of some human figures, his chin resting on his thumb and index finger against his nose. “Really? That’s rather rude. Why?” He shrugged. “Condemning me to the role of gift shop-ist forever, I suppose.” 
You frowned. It’s cruel that someone as bright and optimistic as Steven is stuck yearning for a job that’s right under his nose. Your heart ached, and you wordlessly offered him a Smartie as a way to show your sympathy. A purple and red one fell into his hand as he brought them to his mouth and said, “Cheers.”
“You know, Steven, you deserve better,” you said, eyes fixed on Horus’. You could feel the heat of Steven’s own stare as you continued. “You’re so kind, and passionate. You’re a colourful person, I think. The world needs more of those,” you nodded to yourself, another smartie gone. You glanced at the tube in your hand. “Like this,” you finally turned to look at him, raising it slightly. 
His stare was intense, heavy, and your smile faltered momentarily, simultaneous with the skip of your heart, because it was infused with something that you’ve missed. What it was exactly, though, you could only guess. Love, or admiration? Perhaps it was neither, and instead was a deep affection. You hoped it was, as your own affection for Steven rooted itself in your heart, wrapping around tighter with each day you spent with him. 
“I’m a tube of Smarties?” He raised his eyebrow playfully. You smiled brightly, offering him another. “Yep,” you popped your ‘p’, “Bright, colourful, and smart.” 
He chucked to himself, accepting your offer with a renewed twinkle in his eye and deepened laughter lines.
At night, you would lay in bed and text him before you slept, asking how his day was. Some nights he would reply instantly, but more often than not you would wake up to his reply, sent deep during the night. Maybe initially you were a little put out, but he was probably just an early sleeper… or didn’t sleep at all. Vampires don’t sleep.
 Don’t be ridiculous. 
Anything’s possible.
But you had no idea what you had signed up for.   
Steven Grant is a sunset on a summer evening. All warm colours and comfort. He loves you as if there was nothing more precious in his world, because to him, there wasn’t. Occasionally he’ll wonder whether he obviously stares for too long.
 Whether you notice that his lips linger on your forehead for a little longer than necessary when comforting you. Whether you know that your presence in his life was like opening a window to feel the warm summer breeze and to listen to the symphony of birdsong in the trees. 
Do you know that he'd do anything for you?
Following a scorching summer’s day, Steven invited you to his flat for the evening. It was under the guise of meeting Not Gus, his fish, but you both knew that the day in the park together wasn’t nearly long enough. Steven was addictive. Every sound, every touch, every smile left you craving more. And Steven was happy to give it to you, because you were the same to him.
The door clicked shut behind you, and you turned to study the level of security Steven had installed on it. “Are there lots of burglaries around here or something?” You were genuinely curious, casting your eyes to the bookshelves stuffed with new and old copies and experiencing a pang of panic at the thought that they could be damaged by an impolite burglar. “Or something,” Steven engaged one of them before setting his keys down and making his way inside properly. You decided not to ask questions.
It didn’t take long for the thunder to disturb the sky. It began softly, like a bear wondering what’s for dinner. You and Steven settled onto the sofa, watching a romantic comedy that you had already forgotten the name of, because the bowling alley in the sky had opened. 
Maybe thinking of it as some deities knocking over enormous bowling pins should have made it bearable, but it was furious and sudden, the whip of lightning across the sky pulling your vision towards it automatically. Unconsciously, you settled a little more into Steven, who lifted his arm over the back of the sofa to give you room to do so. 
“You alright, love?” 
His voice was muffled, sat at the back of your mind like sand settling in water. The sky thundered again; your bones seemed to vibrate with the force of it, the building seemed to shake. A poke to your upper arm. “Hmm?” You turned back to Steven, who was wearing a concerned frown. Clearing your throat, you nodded, “Yeah, good. Great, good. Yes. What?” 
He made an unconvinced hum while adrenaline saturated each cell in your body, your nervous system went into overdrive. A whip of lightning cracked through the sky, and the following rumble of thunder mirrored the harsh thumping in your chest. You swallowed thickly, clenching your jaw.
Steven’s eyes flickered between your shaken state and the window, before he stood and crossed the room in a few paces, drawing the curtains shut before sinking back into the cushions next to you. He didn’t hesitate to pull you back into his side, knowing that you were trying to hide the storm whirling inside of you. He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering slightly longer than necessary. His grip on you tightened with every roll of thunder when the adrenaline started to incite shakes in you, and he turned the volume up on the TV. 
“It’s alright. You’re alright,” he said in a low voice next to your ear. This tone, his voice, soft as freshly laundered blankets, enveloped you in its warmth and safety. This was Steven, tender and loving, easy to indulge in and even easier to love in return.
You melted into him, matching your breathing the slow rise and fall of his chest. Still aware of the stiffness in your bones, Steven began talking about Horus, the deity of the weather.
“Clearly, he can be a real prick sometimes,” he muttered into your hair, drawing pointless patterns over the fabric on your thigh before returning to his monologue detailing every little part of Horus’ legend. 
The day he officially became your boyfriend was unplanned.
“If you were a Smartie, which one would you be?” Steven asked you, head on your lap as he lay horizontally across a bench in Hyde Park. The fountain in view flowed steadily, with children on the rim sticking their hands into the cool pool and splashing each other, waterdrops refracting the sunlight. A man stood at the edge furthest away from you, flicking a penny into the clear waters.
“If I was a Smartie, I’d be one of the quirky ones that never made it off the factory line,” you said. “Don’t say that!” You laughed at his involuntary gasp. 
“We’re thinking too small with little Smarties, anyway. If you were a book, which one would you be?” Steven sat up, leaning comfortably against the back of the bench.
“I’d be the book that’s sitting on my desk at home, with your see-through post-its stuck on every other page. The Desbordes-Valmore copy that got me your number,” he said after a moment of thought.
It bloomed, then, your affection for him. Buds burst in pinks and reds, each petal saturated with its dizzying heat. It was addictive. His smile, his laugh; the cadence of his voice was like nectar to your ears. 
“Oh,” you said, a little breathlessly. His eyes widened in a panic at your silence. “Sorry, if that was an overstep. I really like you, you know. Meeting you was like, the best day of my life, so it just came out –” “Steven.” You stopped him gently. “I really like you, too.” “Oh,” he breathed. “Bloody hell. You do?” You nodded, an uncontainable smile appearing on your face. “Can I kiss you?” “Please.”
Marc Spector stands his ground with a determination Steven would admire, if he wasn’t being an idiot about it. The roots of his wariness wind and tangle deep into his psyche, but like a tree, the bark on the outside is only protecting the sap on the inside.
It’s why he never allows Steven to give him the body when he’s with you, why he convinces Steven that you don’t need to know about him. Steven can finally have a normal life. One without Khonshu bothering him, without worrying about his next victim, or if there was going to be a next victim.
He wasn’t afraid of you hurting Steven; every action you took showed that you cared deeply for him. He was afraid that he was going to ruin it all, his callus countenance a contrast to Steven’s welcoming embrace. 
Steven told you about Marc, once. Though, not by name. And he left out the whole superhero part. No, all you knew was that Steven had an alter. And by the looks of it, he wasn’t so interested in meeting you. 
The white vigilante sweeping across rooftops against the night sky became less of an urban legend when you began to see him with your own eyes. At night, when you stepped off the bus you would sometimes see him on top of the nearby buildings. Often, you wondered what sort of crimes he would get snarled up in. 
You didn’t see the vigilante tonight, on your way to the hole in the wall antique shop near your flat. Recently, your curiosity had been piqued after a friend had told you the tale of a collection of poetry that held a valuable secret: each poem contained a clue with a promise that something valuable lay at the end of the trail. It was an unsolved riddle, which ignited your curiosity: your friend knew the owner of the shop, and it had only recently been acquired. It seemed that the seller had found it in his attic, and with no desire to read poetry, wanted to be rid of it. 
You thought it would be the perfect gift for Steven: for no occasion, just for the sake of it. Within hours you set out to buy it. Not usually a fan of name dropping, you made an exception in this case as your friend cut the price in half for you. The smell of the store was antique, ashy; it was clear that some of these items had been collecting dust for years.
“Doubt you’ll have any luck finding Sekhmet’s periapt, darlin’,” The owner said, as if trying to dissuade you from buying it. It was in remarkably good condition for something so old, as if it hadn’t been touched for decades. Maybe it hadn’t been. 
“Folks ‘ave been trying much longer than you, ‘ave died for it.” “Died?”
“Do you know the glory waitin’ for someone who finds a treasure that heals all ills? Sekhmet, the Goddess of healing… but also the Goddess of disease. Didja know that? In the wrong hands, we’re looking at something...” “Bad,” you finished for him, suddenly concerned. You couldn’t tell whether his story was a myth, or whether you should think twice before purchasing it. Could it really provoke biological warfare? Surely not. “Bad,” he nodded.
You glanced at the white haired man, who fixed you with an intense stare, waiting to see what choice you made. Steven didn’t have to know about the periapt. Leaving it here would just increase the possibility of it falling into the wrong hands.
The pages crinkled happily as you turned them, paragraphs of carefully calculated prose jumping out at you. 
“I’ll take it, thanks.”
You left the book on your desk before flopping onto your bed, exhausted from your day yet far too awake to even think about sleep. Staring at the legendary book, you wondered whether it was all true. If you had learned anything from Indiana Jones, it was that malicious people were always just around the corner, their unquenchable thirst for power leading them to do unspeakable things to seize it. A buzz from your phone startled you, the sound seeming much more urgent as it contrasted with the silence of the room.
steven <3, 22:03 Where are you right now?
You frowned at the unexpected message.
you, 22:04 at home, are you okay?
steven <3, 22:04 Fine
The three grey dots appeared, before disappearing. Slightly concerned, you sat up properly, heartbeat incrementally increasing as the seconds passed and Steven didn’t reply.
steven <3, 22:06 Please tell me that you don’t have the map to Sekhmet’s periapt.
Your gaze shifted to the poetry collection on your desk. How on earth did he know? Your heart sank a little at the idea of ruining the surprise, but it wasn’t worth lying to him.
you, 22:07 um
you, 22:07 how did you know?  it was supposed to be a surprise for you :(
read 22:07
You gripped your phone a little tighter, the silence prompting you to make your way over to your desk and picked up the aged book, running your thumb over the irregular edges of the pages. You bit your lip, glancing at the window, before hearing the buzz of your phone again.
steven <3, 22:09 Bugger.
you, 22:09 what’s wrong?
steven <3,  22:10 Can you meet me at Hyde Park, near the fountain? 
steven <3, 22:10 Don’t forget the book
You involuntarily shake your head at your phone in confusion, concerned for Steven but overwhelmed by curiosity. Securing the book in your purse, you slipped on your shoes, grabbed a jacket, and picked up your keys. Another buzz.
steven <3, 22:13 And don’t be followed, yeah?
Your steps are quick but heavy through the hallways of your building, adrenaline threading your muscles with lead.
you, 22:14 steven, you’re scaring me a little bit. why would somebody be following me?
The night was calm. You navigated the streets easily, glad that the walk was only about fifteen minutes at most. But every stone accidentally kicked and every cat mewling in the nearby alleyways urged you to walk quicker. Clutching your phone tightly and looking over your shoulder every now and again soothed you slightly, but you were focused on finding Steven, and asking him what has got him so worked up.
You would have noticed the figure turning onto the street behind you if you weren’t typing out another text to Steven. When you felt a hand tangle into the fabric of your shoulder, your finger reflexively hit send:
you, 22:20 you’re okay though, rigfh
You were pulled into a side street, a heavy presence at your back that shoved you into the wall, sandwiching your bag between your hips and it. 
“Don’t fucking move, don’t fucking scream.”
 Something cold slipped under your shirt and pressed against the skin of your lower back. You shifted your head against the brick to alleviate the sting, but you were only able to move millimetres. The wall must have had to be shaking with the force of your heart beating against it. 
“Why did you have to get involved with Marc Spector, huh? A sweet thing like you?” Warm breath at the back of your neck, hot and dense.
“Who’s Marc Spector?” You asked, voice strained. He laughed nastily. “Don’t be daft. We can both smell bullshit. Where is it?” 
Stunned, you tried to process his words. You presumed the “it” he was referring to was the book, but you didn’t know anybody named Marc Spector; they couldn’t possibly be related.
Play dumb?
“Where’s what?” “Fucking–” He jostled you into the wall again, the wet heat of his breath appearing at your cheek. “If you don’t tell me where it is, I swear to God,” his fist tightened against your back, and a sliver of white hot heat grew under your shirt, across the top of your hip. You stifled a pained groan, realising that any movement to free yourself would drive his knife deeper into the laceration. “You’ll what?” You said through gritted teeth. “You don’t want to know, sweet thing,” his voice was laced with a sort of ominous joy, and warmth trickled over the skin of your hip. “Last chance. Where–”
His weight was ripped away before the man could take another breath. You exhaled in relief, sending your hand straight to the source of your bleeding. With your other hand on the wall, you turned to see the white-caped vigilante himself, throwing punch after punch into the face of your attacker. The sickening crunch of bone twisted your stomach over itself, and blood streamed down the lower half of his face. Although the sight sent a loathsome mixture of nausea and relief through you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the ruthless scene.
When the man became less and less responsive, though, you knew better than to allow yourself to drown in the desire for revenge. You inhaled deeply.
“I think you got him!” You said, voice beginning to shake from the concoction of adrenaline and pain in your veins. As soon as you finished speaking, your saviour froze, releasing the man and letting him fall to the floor. His cape billowed out behind him as he turned, bright white eyes as intimidating as they were comforting. Approaching you in a few steps, he said, “Are you hurt?”
In London, an American accent was furthest from your expectations, but you didn’t have it in you to care. You just nodded, pulling away your hand and cringing when you saw blood staining your hands, glistening in the limited light of the street. “A bit, yeah.” His breath seemed to hitch in his throat, but he cleared it before you could decide.
“Bastard. You’re gonna be alright,” he said, calmly but firmly, hands gently lifting your shirt to see the wound. “Shut up, it’s fine.” You blinked. “I didn’t say anything.” “Not you.” He kicked the knife away.
You swallowed at the edge in his tone, wincing slightly when he guided your hand back over the wound with a wad of fabric secured underneath it. At your sharp intake of breath, the mask dissolved, uncovering a familiar face laced with concern and worry. “Steven?” You asked incredulously, relief flooding through you as you found yourself with the only person you could seek comfort from. Tears of relief filled your eyes. Steven shook his head, cleared his throat, and looked away. “Not Steven. I’m Marc.” “You’re–ouch– Marc? Marc Spector?” He nodded, his attention once again on your wound after you flinched. “We gotta get to a hospital.” He wound an arm around you, hand replacing yours to keep pressure on the bleeding.
“Do we have to? Hospitals make me queasy.” You groaned as he swept an arm underneath your knees to pull you into his chest. The fabric of his suit was soft against your cheek, his grip firm. “Hurts.” He rolled his jaw, looking out into the main street, the streetlight casting deep shadows across his features. “I know… Alright, hold on. We’re going home.”
‘Home’ was the familiar space of Steven’s apartment, Not Gus swimming happily in his tank. Marc set you down on your side, and before you could blink the suit unravelled from his body, leaving him in Steven’s casual get-up. He disappeared from your view for a moment, coming back with a first aid kit. 
“Talk to me,” he said, removing your hand from the wound that had stopped oozing blood. “About what?” “Anything. Let me handle this.”
The cool sting of the antiseptic made you grimace, causing a twitch in Marc’s eyebrows. “How’d you know–” You sucked in a breath through your teeth as his surprisingly gentle fingers dabbed the edges of the laceration. “-- where I was?” Marc allowed himself a small smile. “Steven wouldn’t shut up about your typo. We were heading to your apartment – this is gonna hurt – when we found you.” The needle pierced your skin.
While stitching your side, Marc left out the tale of his own concern. The way he was already planning to check on you no matter if Steven was worried or not. (But of course, he was: pacing up and down the path spiralling because you never made a typo.) The way he had admired you, listened to Steven’s lovesick ramblings in total accordance.
Or even the way his stomach filled with lead when he saw the stranger on top of you, blood staining your clothes and the scent of danger suspended in the air. You liked Steven, not him, right? 
“Sorry,” he murmured when a particularly sharp pinch sent your hand flying to grab his wrist. The adrenaline was diluted now, and the pain became harder to ignore. “‘S okay,” you released him after taking a moment to catch your breath. “You’re doing good.” 
A beat.
“Did you want to meet me?” His eyes met yours and his hands froze. He hesitated; perhaps if you weren’t flooded with pain he would have had it in him to lie. Say that there was never a right time, or something. “Of course I did,” he said while tying the knot in the suture, ensuring that it wasn’t too loose or too tight. The slight crease between his eyebrows and the narrowing of his eyes while he focused on his task pressed him into silence. He dressed the wound with practised fingers and helped you to sit up. You didn’t respond, chewing on his honesty. 
“Is that good?” Marc asked, eyes sweeping over you one more time. “Yeah, thanks. So, what are we gonna do about the book?” You asked. Marc carefully sat next to you, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He dragged a hand over his face. “We are not doing anything. I am gonna deal with it. Go to sleep; Steven will be here when you wake up. Where is it?” He looked around the room in search of the object.
You frowned. “Marc. I bought it in the first place– it isn’t fair to dump this problem on you. Let me take responsibility.” He was shaking his head before you had even finished speaking. 
“That’s not gonna fly. It’s too risky, and you’re already hurt, and Steven would never forgive me if–” “We don’t have to figure it out now,” You offered, picking up on the rising volume of his voice. He shook his head vigorously, as if shaking out all the bad ideas. “I-hm,” his thinking face would be mistaken for a scowl if you didn’t know any better. “Why don’t we sleep on it? They won’t like, reconstruct their entire plan overnight. Tomorrow, we’ll talk. Steven tells me you’ve been on some pretty insane adventures before, right? That was you?”“Something like that.” “Okay, then.”
Steven woke you up with a cup of tea and a kiss to your forehead.
“Oh God, you’re alright?” His hands were on your shoulders, one slid up to hold the side of your neck while his eyes swept across your face. You covered it with yours, studying his panic-laced features. You smiled, cupping his jaw and pulling his face towards you, planting a kiss on the tip of his nose and then to his lips. “Marc did a great job,” you said, patting your side confidently. “I hope I get to see him more.” “I think you will,” Steven assured you with a kiss at your temple, before moving to his desk for research. 
Maybe you still had the problem of the periapt, but Marc's presence soothed you, and your adoration for him and Steven would surely grow.
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moonknightyws · 2 days ago
He's magnificent.
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m4nd0l0r · 2 days ago
Alright so could it be the 3 boys +khonshu. So I have this thing café-au-leau spots (caused by NF1) its something I'm really insecure about and I've been told I'm ugly for having them (I have over 10 don't know the exact maybe around 20). It's something I hate about myself. (oh they are coffee colored spots almost like birth marks)
hi there! thank you for requesting <33
i hope this is comforting + is to your liking— its a little late so apologies for the wait 😭 its been a busy lately so this is all i can do for this rn 😭😭🫶
here’s a gif to cheer things up!!
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Words may be Enough - Moon Boys + Khonshu.
Description: If the could burn the hateful world for you, they would.
Word Count: 632
Category: Assuring Fluff
Steven is a little insecure as well, with all of the mishaps he’s experienced, the poor guy can’t get a grip. But when he learns that you too are affected with the pressures of the world like he is, his heart breaks for you. He doesn’t want you to experience the festering hurt that grows in one’s chest because of the thoughts of others, he hates the mere possibility of it. 
“Oh honey.. Y’know what? All those people- They should just- bugger off— I think you’re lovely- dare I say perfect even- just the way you are and god- I’m way too lucky to even get a shot with you!- What? I’m not wrong, darling! Whatever they’ve said, well we can’t change their opinion, but we can change our thoughts of ourselves. We’re all good enough, perfect to our own eyes- we just don’t see it ‘cos of all the madness in the world, so we can’t let them get into our head, yeah?” 
Marc understands your agony, he’s experienced a hateful opinion (his mother) being thrown his way. It leads him to hurt with you, to feel useless that he can’t help. He doesn’t know what to say- afraid that he’ll only do more damage like with everything else. Instead he tries to humor, to be the anchor he should be for his loved ones, the stability you needed. 
“Sweetheart, I could care less if you had some witch’s wart or not— Okay okay, my point is- you’re perfect just the way you are, more than I deserve, and I’d love you either way, marks or not. Mhm, yes, I think they’re beautiful because they are a part of you, the one I care for. I know it hurts that people think that its more of a bad thing than it being good, so whoever tells you otherwise, they’re full of shit and I know it- Uh uh uh, no buts, doll.” 
Jake would be mad, defensive even. But the anger is not towards you, it was for the ones who’ve twisted you this way- it infuriates him they’ve managed to dig under your skin just to hurt you. He hates the way that he can’t help nor protect you from these types of jabs towards you— because he thinks- knows that you don’t deserve it. 
“Why would I think that way, mi amor? You’re all I need, and those who hurt you by saying bullshit and not minding their own business like that are pendejos— Fucking full of themselves ‘cos they have all the shit in the world to stuff their head with. If anyone dares talking to you like that again, I swear I’ll give ‘em a piece of my min— Oh fine… just a stern talking, mi vida. Whatever makes you happy.” 
Khonshu could care less of what you look like, you are something he believes to be elegant, with beauty like none. Whether you have spots, or marks that were never there in the first place, he just does not care. He’s a god, those things to him are trivial, next to nothing. Why would it matter to him, an enigma of higher status than those who have placed those ideals into the world? But when he sees that it hurts you, one of the only ones that matters to him, it maddens him so. He realizes that you still revolve around human opinion, something he does not oh so trust nor think is right at all. 
“Us gods have created humans differently, to form in different shapes and forms, with features some have and some don’t. Humans may think otherwise, they always do.  None of them realize, that is the miracle of it, my star. For what it’s worth, you come across yourself with something unique, even if you did not want it at first. And your marks that you dislike so.. it enhances your beauty, rather than deteriorating it.” 
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grantfilms · a day ago
My heart is yours (StevenGrant x F!Reader)
Summary: Reader can’t stop drinking, when she gets herself hurt, Steven can’t bare it any longer and tells her how he feels in fear of not being able to before she may get too hurt next time. Does she stop the drinking?
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i wont be another one of your mistakes (MoonKnight Boys x F!reader)
(In progress)
Summary: Marc is constantly distancing himself from you even when Steven and Jake beg Marc to see you. “You cant keep forcing us away from her” “It’s for the best” but as he is on a mission, the enemy mentions how you’re accompanied as they speak. Jake forces control and finds his way back to you. Not knowing if you’d be alive.
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You are always going to be beautiful (BasilStitt x GN!Reader)
(in progress)
Summary: When Basil disappears, leaving you a heartfelt voice message about how much he loves you, you get worried and go to his apartment to find him passed out on the floor with a paper bag over his head.
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You’re not a child (BlueJones x GN!Reader)
(in progress)
Summary: You have a nightmare while sleeping in Blues office due to ‘misbehaving’. Blue comes to check on you to find you making pleads for help in your sleep, he throws his ego down the drain to comfort you.
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Vicious Kitty (Crazy BlueJones x F!Reader) {smut}
(in progress)
Summary: After Lennox was burnt down, youre dragged back inside a room and tied down, where Blue meets you again. When he begs for you to come back to him, you cant help the feeling inbetween your legs at the sight of his tears, When you kiss him back, he goes feral.
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cozykali · 2 days ago
Caught in the Act
Pairing: Steven Grant x fem reader, Marc Spector x fem reader
Rating: Smut! 18+ minors DNI
Warnings: established relationship, kissing, swearing, fem solo play, oral (fem receiving), fingering, edging, mild choking, spanking, biting, unprotected p in v, squirting, mention of safe word, mild dirty talk, after care, some fluff, dom!marc, switch!steven
Word count: 1.5k
Disclaimer: This is my very first fanfic and also the first time I have written smut. Although, I have read a lot of it. Please give me your honest feedback. I saw another post somewhere (now I can’t find it, I'm new to Tumblr) with a ‘what if the moon boys walked in on you’ prompt and immediately started to write this. GIF is not mine, I know it’s from Life Itself but it works here.
Edit> I found the post that inspired this! It’s from @the-archxr !
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You wake to the gentle breath of the wind fluttering through the sheer drapes of your bedroom window. How long was I out for? you wonder. The last thing that you remember you were reading in bed, waiting for Marc to come home from a another mission for Khonshu. You must have dozed off around 3 AM. You roll over to find him, sleeping peacefully beside you. The sunlight is gleaming on his soft curls, illuminating them a chocolate brown instead of their usual raven color. He’s so beautiful, you think to yourself.
You can see dark bags under his eyes. He hardly gets any rest being the ‘protector of the travelers of the night’ while also wanting to spend as much time with you as he can during the day. He is lying on his stomach. His bare back is exposed and looks tanned against the stark white sheets. He softly snores. His mouth is slightly open with a small puddle of drool forming on the pillow below his lips. It is taking everything in you not to wake him up just to feel his kisses on your skin. His back rises and falls as he breathes. Your eyes scan Marc’s body. You feel a warmth growing inside you as you glance at his plump, round, backside that is covered by his tight boxers.
You run your hand along your stomach, then under the waistband of the silk shorts that you wore to bed as you think about everything he will do to you when he wakes up. You start to massage yourself, slowly at first, then with more intensity as the warm feeling inside you increases. It continues to build as you try not to move too much. You don’t want to wake him. He really does need his sleep. You close your eyes and let out a small squeak as you feel yourself close to release. Your other hand hastily covers your mouth to silence the moan that you know is coming.
“Just what do you think you are doing, Y/N?” A soft, sweet, unmistakable, British voice whispers in your ear. Steven. You reactively pull your hand out of your shorts.
“I… I didn’t want to wake you up.” You can feel that your cheeks are red hot and you are unsure if they were already like that because of what you were just doing, or because you are embarrassed that you were caught.
“You didn’t think I would want in on this fun then, yeah?” He says. His brows are furrowed and there is a slight frown on his face, as he slowly sits up on the bed beside you. You open your mouth to reply but before you can say anything his index finger is pressed against your lips. “Shh. Let me help you finish what you started, love.”
His hand moves slowly away from your mouth to cup your breast through your shirt as you move to sit up beside him. Both of your backs are resting against the bed frame. You grab his face with both hands and crash your lips into his. His hand moves lower, exploring your body until it’s pressing on the same area you were just focused on. The soaked silk material of your shorts acts as a barrier between your body and his touch.
“Y/N” he groans into your neck as he feels how wet you are through your clothes. You grab onto the waistband of your shorts and start pulling them down but he grabs your wrist to stop you. “Allow me.” He crawls over your and removes them while kneeling in front of you, your eyes meet.
There is a longing, a hunger, in his dark eyes that makes your stomach flip. Until now, Steven has always let you have control, obediently complying with every command you give him, weather it be verbal or nonverbal cues. He’s not the one to call the shots, or is he?
Without breaking eye contact he lowers down to kiss your thigh just above your knee. He does the same on the other side. He moves his head up your legs, slowly kissing from side to side. Your head falls back to rest on the rails of the bed behind you as you reach your hand down and grab a fistful of curls, pulling him closer. He pauses.
“Steven,” Your lips tremble as you exhale his name, “please.” You never thought that this man would make you beg for it. He’s always so eager to please.
“You should have woke me up.” He says softly. You can feel his hot breath, right there, so close to where you want him to be. You know that making you wait is just as agonizing for him as it is for you. Finally, he lowers his head, his lips finding the swollen bundle of nerves that crave him. An involuntary gasp escapes you as his tongue starts to lap.
“Oh fuck!” You exclaim. Hearing your excitement, he burrows into you more. His entire face pressed right against you. “Steven, right there, you’re doing great.” He whimpers in response to your praise, his voice muffled. He slips his hands under you as you close your legs around his head. You rock your hips, matching his rhythm, as your orgasm quickly builds. “Don’t stop!”
It hits you like a wave crashing ashore. The edges of your vision are blurred as your mouth falls open, releasing a long primal moan. It seems to last minutes, but even as you finish, Steven doesn’t stop. He grabs a hold of your thighs with his arms and rolls onto his back, bringing you with him. You grip onto the rail of the bed to support you as he is now positioned underneath you. You hover over him trying to squirm away, just for a moment to compose yourself, but he grabs your hips and pulls you down onto his face. His nose is pressed flat against your pelvis, his tongue is still flicking away.
You realize now that this is his way of punishing you for trying to get off without him. At first, you were relieved that Steven found you touching yourself, instead of Marc, but now, you are not so sure. You’re not confident that he is even able to breathe anymore as you grind into his face. But the hold he has on your legs, pulling you down, lets you know he doesn’t want you to get off of him.
“Steven!” You cry as a second orgasm rips through your body. You hunch over, your forehead resting on the post of the bed. You feel like you are going to blackout. A moment later, you roll back and sit at the top of his chest. You look down at his face between your knees. He’s gasping for breath but smiling, almost laughing. His lips and nose are red and swollen from the friction and his chin is slick with your wetness.
You roll off of him and collapse onto the bed and stare at the ceiling in shock. Your t-shirt is clinging to your body, now sticky with sweat. You feel the bed shift beside you as Steven rolls over so that he’s on top of you now, laying his body against yours. You can feel his erection press against your thigh through his boxers.
“Y/N?” he says as he buries his face into your chest. You lift your head to look at him. “Do you think you can give me one more? Please? You look so pretty when you come.” This man is trying to kill me with pleasure.
You playfully push him off of you and defiantly roll onto your stomach but he takes this as another invitation. He places a hand on each of your calves and moves your knees one at a time towards your chest. Your head is still laying face down on the pillows, but your ass is up in the air, exposed. You don’t move.
“Hey,” Steven says with a bit more concern in his voice. His face is right beside yours now, “Do you want me to stop? Are you okay, love? Do you maybe need a time-out?”
“No.” You said firmly, turning to face him while stroking his cheek. “I’m okay, baby. I can give you one more.”
“Alright then.” Steven nodes and makes his way back down the bed. You can’t see what he is doing back there. You expect him to take off his boxers and fuck you but instead, you feel a finger enter you, as his mouth latches on to your clit once more.
“Steven.” You say with slight urgency.
“Yeah?” He perks up. His finger is still inside you. “Everything fine?”
“I want you to come too, baby.”
“You weren’t too worried about that when I was sleeping beside you, now were you?” Without giving you time to respond, he slips a second finger inside you and puts his mouth back to work. Holy Shit. Who is this man and what have you done with my sweet Steven?
You can feel your inner walls clenching around his fingers as they move in and out of you. You can’t see what he’s doing but the suckling sound his mouth is making is enough to make your eyes roll back in your head. “Steven. Baby. I’m close”. Suddenly he stops. There is a long pause.
“Y/N.” A baritone voice with an American accent startles you and your eyes shoot open as you push yourself up on your hands.
“Marc!” You gasp as you realize you're on all fours in front of him.
“Steven told me what you were doing when I was asleep.” He growled while harshly grabbed your hips. “Do you really think you can please yourself better than I can?”
“Marc, Please. I can explain,” you start, “you looked so peaceful when you were laying there and…” Suddenly you feel Marc’s hand reach around your throat and lift you up off the pillows. You're kneeling in front of him now. Your back pressed against his chest. Your knees are shaking on the bed. You realize he is no longer wearing his boxers. Steven must have slithered out of them while he was working on you from behind. Oh fuck.
“Steven can’t even fully undress you before he fucks you, hm?” He says as he tugs on the neck of the shirt you're still wearing before ripping it off over your head, then pressing you back into the bed face down.
With no warning he thrusts himself deep inside you. You cry out with a mix of pain and pleasure. Instead of Marc pulling back to pump in and out, he stays there. You feel yourself tighten against him and arch your back for more.
He spanks you, hard, causing you to squeal .You can’t see it, but you know there is a raised handprint on your ass based on the stinging sensation you feel. “Don’t move.” He says under his breath. He slowly starts to grind his hips into you. Hardly moving in and out.
“Marc, please!” you beg.
“Please what?” He demands.
“Please, fuck me,” you answer quietly.
He pulls your knees back while spreading them, lowering you further onto the bed so you're stretched out with your face, stomach and thighs pressed into the mattress. The full weight of his body is pressing down on you, causing you to struggle for breath.
You lock your ankles together behind his ass and press him into you squirming to feed the need you have for some kind of friction between your legs.
He immediately bites your shoulder, almost to the point of drawing blood. A whimper falls from your lips as your eyes squint shut. His teeth scrape against your skin. “I told you not to move,” he hisses in your ear. You lower your legs in response and lay still for what seems like an eternity feeling his fullness inside of you.
“Good girl,” he says and he finally, but slowly, starts to move in and out. The white hot fire burning inside you is almost unbearable. You want to arch your back, grind your body against his, you want him to go faster, harder, but you don’t dare to move.
“You wanted your own hands over this?” He whispers in your ear through gritted teeth. His voice vibrating against your ear drum almost tickles. Then he picks up the pace causing the heat inside you to blaze brighter. “I’m going to show you that I can make you feel better, better than your hands, better than Steven, better than anything else in this world.”
You feel like you're going to explode. “Marc, I’m going to..” but he immediately pulls out and sits up on the bed, leaving you empty.
You slam your fist into the pillow in frustration before you feel a hand grip your ankle tightly and drag you to the end of the bed.
“You don’t get to finish that easy, baby. I’m not done with you yet.” Marc grumbles before flipping you onto your back.
He’s standing off the edge of the bed now towering over you. He spits in his hand and rubs his saliva against your folds before grabbing your legs and throwing them up over his shoulders. He enters you again, slowly this time. Inch by inch he fills you until his hips are pressing against yours so hard you feel bruises start for form.
He grunts as he starts to thrust. The angle he’s entering you hits a spot deep inside you that you didn’t even know was there. He increases in speed and intensity. The smacking sound your bodies make against each other is making you dizzy. You reach down to touch yourself but he smacks your hand away. He places his thumb on your clit instead as he slams into you, over and over.
“Marc!” You scream. But this time he doesn’t stop. His own lust for pleasure overrides his desire to deny you of yours. You finally release and clear warm liquid shoots out of you. Soaking the sheets beneath you. Every nerve in your body tingling as you convulse.
“Oh fuck, Y/N!” Marc groans in return as his thrusts become sloppy and disoriented. You see him seize over you, his eyes tightly closed, his mouth open. Sweat beading off his forehead to his brows.
You move your legs from his shoulders to his side and pull him down onto you. He buries his face in your neck. “I love you” he mumbles.
“I love you too.” You whisper, wiping tears from your eyes. Marc lays against you, heavy, unmoving. Suddenly, his head pops up with a worried expression on his face.
“Oh, my love, what have we done to you!” Steven immediately jumps off you, almost falling over then sits on the bed holding his face in his hands. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have told Marc what you were doing when I woke up.”
“Steven. Baby, it’s okay,” you motion to get up but he stops you.
“No, don't you move. I need to get you all cleaned up.” He scurries away but is back in no time with a warm, soapy cloth. He gently wipes you down and picks you up in his arms to move you to a drier spot on the bed. He inspects you carefully like an artifact at the museum. He kisses the bruises on your hips, ankle and neck; as well as the bite on your shoulder, and handprint on your butt.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” his eyes grow misty with tears, “I hate when he hurts you.”
“Oh, Steven. I like it when Marc does this to me. He would never really hurt me. That’s why we have a safe word, right?” You pull him close so his head is resting on your chest. You can tell he’s still exhausted from the night before and all the excitement from earlier. You run your hand through his soft curls. His eyes grow heavy and his breathing slows. You think he might finally be sleeping.
“Y/N?” He says softly, his eyes still closed.
“Can you promise to wake me up next time?
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syrma-sensei · 2 days ago
Me: Nothing can make my knees weak.
SUB Marc Spector: *exists*
Me: There's one thing makes my knees weak.
51 notes · View notes
rmoonstoner · a day ago
💙 ☁️ Lovely Little Sky ☁️ 💙
Chapter 6
Lead and Follow
Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader
Sorry, no smut this chapter.
You get up and find you're running late to meet up with your best friend, Safiya. Marc offers you a ride, you accept, and you introduce him and Steven to your bestie. 
Warnings: lots of 'gurl', 'bitch' and trash talk that best friends say or do. Safiya is brutally honest and blunt. Marc hates malls, but Steven loves them. No sexy times in this chapter.
Also, please note the reason I leave a bunch of space between paragraphs, is because Google docs somehow puts two extra spaces in when I copy and transfer it over to Tumblr only, and not to my ao3. I'm a tired mom, and that's so much extra work to go through and delete like 200 spaces. If these spaces bother you, check out my ao3, where it this weird glitch doesn't happen.
You woke up from a damned good sleep, but you weren't in your own bed. You glanced around the dark room, squinting to see where you were. A loud snore caught you off guard, and you turned to see a lump of a man sleeping, face down. The only thing covering him was a thin, khaki-coloured sheet that molded perfectly to his well-shaped ass.
You smiled, and figured you were in Marc's room. You went to get up and your legs protested the movement so badly that your foot became entangled in the sheet, tripping you to the floor. You groaned, looking behind you to see if you had woken your bed partner. Luck was on your side, as the man merely snorted in his sleep, turned over, and hugged the pillow you left to his face.
You squirmed out of the sheet and made your way to the bathroom to have a quick shower. Once finished, you came back to see the man was sitting upright and looking around with a worried looking frown on his face.
"Good morning." You chirped at him, and his head snapped up to look at you. All the worry left his face, and a wide smile crept onto his features.
"Good morning." He replied softly as he took in your lack of attire. He sounded like Marc. His face quickly melted back to that worried-looking frown when he saw all the bruises and marks littering your skin.
"Shit, did I do that to you?"
"It's okay, Marc. Both you and Steven did this to me." You said as your hand came up to touch your neck. You could feel the three bite marks each one of them had left. Surprisingly, the one Steven had left was the worst.
"You sure? You're covered like a canvas. It looks like I beat the fuck out of you…" He replied while rubbing the back of his neck.
"You guys beat the fuck out of my pussy, and I had a great time while doing it." You snickered back with a wink. He sighed in relief, then reached out for you. You happily went to him and allowed him to bring you to sit on his lap.
"Fuck that's hot. Layla would have beat me up if I left a mark. Fuck, look at you…" He kissed you, smiling wider as you reached up to ruffle his hair. You wanted to say that he had been marked up badly, but you didn't say a word. You both acted like you didn't mark his body up in the same way, since he had healed every mark that you gave him.
"How are you feeling today?" You asked. Marc bit his lower lip, barely thinking about it.
"Pretty good, actually. No hangover. I suppose that's good." He said, but he didn't exactly sound happy about it. You could tell he was baffled that he wasn't in any pain from drinking so much last night. You even watched him stare at his back in the mirror while he glanced at you a few times. Again, you said nothing about it.
"How about you?"
"I'm alright. A little sore, but alright." You said, then slowly got up and off of him. He looked entirely disappointed that you were retreating away from him.
"Where are you going?"
"I have to go see my best friend today. She's been chomping at the bit to see me. I've been a bit of a hermit since I moved in here, and started cleaning for you." You told him your plan as you found your phone to check the time. You hissed, seeing that you were going to be late.
"Fuck… And it looks like I am going to be fucking late. I'll never hear the end of it." You quickly grabbed the set of clothes that Marc had loaned you. They were folded neatly on his dresser, and not just left where Jake had made you change the night before.
"So, I take it you're not going to stay in bed with me, then?" Marc asked with a touch of disappointment in his voice. He already knew the answer. You shook your head as you hopped into his shorts and tugged the tee over your head.
"Well, would you like a lift, then?" Marc offered. You paused as you considered it. A bus would make you an hour late, but if he drove you, it would make you about fifteen minutes early.
But then your best friend would flip her ever loving shit, demanding to know if Marc was the guy you slept with or not.
"Come on. Let me give you a ride. I can fuck off right after if you don't want your friend to meet me…" Marc chuckled.
"I know people don't like me much, but I can disappear, before they see me." You frowned when he mentioned the last bit. Did he really think you were embarrassed by him? It felt like it.
"Yeah. Sure. I'll take you up on that offer." You replied sweetly, and then turned away to leave.
"I'm going to get changed." You called behind you as you left. You didn't see the big, dopey grin he had on his face, or the excitement in his eyes at being told he could accompany you.
When you came back from your room, you were dressed in a brightly colored sundress, black tights, and a long cream colored cardigan. You held your purse and the gold shoes Jake had given you last night.
"You look amazing. Those shoes are sexy."
"Thanks. A… Uh… A really good friend gave me these shoes. They are very comfortable, despite not looking it." You replied as you saw what he was wearing. Marc was in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, a loose black shirt, and a brown canvas shirt with a collar. He was just throwing on a grey hooded sweatshirt when you cleared your throat.
"You don't have to fuck off after you give me the ride. If you want, you can hang out with us if you like." The second you mentioned he could hang out with you and your best friend, he grinned and looked very excited.
"Yeah? Awesome." He grabbed a set of keys from the bowl on his dresser, ones that didn't look like Jake's.
"I hope you don't mind if I take my car. I'm not very good at backing that limo up. The last time I drove it, I hit another car, and left a tiny scuff mark. Steven bitched about it for days after."
"Really?" You asked. Steven didn't seem like the type to lose his temper. 
"Well yeah. Dunno how he found out, either. He purposely gave me the day so I could deal with my divorce, and he swears up and down that he didn't peek into my business at all, yet the next day… He glared at me, and didn't speak the entire day. Not a single word. Anytime I glanced in the mirror, he would sneer at me and mutter things I didn't understand under his breath." Marc said sadly. You could tell he didn't like it when Steven was mad at him. Like an older brother that just wanted his little brother to be proud of him.
"He what?" You asked as you thought about the way Marc was describing Steven's behavior while he was mad. It didn't sound right, like he was describing Jake instead.
"Yeah. When he gets mad at me, which is very rarely, he starts spitting out insults in other languages." He explained, causing you to squint at him.
"Do you know which languages he's yelling at you in?" You casually asked as you put your shoes on. He shrugged.
"Fuck, Spanish, I think? Maybe it was Italian. I don't know." Marc replied as he went to go find his shoes. He took you outside as your brain whirled about. How could Marc mistake Jake for Steven, like ever? Steven was a cute little cupcake, and Jake was… Well he was not cute. He was sexy, like liquid dark chocolate, spiced with hot peppers.
"Weird…" Was all you could manage to say. You didn't want to even entertain any ideas that could lead to you accidently telling him he had a third personality in there.
"Well, that's the thing. Steven knows a boat load of different languages. Him and Conrad would have whole ass conversations in Arabic, just so I wouldn't understand them, and they knew it pissed me off. I can speak a little bit of it, but not much." Marc said as he opened the garage door and walked past the limo to the door at the side.
"Oh neat. Steven's pretty smart. Isn't he a doctor or something?" You asked while trying to sound innocent about it. Truthfully, it amused you that Marc was jealous of Steven's intellect. 
"Yeah… He said he is a doctor of Egypt." The second he said it, he violently twitched. His face morphed into an angry grimace, and he whirled to stare at the limo's mirror.
"I did not!" Steven shouted at the mirror. You looked at the mirror, seeing Marc's smug grin. You glanced to the side, seeing Steven's face was set in a hard frown, his brows furrowed, and his lips pursed tightly in annoyance. This was the closest you had ever seen him to being mad or upset. You glanced back at the mirror, and Marc's playful grin was still there. You decided to move into a spot where you could clearly see Steven's face, and his reflection.
They were both different, at the same time.
That was impossible. Unheard of, even. You shouldn't have been able to see his alter in the mirror. That was part of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Only they should be able to see each other that way.
Apparently you had been staring too hard, because Marc's face turned to you, and a look of intrigue passed over his features. It was as if he was trying to decide if you were looking at Steven's reflection, or really at him. You gave him a weak looking wave, and he slowly raised his hand to wiggle his fingers at you. Steven turned his head to look at why Marc was waving at you, and his mouth fell open in shock.
"Can you see him?" Steven asked as he stared at Marc, who by now was sticking his tongue out, with you mirroring him.
"If by him, you mean your reflection that's moving by itself, then yes. Is it safe to assume that's Marc?" You asked. Steven was still speechless, hand on his chin as he kept looking between you and Marc.
"That's not good. You're not supposed to be able to see us like that." Steven mused.
'She's really not.' Marc agreed as he crossed his arms. You watched, fascinated by the mirror, by seeing what Steven saw. Your eyes looked around to anything else that had a reflection, wondering if that was the only instance where Marc was visible. It would make sense, but you needed to check it out. They both watched you as your eyes darted to the windows of the limo, to the back up mirror that hung in the ceiling of the garage, to the slight reflections on the spare tire rims on the shelf.
They all showed Steven's reflection, every single one of them. Only the mirror in front of him displayed Marc. You let out a small breath of air as your eyes rested on your black phone screen.
There, in the shiny glass of your phone, you could see another reflection of Steven, but this one was smirking. This one had a dark jacket, with the creamy collar flipped up to show off the symbols embroidered to the fabric. This one was wearing a flat cap, with a gloved hand holding onto the front of it. He tugged his hat down just a bit, and he gave you a wink.
Good fucking God…
It was Jake.
You gasped and shoved your phone against your chest so Steven couldn't see it. Steven raised a brow at you, obviously wondering if you were alright or not.
"You okay?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah. I am totally fine. You know… As fine as a girl can be when they find out they can see their boss's reflections the way he does. It's fine." You quickly explained.
"Are you sure? Because you looked at your phone, gasped, then hid it. Did Marc do something lewd? Is it some sort of inside joke I don't know about?" Steven questioned you with a concerned look on his face. You watched Marc's face morph into an annoyed one, his eyes rolling hard.
'Excuse me, I did not say shit, and it's no joke, Steven.' Marc huffed as he tapped his foot. He wasn't very keen on having this happen right now, when he was supposed to be getting his car and driving you somewhere.
"Oh, um… My friend sent me a text. It made me realize I only have thirty minutes to get to her in time. I mean, she'll wait for me, but then she can tease me about my tardiness the entire time." You explained, hoping the little lie wasn't caught by either of them. Steven nodded, seemingly accepting the answer. Marc just grumbled.
But when you looked over at the tire rims, you saw Jake's face again, and now he was grinning ear to ear.
"Well, alright then. I suppose we can talk about this later. But, if you can see Marc, or myself when we aren't in control, that does bother me a bit. Like, don't get me wrong, it's handy if you can, but you really shouldn't be able to. That's my mental illness, not yours." Steven said as he raked his hand through his hair. A moment later his posture changed, and he switched places with Marc, his reflection now clearly sporting Steven's soft smile, while Marc held a tight-lipped frown.
"That's enough, buddy. I'm stopping you before you continue to rant on and on, after saying we'll talk about it later. Sorry about that, sweetheart." Marc said as he jabbed his thumb towards the door. You still could hear Steven just rambling away quietly in the background as he followed close behind in all the reflections of the side of the limo. You nodded and came closer, your eyes still glued to Jake's reflection in the rims.
Without speaking, Marc turned to the door and opened it. He waited for you to go through, then locked it behind him. He took you around to the side of the garage. There, sat a very old Dodge Charger. It was all white and pristine, not a dent or a mark on it anywhere.
"This is your car?" You asked as he unlocked the door and opened it for you.
"Yeah. It was given to me by my attorney." Marc casually said as he waited for you to belt yourself in.
"Your lawyer gave you a car?" You asked while raising one brow in question. Marc rolled your window down and then closed the door.
"Yeah. Matt's good shit. He is a good buddy of mine. Knows all about my D.I.D. Said he had to get rid of this car, because people thought it was weird he owned one." Marc hopped into his side of the vehicle and started the engine. It purred to life, the engine rumbling as quietly as it could for being a muscle car.
"Wait, Matt? Matt Murdock?" You said in surprise. You knew about that lawyer. He was well renowned for winning most of his cases, but he lived in New York.
"That's the one!" Marc happily replied as he turned in his seat to back the car out of the driveway.
"Isn't he blind?"
"Yeah, that's why he gave me the car. His girlfriend doesn't like it, and he can't drive it, so I got it." Marc said. He sounded a bit dishonest, but you didn't want to push it by asking. Besides, you were being dishonest to him and Steven, and you had a feeling they both knew. 
Marc drove you to your destination in record time, and he didn't even speed or blow through any stop lights. He barely spoke to you, his eyes focused on the road. Steven on the other hand, well, he was happy to chat with you in the vanity mirror. You didn't know why you could see and hear them like this, and you sure hoped you weren't going crazy.
Steven was nice enough to ask about your best friend, and if there was anything they shouldn't talk about. He asked if it was okay if they switched in use of the body, and you told him it would be fine, much to their surprise. You informed them your friend was sassy, and would call you a bitch, but in an endearing pet name sort of way. Steven was amused by that, and Marc just hummed a soft 'okay' in reply.
Marc was kind of happy you could see and hear them this way. That meant they didn't have to switch as often to talk to you, but he was worried you might forget about it, and accidently start talking up a storm to a mirror or something reflective in public. He didn't want others to look at you the way they looked at him.
He was also growing more and more concerned the more time he spent with you. First, all the minor little injuries he would normally have acquired from sex, just weren't there anymore, while you were covered nearly head to toe in them. He knew for a fact that you had marked him up with your nails, and you had seen it. You had bitten him and Steven more than once. Then he woke up shirtless, and with clear skin, knowing you saw it.
But why didn't you say anything about it? Were you assuming they were a guy with a natural healing factor? Maybe you thought they were a mutant, or a super, and were just kind enough not to care about that kind of thing?
But then there was that shadowy figure he and Steven had seen last night. They needed glasses to read, but they could see exceptionally well in the dark at great distances, even now, now that they were no longer serving Khonshu. Speaking of the moon God, Marc swore up and down that he saw Khonshu, and Steven's reaction confirmed it.
Why was that nasty old bird here again? Was he stalking them? Was he waiting until Marc, or heavens forbid, Steven hurt themselves? He sure the fuck hoped not. Not now! He just met you. You understood their disorder, and you didn't give two shits about it, yet you still liked them enough to let both of them fuck you, and spend time with you. Him and Steven. Aaand you were still hanging around them, enjoying their company.
He really didn't need more shit to hit the fan now. Definitely not now… Not when his and Steven's lives were getting better. Marc huffed as he glanced at the radio to check the time. He was doing well, the cafe just at the other end of this busy street. When he got there, he parked the car, and gave you a hopeful look.
"You sure that you don't mind me tagging along? I don't have to. I know how weird it is when I switch, especially if others don't know about my disorder." He softly murmured as he looked at his hands. You reached out and took them in yours, rubbing his palms as you sighed 
"Yes. I am sure that I don't mind. Just be yourself around her, alright? She will totally understand, and not judge you for your disorder."
"Yes, really. She has a family member with a similar disorder. Oh, but I must give you a heads up, my best friend is trans. Which means-"
"I know what that means. It's cool. I'm not prejudiced." Marc quickly replied. He smiled as you squeezed his hands.
"Okay. Right. Let's get going, then." You said, and got out of the car, with Marc happily following you. You walked up to a cafe and before you could open the door, Marc smiled like Steven, and his posture changed as he opened the door for you. As you passed them, you giggled.
"Thank you, both of you."
You looked around as the door shut behind you, the bells attached to it jingled as you glanced around the cafe for your best friend. Marc leaned over you as you checked your phone. You decided to send her a message, hoping to hear her notification sound somewhere nearby. Your friend always had her ringer on at maximum volume, and she never changed her ringtone. You sent her the message.
Hey gurl! I'm here!
A second later, you heard the ridiculous tone she had.
'Get riggity, riggity wrecked, son!'
The silly noise came from the back corner, and when your eyes came to rest there, you saw your friend's face light up as she furiously typed back a response. Your phone was on silent, so it didn't make an audible noise when you got her message, which was fine for you. You didn't want your boss to hear the one you had, which somewhat matched your friend's. It was from the same show as hers, but yours sounded like a robot, asking where their balls had gone off to.
Bitch! You're on time? Hath hell frozen over?
Nope. My boss gave me a ride over. He'll be hanging out with us today, if you don't mind. He doesn't have a lot of friends.
Oh, ho, ho! That's cool with me, chickie. I see you by the door. Come on over after you grab your drinks.
She looked up and waved at you, sporting a happy grin through her pink, cat-eye lenses. You waved and went to the counter to order your drink. You got yourself an overly complicated, blended ice beverage, making sure to get the heavy cream and real whip on top to treat yourself. Marc chuckled at your order, and he ordered a simple soy latte with vanilla in it. 
When you went to pay, your hand was swatted to the side as Steven took over and stepped up to the cash register. He took out his wallet and paused, just staring at it for a long hard moment. The cashier cleared her throat and he withdrew some cash. You knew it was Steven, because he was overly polite to the batista, and he even held both cups as you went over to your friend.
"Hey, bitch!" She greeted you as she leapt from her seat with outstretched arms. When she drew back, her eyes darkened as she noticed the dark bruises on your collarbone, chest, and neck. Her brows furrowed, and she immediately looked at the man standing behind you. Steven's eyes went a bit wide, and he looked away with a slight blush on his cheeks.
You hugged her and then sat down across from her, with Steven sitting beside you. He passed you the cold concoction and he sat back into the chair with one leg crossed over the other. He was pointedly looking at the reflection in the napkin holder, looking at Marc.
"Hey Safiya. How's it going?" You asked, and Safiya chuckled as she wiggled her brows.
"Going great! This your boss? What's his name?" She asked as she looked right at Steven. Steven bit his lower lip and looked at you.
"Yes. This is my boss. His name is… Well…"
"Right now, I'm Steven. Dr. Steven Grant." Steven said as he sat up straighter and reached across the table to shake Safiya's hand. She raised a brow and shook it.
"Right now?" She asked, and you nudged her foot under the table.
"Oh, right. Right. Sorry. I forgot she told me you have Dissociative Identity Disorder. My bad." She grimaced with embarrassment, but Steven laughed to ease the tension.
"Naw, it's alright, mate. Sometimes I'm Steven, other times, I'm Marc. Would you like to meet him?" Steven waved his hand dismissively. Safiya seemed interested, and she nodded.
"Sure would, Dr. Grant."
"Please, miss, you don't have to call me that. Steven will do." He chuckled as he gave you a wink. You smiled at him, happy he was doing so well with your friend.
"Okay. Steven. I would like to meet Marc." She said as she watched Steven's posture go rigid for a moment, then his hand came up to smooth his hair back. The tell tale heavy furrow of his brows came back, but now he was sporting a small grin.
"Heya. I'm Marc Spector. Not a doctor, just a regular, ex-military guy."
"Oh, is Steven really a doctor?" She asked. You grinned as she got right to the point. You knew she was blunt, and eager to ask any question that popped into her head. That, and her family member would make shit up all the time that wasn't true. Questions you were dying to ask, but were too afraid to, and she knew it too.
'Tell her yes. It's true. I've got proof.' Steven piped up from the napkin holder. You held back a snort, and he stared at you with a smile.
"Yes he is. Has his doctorate, a certificate, and everything. It's hanging up in his office on his floor of our house." Marc replied as he took a long sip of his latte. He sighed happily and licked his lips.
"So he's a doctor, and you're not?"
"Yeap. He did the work. He did the schooling, not me. I don't know jack shit compared to him. I used to be in the military, but I was discharged when they found out about my D.I.D."
"Okay. I'm sorry that happened to you. What kind of doctor is he?" She asked with an amused grin as she gave you a lewd wink. You huffed and sipped your drink.
"Uh, how about he just tells you. I'm bad with big words." Marc replied with a nervous chuckle. In a second he was relaxing into his chair and fixing his hair back to his side part.
"Oh yes. I'm an Egyptologist. Hoping to bump it up to also being an Anthropologist soon."
"That's handy. Egyptian shit is kind of our thing. Did you know that she has just gushed about it since the whole mega battle between those two Gods not too long ago?" Safiya revealed, and you blushed as you looked down at the phone.
Steven seemed intrigued by Safiya's words. He turned to you, a large grin plastered to his face.
"That's nifty. My house is filled with Egyptian stuff. Well, my floor is. Marc's not too keen on it. He's… Biased and doesn't really like the culture too much. Had a bad run in Cairo a little while ago. Swears we are never going back, despite my loud protests." Steven said with a small frown. You could see the disappointment in his eyes at the fact Marc didn't want to ever go back there.
"Well, just so you know, she wants to go visit the place badly. You're going to have to give her some time off to go." Safiya chirped back bluntly. Steven tilted his head to look at you, and that's when you remembered the tickets Jake had given you.
"Oh, yeah… Haha… Looks like I'll be going to Cairo sooner than expected." You remarked as you dug into your purse to find your wallet. You pulled out the two tickets, and placed them down onto the table. Steven's eyes lit up when he saw them, and Safiya's eyes bugged out of her skull. She calmed down, noticing how excited Steven looked.
"I won two round trip tickets to Cairo. First class air fare, five star hotel with a spa, and then a whole ass round of shit to do while there." You happily said as you showed Safiya the tickets. You saw how the gears turned in her head, and you suddenly felt bad. You sure hoped she didn't expect you were taking her. The plan was for Steven and Marc to go, not her.
"That's really badass. So, who are you taking?" She asked as she looked the dates over on the tickets. You opened your mouth to speak, when she abruptly cut you off.
"And don't expect me to go with ya. These dates on these tickets show I'll be busy at work during that time." She finished as she shoved the tickets back into your hands. Relief washed over you, but then you stared at her. The dates on the tickets were the same dates she had already made a point of booking off from work to spend with you.
You knew right there what she was doing.
"Oh, well… I don't have anyone else to go with me. I don't want to go alone, that's for sure…" As you spoke, Steven had sat up in his chair, and he was now leaning on the table with his elbows, giving you large puppy dog eyes.
"No one? No one at all?" You could tell he was trying to suggest that you ask him to go, but the reflection in the napkin holder held Marc's scowl in it. He did not look happy one bit.
"Well, I'd ask you, but Marc would turn me down…" You started to say, and Steven slapped the table, shaking it bad enough that the latte almost fell over. He glanced at the napkin holder and gave Marc a pleading look.
'You can't be fucking serious…' Marc said, his voice tickling your ears, like he was speaking in an empty hallway. It was weird to be able to hear him, when Steven should have been the only one.
"Please, mate?" Steven whispered. Marc grumbled and crossed his arms as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
'I don't want to go back there. He's there.' Marc replied, seething when he mentioned the last part. Steven took a deep breath.
"Oh come on, he's probably busy with some poor bastard, doing his bidding. It'll be fun. Come on, please say yes? You know how fucking much I love Egypt." Steven pleaded with him some more. The entire time he was talking to himself, Safiya sat there politely and quietly, although both of her brows were sitting high on her head.
From her angle, she couldn't see Marc the way Steven or you could. All she saw as the same face talking to himself, and going quiet while Marc spoke.
She discreetly picked up her phone, turned her ringer off, and sent you a text.
Does he do this all the time?
Yes. Please don't judge him.
I am not judging him, fam. I just want to make sure he isn't a crazy murder hobo or something.
He's not a crazy murder hobo. He's perfectly sane.
A man with D.I.D. is not perfectly sane, but I get you.
Please be nice. He pays me well, he is always nice to me, and he's hot. Please don't fuck this up for me.
Bitch! I ain't gonna fuck this up for you. He is hot, though. Not my cup of tea, because you know…
Yeah, I know. You're hella gay.
And you're not. Speaking of which, did he cause those bruises on you? Cause gurl, if he laid a hand to you, I'll fucking kill him.
You stared at the last message, then at her. She glared at you, egging you on to answer her text.
I'd rather not discuss this right now.
He did cause them! You've got about ten seconds to let me know why, or I'll flog the guy with my heels, right here in the cafe.
Okay, okay. Yes. But he didn't hit me, or hurt me. We spent all night drinking and fucking.
"Aha! Fucking finally!" Your best friend shouted as she slapped the table a few times in excitement. She had her tongue stuck between her teeth as she grinned wildly, looking back and forth from you to Steven.
Steven had turned to look at her after her outburst, his face showing concern and confusion. He genuinely looked a little frightened.
"You fucked your boss!" Safiya said as she snickered like a happy little goblin. Steven's face fell, and he looked at you. You were hot with embarrassment, and you didn't know what to say. You didn't plan on her shouting about it after sending her that text.
"I, uh… Yeah." You replied softly, and refused to look at either of them. You were scared Steven or Marc might get mad at you for this.
"Damn, gurl! Is he, I mean, are they, good in bed?" She asked, her eyes wild with excitement.
Steven leaned a bit closer, now very interested in your answer. He was now no longer embarrassed. Even Marc was waiting patiently to hear your answer.
"They are right here, Safi. You don't have to talk like they aren't." You mumbled quietly. You sipped your drink, hoping to cool down a bit. Marc's reflection giggled at you, and you scowled at him.
"I don't give a shit. Tell me. I'm sure they'd like to know as well." She sassed you as she kept staring at you, her dark brown eyes telling you she wasn't about to drop the subject any time soon.
"Fine. They are amazing in bed, alright?" You answered her question, but she wasn't satisfied yet.
"How big is the stick shift?"
"Safiya!" You snapped at her as you turned to apologize to Steven, but his face was calm with an amused-looking smile.
"It's alright go on. Tell her. I don't mind, love."
"You guys! Fuck!" You put your hands on your cheeks as you blushed. You felt so hot, and you couldn't believe how much Safiya was teasing you.
"Come on. Ya gotta squeal, now that Steven just gave the go ahead." Safiya pressed as she rubbed her hands together.
"Ugh! Fine! They've got a monster cock. It's very big, thick, and they know how to properly use it. Ya happy?" You said, looking to Steven and Marc to see their reactions. Marc was thoroughly pleased, and Steven was grinning sheepishly.
"Now I am. Circumcised, trimmed, or..?"
"Damntt, Safi!"
"Sorry. So, if you're fucking him, are you going to take him with you to Cairo?" She asked as she wiggled her brows at Steven.
By now, Steven was smiling as he tapped your shoulder to get your attention.
"Marc said he'll go, if you still want us to." Steven happily said, while Marc looked quite defeated.
"Oh? That's great. Yes. I'd love for you guys to come with me." You declared, and hugged them. Steven was quick to wrap his arms around you, and he was beaming with joy.
"Awesome, love. Thank you. I promise you won't regret it."
Then Steven fell silent as you and Safiya talked about things. She embarrassed you before about Steven, so now it was your turn.
"So, how's life been treating you? Found a girlfriend, yet?" You asked, and Safiya scrunched up her nose.
"Not exactly. Remember how I told you that I met this gorgeous girl at the bar last week?"
"Yeah. The one you keep telling me looks like some sort of Goddess? With the big curly hair? The one you're too chicken shit to talk to?"
"Yeah. That one. Well, I happened to find out she's going to be at the bar tonight. I need you to come with me. Be my wing woman!" Safiya gleefully gushed as she requested you to come with her to the bar later. You happily agreed, forgetting about the prior commitment you had to Jake. Yours eyes glanced at your phone, and you clearly saw Jake's face staring back at you, instead of Steven's. He was glaring at you, which reminded you of your plans with him.
You sighed.
"Yes, but I might have to ditch early. I'm supposed to go out later tonight with a friend of mine." You quickly said while trying to recover from agreeing to Safiya's offer too soon.
Apparently saying you were going out with a friend later struck a nerve in both Safiya, and Marc. Steven went rigid, then he leaned back in his seat to sip his latte. You turned to look at him, realizing he was now Marc. And he didn't look happy. Safiya glanced at him, then at you.
"Who ya going out with, gurl?" She asked, and you fucking panicked. You didn't know what to say. Would telling Marc or Steven that you had plans with the groundskeeper upset them? You did spend the night being fucked silly by all three of them…
"Well, uh…" You started to say. You gave your phone a quick glance, seeing Jake staring at you with an amused grin.
Was that smug bastard entertained?
"I was invited to a midnight auction. It's a private function. A fundraiser for charity of sorts, I think. I am not sure, as I wasn't exactly given much info. All I was told is that there's free booze, free food, and I don't have to talk to anyone." You said carefully. Jake nodded, and mouthed the words 'good girl'. You shivered as you bit your lower lip and looked away to the napkin holder again. Steven gave you an odd look, then glanced towards your phone. You quickly grabbed it and stuck it into your pocket.
"Alright, bitch, but I asked who you were going with, not where or what you're doing." Safiya scoffed as she pushed her glasses back up her face.
"She doesn't have to say, you know." Steven's voice erupted from Marc's body. Marc coughed and rubbed his face.
"Steven, she doesn't have to, but I would really like to know." Marc quickly replied. Safiya raised a brow at the way they talked, switching accents like it was nothing.
"Yeah, what he said. You don't have many friends."
"Oh, fuck you. I do have friends." You raised both hands up with the middle fingers proudly displayed at Safiya. She snorted and laughed.
"Okay, okay. Who is this friend, then?" She pressed, and Marc started to drum his fingers on the table.
You took another deep breath in through your nose, then sighed as you rubbed your temples.
"His name is Jake. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's nice."
"My groundskeeper is your friend? I haven't even met the guy yet." Marc said with a touch of disappointment, and dare you say that you saw jealousy in his eyes.
"Wait, you're fucking your boss, and you're gonna go out with his groundskeeper on a date?" Safiya drawled as she tugged her glasses down to the edge of her nose while she peered at you with a questioning look.
"It's not a date. He just didn't want to go to the auction alone, alright? Besides, he assured me I didn't have to do anything. I just get to sit there and drink bad champagne, listen to snobby rich people talk about boring shit, and hopefully, eat all the hors d'oeuvres that pass by us." You explained as you gave a good glance to the napkin holder. Steven was nodding at you, eating every word up that fell from your lips like it was gospel. 
Marc seemed to accept the answer. He didn't really want to discourage you from making friends with the only other employee they had. It would be silly to tell someone he hadn't met before to stay away from you…
But had this nagging feeling you were holding back some very important information about Jake. He knew the man spoke Spanish, drank tequila and weird Spanish beer, and he smoked cigarettes and weed. He knew Jake had his own phone in the limo that Steven and he owned.
The limo that Steven apparently allowed Jake to drive whenever he wanted.
"Okay. Right. Sorry that I embarrassed ya, gurl." She said as she took pity on you. She reached out and patted your hand.
"That's alright. If you don't give me a hard time, we don't laugh as hard later. Ha…"
"Well then… If you're fucking your boss, and taking him with you to Cairo, are you two dating, then?" She asked, now looking directly at Marc.
Marc looked confused for a moment, then he turned to look at Steven. Steven was rapidly nodding, holding his hands up in a silent prayer, but he wasn't saying anything, no doubt because you were able to hear him now.
"Well, I dunno. I haven't been in a good relationship in a very long time. He just got divorced as well, and I don't want to pressure him into doing anything he doesn't want…" You said softly as you looked away and at your drink. You could see a faint reflection in the cup's dome lid, and it was Jake again. He was giving you an odd look, one you couldn't quite read.
A large and warm hand came to rest on your thigh, making you turn to look at Marc. He was smiling, his eyes twinkling in the low light of the room.
"Well, it's true I'm divorced, and even though the divorce happened recently, I can assure you that I left my wife long before that. Both emotionally and physically. I still love her, but not the way I used to. She's more like a best friend now. Besides, she recently came out as a lesbian, so I definitely won't be going back to her any time soon." He said as he squeezed your thigh and rubbed it with his thumb. You smiled at the confession, and placed your hand over his.
"And Steven never got to really be with her. He got right mad when I told him about her, but the anger subsided quickly after."
"Why was he mad at you for it?" Safiya asked.
"Well, he-" Marc started to say, but then his eye twitched and his hand came up to run through his hair.
"I'd like to explain that myself, thank you very much, Marc. Anyways, I was mad, because she was beautiful, and a man like myself has absolutely no chance in hell with a girl like her. He ditched her, covered up the fact he was ever married, got a new flat, then just let me have the reins for a long while. I got over it quickly, because it wasn't ever my rodeo, and she didn't enjoy the fact that there was a whole other person inside her husband she never knew was there. Plus, I think she was salty as fuck that Marc's not very… How do you say… Gentlemanly or romantic enough?" He said with a bright smile, like he truly didn't care about his lost chance with Marc's ex wife. He leaned a little closer to you, pointing his thumb at your general direction. 
"Sides, look at this one. She's much prettier. She's nicer, and she cooks amazing food. She doesn't care there's two of us in this body." Steven mused as he explained himself a bit better. You couldn't help the heat rising up in your cheeks at his words.
"Well that's nice and all, but that didn't answer my question. You two gonna date, or y'all just gonna be friends with benefits?" Safiya slowly clacked her long nails against the table as she leaned back, her glasses still at the end of her nose. Steven chuckled and he brought his hand up to your face, cupping your chin in his large hand.
"I would absolutely wish to date you, love." He said softly, and  his eyes flashed, then his brows furrowed.
"Yeah. I agree with Steven. Considering he got to you, first, and he openly allowed me to experience you. That's a lot more than I gave him. Makes me feel like an asshole."
"Well, you can be a bit of a dick, mate." Steven's voice bubbled from Marc's throat, but his face remained the same.
"Don't rub it in, buddy. That's not classy." Marc muttered back.
By now Safiya was trying very hard not to laugh. She was amazed at how flawlessly Marc and Steven switched, and how he wasn't causing a scene. She had expected him to be some guy that flew off the handle and spouted crazy and absurd things, but he didn't. Instead, she got to see a perfectly sane person being calm and well-behaved.
Correction, two perfectly sane individuals in one body.
"Okay. Cool. But…"
"How about we just see how things go. We don't want to scare her away, especially not after last night. Fuck, last night was amazing." Marc said as his eyes darkened a bit, and he licked his lips.
"I would like that, Marc, Steven."
The cafe was fun, and Safiya begged you to go shopping with her. She needed a new outfit for tonight, in the hopes she could seduce the girl she had her eye on. She even offered Marc and Steven to come with, but you suspected she merely did that to get a ride and a locked car to hold her purchases in.
Marc didn't seem to care, and he happily agreed to come along to the mall with you and Safiya. Once at the mall, Safiya dragged you into nearly every store in it, acquiring at least one or two bags of purchases for each stop. Marc made the mistake of offering to hold the bags at the second store, and now he had ten bags in each hand as he sat on a bench waiting for you and your friend to get out of some makeup store.
"Fuuuck. Why did I ask to tag along?" Marc sighed as he leaned back, his head hanging off the back of the bench, with both legs outstretched before him. Steven appeared in the reflection of the stainless steel planter box beside him.
'Well, you wanted to spend the day with her, then you offered her a ride… Oh then you said yes to driving them to the mall-'
"Shut up, Steven." Marc hissed, which startled an old woman who was on the other bench behind him.
'Shhh. Watch it. There's a woman behind us.' Steven muttered back. Marc huffed and turned to look at the planter, glaring at Steven. He was about to say something, when you came hustling over with a single small bag. It was the only thing you had bought so far that didn't fit in your purse. All the bags Marc was holding, were Safiya's. 
"Hey, sorry. Sorry. I told her we need to ditch the bags in the car, or straight up leave. I said I should ask you to make sure you're still okay being out with us, or if you wanna go."
"Well, I would have no complaints about hanging out longer, if I didn't have to hold this hoard of shit your friend bought." Marc grumbled. Steven heard the rude tone in his voice, and he quickly took over.
"Sorry about him. Tells me he hated shopping with Layla. I, on the other hand, love shopping. How about I front for a bit, give him a rest, yeah? Maybe take these bags to the car, and meet up with your friend after?" Steven suggested as he lifted his arms. The bags weren't really that heavy for him and Marc, but Marc was just done with being in a mall with no free hands to do anything with, like fiddle on his phone.
"Sure. I'll text her and tell her we're doing that. She's just having her eyebrows done."
"Her what?" Steven asked, sounding a bit confused.
"Her eyebrows. She's getting them plucked, and then refilled."
"But… Why? Why remove the hair, just to refill them? I don't understand." Steven asked, and you giggled at his lack of knowledge. You pulled up a few photos of what they had done to Safiya, and then explained how they filled the colour in with an eyebrow pencil.
"Ah, okay. I get it now. Dunno why she did that. Her brows were just lovely before." Steven said with a raised brow. You laughed at his response.
"Girls are finicky." You replied as you leaned down to take a few bags from him, but he refused to allow it. Steven got up and adjusted the load, while you shot Safiya a text to explain where you went.
The walk back to the car was short, and Steven went about putting all the bags into Marc's trunk carefully. When he was done, he shut the car and went oddly still. He was staring at his reflection in the shiny bumper of the car, staring right at a pair of eyes like his own, but slightly darker and full of a threatening aura.
"Steven? You alright?" You asked as you placed a hand to his shoulder. He straightened up right away, and he turned to look at you, coming back to his senses with a warm smile.
"Yeap. Yeah. Of course, love. Just hungry is all. Are you hungry?" He asked as he wrapped an arm around your waist and started walking with you back to the mall entrance.
"Yeah, actually. I am. I'll text Safi, and tell her we will be at the food court." You replied with a smile. Steven gave one last glance at Marc's car, his eyes searching for that one reflection that was different from his own, or from Marc's, but only his own distorted image was there.
Thank you to @mics59 for the Spanish translations
Thank you to @ruhro7 for proofreading
@snippychicke @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @queenotaku23 @clairewinchester14 @promiscuoussatan @mona-has-friends @lazyotakujen @timeless-crow @crazylittlereader2474
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mccnknightstcrdst · a day ago
whenever you feel up to it, 50 from the kiss list for Marc? <3
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Title: Kiss Him so He Believes
Marc Spector x GN!Reader
A/N: Divider by @/firefly-graphics. Usage of ‘and’ as well as ’&’ is intentional. the small font is intentional as well. Certain sentences are fully lowercase and that is intentional. I;m so sorry I took so long--I have been goin through it for the last several days <3
Word count: 188
Warnings: Fluff, Autistic Marc Spector, kissing
Prompt: kisses in which, i can’t believe this is real, but i love you so much from this list.
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You kissed him–your lips molding to his like they were made to be unified with his own. A hand cradling the nape of his neck while he standing stunned struggling to comprehend the sudden contact but–fuck he loves it.
“What was th–” you kiss him again shutting him up instantly so his hands mold to your hips & reel you into his space. It’s like everything in his brain has stopped & for the first time, he feels whole—complete—safe–everything. A part of him doubts any of this is real—it’s some cruel dream created by even crueler gods just to keep him teetering on the end of a tightrope.
“--because I love you,” you whisper against his lips & he lets out the smallest ‘oh.’ unsure of how else to respond to your kindness, your love—the way you’re looking at him with all the softness in the world. A softness you reserve for him on the days he feels so undeserving & like he’s something awful.
“i love you too–” he whispers still unsure if any of this is real but hoping to every god that exists that it is—he can’t lose this.
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yikesitskennawrites · 2 days ago
Transitions- Chapter Six: Sitting On The Rooftop With Your Acquaintances
Series Masterlist 
Previous Chapter
Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader  
A/n: Hello! If you want to be added to the taglist, don’t be afraid to ask! 
I welcome all fanart, memes, or any creative things you want to make for this series. Please tag me in it or send it to me! 
Today is my birthday so this chapter is my gift to you. I turned 22 today, baby!  Am I going to be blasting 22 (Taylors Version) throughout today? Yes. Yes, I am. 
Enjoy! <3
The movie was okay. it was definitely the type of film you would watch just to pass the time. After the movie finished and the popcorn bowl between you and Steven had been empty for a while. Steven pushes himself up from the couch and chats to you about the film, quoting a couple of funny lines and scenes from it as he goes into the kitchen and begins prepping dinner. You laugh at whatever he was saying, to be honest, you weren’t really listening to the man. Your mind had been too preoccupied with the conversation you had prior to the movie. You were able to pinpoint what type of genre of films Marc and Steven liked simply from the little you knew about them; and it was obvious that Marc did not like that you pinned the tail on the donkey. 
Your mind has been rerunning the conversation since you pressed play on the remote. All Marc said was “Yep,” to your guess and that was the last of what you heard from him since then. “Yep” was short and straight to the point, from his tone it sounded like he wasn’t going to continue the conversation. You simply got underneath his skin and as much as you liked doing that to people, you don’t want to push Marc. What if he wakes up one day and decides to turn you in as he threatened to do before? 
Steven waves a hand up and down in front of your face, you blink and turn your face towards him. He wore an expression of concern, his lips pursed.
“Are you alright?” He asks as he hands you a bowl filled with spinach leaves, broccoli, shredded carrots, and tomatoes, “You haven’t been responding to me for a while.” You dryly chuckle at his concern. 
“Yeah,” You say as you follow him to the table you’ve been eating at for the last twenty-one days. He gives you a disbelieving look but he doesn’t push the subject. It seems like he’s learning from you. His eyes turn down to his own salad and he pushes the food around with a fork, you could tell that he was worrying again just as he did earlier today when you groaned about doing laundry in the hot weather. 
“Steven,” You begin, he looks up from his salad. “I’m not upset or anything with you. It’s just…” You trail off. It was a little hard opening up and telling him what was on your mind, especially with the knowledge that Marc was probably watching from somewhere. 
“If it's the salad, I can make you something else.” He offers. You gave him a pitiful stare as you realized another thing about him. Steven Grant wants to fix any problem that he thinks is directed towards him, he wants to please people.
He continues, not noticing your stare, “It’s too hot to cook anything, cooking the popcorn earlier made me sweat and eating something warm will just make us hotter; but I’ll cook you something else if you’d like.”
“Steven,” You say his name softly. He finally notices the look on your face and the smile that he had fell. “It’s not the food or you. I just- I’m worried that I upset Marc.” 
“Neither of us knows each other well, and it was obvious that Marc didn’t like that I guessed some correct things about him.” You paused. Your fingers twirled the fork between your fingers as you thought carefully about your next words, “I don’t want anything to be weird between us.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to get used to that, isn’t he?” Steven says, he stabs a small tomato with his fork before popping it into his mouth and chewing. “With the guesses, I mean,” He adds, “It doesn’t seem fair that he’s uncomfortable with it especially when we’ve been guessing about you.” You figured they have been theorizing and wondering about you. It wasn’t surprising, it was natural to be curious. To you, they were like a rubix cube, a puzzle that had simple instructions but patience and time was needed. To them, you weren’t sure what you were like, you could only guess.
 You basically were a teen runaway who outsmarted the system through fraud at the correct time. You supposed you were worth enough to be curious about, you weren’t a normal kid. Well, you were normal because you didn’t have mutant powers or didn’t have the past of saving the world; the way that you weren’t normal was your trickery of the government. That was about it, honestly. 
“Go on, eat your dinner,” Steven points to your bowl of salad with his fork. You stab into your spinach leaves and begin to eat, chewing your dinner slowly. Unlike the last few weeks where your dinner hours with Steven and Marc were filled with conversation between the three of you, today was one sided. Steven rambled about a new project he was working on to pass the time now that he doesn’t have a job. He told you that he was making a scrapbook of all the Egyptian gods and that he needed to go get some glue at the store the next time he goes. He told you about a new recipe for vegan alfredo that he wants to try to make. He told you that he chatted with Layla this morning and she said that she was doing a new job, he didn’t go into much detail about what that job was. Steven nor Marc would go into detail about how she pays her bills, but with how Steven carefully works his way around the subject, you could guess that it was dangerous and probably illegal. 
You were finished with your meal shortly before Steven was. The sun had set and it was finally beginning to cool down. The heat was more bearable now that the sun was gone and the moon was rising. You knew that your flat would still be hot, the only air circulation you have was your open window and that wouldn’t be enough. It was going to be a rough night. You weren’t looking forward to returning to your apartment, as much as you wanted to get out of the awkward tension between you and Marc, you still wanted to be comfortable and cool and their apartment was exactly that. You were trying to think of ways to relieve the tension between you and your acquaintance. An apology was forming in your mind as you were washing the dishes, you were reaching for Stevens bowl on the counter next to the sink when you heard Marc say your name from behind you. 
You looked up in surprise. In the reflection of the window you saw Marc standing behind you and waiting for you to turn around. You turn your body, your hand grasping the green scrubby with soap as you look at him. Marc was holding two bottles of water in his hands. The apology was forming on your tongue, you didn’t want things to be weird between you. But before you could tell him how sorry you were he cuts you off by asking, “You want to go to the roof with me?” You gave him a look. You were a little stunned that he was inviting you to do something since you have yet to apologize. But as you stared at him with your lips parted and a crease in your brows, you realized that he was doing the same thing you have done earlier by pressing the play button. He was giving you a way out. Marc was giving you an opportunity to let it go and pretend that you didn’t upset him. Did Steven talk to him about it? Or was this his own choice? 
Your mouth makes a o shape as you came to another obvious conclusion as he waited for your answer: Marc did not like confrontation. Deciding not to speak your thoughts to him in fear that it would further upset him, you push away your thoughts and say, “Sure. Just let me finish these dishes.”
“It's fine, Steven can do them.” Marc says, “Let's go.” He gestures towards the door and you shut off the faucet before drying your hands on a nearby towel. Marc was willing to ignore everything that upset him just to keep whatever peace formed between the two of you. You followed him out of the apartment and he locked the door behind you before walking towards the elevators. Stepping into the metal box, you watch as he presses the sixth floor button and the doors close slowly. It felt awkward, or was that you feeling awkward and making yourself think that it was awkward between the two of you? Oh god, you should apologize. Go apologize, apologize now!
“I’m sorry,” You rush out, “I’m sorry that I upset you. I’ll try to-” 
“It’s fine, kid,” Marc cuts you off. He stares at the red glowing number above the elevator door that states the floor level you’re on. “Just forget about it, alright?” You blink and slowly nod. Your face turning red from the embarrassment. If he wants to let it go, then it's fine by you. The number switches to six and the elevator door opens, he’s the first one to leave the metal box and you follow him. The two of you walked down the hallway that was similar to your own floor. He stuck his hand into the pockets on his shorts and pulled out a small object, beginning to unlock the door. You know that when you signed the renting agreement, you didn’t get a key to the roof, so where did he get it?
“I didn’t know that we had access to the roof,” You state as Marc pushes open the door and holds it open for you. 
“You legally don’t.” He says and stuffs the small object back into his shorts pocket. Your mouth gapes open and he gestures for you to walk through. The two of you were trespassing and yet, all you could do was laugh at his admission. You move your legs as you try to wrap your head around the concept that Marc Spector stole a key. It definitely wasn’t Steven who did it, that poor man wouldn’t be able to hurt a fly. Well, scratch that, Steven did admit to beating up cultists who released Ammit. Marc follows you out the door letting it close with a click behind you.
It was an unusually clear night for London. Your breath got caught in your throat at the sight above you. Hundreds of stars dotted the sky and the full-moon shined brightly down upon you as if it was a spotlight. You have never seen London from this angle. The apartment complexes you neighbored on the same street with were the same height as your own building, so you were able to see past them. The street below you was busy with traffic and people, the noises traveled up to where you were. The night air was cooler and more pleasant than the day you spent inside. You tear your eyes away from the sky as Marc pats a spot next to him. You sit down on the rough surface of the roof, heat was still rising but it wasn’t as hot as you expected it to be. Marc hands you a water bottle and you thank him. Twisting the cap off and taking a sip of the liquid, the cold water ran down your throat as you swallowed. 
 Your eyes scan the night sky, looking for your favorite constellation. Not only was it the easiest one to spot, but the story behind it was simple and the bittersweet out of the other constellation. 
“There,” You say once you find it and point up to the constellation of the Ursa Major, “You see that set of stars I’m pointing at, the one that looks like a big pan?” Marc scans the night sky in the area that you point in. 
“The Big Dipper?” He asks, you nod. 
“That's the one,” You say and drop your arm to your side, your eyes stay on the constellation as you speak, “So, that's the constellation of the Ursa Major, have you heard of it?” Marc hums in answer, anybody who went to public school in the United States at least had a section of the term that they learned Greek and Roman mythology in. 
You continue, “It’s known as the Great Bear. The story behind it is that the god Zeus fell in love with a woman named Callisto. Zeus was already married to Hera, the goddess of woman, and after Hera realized that her husband fell in love with someone else she began to plan her revenge for her heart break. During this time, Zeus and Callisto have a child together and soon Hera finds out about the kid. Out of jealousy and rage, Hera turned Callisto into a bear in hope that Zeus will no longer love her. Callisto spends the next fifteen years running and hiding from hunters and one day, her son encounters Callisto. Obviously, the son doesn’t recognize that his mother is the bear and so, he begins to hunt her down to kill her. Somehow, Zeus sees what is happening and he attempts to stop the killing of the woman that he still loves. Zeus ends up turning his child into the Ursa Minor and Callisto into the Ursa Major to protect them. Otherwise known as the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.” You finish.
It was a bittersweet story, even though you don't support cheating. Zeus' love for his son and his lover still existed after fifteen years and he protected them by putting them in the sky. It was a sweet gesture from the god despite getting them into this mess due to his infidelity. The moral of the story: don’t cheat on your spouse and you won’t get turned into a bear.
“Isn’t Zeus the fuckboy god?” Marc asks after a moment. It was such an unexpected question that it caused you to choke out a laugh. Your body shaking and tears springing from your eyes as you gasped for air. Marc looked to his right to hide the smile that began to spread across his face due to your contagious laughter. 
“Yeah,” You nod, finally catching your breath and wiping away the tears from the corners of your eyes. “You could say that.” Silence settles between you as your eyes land on the full moon in the night sky. It was glowing brightly down upon the two of you in all its glory. The planet was beautiful, but Marc seems to think otherwise. 
“I hate the moon,” Marc suddenly admits, “It reminds me so much of the bird bastard.” Your eyes lands on his face, he stares at the orb in the sky with loathing. You knew that Khonshu took advantage of his avatars and used them to do his dirty work, but Marc and Steven didn’t really expand on anything else about the god. 
“Why is that?” You ask, hugging your arms around your legs. 
“Khonshus avatars get the majority of their power during the time that the moon is out. Khonshu is the protector of the night,” He rolls his eyes at that last part. Your eyes trail back to the full moon. 
“Where was he when half the universe got blipped?” You ask, Marc shrugs. 
“Who knows, he was probably using someone else before me.” He says, “Maybe the Ennead voted against helping humanity.” You scrunch your eyebrows at that. 
“The Ennead?”
“They’re kind of like a council of gods who have been around for centuries. They vote on what to do and how to do it.” Marc says. 
“So, they saw what happened with Thanos and half of the universe being wiped out, and decided not to help?” You ask. Marc nods and you let out a disbelieving laugh. They were gods who decided not to step in and save humanity simply because they thought that it wasn’t their job or worth saving. They could have helped with Thanos and so many lives would have been saved. You wouldn’t have been blipped, your parents would be alive, but the Ennead decided not to help. Surely, they would have been worshiped by humanity throughout the years, maybe not as much recently, but they had to recognize that humans had to have some level of care and respect for them. But, for them to do absolutely nothing when half of the universe vanished was such a slap to the face.
"It was weird, y’know being blipped back and five years passed," You suddenly say, "There was this boy I liked, Pierce Michael. He was only a few months older than me. He was the head of the basketball team- one of the best players on it.“ You remember how much of a young man he was beginning to look like when you were near the same age. He was tall, he just finished his growth spurt, and he had a dark brown beard growing. High School was around the time the boys you grew up with stopped wearing so much axe-body spray and began to brush their hair and teeth. While the girls began wearing more makeup and a more subtle smell of perfume. 
The kids who played sports were always given the title as the popular group, honestly you thought it was because sports costs money for families to sign their children up for which meant the kids felt like they came from an entitled household. Typically, the sporty teens acted like assholes just to fit into the dynamic the popular kids had. But, Pierce Michael wasn’t like that. He was kind and caring and he stood up for those who didn’t have the confidence to do so themselves. You liked Pierce and you were going to gather the courage to ask him out. What could go wrong? You thought, the worst he can say is no. But of course it went wrong because the blip happened. 
“And he wasn't blipped,” You say, “He was sixteen when we disappeared and then we came back and he was twenty-one while I was still fifteen.” You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He was engaged to Amy Smith, the really smart girl in biology I used to sit by.”  You shake your head, “The last I heard of them, he and Amy are having a kid and like, congratulations to them. I’m happy for them, but…” You trail off for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. “Sometimes, I wonder if that would have been me and him. Y’know, engaged and starting a family either with actual humans, dogs, or cats if I didn’t get blipped or it just didn’t happen.” Marc nor Steven answer you, you’re not sure if it's because they didn’t know what to say or if they were just letting you rant and get everything off your chest. 
“I don’t know if that’s selfish to think about,” You continue, “People died trying to get us back. The Black Widow and Tony Stark sacrificed themselves to get us back.” You’re sure there was more to their sacrifice than just doing it for the greater good, they had people that were blipped who they wanted- no, needed back. Tony had a wife and a daughter and he gave them up to get someone else back, whoever that was must be feeling guilty about Tony’s sacrifice.
“I saw the sucide awareness campaigns for the survivors of the blip and the flyers for support meetings; and the Reddit posts from people who felt guilty for living when people suddenly lost their lives.” You say, “And here I am, being selfish by wondering how things would have been if I wasn’t blipped.” The major difference would be that you wouldn’t be in London but rather New York if you and your parents weren’t one of the victims of the blip. 
After a few moments pass, Marc speaks, “You’re not being selfish. It’s normal to wonder how much would be different if something didn’t happen.” He reassures you. You swallow as you think about how much he thought things would be different if he didn’t go through whatever he went through before the two of you met, before he became Moonknight. But, that was his own secret, to each their own, right?
"It must have sucked for five years of your own life being gone too." You say, he hums and nods a bit. He tilts back and looks at the twinkling stars above you.
"It did," He answers. You’re not sure why, but you felt like you owed it to him to tell him the truth, maybe it was because of the solemn emotions you were going through and the feeling of it just being the two of you in the world despite the sound of traffic below you.
“I lied earlier,” You said, staring at the night sky above you. The stars stayed the same while you were gone for five years and they were the same after you came back, that was the only constant from before the blip. “When you asked if I was going to go to college. I did want to. I wanted to learn about space, but then… you know what happened. Everything got tangled.” 
“Why didn’t you say that?” Marc asks. You shrug. 
“I guess that it was just easier pretending the past doesn't exist.” You say. You didn’t have to look at him to know that he understood where you were coming from. Another thing you learned over the past three weeks: you and Marc had more in common than you thought. Marc doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. Instead, in comfortable silence, you both gaze at the same constellation.
Information about the Ursa Major: 
Ursa Major Constellation Facts For Kids | What, Importance, Size
Taglist:  @idkimjusthereman, 
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gucciboots · a month ago
Episode 5 spoilers!
Back in my thoughts again, you know the drill. A bit lengthy!!
I cannot stop thinking about this scene—how Steven clearly remembers that this was his room,
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And how he remembers the exact thing he said during this part of the scene, which proves that he was, in fact, in control for at least a couple seconds.
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BUT. He doesn’t remember anything from this moment forward. That’s why he wanted to see what their mother did to them, and that’s why Marc was set on getting him out of the room before he saw something that would severely taint his memories and what he knew of their childhood. At the same time, Marc knows EXACTLY what happened.
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I’m positive that Steven dissociated at that moment and Marc took over. In general, he didn’t want Steven to remember what truly happened. It’s his way of making up to Randall/RoRo, I would like to believe. He treats Steven like the younger brother that he lost when he was a child. The one who loved drawing the one finned fish. The one who was always eager for adventure. The one who was screaming for help back in the cave.
Remember? His mother explicitly stated:
“Marc, what do you do? Keep an eye on your brother, okay?” And Marc is set on fulfilling that promise to Steven.
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Marc let Steven keep all the good memories, while he himself lived through all of the bad ones, just so that he could protect him from getting hurt and feeling pain. Steven, his alter, who he considers to be his little brother.
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That’s the reason why Marc was so adamant about simply telling Steven what had happened in that room at the top of the flight of stairs, so Steven wouldn’t have to watch the memory play out in front of him. Seeing what happened would definitely hurt more than just knowing what happened. By telling Steven himself, he would have control over what he would reveal to him, and how he would tell him.
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That’s why Marc’s first thought when waking up in the Asylum was Steven. That’s why Marc never complained about fronting right after Steven was pierced by the weapons back in Mogart’s. That’s why Marc probably set up a line for Steven to contact “his mother”, and why Marc replaced Gus with another fish. That’s why Marc didn’t want Steven finding out about him in the first place.
Marc spent most of his life protecting and saving Steven the way he wished he could’ve protected and saved Randall. I am literally bawling over this.
Also ending this with another appreciation for Oscar Isaac because he’s a damn legend for the breathtaking portrayal of Steven AND Marc. He better earn awards for this series or I will riot.
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astroboots · a month ago
Fit to Burst
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Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant
Summary: Marc decides to teach you a lesson when you mistake him for Steven.
Rating: really fucking explicit
Warning/content: Marc's dirty filthy mouth, Steven's over-eager mouth, Marc is wee bit jealous, cunnilingus, overstimulation, refraction period? — we don't know her, established relationship.
Word Count: 3.5k (I have no excuse, pure self-indulgent filth)
[Tag List and Masterlist]
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“Does that feel good, love? Think you can come for me again?” 
You don't know how many orgasms he's pulled from you already. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. You can't tell if it’s Marc or Steven fronting right now. If it's Marc who is talking to you, or Steven, taking you apart inch by inch, one devastating orgasm at a time.
Love. He called you love. Steven calls you love. This must be Steven.
Steven’s lips come to the inside of your thigh, pressing gentle kisses meant to soothe, but the sandpaper brush of his stubble makes everything inside you that more wound up, your nerves raw like everything is going to splinter. 
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, and the soft caress of his breath is searing against your skin, wreaking havoc on you. The low rumbling of his voice, so uncharacteristic of him, is dipped in hunger and greed, and it skitters up and down your spine until it's difficult to breathe. It's a perfect counterpoint to his surprisingly skilled mouth and fingers on you, to the heat spreading under your skin and building to an explosive pitch between your legs. 
“Want you to come all over my mouth, yeah?” he says, with none of his trademark shyness, before he dives back in, tongue laving at your slick folds.
You can’t help but give him what he wants.
You come, your cunt clenches down, spasming around the thick girth of his fingers where he has you stretched open. Everything else disappears for a moment, your body weightless with pure unadulterated bliss. You are so disorientated that you are almost certain you are floating in zero gravity. You can’t even hear your heartbeat anymore. Can’t feel it thump against the cage of your chest. For all you know it might have stopped entirely. All you’re capable of feeling is an abstract tingling sensation that buzzes pleasantly in your veins.
Then you hear his voice, soft and adoring, from somewhere above. His fingers slip out of you, and you whine--even overwrought as you are, you feel empty at the loss.
There’s a gentle palm with soft-worn calluses stroking down the side of your ribs. Comforting kisses press your thighs, as he murmurs quiet praises about how good you are for him and how pretty you look like this.
You can’t help but snort a laugh at that last bit, not sure what he’s on about because you’re sure you look anything but right now. Your hair is soaked with sweat and clinging to your temple; your face, sticky and clammy. You’re certain you must look a complete mess as you lie here in a shambled heap on your bed. Your vision is so blurred you can barely see the white of your ceiling, but you're still able to make out the man above you, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon in the sky.
“Think you can give me another one, love? Jus' one more, yeah?”
Fucking hell. This man…  
He doesn’t even give you a moment to gather yourself. You barely have a chance to nod before the saliva-slicked thumb gently presses down on your clit again. For all his sweet cooing and gentle touch and care, he is always merciless in his pursuit to make you come like there’s a prize for him at the end of it. 
"Fucking finally," he huffs under his breath, and if you weren't so completely out of it, you'd tell him it's his own fault for dragging that last orgasm out so long.
As cliche as it sounds, you’re so blissed out of your mind you can’t tell anymore, where the pleasure begins and ends. All you feel is clever fingers already curling inside you again; a greedy hand cupping your breast; a hungry mouth nipping at the hollow of your throat. He’s everywhere, and you spread your legs wider, open yourself up, so he can have every single inch of you. 
The bed shifts, and you blink rapidly, trying to clear the watery edges of your vision. After a moment, your eyes finally refocus on the man in front of you. 
He’s kneeling above you, cock in hand, as he gives it a slow lazy stroke that makes your mouth water. A slick sheen of sweat graces the muscular line of his shoulder, bathed in amber gold of your bedroom light.
“You alright, baby? Want me to keep going?” The look in his eyes is as gentle as ever he checks in on you to make sure you’re okay. Makes you feel precious and cared for. 
The only thing you can do is nod.
“You say stop if it gets to be too much,”  he rasps out as lines himself up against you. 
The first thrust is deep and consuming, and you cry out as the perfect stretch of him has white sparks burning behind your eyelids. You’re so worked up, everything makes a little bit less sense; mind almost a little bit numb. You can barely think straight and you think to yourself ironically, this is probably why they call it being cockdumb. 
And it's not being made better by the way that he’s running his fucking mouth. 
"So fucking perfect,” he murmurs into your ear, rasped and breathless as he nips on your ear. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock. So wet and warm. Fuck, you're so tight right now. Always so tight after you come for us."
He stays there, buried inside you to the hilt to allow you some reprieve and to accommodate around him. You can feel his eagerness to move in the way his cock twitches excitedly inside of you. Can tell he’s resisting that very urge when he grips the bedsheets tightly with his fingers until they go bone-knuckled. It strikes heat and pleasure all at once into the pit of your stomach. It’s so good; too much; and it teethers on the edge of the overwhelming. 
A warm hand comes to cup your cheeks. He’s consoling you, brushing away the hair in your eyes, and the touch of it grounds you. “Does that feel good, baby?” 
His eyes are ridiculously gorgeous, deep and rich, you find yourself easily lost in him. All you can see is his sweet half-smile, one corner of his mouth curling upward just for you. All you want to do in your overwrought state of mind is to please him, to praise him on how good he always makes you feel, so you do. 
"So good. Feel so full. No one fucks me like you do, Steven."
He stills. 
From above, you see it, the moment his expression changes. Gone is the indulgent softness. The curl of his full lips turned into a scowl. Those deep rich eyes bleed into sternness fixed with a dark glower. You realise a bit too late that Marc is the one inside you now, not sweet Steven. 
You try to think back. When did his voice change? His accent? His eyes are narrowed instead of wide adoring affection. Everything about his body language is different, must have changed before this, and how stupid is it that you didn’t notice until now? As much as you hate to admit it, you're just a little bit out of it; a little bit come dumb from how the two of them have made you come again and again. 
The next thing you register is the emptiness inside you as he slips almost entirely out of you; until only the blunt tip rests inside you. There’s a look in his eyes, a flash of something determined and almost dangerous, as he adjusts his hips against you. 
There’s no warning as he thrusts all the way back inside, in one long and slick stroke back inside you. Deep and hard. It strikes something absolutely fucking devastating in you until it steals away your breath and makes you cry out. 
“Fuckohfuck, Marc!” 
“That's right, baby.” He leans over with his lips to your ear, voice low and dark and demanding as he rolls his hips, and then grinds deep within you. “Say it again. Who fucks you like this?”
Everything’s sharp and bright inside you; the rush of pleasure that comes with every thrust mind-numbing. You don’t know how Marc expects you to give him an answer; can’t even stutter out the ‘you’ that’s right on the tip of your tongue. Instead all that comes out is a pitiful sob. 
"No? Still not good enough for you?” Marc demands. 
You thought at first, with what little brain power was available to you, that he was jealous, and maybe there’s some of that in there too, but there’s something else. Something almost teasing that makes you think he’s not even all that upset about your mistake. The bastard that he is, he just wants to capitalise on the opportunity to push you to your limit. 
“Our girl is so greedy, isn’t she?” he continues mercilessly, ”Always wanting more. How about—" two hands come to rest on the inside of your thighs, lifting you off the mattress until your legs are hooked over his shoulders as he presses the delicious weight of his body on top of yours, folding you nearly in half. "How about this?"
His voice is pure savage glee, a kid that gets to play and pull apart his toy in whatever manner he wants. Your fingers twist into the sheets, trying to grab on tight because it feels like you are falling off the edge of the very world. Then Marc rolls his hips into you at the devastating new angle and it knocks the breath out of your lungs, tipping you past that very edge. 
It doesn't matter that you're ready to repent. Doesn’t matter that you’re trying to moan your explanation in between insistent, merciless strokes. "That's not— fuck, ooooh shit, Marc, I didn’t mean—"
That man is not letting up, and with how hard you came just mere minutes ago, he's already got you so keyed up that you can feel that all familiar pressure and heat settle against the line of your spine with an alarming speed. 
There’s a brief hesitation in his rhythm, like his concentration was broken for a moment, and you catch him glancing at the mirror. You wonder if Steven's there telling Marc to stop. Steven’s always looking out for you; would do anything for you, and that includes taking care of you in bed. But when you turn your head sideways, the mirror shows you the same perfect reflection of reality it always does. 
If Steven's there, you can't see him. Instead, all you can see is the image of yourself being split open by Marc. How Marc towers over you, with his lean stature. The firm muscles on his back sloping down to the generous curves of his ass like he was a carved marble statue meant to depict the ancient Greek deities themselves. Those thick raven curls furl with heat and sweat against his forehead. He’s so fucking beautiful it’s unfair. 
“You looking for Steven to save you?” Firm fingers grip the edge of your jaw, forcing your gaze back towards Marc. “Well too fucking bad. Steven’s not here. You’re stuck with me.”
Alright, nevermind. Definitely jealous then.
Marc’s next thrust drives a strange squeaking noise from your lungs, and you’d probably be embarrassed if you weren't so far gone. 
"What was that,—” Marc taunts, huffing out a dark laugh between thrusts, “—did you want me—to stop?"
His voice is unbearably smug, and you almost want to tell him to stop just on principle, but fuck that. You don’t want him to stop. Even though it's so fucking much that it borders on the unbearable. You shake your head frantically. You never want him to stop. “That’s what I… thought,” Marc grits out, thrusting hard on the last word.  
He’s driving up against something perfect and molten inside of you, and heat rises up in you like a tide, seething under your skin. You think you might actually be going to come again, but the sensation is immense, nearly unbearable, and you clutch at Marc, whimpering as it threatens to swamp your already overwhelmed and overstimulated system. 
“It’s alright. You’re alright, baby,” he rasps out, not even slowing down. “You can take it, can’t you? Take it for me like a good girl.” Then he tilts your hips up even farther, and that’s it. You’re done. 
Fierce, electric heat explodes outwards, crackling rapturously through your limbs, submerging you entirely until you lose track of reality for a minute. 
When you come back to yourself, Marc is still thrusting into you. The rhythm of it is soothing, drawing out your pleasure in a way you’ve never known before, like you've hit a plateau rather than travelling up and down a mountain. Distantly you note that everything is a slick mess. That you are soaking Marc’s cock with how wet your cunt is for him. You can feel it leaking out of you with every press and retreat of him inside you, dripping down over the curve of your ass onto the bed sheets.
Then, out of nowhere, Marc does stop.  
The sound you make is damn near inhuman. Fuck, why?? Why is he stopping when all you need is more of him? 
Your eyes flutter open to see Marc staring at the mirror, his full attention focused on his reflection. On Steven. 
You don’t know what Steven is saying to him, but whatever it is, has Marc chuckling. 
He turns away from the mirror with a toothy grin full of mischief, and he leans back down towards you, pressing his mouth close so he can whisper in your ear like it's a secret; like Steven can't always hear him no matter how quiet he's being.
“He wants me to fuck you harder. Stretch you all the way open on our cock. Make you come again.”
You have no way of knowing if that’s true or if Marc is just saying that to get a rise out of Steven. You can’t exactly hear Steven’s end of the conversation. But it doesn’t matter, because Marc’s doing it. 
You don’t know if you want to escape the sensation or demand more of it. But you can’t do either. In fact, you seem to have lost control of your body completely. All you can do is shudder and whine under him as Marc follows Steven’s alleged request and pushes himself hard and deep inside of you—oh God, just like that—again and again. 
The pleasure twines and spreads slowly though your heavy limbs until you're completely drunk on the sensation of Marc's cock driving into you. He’s reduced you to a heap of bones, flesh and skin without any sentient thought left in your brain. Until you have lost all other sensation to the point where you almost miss the way that Marc is murmuring a string of filth into your ear. 
“That’s right, baby. You’re not done yet.” 
You can’t look away from him, the way that sweat is dripping down his collarbone, the mesmerising rise and fall of his chest as his breath is rasping in and out of his lungs. 
“Gimme one more,” he says. “You come on my cock one more time, then I’ll fill you up. Make a mess of you, and Steven can clean you up with his tongue.” 
This man is the devil. 
You don’t know what that makes you when you’re so aroused by the picture he’s painting for you. 
You’re exhausted. Every inch of you feels tender. You have been strummed and plucked and pushed over the edge again and again until all of you has become one single raw overwrought nerve. At this point you’re not even sure you’re physically capable of coming again. But still, white heat sparks and cracks and invades your numb limbs until you’re thrumming with it.
He's rutting into you, hips in an uneven jerking place, grinding as if he needs to get deeper, as deep inside you as he can to stake his claim and never leave. And fuck, you wish he could. You want him to fuck you like this forever and never stop.  
Your cunt flutters around the thick girth of him involuntarily, and it does something to Marc too. He gasps and swears, hips stuttering forward into you, and it's almost enough.... almost... almost...
"Marc..." your voice breathy, pleading, barely recognizable to your own ears.
"Fuck," Marc huffs out. His hips stutter in its pace. If you didn’t know any better, from the way he closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if to gather himself, you’d think his trademark control is slipping. But then he seems to rally himself and pulls back, almost all the way out.
You clutch at him. If he stops now, if he dares to deny you, you swear to god, you will actually kill this man, or failing that, die on the spot in protest. Your fingers digging into the firm meat of his shoulders, sobbing his name. You need—more, need everything, need him, need to— 
“Shh,” he hushes you with a soothing coo, comforting fingers brushing back the sweat-slicked hair clinging to your forehead. “I'm right here, baby. Let go, I've got you.”
His tone doesn’t match his actions. Marc thrusts back in, driving so deep you can fucking taste it, and you dimly realize that you're screaming as the pleasure streaks outward, tearing your world apart.
It’s a flickering light that is dimming and finally dies out from the surge of electricity. Your brain completely loses all higher functions and all that is left is the rush of heat that spreads all over you. It pours and pours until you’re lightheaded and the whole room spins with it. Everything feels blissfully tight; too much and just enough. Then you come.
When you open your eyes, you see those gorgeous dark eyes rolling back, baring the long line of his throat and it’s a beautiful fucking sight. The sharp edge of his jaw, pink pouty lips all shiny and slick from you. You swear those thick sweat soaked curls glisten in the dim light. He’s so ridiculously gorgeous, you can hardly believe he is real. 
Marc isn’t far behind you. His cock pulses, spilling warm heat inside of you with a strained moan. Every muscle in him goes rigid against you. 
Then Marc collapses onto you, arms wrapped all around you as he lands on top of you on the bed, his firm weight resting on top of you. Both of you are a boneless and sweaty tangled heap against the mattress. His firm chest is pressed against you, so close the beat of his heart is hammering against your skin. 
In the silence of your bedroom, your harsh, panting breaths echo as if you just finished the most harrowing marathon of your lives. There’s a gentle hand stroking the plane of your back. It’s so gentle, the touch of it so adoring that you’re not sure if it’s Marc or Steven, but you don’t think it matters much at all.  
As you come down, your senses slowly flicker awake. You can feel the soft gentle comfort of a reassuring touch running along your thighs. A warm hand petting you over the wideness of your hip bones, soft stroking caresses to coax you back down from your high. 
Eventually, your breaths slow, and he pushes himself up, and away from your chest with shaky arms, until you can see his soft gorgeous face that is practically glowing as he smiles down at you. Utterly boyish, utterly charming. 
Steven, you realise. Steven’s back…
“You alright there, love? Was Marc too rough?” His thick brows knit together in worry. An expression of guilt bleeding into his handsome face. 
In your exhaustion, you find yourself still breathless as you try to answer him, “Yeah. No, I’m alright,” you pause, and lower your voice, feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy. “I… I liked it."
At your response, that worried expression breaks out into a beaming grin that makes your heart leap and skip several beats with unadulterated fondness. 
“Good. That’s good, yeah.” 
Steven is a fucking sight onto himself. Your eyes trail downwards, from his chest, that’s glistening with sweat down to his torso and— bloody fucking hell. Your eyes widen at the sight. You don’t even know how, but Steven’s already hard again or maybe he just never went down for the count at all. His other hand is fisting his cock, a slick mess of white lines of cum that’s dripping down the aching length of him as it twitches and jumps with undeterred eagerness. 
“Then, um…. Sorry to ask, but do you think…” It’s Steven’s turn to look down bashfully, then back up at you. His cheeks are flushed with a deep pink; hair, a tousled mess with a pleading expression in his eyes, that you cannot possibly turn down.
“Do you think we could go again? …please?”
Dear fucking God, these men. Steven may be all sweet and polite about it, but deep down he’s just as greedy and demanding as Marc. Maybe worse. 
You’re not sure how you’re going to survive these two, but you’re going to enjoy the ride. 
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Dedication and Credits:
@krissology for chasing her dreams with such boundless courage and gumption, I'm forever proud to have a friend like her who is so absolutely fucking fierce and fearless. She's one of the most talented writers I've come across and she is publishing her debut novel Forget Me Now, available for pre-order here. Go support this brilliant human being, you won't regret it.
@thirstworldproblemss to my most beloved and brilliant co-writer, who stays up with me all night and all day to prawn like no one has prawn ever before. I never have more fun than when I am in a google doc with you, screaming about the beauty of this man and writing out the exact same suggestions to each other at the same time.
@frannyzooey for succeeding to make me cry on a Tuesday afternoon in the office with her kind words and support. You're someone that I'm endlessly proud to call a friend, for your humour, your kindness and your warmth. You are just one of the best humans and I hope you wake up everyday and know that and if you don't, I will remind you everyday.
9K notes · View notes
laters-gators · 2 months ago
Chocolate || Steven Grant X Reader
-> Rating: 18+
-> Word count: 6.1k!!!
-> After weeks of pining for your coworker Steven Grant, sharing chocolate over a late shift causes sparks to fly.
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Gif credit belongs to @paper-n-ashes !!!
TW/CW: long ass fic. Handjob, p in v sex, unprotected sex. Relatively tame for me 👀 Not proof read, ain’t nobody got time for that.
His voice fades out as you gaze into his eyes, sparkling in excitement as he explains the mummification process to you for what must be the fifth time since you joined the museum staff a few months ago. They’re as deep and dark as the chocolate bonbons that had been pushed across the desk towards you. Melting, oozing a happiness that makes them appear even sweeter. The kind of sweet delight that made you buzz for hours on end and eventually fall into a sugar coma.
The crisp cold of the London air permeates through the stone walls of the museum's halls as if echoing Steven’s earlier sentiments that ‘even the summers in London are freezing’. It even seeps through the stitching of your cardigan as you sit in the storage room of the gift shop, helping your colleague sort through the miscellaneous gift-shop inventory, goosebumps rising on the skin of your arms as the draft floats under the heavy-set wooden doors.
However, you can’t feel the cold at all, the warmth that settles deep behind your sternum from hearing Steven talk excitedly about his interests is enough to combat the chill. It’s truly endearing, the way the exhausted man with such a mild temperament comes alive when he notices you listening to his ramblings- or rather tried.
“... and so Apep swallowed Ra’s boat, causin’ an eclipse!” He concludes with such vigor it jolts you from your trance and back to reality to find that you had been sitting with a small Anubis toy in hand for god knows how long, staring dorkily at the poor man who just wanted your attention. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, so enraptured by his storytelling that you manage to escape his scrutiny, or rather his disappointment that you hadn’t been as enthralled with his knowledge as he perhaps thought you were.
It wasn’t always this way. Upon your arrival to the museum at the beginning of spring during the new economic year, you loved his enthusiasm, the way he had toured you on his induction day despite the rambling of your boss Donna, insisting that he would never be a tour guide as long as he struggled to maintain a consistent timecard. While it wasn’t the most romantic of experiences, Steven so eager to explain how the Egyptians would push a hook through the nose of the nobility and Pharaohs, removing their brain in the process, but it certainly endeared you to him.
Drawn to his polite and mild temperament, you found yourself spending more time with him than you could really afford. Somewhere between traveling one more bus stop in order to continue the riveting conversation about the latest mummified crocodiles archaeologists had unearthed on the banks of the Nile and staying an extra thirty minutes after your shift to help Steven with the work that he had managed to rack up after three days away with little to no explanation as to where he had been, you found yourself struggling to maintain your focus on his narration.
Boredom wasn’t the cause of your affliction. No, worse than that. It was finding yourself tracing the bow of his upper lip with your line of sight, contemplating what it would be like to kiss it. Considering how soft his ebony curls would be to pass your fingers through, and how his long lashes would tickle your skin as he pressed his own lips to the expanse of your skin. Perhaps it was an understatement to claim that you would pray to every God and goddess, Egyptian or otherwise, for an opportunity to brush your fingertips against the grain of the shadow of his beard on his chin, It consumed your every waking moment, not unlike Apep swallowing the boat that Ra traveled upon so he could ride from the East and raise the sun.
You use the pause in conversation in order to switch the topic onto something he was less keen on, needing respite from the way your mind kept falling into the depths of desire, twisting like a pit of vipers in your stomach, before you managed to embarrass yourself beyond measure. “Where are these chocolates from, Steven, they’re very good.”
The bonbons that sat on the tabletop between you both were encased in a crimson-red love-heart box. You hadn’t allowed your own to go into cardiac arrest when he had entered the office holding it, convincing yourself that it couldn’t possibly be for you. Steven had never shown enough interest in you beyond his co-worker or friend to truly indicate that he would be willing to buy such a gift for you.
“Ah-” Steven stumbles over himself, a little eraser in the shape of a scarab beetle falling from his hands and clattering to the table. He’s swift to grab it again, shoving it into a basket after scanning it with a shaky hand. “It was in the- uhm, the reduced section in Tescos… I just thought they looked good and that someone might want to share!” His voice is so insistent, promising that there wasn’t an ulterior motive. It doesn’t ease the way your chest stains under the weight of your disappointment as to pick up another circular chocolate, noting the colorful sprinkles on top.
“That’s kind of you,” You say quietly, cheeks tingling with heat at the knowledge that you had been correct in your suspicions all along, that he could never really want you. It was no secret that women found him attractive, some other co-workers making that very clear on a ‘work night out’ in the local pub, in which they rambled about the way he had shamelessly flirted with them and how charming he had been. While you certainly hadn’t experienced this side of Steven, your own Steven shy and jittery, you envied those girls that held his attention in a way you seemingly failed to achieve.
“Yeah, it’s just… Sharin’ is carin’ an’ all that!” He laughs nervously, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and suffocating you. Were you really that inept in the way of seduction that he felt uncomfortable around you, yet somehow seemed to flirt blatantly with every other woman that worked in the building?!
You exhale shakily, focusing more on the items in your basket as you worked through them, scanning the barcodes and setting them in their pile with a little more force than you intended thanks to your renewed exasperation with yourself. Perhaps the dark circles under his eyes had nothing to do with the lack of sleep he consistently commented on, and rather had everything to do with the boredom he felt spending so much time with you.
“You feelin’ alright?” You hear him question cautiously, having noted the short fuse you seem to have developed within a matter of two sentences.
“Peachy,” you mumble, throwing another toy in the basket with a huff. You know you’re probably coming off as rude, and it’s cruel to give the poor, nervous Steven something else to worry about, but you can’t help feeling a little ridiculous, pining over a man who didn’t like you. He probably knew that you were, and thought poorly of you because you couldn’t control your feelings for him despite him showing not even a small amount of affection for you.
Deft fingers take out another chocolate as he watches you, holding onto it for a moment while he seemingly thinks of something to bring the mood back up again.
“… Have I ever told you the story of Isis and Osiris?” Steven asked, his voice quiet as those mahogany eyes gaze at your face, no doubt scanning your expression for any refusal to listen. But how could you? How could you turn him away when he was looking at you with a level of desperation you’d never seen on him before, wanting to please you, to make you happy again.
You shake your head silently, eyes settling on his face as he sat back in his chair to ready himself for the story. The chocolate pinched between the pads of his thumb and forefinger is melting under his body heat, caving in slightly as the solid chocolate began to liquefy down to the middle.
“Then I’ve done you a disservice! How could I not ‘ave told you the greatest love story in mythology?” He asked you with a nervous grin, pushing aside the toys he was supposed to be sorting through to one side in order to begin his theatrics.
Despite your efforts and your utter frustration, your lips stretched into a smile at his enthusiasm. How could you not? It was endlessly charming. He’s sitting up, his free hand laying his palm across the tabletop and fingers splayed wide. They’re tanned, large. The veins on the back have a blue tint, protruding and appearing more intense under the lighting. Perhaps if you stopped staring, you would have noticed the years of built-up scarring across his knuckles.
Immediately, your mind begins falling into the bad habit that it had developed over the time you and Steven had spent together, producing utterly obscene images. His palms cupping and grasping at your breasts, thumbs torturing your nipples. His fingers pushing into your dripping cun- No no no STOP! Stop it!
How ridiculous it was, that you were so invested in a man who wasn’t at all interested in you. So overcome with need for him that you couldn’t even focus on his voice without wanting him to bend you across the tabletop-
“Well,” Steven begins, the chocolate he continued to pinch beginning to cave in from the heat between his thumb pad and fingertip, “Isis was married to the King of Egypt, Osiris, and she supported him with his rule.” His eyes are set firmly on your face, ensuring that you still wanted to listen to him ramble. It meant you simply couldn’t allow yourself to drift into the realm of daydreams, because he would notice as soon as your eyes glazed over.
Seeing no disdain for his voice, Steven continued, a grin spreading across his face as he allowed himself to get excited about his storytelling.
“Isis helped the women of Egypt with skills, teachin’ them how to weave and bake and brew beer. Both she and Osiris were loved, and this caused Isis’ brother, Seth to get jealous, and so he hatched a plan.” He’s sparkling, his keenness rolling off him in waves. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t seem so stark, and he didn’t stammer as he spoke, driven by his love for Egyptian myth.
“Seth trapped Osiris in a wooden chest, which he covered in lead and threw in the Nile. With Osiris out of the way, Seth became King of Egypt- Oh, bugger“ he paused, finally having noted that the once circular chocolate bonbon was flat between his fingers, coating his fingers in sticky, melted chocolate.
He was swift to rectify the problem, lifting his thumb to his mouth with a mumble of ‘sorry’ and ‘pardon me’, wrapping his lips around it and sucking the chocolate from his skin. You watch as his upper lip drags across his knuckle, Steven’s eyes closed as he relished the taste of the chocolate against his tongue. It was torturous, like someone had lit the touch paper in your abdomen and the fire was spreading through your veins, crawling up your spine. The pink of his tongue slips from his lips, pulling across his fingerprint and collecting the chocolate left behind.
As if he knew your mouth was watering as you watched him, his bronze eyes lift to find your own. Looking through his lashes at you as he slipped his finger into his mouth too, cleaning his fingerprint with his deft tongue. You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole in your chair. Was- Was that meant to look so erotic?!
“Mhm, so as I was sayin’,” he continued as though he hadn’t just single-handedly flooded your panties, oblivious to your internal struggle. “Seth became the King of Egypt, and Isis was devastated.” Despite your best efforts, his voice was fading out, and you found yourself just staring at the man in front of you. You studied his dark hair that fell in tight ringlets in front of his forehead, his deep, emotive eyes, and his sharp cheekbones. He was just stunningly handsome, it was no wonder he felt so confident flirting with girls he actually liked.
It was during this assessment of his face as he continued to talk about Isis’ revenge that you noted the chocolate spread on his lower lip. Utterly exhausted from trying to push away the filthy daydreams that flashed into your mind's eye, you let them run ragged. You’d sacrifice yourself to the Egyptian Gods if it meant you could run your tongue across the expanse of his lip, tasting the chocolate against his skin. Though, you were entirely sure that he would taste much sweeter-
“There somethin’ on my face?”
You startle immediately, eyes so wide you can feel your eyelids strain. It’s like ice water had been thrown on your blazing body, a panic settling in now that you have been caught. When your mind catches back up with your line of vision, you see Steven gazing at you with an innocent look of confusion, his brows pulled up in the middle.
“Ah- y… Yeah, you have chocolate on your lip,” you admit weakly, pointing vaguely at his mouth with a shaky hand. Steven laughs nervously, shaking his head in his embarrassment.
“Silly me! Can’t even feed myself properly!” His comments are strained as he wipes the pad of his thumb across his mouth in an attempt to remove the sticky residue. The veins in the back of his palm are prominent still, catching your eye. Your brain stills entirely. It’s infuriating, watching him struggle so much to remove the stain, somehow managing to miss it entirely every time he passes his digits over his lips.
“Steven,” you whisper, a little breathless now as you feel your blood boil under your skin with arousal.
“It’s alright, I got it. Stubborn bugger!” He laughs again, the sound lacking humor in his mortified state.
“Why can’t I ju-“
Scraping the legs of the chair you had been sitting in across the hard flooring, you stand in a violent fashion, stunning Steven into silence when you reach across the tabletop and grab his chin with a firm grip, forcing him to look up at you.
“Sit still,” you insist, desperate to ease your devastatingly hot arousal by taking away the distracting variable. Swiping your tongue over the pad of your own thumb mindlessly, you apply pressure to the affected skin and clean the chocolate from his mouth with a few passes.
Steven sits perfectly still for you, almost stiff in your palm as your fingertips dig into the soft flesh of his cheeks as you hold him in place. If it wasn’t for the heat radiating from his skin, you’d think he’s been mummified into this position.
Glancing up from his mouth into his eyes, you feel your heart stop at the view. Steven is looking at you through his lashes with almost a needy look. There’s an intense longing to his eyes that almost has your knees buckling, his jaw slack as he gazes up at you. Rose spreads across his cheeks, a pink tinge that explains the feverish feeling to his skin underneath your hand.
“Steven,” you whisper, heart in your throat as you gaze back at him. Surely you weren’t imagining the tension prickling in the air between the two of you? You couldn’t describe it in any other way other than a gas leak. The invisible, volatile gas lingering in the air, laying in wait for the slightest drag of friction to light a spark and ignite the museum and everything in it. It was suffocating, burning your lungs.
Did he look at the other girls like this? The ones that bragged about how charming he was when he flirted with them in the entrance hall or wooed them on lunch break in the form of a compliment about their hair. Did he look at them with such a clear and defined need for them to climb across the table and kiss him?
Trembling fingers ease their grip on his jaw, slowly pulling away to slump back into your chair. Your heart is thumping so loud it’s like thunder in your ears, drowning out the shaky exhale that you release as you finally break eye contact with Steven and turn your attention back to the task at hand- whatever it was, you can barely remember why you were even here anymore.
“S-Sorry to interrupt,” you stumble over your words a little, motioning with a flick of your wrist for Steven to carry on, refusing to look up from the ankh necklace that you had blindly picked up from your basket. It was a cheap metal, not at all heavy, with a simple pendant. Though the Ankh was a symbol of life, you needn’t wear the charm as proof of living- the pulse of blood that you swore you could feel through every single extension in your veins made your condition evident enough.
Much to your utter dismay, Steven didn’t continue talking, the pressure in the air pulling your lungs even tighter. He just gazed at you with hooded eyes and parted mouth. It was utterly disarming, the way his tongue swiped across his lip as if to taste the area you’d touched.
“Steven, I really didn’t mean to be rude-“
“You can’t just be doin’ that,” he spoke on an exhale, sounding positively wrecked.
“I know, I’m sorry, I really di-“
“No no, you can’t be doin’ that and leavin’ me like this!” He insists, in a pleading tone, pitchy and almost whiney. You don’t know what to do as you stare at him, and you swear you must look like a fish out of water due to the way your mouth opens and closes as you try to form a sentence in response.
Maybe it’s the combination of pining after Steven, a late night, and scanning barcodes for hours on end, but you swore you could feel the dynamic between you shift significantly. As though it was no longer Steven that held the power to change the kind of relationship the two of you shared. It was as if he had relinquished that power to you, and now he waited for you to make the move you had been silently begging Steven to make for many weeks now.
Silence drags between the two of you like nails on a chalkboard, the lack of sound devastatingly uncomfortable. Steven’s muscles are bound tight, seemingly ready to spring from his seat but awaiting your orders with an expectant expression.
It’s not clear to you what exactly snaps the tension between you, but all of a sudden you find yourself leaping into action. You push aside the baskets of merchandise you’d both been sorting through, which clatter to the floor and empty themselves as you climb across the table clumsily. With shaky hands, you take Steven’s face into your palms, catching a glimpse of his wide eyes just before you press your lips to his messily.
A moan rips from Steven’s throat and into the kiss, a broken, wrecked sound. The soft, plump flesh of his lips settles so perfectly against your own and yet the way they move against each other is clumsy. Nervousness shared between the both of you makes it hard to time the kiss just right, noses bumping and teeth clacking against each other, yet you’ve never experienced such mind-numbing relief.
Stumbling swiftly to pull away, to lower yourself from the table, you find your body moving itself without the receptors of your brain even having thought it up. Your leg hooks over the expanse of his thighs, settling your hips in his lap and resting the weight of your body against the muscles there. He fumbles with the syllables of your name like it’s a foreign language as you wind your fingers in his hair, taking a firm grip of it and pulling his face towards your own.
Inexperience coats his every action like thick honey that Steven can’t shake, but it emboldens you. Somehow this new position bridges the awkwardness of your first kiss, and your lips mould against his in a much smoother, precise way. You’re able to part his mouth, sliding your tongue against his and tasting the cocoa that had settled there. Judging by the hum of pleasure that ripples in his chest, Steven can taste it also. His scalp is warm underneath your fingertips as you wind his ebony locks around your digits, getting a firmer grip of the strands as you push his face impossibly closer to yours. This proximity isn’t enough. It can’t ever be enough.
Tearing your mouth from his before you lose yourself to it, your exhale sounds pitchy and wrong to your own ears. Almost as though it had pained you. Regardless, your lips busy themself on his jaw, pressing firm kisses along the length of the skin stretching across the bone there before trailing down his neck. Goosebumps seem to litter his skin in the wake of your ministrations, his head tilting backward slowly in an attempt to expose more of his throat to you.
His pulse is heavy as you take the skin above his jugular between your teeth, sucking the skin there so perfect hues of purple and red blossom throughout his tan. His palms settle shakily on your thighs and he digs his fingertips into the flesh so it dips to his will, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he unsuccessfully swallows down a raspy ‘Fuck’.
It’s his turn for those deft fingers that haunted your every waking moment to spread through the strands of your hair, stroking across your scalp as you drag your tongue along the expanse of his skin, moaning as his scent imprints itself permanently upon your brain. The scent of cut grass on a rainy day, clean and soft. You’re quick to blow a soft flow of air from your lips across his skin, the area in which you had focused your tongue growing cold under the draft you produced.
“O-Oh god, god darlin’- darlin’ that feels so good,” you can faintly hear him gasp over the rush of your blood through your ears. Tracing the buttons of his shirt, feeling each of them catch on the knuckles of your fingers on your hand's journey down his chest, you hum in agreement, sucking more marks into the junction of his neck and shoulder.
His skin is released from the pressure with a pop upon the sensation of your pinkie brushing the coarse leather of his belt. A weak moan falls from your mouth, eyelids heavy as you watch his head crane to the side to follow the movements of your fingers.
“Steven,” you whisper, tracing the cold brass of his belt buckle as you maintain eye contact with him, “We need to be quick.” You’re breathless with the speed in which this little make-out session is progressing. The wanton desperation that has lingered on your end for so many weeks was making it hard for you to think clearly and maintain a level of decorum. Your hands seem to move of their own accord, hips grinding achingly slow against the tense muscle of his thigh without thought.
“Y-Yeah? Oh- Oh god yes,” he practically wails, hands pushing aside your own as he unhooks the leather strap from the brass tong shakily. “Yes, we do.” Both of your movements are almost feverish as Steven lifts his hips from the chair, accidentally grinding his hardening cock against your aching, clothed cunt while you pull his belt from the loops of his pants.
Whimpers bubble in your throat, chest tight as you swiftly throw his belt to the floor and struggle to make quick work of the button on your own pants. Your hands are so shaky, the bones in your fingers almost like jelly as you flub getting ahold of the pesky metal circle.
“F-Fuck, Steven I-“
“Come ‘ere,” his husky voice soothes the impatient panic bubbling under the surface of your skin. Your hands busy themselves in his curls one more as you watch his fingers easily slip the pesky button from its loop, easing the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t stop there, pinching the zipper between his forefinger and thumb and dragging it down. The sound is as loud as gunfire in your ears, your heart thrumming violently against your sternum with the adrenaline of the moment.
The exhale that seeps from your lungs is shaky as you use your knees on the edge of the chair to sit up and slip your pants from your hips, thumbs dragging over the flesh of your hip bones and tracing the lacy material of your panties. You find yourself praising Isis that you’d chosen a nice pair to wear today as he stares down at them, a mixture of lust and anxiety swirling in the coffee color of his iris’.
It’s your turn to unbutton his pants, somehow managing to ease your own nerves to open them up without a hitch before undoing his fly. Your breath is a little heavy with excitement as you palm the bulge. Once again, Steven’s head dips back with a low groan as you slip your hand inside his boxers to wrap your fingers around the velvety skin of his cock. His hips jut slightly against your touch, the grip his fingers have on your thighs almost bruising now. There’s precum beading at the tip, you can feel it smear underneath your thumbprint across the silky smooth head.
“Oh-ohhhh fuck,” Steven chokes, hips jerking up under your touch to gain further friction. You can feel his cock twitch underneath your palm, can hear shuddering inhale and exhale of his lungs as he attempts to ease the taut muscles in his thighs. You can make him feel even better. You want him to feel better-
Sinking slowly from his lap to the floor, you settle your torso between his thighs as you continue to ever so lightly stroke your fist over the length of his cock. He’s so pretty, the rosy skin is such a deep red it’s almost purple.
“Darlin’ where are you goin’-?” His lazy, slurred question cuts suddenly into a gasp, his head snapping up from its relaxed position to show his startled expression in response to the flat of your tongue tracing the slick precum leaking from his flushed, swollen tip. You swear you can see his dark eyes, almost black as a result of his dilated pupils, roll all the way back into his skull as you take him hot and heavy, further into your throat. His hand immediately jumps into your hair, gripping tightly in an attempt to steady himself against your ministrations out of concern that you’re working him far too quickly.
Your cunt pulses needily between your thighs, toes curling in your shoes as you focus your attention on sucking his cock. He’s deep in your mouth, head pushing against your palette as the tip of your tongue traces the ridge of his veins on the underside of the soft flesh. His cock twitches again when you moan around his length, the vibrations shooting down his cock and settling at the base of his spine with an unintelligible moan.
“I c-can’t, darlin’, I can’t! I can’t-‘ The fingers wound deep into the strands of your hair pull you off his cock quickly, the rapidly increasing pressure threatening to burst forward in his shuddering abdomen. Your own intake of oxygen is heavy and unstable, the sight of him gazing down at you with utterly fucked out eyes almost enough to drive you to the edge.
Quick to your feet, you drag your eyes over his sensitive body. The leaking tip of his flushed cock, the hardening nipples underneath the fabric of his shirt, it all makes your cunt flutter around nothing as it begs to be filled. It’s impossible to hold yourself back now, body moving on its own as you straddle his lap as you had before, settling your palms on his shoulders to steady yourself.
Much to your surprise, nervous Steven doesn’t need direction. He appears to also be working in his own form of autopilot, eyes hypnotized by the way your eyelids flutter when his digits slip between the soft flesh of your thighs and trace the inside with a gentle touch. You could be imagining it, but you’re certain his fingers are a little shaky as they stroke your slit through the crotch of your panties, stopping just shy of your clit underneath the lacy fabric.
Whimpering at the lack of friction just where you need it, you grind your hips slightly into his fingerprints. Steven is quick to gently shush you, hooking his fingers into the crotch of your panties to pull them to the side. The cold air against your soaking folds causes you to grip at the material of Steven’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric with creases you swore he’d never be able to iron out.
“A-Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Soft Steven, lovely Steven checks in with you. Ensures you’re not engaging in something you’re uncomfortable with. It makes your heart yearn for him, more than you have these past few weeks of locking yourself in the bathroom and gazing into the mirror with pained expressions after his fingers brushed yours when taking a pen he’d asked to borrow, or when you would hold your mobile to your chest at the end of a phone call that was about as something as mundane as his shift hours.
“Steven, I want nothing more-“ you strain, reaching behind your own hips to take ahold of his cock and line the weeping tip up perfectly. It catches against your clit first, causing your body to jolt in shock before you sweep him through your dripping folds. Steven grabs ahold of your hips, seemingly at a loss as to where else to hold you. His eyes are flickering all across your bare skin, unable to settle on the best spot.
A chorus of gasps sounds between the two of you as you slowly roll down onto his dick, harmonizing almost like a symphony. He stretches you deliciously, not too big as to hurt- he’s just perfect. Perfectly filling. It’s like you lose all sense of direction, unsure of up from down, left from right. Your hips must stutter and still from the shock because through your haze you feel Steven thrust upward and into you to bridge the gap until he’s bottoming out in your slick pussy.
“Oh- Oh fuck-it feels so good, Steven,” you groan, finally sitting down on his length with your full weight. Your quads are already shaking from the overwhelming pleasure that simmers between them, but the desire to chase the feeling is enough to get them to lift despite the effort it takes.
Rising back over the curve in his cock, you lift yourself back up until only his tip is pressed up against your head. You don’t mean to, truly you don’t, but you pause before you sink back down. Like this, you see the almost pained look in Steven’s hazy eyes as he gazed up at you through his lashes that were damp with pleasured tears. You never want to go without seeing that view for even one day.
“God, please darli- Yesss, oh yes!” He chokes as you rock your hips for him to slip straight back into, his voice cracking under the pressure that builds at the base of his spine. You find that slow and steady pace that tortures you both, pleasurable but teetering on not enough, teasing the embers of a building orgasm but not stoking the fire.
The slippery sound of your cunt being filled over and over echoes and brunches off of the stone museum walls, the air that had held a chill seemingly warming at your shared exertion. You can barely hear Steven’s whimpers, your pulse thrumming so loud in your ears that you’re convinced he can probably feel it thudding in your walls.
There’s tension in your forehead, no doubt from your eyebrows arching in bliss as the ridge of his head catches up against something so incredible that you’re drowning between your thighs. Your movements are stuttering at the way a familiar simmering feeling begins deep inside your abdomen, but Steven doesn’t want you to stop. His hands take a firm grip of your hips, forcing them down as he begins to thrust up and into you in that same lazy pace you had set.
The legs of the chair you’re both sat in strain under the pressure of Steven’s movements, but neither of you seem to notice as he continues to brush against that part of you that just obliterates any coherent thoughts. You’re not exactly sure what part of his body you’re holding onto, so far away from comprehension, but you know you’re holding it in a bruising grip, one that leaves a perfect impression of each of your fingertips that could probably secure a conviction if they were used as evidence of your activities.
Despite the slow, even pace, Steven looks entirely fucked out. His curls are messy and falling into his perfectly pink face. His tongue darts out to wet his chapped lips mindlessly, eyes settled on the way you take his cocks so well. At this angle, he thinks he can see the tip nudging up against your stomach from the inside. That’s all he needs to increase the speed and strength of his thrusts.
It winds you, the brutal pace that he sets, and the gentle smolder is exacerbated into a churning, broiling sensation that rips through you within seconds. Your thighs are tight against his own as you sob out wordlessly, desperate in your attempts to prevent your orgasm from coming too fast. You’ve waited so long, you don’t want this moment to end.
Oh, but Steven is so eager to please. His fumbling fingers are quick to blindly search for your clit as he rocks violently into your soaking wet cunt. It sparks through you like white-hot lightning when he catches the sensitive bundle of nerves, and your reaction must make it obvious he’s found what he’s looking for because he focuses all of his attention on that one spot that has your vision going white.
His cock sinks deep inside you, head continuing to spear that impossibly sensitive spot inside you as he traces your swollen clit with imperfect circles. You barely notice it until it’s surging forward so quickly that you don’t have the time to brace for it. The wail of Steven’s name that escapes you would probably wake the mummified dead on the floor above when your body tremors with a pleasure so annihilating that you’re gushing, flooding around him and streaming tears from your eyes. Your toes curl almost painfully, gripping onto him so hard your knuckles go white.
The extra lubrication and easiness in which Steven is able to sink into your sopping heat must tip him over the edge alongside you, because even through your blinding relief you can feel his back arch slightly as he settles as far into your cunt as he can possibly go, emptying his load with a pitiful groan that melts all of your nerves. He’s slurring your name with each of his final thrusts, keeps going and going until he can’t take it anymore and he’s too sensitive to move.
Boneless, you slump against his heaving chest with a sob. The silence that follows is almost deafening, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to breathe evenly to steady the erratic slamming of your heart against your ribcage.
Massaging his fingers through your hair, Steven lets out a nervous laugh that causes you to burst into a fit of giggles through your exhaustion. Maybe it’s delirium that makes you find humor in the situation or the relief of so many months of pining for this one man. Regardless, it’s freeing. Your body feels lighter, though that could just be you floating after what is easily the best orgasm you’d ever experienced in your life.
“… Oh fuckin’ hell,” Steven is breathless, speaking over your laughter to point at the corner of the ceiling. “The fuckin’ camera.” Of course. This whole museum was covered in CCTV. Though, you hadn’t considered that when he’d practically begged you to make out with him.
“Oh well,” you breathe, sitting up to look him in the eyes and brush his curls from his face with a gentle stroke and a cheeky grin. “I’m sure J.B will love the view.”
🏷 Taglist: @polaroidpetal @mylifeisactuallyamess
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softlybarnes · a month ago
Moon Struck
Summary: Steven asks you out, Marc falls in love.
"“Cheers,” Steven chirps quietly, ignoring Marc. He knows he has a goofy smile on his face, he knows that he’s just staring at you.
But you’re smiling back and Marc is strangely quiet now, a glow of happiness lingers there. Steven has a suspicion that he’s happy too, basking in the fact that you said yes."
Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader
Word Count: ~8.3k
Warnings: mostly fluff, canon-typical violence, threats of violence, angst mostly from Marc because he's just like that
A/N: My first moon knight fic! Please, please, please let me know what you think!
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Steven ignores the shout of his headmate as he hurries through the museum. 
He’s late, and he so hated making you wait for him. He had promised you long ago a personal tour of the museum. One you had insisted for months he eventually give you, when he had time. 
His heels drag, Marc putting on the brakes as he fronts for just a moment. 
Steven nearly drops the travel cup of tea he’s carrying, briefly tripping over his own feet and drawing the attention of several nearby people listening to a museum tour guide. 
“Sorry!” He gives an awkward wave before continuing on. 
“Would you stop that, Marc!” He glances at his reflection in the display case he’s passing. “You’re making us late.”
“I’m making you late. I didn’t agree to this.” Marc’s shoulders are tense, the line of his brows drawn together. 
Steven wonders if he’s wearing the same expression and briefly passes a hand over his face. He doesn’t want to be scowling when-
He bursts through a doorway, into the Egyptian exhibition, and spots you waiting exactly where you said you would be. 
A shy smile tugs at his mouth, and he tries straightening his shirt collar and running a hand through his unruly curls. He knows it's useless, that his shirts are perpetually wrinkled and his hair nearly always a mess. 
Marc has gone sullenly silent, and he knows he’s watching you too. 
Marc, for reasons Steven cannot begin to parse out, does not like you. 
Or, he pretends not to. 
Again, for reasons unknown. 
Which is entirely bonkers, because you are the most brilliant person Steven has ever met. 
He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, which is worried and frayed at the edges from his nervous fingers. 
Despite rushing moments earlier, he’s now anxious about how to actually approach you. 
You were his friend, he should have no problem with walking over and saying hello. 
Steven shifts from foot to foot as people swim around him in the doorway. He’s acutely aware that he’s stood in everyone’s way, the cup of tea in his hand going cold. 
The other thing he’s been promising you for months, a proper cup of tea. 
“Good,” Marc says, reflected in another display case, hands on his hips, chin lifted, “you see how stupid this is. Let’s go home.” 
But it isn’t stupid. 
It’s not stupid to want this. 
It’s not stupid to want you. 
Steven swallows, watching you move to read another plaque. 
As you read, your shoulders droop and then you dig in the bag slung over your shoulder. You glance at your phone when you find it, before tucking it away again. 
Then, you glance at your wristwatch, like it might tell you a different time than your phone had. 
You sigh and move toward the exit. 
Which is Steven’s cue to call your name, loudly. 
So loudly in fact that people turn to look at him. 
Brilliant. Already making a fool of myself. 
“Which is why we should just go home-,” Marc starts, but Steven ignores him. 
Marc, the absolute worry wart, thought you would break his heart. 
You’re smiling at him, a hand lifted in greeting as he approaches you. He would like to think you look relieved, happy to see him. 
But you’re like the sun, and probably look at everyone that way. 
He nearly stumbles into you, hastily handing you the cup of tea, wrapping your fingers around the cooling paper cup, his fingers laced over yours. 
“I was meant to bring you a proper cup and here I am with cold tea.” 
“Hardly very polite of you,” you tease. “Late to meet someone and with a cold cup of tea.” You smile and tsk under your breath. 
Steven fidgets and releases your hand on the cup, fingers nervously tangling together in front of his chest instead. “I’m really so very sorry. I’m always running late. I-I meant to be early today-,”
“Oh, my God,” Marc mutters. 
You lie a hand against Steven’s arm, stilling the nervous fluttering of his hands. “I was teasing you. It’s alright. I do expect an extra long tour though.”
Steven nods, staring at the shape of your eyes, the flutter of your lashes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 
You’re quite close to him, his head bent over yours, and he thinks he can see all the shades hidden in your eyes. 
“You look like a love-struck moron,” he catches the reflection of Marc behind your head, arms crossed over his chest, brows still pulled together in that irritated line. “Stop staring at her like that.” 
But he notices that Marc is staring at you too, looking at the back of your head, like he could see to the marrow of you, and your intentions, if he just looked hard enough. 
But there’s a dip in his voice that makes Steven think he might be just a tiny bit jealous. 
Steven shakes his head, trying to ignore Marc’s acid comments. 
“Of course,” he says, glancing down at your hands, the cup held between them. “Would you try it, please?”
Steven had been shocked to find out you were a coffee drinker only, that you had never really tasted tea, at least not a proper cup. 
“I’ve had iced tea,” you had offered weakly, only for Steven to wrinkle his nose. 
“Cold tea? Why would anyone enjoy that?”
Now, he’s brought you a cup of cold tea anyways, and it was tea that wasn’t even meant to be cold. 
You smile at him, lifting the cup as you brightly say, “Cheers!” in your best impression of his accent. 
It’s quite terrible, and makes him laugh.
You take a sip, a considering look pulling over your features. 
“It’s really better when it's hot,” Steven says, awaiting your verdict like it really mattered, like it was incredibly important that you liked the cup of tea he had brought you.
You tilt your head to the side and nod, “It's still warm.” You take another sip, which Steven takes as a good sign. Marc is watching you too, and Steven knows that Marc thinks he isn’t noticing the intense attention he gives you. “I like it. Did you put something else in it?”
He had put honey in despite his better judgment, because he noticed the way you absolutely hammered your coffee with sugar packets. 
“Honey,” he murmurs softly as you look into his eyes with a bemused smile on your face. “Just a bit. Figured you might like it better that way.” 
“Can’t say I’m a convert. Coffee will always have my heart,” you say. “But it is very good.” 
Steven is glad, so glad, you like it. 
Maybe it makes him unreasonably happy. 
“Cheers,” he says, still watching you carefully, smiling, his face very near to yours. He can see the fluttering of your lashes, feel the ghost of your breath. 
You don’t seem to mind the closeness. 
Marc rolls his eyes, and Steven puts a hand on your arm to pull you away from the reflection. 
So he doesn’t have to think about his annoyed alter. 
He tries not to be too upset with Marc, with his brooding protective streak. But he does wish that he’d lighten up just a bit. 
Steven’s heart is soft, it was going to be broken no matter what happened in their life. He was okay with that, especially if it meant spending time with you. 
But that was a hard pill for Marc to swallow.
His habit of shielding Steven was still a hard one to break, even now they were working together. 
“Where would you like to start?” Steven asks you, something like pride filling his veins as he watches you continue to sip at the cup of earl gray. 
“You’re the expert,” you say, looping your arm through his. “You tell me where we should start. Although, I’m very interested in Taweret, after the stories you’ve told me.” 
“Oh, she’s bloody amazin’,” Steven says, watching the quirk of your lips as he takes your duffle bag from you, slinging it over his own shoulder, conscious of Marc’s silence at the back of his mind. “‘Course we can start with her.” 
Steven leads you, the pressure of your fingers against his arm welcome, a warmth spreading up from his belly to land at the back of his mouth. 
It makes his heart ache and his fingers tremble. 
The feeling is strange and welcome. 
He likes you. 
Quite a lot, actually. 
Which was why he hoped today was the day he finally managed to ask you out, the reason Marc tried so desperately to make them late. 
He had met you before he knew about Marc, before their grand Egyptian adventure and Khonshu. 
When he first met you some months ago, you were wandering the halls of the museum, a duffle bag much like the one you have today slung over your shoulder, your head tilted to the side as you examined an exhibit. 
Steven was meant to have been helping Donna move gift shop inventory when he spotted you, brows furrowed as you read a plaque. It was the way you stood that caught his attention, with your toes pointed out and heels together. 
He couldn’t have looked away if he tried, and so he wasn’t surprised when he ran into someone and dropped the box of inventory, stuffed goddesses and cheap replicas of the pyramids spilling across the floor right to the tips of your toes. 
People weren’t exactly nice to Steven. 
He didn’t have any friends, his co-workers overlooked him, forgot him, or were rude to him. He had his mother, of course, but things always seemed to keep them from speaking directly.
He knows the truth now, about his and Marc’s mother, about Marc. 
Still, that day, as the man he bumped into gave him a dirty glare as he turned away, you had stooped down next to him and helped him tuck the merch back into the box. 
You had been kind to him, friendly as no one else was. 
Your hand had touched his and it had been like those moments in all the cheesy rom-coms he didn’t remember watching. He had looked up into your eyes, realizing he was still apologizing repeatedly out loud.
“Hey,” you had said, before tilting your head to the side and glancing down, “It’s okay. Do you need some help?”
No one offered Steven help, not with anything, even when he asked for it. 
And so he swallowed and nodded even though you, as a patron of the museum, should not have helped him. He should have refused your gentle help.  
But you’d helped him until Donna came along and shooed you away. 
He’d thought that he’d never see you again, but you visited the museum all the time, at least once a week. 
He found out that you’d recently moved to London, that you were a staunch coffee only person, that you were a dancer, that your childhood dream had been to be an archeologist before your talent for dance had destroyed that hope. 
You were more interested in Greek and Roman mythology, but quickly became fascinated with Egypt, and Steven had been delighted, weirdly, bizarrely proud that he had put you onto it. 
That you read the books he recommended, that you listened to the music he told you about. That you listened to him without interrupting, or sighing, or checking the time. 
Well, those things were only an incredible bonus. 
You made his throat close up some nights when he lay trying not to fall asleep, because you were the first friend he can remember having besides Gus or his mother. 
Steven was lonely, but you made his world a little less so. 
Now he has Marc, who’s more than enough company some days, a friend that never left him. 
He’d been worried, upon coming back to London, that you wouldn’t be there, that he had dreamed you up and you were never real in the first place. 
He’d been excited to let Marc see you through his own eyes, though Marc claimed with indifference that he remembered you, that he already knew you through Steven and didn’t need to meet you properly. 
Steven had a suspicion that the disinterest was feigned, that he cared too, to know if you were still in London. 
Steven didn’t work at the museum anymore, and so it had taken a week of hanging around the place to finally catch you there one day after a rehearsal. 
To his utter horror, you had been visibly upset with him. Though he had missed you and worried after you, he never imagined that you would do the same for him. “I thought you just - I thought maybe something horrible happened. You just disappeared and they said you were fired? I thought you disappeared and didn’t bother saying goodbye. Steven what happened-,” 
You had demanded his phone number, so you could always reach him. 
It was amazing really, that you had never had it before. 
Steven was just grateful you were still around, still coming by the museum.
Most worryingly though, Marc had not been impressed with you. Or pretended not to be. Though he tried to hide it, Steven always had a keen sense of how Marc really felt, and Marc cared more than he ever let on. 
Now, though, he feels the gentle pressure of your fingers against his arm and thanks whatever god that might be listening, that you were still around, a person that rolled with the punches life dealt. 
Against the advice of his alter, who had almost seemed nervous, Steven had told you everything about what happened in Egypt, about Khonshu and Marc and Layla and Ammit and everything in between. 
“Don’t do it,” Marc had snarled. “She’s gonna think you’re nuts. She’s going to-. 
Marc hadn’t finished his thought. 
Whatever ridicule and judgement he had anticipated, you hadn’t fallen to his expectations. 
You had listened and somehow understood. 
“So,” you ask now as Steven leads you through the museum, “How is Marc?”
“Being a bit of a knobhead at the moment, to be honest,” Steven says, watching the smile that tugs at your mouth. 
“Oh. Khonshu related or..?”
Steven’s always honest with you, and so he doesn’t lie now. “Wasn’t too keen on my meeting you today, actually.” 
You nod as Steven leads you past an exhibit, into an adjoining room, past a miniature construction of the Pyramids of Giza. “Marc doesn’t exactly like me, does he?”
Steven waits for the snort from Marc, for a derisive comment. But nothing comes. 
The silence is more telling than anything. 
“No, he’s just a bit-,” Steven stops, wiggles his fingers, not really sure how to explain exactly how Marc was. 
You smile weakly at him, “We don’t have to talk about it, Steven. I know he’s very protective. In any case, I’m glad you like me. And I really care for you. I hope Marc knows that, at least.”
Marc remains stubbornly silent. 
Steven gives you the tour of the museum he always dreamed of giving when he worked there. You listen to him attentively, you ask him questions, and for the remainder of the day, Marc is quiet, though Steven knows he’s present, listening in instead of walling himself off. 
Mostly Marc leaves Steven be, when he’s with you. He can’t be mad at the happiness you bring, though he tries to protect the system in his own way. Steven knows it's why he’s so surly though he wishes he’d give you a chance. 
Marc claims that one of them needs to be clear headed, rational, when you inevitably break their heart. 
So, he’s surprised, when you’re leaving the museum near closing and asking Steven about what brand of tea he would recommend so you can start making it at home, Marc’s voice echoes in the back of his head. “Ask her out. You said you were going to today.”
Steven glances down, at the watery refraction of Marc staring up at him from a dirty puddle on the front steps of the museum. 
Marc says, surprisingly gentle, “You’re happy with her. Ask.” It's only  slightly demanding in tone. Steven suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. 
But his alter is right. 
So, Steven stumbles to a halt nearly knocking you into the puddle. 
And asks. 
“Wondering if maybe you’d come out on a date with me?”
You blink, your hand on his arm where you’d caught your balance, his fingers around your other wrist.
You just stare at him, your lips parting in surprise. 
Fear wells up into the back of his throat when you don’t immediately answer and he starts to stutter out an apology. “Sorry, sorry, don’t know what’s come over me just then. Just a bit taken with you, I suppose.” Steven swallows, feels the words pressing at the inside of his lips, nervous chatter threatening to break free. “You’re quite beautiful and very kind - bit inevitable that I’d have a crush on you, innit?” 
You blink again, stunned, like you can’t believe what you’re hearing. “You have a crush on…me?” 
“Yes, no - well, yes, I do but -,” It’s not just a crush. Crush seems like a silly little word for the feelings you make flop around inside him. Squiggly, fuzzy feelings. 
“Shut up, Steven, give her a chance to reply.” Marc snaps at him, like he’s just as afraid that Steven will mess this up. 
He takes a steadying breath, reminding himself that you were truly very kind, and that if you said no, it would not be the end of all he held dear. “Yes, I quite like you. You’re kind and beautiful and smart. What’s not to like?”
“Nice job.”
And for once, Marc doesn’t sound sarcastic. 
His helpfulness is strange for someone who had been so against the notion mere hours ago. 
Steven bites down the rest of the words swimming in his mouth, telling himself that Marc is right about this thing. He needs to let you reply. 
“I, um, yeah,” you smile, almost like you’re unsure if he really just asked you, “yes. I’d like to go on a date.”
Steven stares at you, not sure he heard right. “Really?”
“Cheers,” Steven chirps quietly, ignoring Marc. He knows he has a goofy smile on his face, he knows that he’s just staring at you. 
But you’re smiling back and Marc is strangely quiet now, a glow of happiness lingers there. Steven has a suspicion that he’s happy too, basking in the fact that you said yes.
Oh. Oh. 
Maybe Marc likes you too.
He was just shit at showing it, saying it.
Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned about the breaking of Steven’s heart, because it might break his too. 
“Oh,” you say, suddenly digging in your bag, still hanging on Steven’s shoulder. He shifts so you can better reach. “I got this for Gus the Second. I forgot to mention it earlier, although now is such a stupid time to be giving it to you,” you say, dipping your fingers into a pocket and bringing out a tiny replica of the Great Sphinx. “Sorry if he already has this one.”
You seem flustered with yourself, like you’re ruining a moment, when all your gift makes him want to do is kiss you. 
He flustered you too, apparently.
You got his fish a gift.  
Steven takes the replica from you gently, sliding his thumb along the surface. “Oh, he’ll absolutely love it.” He pauses, “You said yes, yeah? To a date? With me?”
Something about it doesn’t compute. Maybe you’ve confused him with someone else. 
“Yeah,” you say. “Did you have something in mind, Steven?”
“Er-,” he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but his name on your lips is like a balm. Everything would be okay. 
“Just dinner, Steven,” Marc says. “Doesn’t have to be elaborate.” 
Steven doesn’t dare look down at the puddle. Doesn’t want to see the smirk on Marc’s face that he can hear in his voice.  
“Dinner?” He hesitates. “Tomorrow sound good, yeah?”
“Yes,” and when he looks at you, you’re smiling. Like this was something good. Something you’ve been waiting for. “7 o’clock?”
He tilts his head toward you, just to be a bit closer to you. 
It’s still a surprise when you lean up and kiss him gingerly, your lips soft and lingering. 
When you pull away, his heart is dancing and you are glowing. 
Marc is hesitant to speak to you, though he would never admit it to a soul. 
Steven probably knows, but he would never say so. 
He’s content to watch you through the eyes of his alter. You are Steven’s girl after all. 
Made of sunshine and steeped in warmth. 
You are not his. 
But Marc worries about you almost non-stop. He thinks about you constantly. He tells himself it's because Steven would break if something happened to you. 
But he knows. He knows when you laugh at something Steven says, he knows when you show up at the flat soaked to the bone from a downpour but smiling. He knows when you break in a new pair of ballet shoes against the hardwood floor of the flat. 
“You need to teach her self-defense,” He tells Steven when Marc is the one fronting.
“I’m not going to do that, Marc. She’s been safe before we met her, she’s safe now.” 
Yeah, only now you know about Moon Knight and Khonshu and everything. You know everything. 
Yet you never mention it, never ask. 
Occasionally, you will inexplicably leave a note for Marc, stuck against the glass of Gus the Second and Gus the Second’s Friend’s tank. 
Marc can’t make himself understand it, the way you leave little notes, ask Steven about what kinds of food he likes, ask how he’s doing.
Today’s note said - 
There’s a performance today. I know Steven has come to plenty, but I would love to see you there. 
You sign it with your name and a little heart. 
“She knows you care about her, Marc,” Steven says from the reflection in the tank, Gus and Friend behind his head. “She knows you follow her home when she works late.” 
“Only because you told her,” he snaps. “She didn’t need to know that.” 
Steven only gives a long suffering sigh. 
You know, you know that he follows your route home each night, to make sure you got there safe. And so you had taken up the inexplicable habit of talking to him as you walked. There was no way for you to know if he heard you, when he followed in the ceremonial armor on the buildings above you.
Still, you do it each night without fail. 
Marc, if he’s honest with himself, does not deserve to know you. Does not deserve the notes, the home cooked meals in tupperware left in the fridge with his name written in sharpie on the side of the box, does not deserve your late night chatter and one sided conversations. 
“She’s trying really hard. It hurts her feelings that you won’t even say hello to her. She isn’t expecting you to feel about her the same way I do.” 
Marc doesn’t respond, unsticking your note from the fishtank instead, folding it and tucking it inside his jacket pocket. 
He knows that it hurts your feelings. He sees it in your eyes every time you ask Steven about him, every time he refuses to meet you, even though he knows you, remembers you through Steven’s eyes from before Steven had been aware of him, back when he struggled to maintain Steven’s ignorance of the truth of his situation. 
You don’t know him though, so he’s not sure why it matters to you. 
But he catches Steven’s exasperated expression in the mirror by the door and he knows. 
It matters to you, because it matters to Steven. 
Not because you care about Marc. 
But because he is Steven’s best friend. 
And that is the problem. 
Because he wants you to care about him. 
“So you’ll follow her but you won’t just say hello? Marc, you could just introduce yourself and walk her home, yeah? Instead of stalking after her like a deranged bird?” 
Marc ignores him, ceremonial suit slipping over his skin, mask covering his face.
“Nope. This is much easier.” 
Steven only sighs again. 
“I just wonder if I’m any good for you,” you admit to Steven one rainy summer evening. You are propped in the window with a book, Steven on the couch with an open text. 
The air is warm enough that you leave the window open, the sound of rain and traffic drifting through the flat. 
Steven turns to you, taking the glasses perched on the end of his nose off. He frowns at you, brows pulling together over the round brown eyes you’ve come to love. 
He closes the book he had been pouring over. “What d’ya mean, love?”
“Just that,” you pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “I just know Marc is rather protective. And maybe if he doesn’t-,” You swallow, “Maybe I’m not really any good for you.”
Steven holds his arms out to you, and you readily cross the room to fit yourself in his arms, head tucked neatly beneath his chin. “You certainly are good for me. Too good for me.” You feel his chin against your forehead, gently drifting back and forth. “Don’t pay Marc any mind.” 
“Does he hate me?” You pull back to look in his eyes.
“Now, who could hate you?” 
You press a hand to the back of Steven’s neck, fingers trailing up to thread through his hair. He readily leans his forehead against yours, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. 
You feel Steven tilt his head up a bit, and you know he’s watching the mirror, communicating with his alter who wanted nothing to do with you. 
“Could you tell him I don’t want anything from him? That I’d just like to introduce myself? He’s your best friend and I’d just like to say hello.” 
“He hears you,” Steven says. “Just being a bit of a pain in the arse as usual.” 
You suppress a laugh and tilt your head back to meet Steven’s eyes, cradling his jaw between your palms, sweeping your thumb over the thin scar above his brow. “He should know I’m not pressuring him, just that I would very much like to meet him, if he felt inclined.” Steven opens his mouth when you continue, “And that he’s become rather poor at hiding the past few weeks.”
“Just have noticed a certain caped individual on my walks home the last few weeks.” 
Steven’s mouth quirks, his eyes sliding to the mirror again. “He says you have a rather keen eye.” 
“Not so. It’s very hard not to notice sometimes.” As you speak Steven’s brows pull together and he frowns. “What's he saying?”
Steven glances back to you, his nose nearly touching yours. “Nothing you should worry your pretty head about,” he says, reaching up to cradle the back of your head, his lips finding yours, soft as the touch of a feather. “He can tell you himself if he bloody well pleases.” 
You feel slightly reassured as Steven kisses you, tilts you back against the couch cushions and slots himself against you, fingers running shakily up your side against your sweater. You dip your hands under his shirt, laughing quietly when he jumps at the sensation of your fingers against his scarred ribs. 
You feel better, at least, knowing that Steven wants you to meet Marc. 
You wonder what holds him back, what holds him back from even a hello. 
But Steven is kissing you and it becomes rather hard to concentrate. 
~ You talk to Marc on your way home from the theatre each night. 
You know he can hear you, walking on the rooftops above the streets you traverse each night. 
It makes you feel safe, knowing that he’s there, knowing that he cares enough to make sure you got home. 
You tell him about your day, quietly talking to yourself, drawing some curious stares but not too many. If these were the only interactions he would allow then you would make the most of them. 
You think you’ve seen Marc before. That he’d come into the museum once so that Steven wouldn’t miss work. His brows had been knitted tightly together, eyes narrower, mouth a hard frown. 
He hadn’t spoken to you that day, while Steven always made sure to, always. 
It’s raining when you leave the theater this night, your duffle bag slung across your shoulders, hood pulled up over your head as you race down the back steps, eager to get home, to make a cup of the calming tea Steven had gotten you and sleep. 
Your feet and ankles are sore and you felt like a good cry was in order. 
You don’t look up as the rain pounds down, sure that your guarding protector would be there as he always was. You just didn’t have the energy to greet him this night. 
Although you left rehearsal early, Marc always had a way of knowing when you left, of always being there. He was reliable, steady, even if he mostly avoided you. 
Tonight though, you wish you could go home and call Steven, though you know he won’t pick up, not until morning. Steven was who you called when you needed to cry, when you needed comfort. 
Steven was soft, in a way no one else you’ve ever known has been. 
You love dance, but the toll it took on your mental health some days made you wonder if it was at all worth it. 
Your thighs burn and your ankles ache, and you remember the way you were out of step and how the choreographer had sighed. The sound worse than disappointment and closer to condemnation. Maybe you aren't good enough to hack it in this particular dance company, and not for the first time, you think about going home.
The rain continues, drenching you to the bone. It pounds against the pavement beneath your feet, so loudly you don’t hear the footsteps trailing after you. 
You duck down an alleyway, a shortcut you don’t normally take because you’d rather take the longer way around and chatter at Marc. 
But you can’t be bothered tonight. You don’t even look up. 
If you had, you’d have known he wasn’t there, and then maybe you’d have stayed in the safety of the theater for just a bit longer, waited until he showed himself. 
One moment you’re hurrying along, the next a hand is pressed to the back of your neck, shoving you into the brick wall of the alley. 
You open your mouth to scream but a knife presses to the skin of your throat. It digs in just a little as the pressure at the back of your neck disappears and your bag is ripped off your shoulder. 
“Search that for me, yeah?” A male voice says before he leans into you, pressing your body into the wall with the heaviness of his own. 
You hear your things being ripped out of the bag, your dance garments and tights. Extra shoes. Ballet slippers. A bag of toiletries. 
“Search her, then. She ain’t got anything in here.”
Hands dig into you, rough and careless. But you don’t have anything on you, not even your wallet or phone, you know they’ll find nothing and then what?
What will be left for them to take? 
The knife divots into your skin, you feel the warmth of your own blood trail down your neck. 
Surreptitiously, you tilt your head up. Maybe Marc really has hated you all this time, and he’s about to let you be killed in this dirty alley. 
But there’s no one watching you, and you have to wonder for a moment if anyone ever had been there, as the unknown hand gropes through your pockets and then pats down the sides of your thighs. 
You wonder if you should fight. 
Was it better to let whatever was about to happen, happen? Or to try to fight? To at least be able to flee? 
You decide to fight when a figure appears in the corner of your vision. 
One that the two men behind you apparently do not notice. 
The knife disappears from your neck and your head is smashed into the brick instead. 
Your vision dances, Khonshu apparently only visible to you. 
“Do not worry, little bug. My Moon Knight is on his way.”
The skeletal bird you’re staring at can only be Khonshu or a terrible hallucination. 
If he’s a hallucination, does that mean they already stabbed you and you’re bleeding to death? 
“You are not hallucinating,” comes the booming voice of the god of the night sky. “Follow my instruction.” 
Khonshu, who you have no choice but to trust as your assailants argue about whether to kill you, tilts his head.
You are told to drive your right foot directly back, then twist and punch as hard as you can. 
“Then run,” is the last piece of advice before the blasted bird disappears. 
You have no choice but to follow the advice, and hope Marc or Steven really are nearby. 
When you drive your foot back, it connects with a knee. A strangled cry goes up as you twist and blindly punch. Your fist lands on something meaty, sending a shockwave up your arm. Bone cracks. 
You flee the second the hands leave your body, and you think for just a moment that you’ll get away, that you’ll make it to the deserted but well lit street at the other end of the alley. 
But fingers hook into the hood of your jacket which had fallen back off your head. You’re jerked off your feet, clotheslined jacket knocking the breath out of your lungs. 
Still you manage to scream as you fall, palms scraping against the pavement, the knee of your jeans ripping open. 
You roll, acting on pure instinct, driving your leg up into the gut of the man that falls on top of you to square a punch into your ribs. 
“You little bitch-,” 
You whip out a hand and claw his face, his friend stooping to cover your mouth as the knife appears again, shining metal gleaming by the curve of your cheek.
But something - someone - else has appeared. 
Indeed, Khonshu’s Moon Knight is stalking down the alleyway behind them. 
It gives you the determination to shove the man on top of you with all your strength, kneeing him between the legs as you go, the knife slices at your cheek as the man behind you says, “Oy! Stop struggling and-,” 
You never find out what else you should do as the other man’s weight disappears and a fluttering white cape engulfs you. 
You get to your feet shakily and when you look up, it's to meet the blinding white gaze of Marc Spector. His arm is around your waist, the cape like a blanketed cocoon against you. 
“Go to the street. I’ll come to you.” His voice is American and gruff and unexpected. 
But he lets go of you, spins you and pushes you gently in the direction of the street.
You go, rainwater sluicing against your skin. You hear bones snap, the sound of flesh against flesh but you don’t turn or stop until you reach the street. Cars trundle by, a few pedestrians are walking further up the road. No one pays you any mind, the callousness of strangers shocking and not shocking in equal measure. 
The contrast to your fight in the alley is startling, and you feel the burn of tears at the backs of your eyes, the fingers of pressure on your throat as you hold them back.
You don’t hear anything from the alley now, but a few minutes of shivering in the rain later Marc appears, your ruined bag over his shoulder.  
He crowds close to you without a word, lifting your chin with a curled finger beneath your chin. The fabric of the suit is gauzy and warm against your skin, not damp despite the rain. He peers into your eyes, focus shifting to your cheek and then neck, before he takes your hands in both of his, and examines the broken skin of your palms. 
He makes a noise of discontent as he examines you. 
He holds your fingers so tenderly you wonder if he realizes who you are. 
“Marc?” You ask gently. “Are you okay?” 
His head snaps up but he doesn’t answer, just stares at you with that furious white gaze. 
“Could I see your face at least?” 
He hesitates, but only for a moment, before the wispy material covering his face slides away. The humidity and rain make his curls unruly, a lock of hair sticks to the sweaty skin of his forehead.
It’s Steven, and very clearly not Steven. 
You swallow, and touch his cheek. “Are you okay?” You ask again. 
You regret touching him immediately. It’s likely not something he wants from you. 
Steven would have leaned into your palm, but Marc goes still confirming your worry, his brows pulling together, eyes narrower than Steven’s rounded gaze.
You drop your hand, and Marc’s gaze follows your hand. 
Instead of answering, Marc asks, “Do you have a first aid kit at your place or do we need to go to Steven’s?” 
“I have one,” you say softly.
Marc is so very close to you, his head bent over yours. His skin is damp and glowing, eyes such a deep umber that you feel like getting lost in them. His breath falls against your lips.
You inhale sharply at the closeness, breathing in the smoky jasmine and lavender scent that lingers around him, the tang of copper just beneath. Steven smelled like tea and cotton and you wonder briefly if the fragrance is thanks to the suit. 
But then he nods, all business, the rest of the suit sliding away as he pulls away and nudges you in the direction of your flat, not taking the shortcut through the alley, of course. 
“Did you kill them?” 
Marc stiffens, responding gruffly, “No. Just some broken bones.” 
You watch his jaw clench before you carefully reach out and tangle your fingers with his again. He probably thought you thought the worst of him, that he was a cold blooded killer. “I wouldn’t have mourned if you did.” His eyes snap to yours, surprised at the brutality in your shaky voice. “Thank you for coming.” 
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” 
You smile, the movement making the cut on your cheek weep blood, “I received instructions from a rather strange looking bird.”
“Khonshu,” Marc mutters. “Bastard.” 
You hum, and feel the bizarre sensation of Marc Spector sliding his thumb gently across the back of your hand.
Once in your flat, Marc seats you at one of the two chairs at your tiny kitchen table in your tiny place’s kitchen. 
He kneels in front of you, even though he could take the other chair, and carefully tilts your chin up, dabbing gently at the cut on your neck, then your cheek.
“Did you hear me all those nights? When I spoke to you?” 
Marc nods, turning to grab an antiseptic ointment and a roll of gauze. “Yeah, I heard you.” 
“Why haven’t you-,” you bite your tongue. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. Or, talk to me. I’ve been telling myself that ever since Steven told me the truth. You’re just very important to Steven, of course I would like to meet you.” 
Marc goes still for a moment, deep brown eyes meeting yours. “Yeah, makes sense.” He finishes with your cheek and gently brushes his thumb over the column of your throat. 
You tell yourself he’s checking the bandage. 
But your heart beats wildly in your chest. 
“You’ll tell Khonshu thank you? From me? Suppose he did actually give me some helpful advice-,”
“No,” Marc suddenly says, intense in his fierceness, the set of his features grim. “Not when its his fault, my-my fault, our fucking fault you were alone in the first place-,” 
“Hey,” you take his hands and feel them shaking in yours. “It's not. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just something that happened. And I’m glad you were around.” You grip his fingers and don’t let him pull away until the tremors subside. “Are you alright?”
He clears his throat, suspiciously glassy eyes not meeting yours, and then goes about cleaning your bruised palms and your cut knuckles. 
Marc sighs abruptly, not answering you, and turns to look into the shining reflection of your floor length mirror. “Steven says he’s proud of you.” He looks away and continues wrapping your hands, “He also won’t let me forget that I haven’t asked you if you’re okay.” 
You open your mouth to reply when Marc bites out brusquely, “Are you okay?” 
You smile, imagining the irritation in Steven’s voice, Bloody hell, Marc! Telling her I’m bothering you about asking her if she’s okay and actually asking her is not the same thing!
“I’ll tell you if I’m alright, if you tell me if you are.” 
Marc snorts, “I can tell by looking at you.” His head twitches toward the mirror again and you know Steven must be annoying him about invisible injuries. You wait for a moment while they seem to have a silent conversation. 
You stop Marc’s hands when he moves to look at your knee instead of answering. “Just a simple yes or no. Nothing more.” 
He looks up at you, brows still tight over his eyes, expression stony, frowning at you so intensely you have to wonder what he sees when he looks at you. “Yes.” 
“Brilliant,” you smile. 
“Yes or no?” He asks you. 
You brace a hand on his shoulder, pushing yourself up, “Yes. I am okay. Does Steven know?”
“He hears you,” his grim gaze drifts back to the mirror. “Sit back down, I’m not done with you.” 
You pat his chest gently when he stands too, close and towering, what should be intimidating. “Yes, you are,” you return firmly. “I’m going to make some tea. Do you drink tea, or is that a Steven thing?”
“Coffee, if you have it.”
You can’t help but smile. 
“We need to wrap your knee though,” he doesn’t let the injury go. “It might get infected.”
You glance down at the scrape, then at the worried frown on Marc’s face. “Shall I change first? That way I don’t just tear the bandage anyways taking these wet jeans off.” 
Marc eyes your wet clothes, the way you shiver, head tilting to the side, like he’s listening. 
He concedes with a nod. 
Marc watches you make a cup of tea for yourself and hesitate at the coffeemaker. 
He thinks for a moment that you hesitate because you’re realizing that if you start the pot, you won’t only have to wait for it to brew but for Marc to drink it. 
But when you turn, you only frown at him and ask, “Are you quite sure about the coffee? You won’t sleep. I have more than enough chamomile tea-,” 
“Coffee is fine.” 
You dip your head and turn back to the pot. 
Steven sighs, “You can let her take care of you too, Marc.” 
Marc ignores Steven, refuses to meet his gaze in the shining reflection of your toaster. 
He feels the bone-deep weariness creep up on him, crash over his shoulders, as you set a cup of coffee in front of him a few quiet minutes later. 
“Steven pokes fun at me for my sugar habit. But this is a judgment free zone so don’t be afraid to tell me how you take it.” 
Marc glances into the cup, black coffee staring back up at him. 
“Sugar and milk,” he says and watches you smile, the gauze wrapped around your neck making his skin prickle. 
He should have killed those men for daring to lie a hand on you. He glances at your wet duffle bag, dejectedly lying in a heap in the corner of the kitchen. “Sorry about your stuff.” 
“It’s just things,” you say, wincing as you sit down across from him, setting down a carton of milk and bowl of sugar with a spoon.
He tips his head to the side to glance at your scraped knee under the table, the wince not matching the injury. Had he missed something? Though he supposes you’re probably sore after being thrown to the ground. 
“It’s not that,” you say, tucking your legs beneath you on the chair. “I was sore anyways. I’m always sore from dance. I have a high pain tolerance from all the years of training. Tonight wasn’t actually the worst night of my life.” 
Before he can respond, his heart sinking with your words, you continue. “That’s a neat trick though,” you fling your arms out and then around in an imitation of how he’d circled the cape around you. “Handy.” 
“It’s bulletproof. Most of the time,” he says, spooning sugar into his coffee, then a dash of milk. 
“Very handy, then.” You watch him for a moment before your fingers tangle anxiously together. “You know, I really am okay. Please don’t feel like you need to stay.”
“Marc,” Steven says, “She thinks you hate her. Open up to her just a bit, yeah?” 
“I don’t hate you,” Marc says, ignoring the exasperated goan from Steven at his blunt response. “I don’t. And I’ll stay, for a while at least. You hit your head,” he reaches out and touches the bruise forming at your temple. He should have cut off their hands for that, broken each finger, twisted the ligaments out. “You might have a concussion,” he keeps his voice as level as he can.  
You nod and swallow, “Is Steven okay? I haven’t worried him too badly, have I?” 
Marc briefly closes his eyes, hearing all over again the screams of his headmate when Khonshu told them you were in danger. The force of his worry had almost forced Marc into the backseat, but he knew he was better suited to handle whatever was happening to you. 
That he could steal himself and deal. With this, he could deal, after all the years Steven had protected Marc from himself, from memories better forgotten. 
If something had happened to you…
“He’s okay,” Marc eventually answers, opening his eyes to find you watching him worriedly. “He was very worried about you.” 
“He knows I’m okay now?”
Marc sees Steven nodding at the back of your head sympathetically. “Yeah.” He licks his lips, takes a sip of the coffee, “I can…I can bring him out if you’d rather be with him.” 
You tilt your head to the side, like you’re considering it. “It’s okay. Not that I don’t want to see Steven, I do. I just…feel very safe at the moment. Maybe something to do with the cape.” You look away and take a sip of your tea. 
Steven is smirking in the toaster’s reflection, smug in a way that grinds at Marc’s nerves. 
The pair of you make no sense to Marc. 
“You into the cape, huh?”
“Oh, only a little. I wonder if your god would give me one.” Your eyes are sparkling, you’re teasing him and it makes his chest hurt in a pleasant way. 
But there was an idea Marc could get behind. Not that Khonshu would ever acquiesce. 
When you finish your tea, Marc shuffles you to the couch, prepared to watch over you for the night. 
You lie down, your legs tucked behind his back when he sits at the end of the sofa, like he’s familiar to you. And he supposes in a way he is, that you spend almost every evening together, despite his silence, and that you know the body he lives in. 
Marc flicks through the various streaming services on your TV, resting his other hand on your knee when you won’t stop squirming. 
“Hey,” he says, thumbing at your knee but not looking at you. “I know you’re okay now. But you might not be in a couple days, when the shock wears off. Takes time sometimes for something like that to catch up to you.” He squeezes your calf. “Let us know if that happens.” 
“Are you - both of you? Either of you?” 
His heart sinks just a little. “Yeah. Either. Both.” 
“Aw, Marc, I knew you liked her! I knew it!” Steven’s hands are folded over his heart, eyes wide and round. “Go on and kiss her!”
He will not be doing that. Knows that you wouldn’t welcome that. 
Instead he massages the flesh of your leg, and says, “Heat can help with muscle soreness. Do you have a heat pack somewhere?”
You turn on your back and put your feet in his lap, “Maybe. I’m okay like this for now.” You pull a blanket off the back of the sofa and drape it over both of you. 
He cups a hand around your socked ankle and says, “Don’t fall asleep.” He traces the delicate knob of bone beneath his touch. 
“Don’t think I could if I tried.” You go quiet for a moment, then say, “For the record, thank you. I’m really glad you’re staying with me.” 
The feeling that wells up in his chest almost chokes him. Marc can only nod, and even Steven stays silent for once at the wave of emotion that crashes through them both.
Part two is up now!
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psithurista · 2 months ago
pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, mentions of Steven Grant x F!Reader word count: 4.1k rating: Explicit 18+ warnings: Improper use of contact details in a workplace, brief mention of injuries, mentions of alcohol, oral sex (f receiving), protected PIV sex, brief overstimulation, some scratching. Anything I haven't flagged appropriately, please let me know x
an: My understanding of Marc and Steven's 'system' is that Marc is conscious of Steven's life, while Steven, as an alter, is not conscious of Marc's. This is an expansion of Marc's (maybe slightly selfish) attempts to assist with Steven's romantic life, based on the detail that Marc had apparently tried to set up a date for Steven without him realising. The reader is not aware of their disorder, and Marc doesn’t tell her, but she is aware that he is not Steven when she gives consent.
You stop by Steven's place one night after work. Somebody else answers his door.
part two
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Standing outside the door, you consider, once again, that you are not supposed to be here.
You weren’t supposed to work late tonight. You were supposed to leave with everyone else; get home early, get a good night’s sleep for once. You felt good about the decision—so good, in fact, you’d felt the tension melt away from your temples, leaving you free to sink comfortably into the embrace of the stack of didactic labels and exhibition programs spread in front of you.
It wasn’t until the clatter of a vacuum cleaner startled you back to reality that you’d finally looked up from your screen to find the entire office around you had faded to darkness; the rest of the archival team long gone.
In your frustrated subsequent rush to leave, you’d nearly missed it. Just barely managing to juggle your bag, your thermos and your keys, the little white rectangle on the floor leading out to the museum’s exit had looked like a piece of litter; nothing worth paying attention to. You couldn’t say what it was that had made you stop and clumsily crouch to pick it up.
It’s lucky you did. The black lanyard clipped to the top had been camouflaged by the carpet. Turning it over, you’d met the dark, sleepy-lidded gaze of Steven Grant. Of course. Out of every single staff member, he would be the person most likely to drop his ID card.
He’s also the person most likely to hold the door open for you, or stop and help pick up a folder full of dropped papers, or to dash out into the street to give you his umbrella—this being the most recent example, having only happened a few weeks before.
You’d developed something of a crush on him; drawn in by his sweet nature and earnestness—his animatedly bright love for the exhibits that of a first-time visitor, not a man who sees them day in and day out. And, secretly, you’d stifled more than one undignified snort at his cheesy jokes; though nobody else had seemed to find them funny.
You’d shoved it down, trying not to feel too wounded by the nervous, stunned way he’d waved before skirting around you in the halls at work, or stumbled over his words, hurrying off with his shoulders hunched after you’d wished him a good morning one day as you passed the gift shop. He didn’t seem to want to talk to you. And that’s fine. You’d left him alone, even as you still harboured your soft spot for him.
Sweet, absent-minded, gentle…and on his absolute final warning. You’d overheard as much just this morning when Donna was tearing him a new one for inexplicably missing an entire week’s worth of work, while he’d stammered some flimsy apology about being sick in bed.
You should just leave the ID card on the counter of the gift shop. He can pick it up in the morning. Never mind that Donna will probably be in earlier than he will, and find it first…and drag him over the coals again.
You’d stood there, deliberating, chewing your lip, remembering the way he’d looked that afternoon as you’d slipped silently into the break room to make a cup of tea. Slumped sleepily over the table; a library book in one hand, a falafel wrap in the other. Wearing colourful, mismatched socks; a dark, loose curl hanging across his forehead.
So, your second poorly-considered move of the night: breaching privacy policy. Well intentioned or not, you definitely weren’t supposed to access the staff directory to find his home address.
Now, outside the door, you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Looking down the street, you feel cold and nervous. Should you ring the buzzer again? Maybe it’s broken. Maybe he doesn’t even live here anymore. Maybe he’s moved and forgotten to update his records.
Then a click, and a quiet beep. Bewildered, you test the door to the building, and find it’s been unlocked.
Okay. You take a hesitant step forward, then pause. He’s inviting you up. Right? He unlocked the door; he must be inviting you up. The foyer is empty as you step inside, brutally self-conscious.
“Oh, God, Steven,” you mutter to yourself, shut safely in the lift. “Please don’t report me to HR for this.”
By the time the doors open on his floor, you’ve almost convinced yourself to turn around and head straight home. It’s sheer force of will that gets your feet moving, one in front of the other, until you’re at his door. You just need to slip the ID under the gap and leave him to it.
You kneel to do just this, when the door swings open. You’re face to face with a pair of knees, and your gaze travels upward, your face tilting.
He leans his weight comfortably to one side, his arm propped against the doorjamb, a faint smile playing around his lips as he looks down at you. You swallow.
He looks…hot. There’s no other word for it. You can’t tell what’s changed, exactly…he looks no less exhausted, but he seems to be wearing it remarkably well. The shadows underneath his heavily-lidded eyes accentuate their darkness; their depth.
Gone is the hideously baggy jacket he was wearing at work, as is the novelty-print button down. Instead, a dark, form-fitting shirt stretches tight across his chest, pushed up to bare his toned forearms.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You open your mouth, close it again. You hurriedly stand, awkwardly straightening your skirt back down over your thighs. “Um. Hi, sorry, I wasn’t going to disturb you.”
He grins; a flash of white. “You’re not disturbing me.”
You blink, confused. His voice sounds…off. Is he making fun of you? Is that an accent? He’s still considering you, his expression open and vaguely amused. You can’t remember why you’re here. Has he always had such high cheekbones?
“Would you like a drink?”
You stare at him, stupidly. “Huh?”
He tilts his chin, gesturing back into the flat behind him, but his eyes don’t leave your face. “I was about to make a drink. You want to join me?”
This is not the response you’d expected. You swallow again, feeling a little hot. “I. Um. Sure.”
He steps aside to let you in. His flat is dim and cluttered; books and decor piled haphazardly on every surface. It’s not an entirely unpleasant overall effect, you consider, peering around. The warm lamplight makes it feel cosy; almost like a tiny jazz bar.
You plonk your bag on top of a leather-bound collection of translated poetry, digging through it. “I have your ID card. You dropped it. And I thought…well, I didn’t want you to get in trouble again. You don’t deserve the way Donna speaks to you.”
“Thanks, that’s really nice of you,” he says, distractedly. “Just leave it anywhere.”
You drape the lanyard over the back of a chair, and wander off to snoop at his profusion of stuff.
“Old-fashioned? Or G&T?” he says, the top of his curls sticking out from the open door of a low cabinet, half-tucked behind a bookcase.
You turn away from the glowing fish tank in front of you, something tickling in the back of your mind. You step toward him, frowning. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
He stands, and places two glasses on top of the counter. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you said you didn’t. At the Christmas party.”
He nods to himself, as though he’d forgotten, turning and leaning against the counter. You creep another step closer, your eyes narrowed. He’s looking at you with a directness you find slightly disconcerting. You can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the bow of his top lip. His posture, his voice…
He’s not just hot. He’s gorgeous. Exuding confidence. Some shift in his body language; a certain quirk of an eyebrow here, the timbre of his voice there…it’s difficult to believe this is the same guy you once busted crying over a dog video in the break room. He’d denied it, of course, scrubbing his hands over his face, but you’d been able to tell. Even the way he blinks is different; slower, easier, calmer.
It hits you like a freight train. “Holy shit,” you breathe. Somehow…impossibly…this isn’t Steven at all. “Who are you?”
His lips are pressed together thoughtfully, still slightly lifted into an easy little smile. As he speaks, he leans in, tucking a loose wisp of your hair behind your ear. “You can call me whatever you want, beautiful.”
You’re utterly thrown off. “Oh. Thank you. Um. You’re…beautiful too.” You laugh, nervously, swaying toward him. Internally, you cringe. What are you saying? Heat muddles your head; creeps out to the tips of your toes and fingers. You wet your lower lip with your tongue, still staring helplessly at his mouth. “But I don’t understand. Are you…his brother?” I don’t care, you think, dizzy. He called you beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful.
“It’s a little hard to explain,” he says, his face close to yours.
You feel like your insides are liquefying. “Okay,” you breathe, your voice embarrassingly weak, “so expla—”
His lips meet yours, and you let out a strange little squeaking noise. He kisses firmly, almost with an insistence, but it’s slow. His lips coaxing yours apart, the heat of his breath, his tongue, softening your entire body.
Your knees wobble worryingly, and he smooths his hand down your back, holding you against him as you bend weakly in his arms. He walks you backward, across the flat, humming a low note of amusement into your open mouth as you stumble over the lip of a rug.
When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, you drop gracelessly onto your ass, panting up at him. “Is this…are we really doing this?” you manage, your face hot.
The extent of your secret daydreams had seen you cosying up with Steven on a cool afternoon, peeking over his shoulder to see what he was reading, or curling your fingers around his underneath the table at that cute vegan bakery down the road from your place, oat lattes in front of each of you. You never got quite this far.
He leans over you, tilting his head, brushing his lips across your jaw. “That’s up to you.”
Your heart is thrumming in your throat, and you reach for him, wanting to feel him under your fingers. He feels solid enough. Okay. “Okay.” You nod, biting your lip, spreading your knees as far as your tight work skirt will allow.
He lowers himself to his knees, catching first one foot in his hand, then the other, coolly easing off your shoes and dropping them to the floor with a pair of low clacks.
You gawp down at him, positive that your eyes are comically wide. But he just continues smiling privately to himself, coasting his hands up the outsides of your thighs, shucking your skirt up, finding the edges of your underwear.
“Do you…want me to help?” you gasp, feeling awkward, unsure whether you should stand up to let him slide them off. He doesn’t answer, lifting your ass in his palms, rolling your underwear off in a fluid, practised movement.
He knows what he’s doing. Clearly. You don’t need to help him out. You didn’t think it was possible to feel any hotter, but with this realisation, you’re suddenly on fire. Your skin prickles; leaving you feeling slick and overly sensitive.
His nose brushes the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs apart. “Oh my God,” you hear yourself say, flopping onto your back. Warm breath fans over your skin, and then his lips; dragging lightly, the feel of his tongue pressing gently into the soft give of your leg.
As he works higher, your breaths grow shorter. He’s barely even started yet, and he has you shifting your legs, squirming into the bed. His hands gently encircle your knees, holding them apart, and you hear the quietly wet glisten as he spreads you open. You make an undignified little choking sound. “Doing alright up there?” he drawls, his strange accent resonant.
The sound of his voice alone has you squeezing your cunt in anticipation. “Um, yeah. Doing…doing well. Thank you. How about you?” You wrinkle your nose, staring up into the shadowy beams of the ceiling, wishing they’d come tumbling down to crush you. He’s too smooth. You’re embarrassing yourself. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
He laughs quietly. “Yeah, I’m good.” Then his nose meets your cunt, and you lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.
He closes his lips around your clit, his mouth hot and close. His tongue rolls against you, steady and skilful, and you rock your hips unconsciously up to chase his movement, bumping into his nose.
This feels nothing like the clumsy, half-hearted efforts you’ve experienced in the past. This is masterful; attentive, glorious. Better than your own fingers. Better than your vibrator. You’re already seeing stars.
He grips your thighs, pinning you in place while you whimper and gasp. You can feel his jaw working as he drags each little sound out of you; every movement unhurried but deliberate. You crane your neck down to watch; his thick curls tickling at your sensitive inner thighs.
You jolt as you meet his gaze. While the entire lower half of his face is pressed between your legs, you find his attention still fixed to your face; his eyes inscrutable. You have the crazed, ridiculous urge to wave down at him, even as your legs begin to shake and cramp with the tension of holding still. It would be such a Steven move, you think.
He works firmer, and you choke out a tiny curse, grasping fistfuls of the sheets. It might be because your thoughts have drifted, but it’s at that moment you notice the tiny scar just above his left eyebrow. You know exactly where he got it: walking dozily into the edge of a packing crate down in the collection stores. You remember it vividly. You’d even had to write up the incident report for it while he’d dug a bandaid out of the first-aid kit at the security desk.
So…he is? But he isn’t, he can’t be. You’re so confused. You’re too far gone to figure it out.
The pleasure is winding tighter, and your leg jerks alarmingly in his grip as your abdominal muscles tense to the point of breathlessness. Your head swims from lack of air, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath, sucking in a frantic lungful just as time stops around you.
You cry out wordlessly as you come, suspended in the moment, arching up off the bed even as he calmly pins you in place.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod…” You don’t even realise you’re saying anything until he’s climbing up over you onto the bed, grinning again, pressing his finger to your lips.
“I know, I know. Shh,” he says, his humour palpable. You can’t seem to get enough air in, and you shake your head at him, your eyes wide.
“Oh my God,” you finish, breathless.
He traces the outline of your breasts through your work shirt, still buttoned to the top. “You want to keep goi—”
“Yes,” you interrupt, already reaching down to yank your shirt from where it’s tucked in under your rumpled skirt. “Yes, keep going, Ste—whoever you are.”
He shifts your hands away, opening your shirt far faster and with more dexterity than you would’ve managed. One-handed, he pulls his own shirt over his head, and you stare at the lean muscle of his torso; scarred and toned and beautiful.
The thought of Steven caring enough to cultivate a body like this seems laughable. His chest muscles flex as he kicks his pants down. So, this is your answer. Your heart lurches uncomfortably. This feels like a betrayal, despite the fact that there’s nothing going on between you and Steven.
And yet, the man now tossing your bra over the side of the bed looks so much like him. You dart a not-very-subtle glance down, and see his cock is hard, flushed, thick. Beautiful. Awestruck and filled with renewed heat, you trace the edge of his bicep with your fingertip. “Do…do you think it’s okay? Doing this? In his bed?”
He shrugs. “Well. Technically, it’s my bed.” He places a strange, ironic emphasis on ‘my’, then stretches up to reach toward the nightstand.
Nothing is awkward about him. Even ripping open the condom, rolling it over the length of his cock, shifting his weight onto his knees over you. Every movement fluid, easy; like that of a man who trusts his body implicitly. It’s unsettling, but it’s unbearably sexy.
He gently cups your face, his thumb stroking across your lower lip. “Still good?”
You nod, and he tilts his hips forward, and you exhale breathily as he slowly eases you open.
“That feels…oh,” you groan, dazed. He sinks deeper, angling himself downward, and you could swear your eyes roll back.
He’s nodding slowly, gently easing himself back before sinking back in, deeper than before. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. God, you’re pretty. No wonder he likes you so much.”
You don’t have time to figure that out before he’s rocking into you again, more smoothly this time. He cups your breast, groaning quietly, and you let your head tilt limply back as he begins to set a steady, beautiful rhythm.
Your bones feel like melted caramel; thick and syrupy and warm. He feels perfect inside you; the ridge around the head of his cock stroking at your g-spot, even through the layer of latex.
Your grasping hands are curling and uncurling in the covers, when you find the edge of what feels like a bicycle chain lock with a buckle at the end. You turn your head to the side to squint at it, shaking it free and finding the other end affixed to the column at the foot of the bed. You blink at it. “Is this…?”
“You should probably ignore that,” he murmurs, covering your lips with his own. He tastes of you, tangy and slippery. You moan weakly into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist, reaching up to feel the softness of his hair. The bed thuds hollowly against the bookcase behind it with the force of his movements inside you.
He stays deep. Barely withdrawing; grinding himself inside you. You aren’t sure whether it feels any good for him. But God, it feels good for you. He noses along your jaw, his lips at your neck, gathering your limp body up into his arms to hold you close.
You’d like to be more engaged. Pull your weight a little. Make him feel as incredible as he’s making you feel. But you’re too pleasure-drunk; floppy and lazy and warm underneath the weight of him. The best you can manage is a lifting of your hips to meet his, and he pauses, letting you clumsily work out your own disjointed rhythm. “Can I…? I’d like to…” you trail off, unsure what you’re even asking for.
But he seems to understand all the same. He shifts to the side, gripping your hips and taking you with him as he turns onto his back, until you’re straddling his waist, his cock seated deep inside you.
It’s immediately even better. You gasp down at him, and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, a faint sheen on his forehead. “S’this what you wanted?” he murmurs.
You nod, encouraged, and lift your weight onto your knees before sinking yourself down onto his length. This time, he’s the one who groans. It travels straight to your cunt, and you clench around him, the feeling exquisite.
“Careful with that,” he breathes, his hands on your waist, holding you steady. “You’ll make me…oh, fuck—”
You hadn’t meant to do it again, but it’s hard to control yourself. Everything feels incredible. Grinding yourself down onto him, sheathed all the way to the base, where his neatly trimmed dark curls are already stuck damp to his skin with a combination of sweat and your arousal.
You rock your weight back and forth just a little faster; the movement catching at your breath, and your head drops limply forward as you brace your hands onto his chest.
There’s too much blood pounding in your brain. You feel dizzy and desperate, riding down harder, your inner thighs tensing with the movement. You feel as though you’ve been there for hours, but it hardly matters; it’s good, you think, the softness of your breasts rippling upwards with each bounce, it’s so good, so good…
Too soon, you can feel yourself reaching a renewed peak and, needy with the sensation, you chase it down, your legs cramping with your sustained effort. You can feel yourself growing weaker; trembling with exertion and overwhelming pleasure.
You feel as though you’re racing your own stamina toward your release, whimpering brokenly, grinding yourself down. It’s an awful thought; you’re desperate to continue, but your movements are losing their rhythm; too weak to continue. You can’t bear to stop, but you have no choice.
He doesn’t let you.
Seizing the softness of your ass in both hands, he drags you back and forth against him, forcing you to keep riding, even after you’re too weak to move yourself. You could be a toy in his hands as he pulls you onto his cock; thrusting up into you, gritting out something obscene as his cock twitches inside you.
You can tell he’s growing close, and the thought is enough to nearly push you over your own edge again. He fucks you harder now; your head rocking back on your shoulders, and your cries are softer, more breathless as your entire body tenses.
Your orgasm crashes over you, near-violent, and instead of slowing, he speeds up, forcing you toward immediate overstimulation as his hips smack up against your slick skin. You mindlessly sink your nails into his chest, hard enough to break the skin.
His brows draw together and he hisses, long and harsh, and you’re worried you’ve hurt him, but then he curses, his hips stuttering as he empties himself into the thin layer of latex separating you.
Panting, you unpeel yourself from his hot skin, slumping onto your side on the bed. He reaches over, mindlessly stroking his hand along the length of your side, down to the swell of your hip.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” you say, your attention caught on the way his hair sticks in ringlets around his ears. “I’ve never done that before. Jumped into bed with someone I’ve only just met.”
“Mmm,” he returns, his palm gentle on your skin, dark eyes lazily half-lidded. “Have we? Only just met, I mean?”
You frown at him, bewildered. You don’t know how to answer that.
When you stand, your bare feet hit the cool wood floor at the foot of the bed; weirdly grainy, as though in need of a thorough clean. You shake out your bra before you put it back on, sand skittering out of the cups. He stays reclined, watching as you straighten your skirt and tuck your now-wrinkled shirt back in.
He slips out of the bed behind you, stepping back into his pants, leaving his chest bare. As he walks you to the door, you realise your nails have left painful-looking little crescent moon-shaped cuts in his skin. They’ll probably fade after a few days, you tell yourself, but you feel slightly guilty all the same.
You need the loo, but you’re too shy to ask. You itch to get home and mentally sort through the events of the night. As though in a dream, you turn to leave without saying goodbye. But he catches your elbow, pausing you just outside the door. “He doesn’t know how to show you, or tell you. But he likes you. A lot. Give him a chance.”
It should be a wildly strange thing for him to say, considering what you’ve just done together, but in the context of the entire nights’ disjointed, unreal sense of overall strangeness, you know precisely what he means. Your heart swells in your chest, and you nod, shy, a tiny smile lifting your lips.
“I’ll, um. See you around,” you tell him, not knowing if that’s true.
You wait until you’re back in the lift before you slip your shoes off to shake out the loose grains of sand still stuck to the bottom of your feet.
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charnelhouse · 2 months ago
keep your vigils on the road
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Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, Marc Spector x F!Reader, a third pairing ;) Wordcount: 4.2K Warnings: Explicit AF. Rough smut. Gore. Oral. Mental Health Strugs. Choking. Summary: They're on the run. It's kind of a vacation. A/N: potential spoilers for Moon Knight and future episodes if my guess is correct.
Steven’s on the run. 
He should have known that it was going to lead to this. His life is in tatters. It has erupted quite spectacularly. He’s wanted for multiple murders that he didn’t commit. 
The thing is - Marc didn’t either. 
“Wear this,” you instruct, passing a baseball cap into his hands. Your voice is gentle and soothing as rain. He misses the London rain. He misses those lush hilltops of England. The sand here is baked. The air is dry and smells like toasted crackers. He’s wading in deep water here. 
Then again - he never thought he’d be in America. He never thought he’d be driving cross country with a girl so completely out of his league it’s almost silly. 
“Treat this as a vacation,” you advise him. He’s positive you’re telling Marc something else. He’s positive you are trying to keep him from the truth about how dire their situation is. 
All he understands is that you have deep pockets and connections in high places. You’re able to get them fake passports and bundles of money. There are safehouses dotted across the USA that they are burning through. “We have to keep moving,” you sigh as you scroll through your phone - as you chew your lip when you read another mysterious message. “No more than two weeks per spot, maybe three if we don’t cause a ripple.”
“How would we cause a ripple?”
“Murdering more people.”
“Alright,” Steve nods. “Well - we’ll be on our best behavior, yeah?”
“I’m not worried about you, Steven,” you remark in such a way that it makes his heart flutter. He doesn’t really think about the implication that his other would - indeed - murder more people.
Their landscape changes continuously. The mountains to the desert. Oceanside. Lakeside. A forest. A canyon. Hot springs. Waterfalls.
“Never thought I’d see any of this,” Steven  murmurs as they watch the orange sun spill down the back of Mount Rainier. It turns the snow the color of juice. “Mental,” he adds as an afterthought - after his fractured brain puts together all of the events that have led him here. The Jackal and then Egypt and the failed mission and then all the death and coming to drenched in blood that was so thick it felt like syrup. He had left a trail of bodies in his wake. A nest of limbs and blank, slack faces. I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry I didn’t-didn’t -
And then everything hit him. The corpses. The scent of iron and cordite and piss. There was a distinct aroma to death. Steven never thought’d he’d have to learn that and yet…
What’d I do? What’d I do? What - how? Marc?
It wasn’t me! Fuck - this is not good. This - this is really -
It was you who had jumped into action. “Calm down,” you ordered in that firm, kind voice you had. “I’ve got this.”
You had whisked Steven off into some back room under a Cairo hostel. “Trust me,” you assured him. “Trust me. I have people I can call.”
He doesn’t remember the flight to the states. The journey flickered between Marc and him and it was the first time he wished that he didn’t have the body.  Instead - Steven was stuck swallowing his own tongue and heartbeat as the tiny plane you ordered bounced and jerked.
Five hours in, Marc finally reappeared in the plane’s bathroom. He was eyeing him over the sink, his figure blurred by multiple fingerprints.
“Finally showed up then?” Steven spat. “Think I’m gonna be sick.”
Marc ignored him. “I’ve been going over this - over everything.”
“Yeah. And?”
“There has to be another.”
“Another what?”
“Another us.”
In America, Marc calls you baby. For him, this really is a vacation.
Khonshu has been unnaturally quiet, bubbling at a low hum in the depths of his body. The mission failed. He failed and Khonshu has nothing more to say. He’s brooding. He’s out of ideas. It does not matter. He does not have to think too fast about how to fix the cracks. He’s been alive for thousands of years. He is good at waiting.
There are no people for Marc to fight. There are no sewers he must climb down or villains to defeat in alleyways. He’s running for his life and yet it is so much better than the day in and day out curse of being Khonshu’s fist of justice. 
Plus - he’s playing outlaw with you. He’s a fugitive with you. They’re mostly fucking around rather than laying low, which is probably not a good idea, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters that much anymore. 
You and Marc go to a rundown bar called Black Kettle in Carmel and makeout like hormonal teenagers. The music is all from eighties hair bands and the regulars keep to themselves, actively trying to ignore the way he gropes you. You’re nearly in his lap and he keeps slipping on the peeling leather booth. His hand clasps the nape of your neck as his tongue slides warm and deep into your mouth.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he growls between kisses and under the shriek of Axl Rose and Woah-oh-oh-oh! Sweet child o’mine. He senses Steven watching them in the reflection of a butter knife. He doesn’t really mind.
The ceiling is covered in a vine-tangle of Christmas lights. Paper stars hang from rafters. He touches you over your jeans - pushing his thumb against the zipper as you grind into it. “Don’t tease,” you pout, your nails skating the back of his scalp - catching in his mop of curls. He hasn’t cut his hair in an age. He’s barely shaved and his stubble rasps across your chin and jaw leaving your skin chafed to a near-ache. 
“Bathroom?” he asks because he’s so hard that he might just blow before he gets inside you. 
“Beach,” you counter and then they’re out of that bar and flying down the street. He’s got his hand in yours as he drags you toward the dark band of the coast. 
The sand is white-soft. It feels like walking on silk. He is careful with you. He is nothing like what he usually is. He’s not rough or demanding. He coaxes. He seduces. He tugs off your pants and underwear and lifts your pelvis to his mouth where he slicks his tongue through the seam of your sex. He laps and suckles as you writhe and cry out. His hands cup your ass. He feeds himself all the while murmuring how good you taste and how stunning you are and how he is happy. 
He plants his forearms on either side of your head. He braces his weight as you grasp around his cock and guide him inside you. It’s tight and burning hot. You are soaked from his tongue. He fucks you first in shallow thrusts - three inches in before he draws all the way out. You cling to his shoulders, your thighs framing his hips. 
“Please, Marc,” you beg. Your eyes wide and striking beneath the cool sheen of a crescent moon, the continuous crash of the surf not far from his feet. 
“More?” He drops his head and noses at your cheek and then into your hair where he smells sunscreen and salt water taffy. They ate so much ice cream earlier that you’d had to lie down for an hour and what a blessing it had been - to have the ability to do nothing. “Do you need more?”
You nod frantically - desperately trying to raise your hips for more friction. He grins as he delivers a sharper stroke - one that seems to hit the back of your cunt and force an oh from your throat. He crushes his mouth to yours until his breath is your breath - until your whimpers are his - and every sheathe to the hilt stretches you - molds your body around his shaft. You’re mine. You’re ours. He plucks your clit and your walls go unforgivably tight - so tight his release bombards him - shatters him, causing him to finish before he can pull out. It’s over - oozing from your pussy and rather than panic, he just uses his fingers to plug it back in. A strange feral sort of marking. 
“Not smart,” you chide.
“I’m an idiot,” he says before lowering his head to taste himself and how you flavor him.
Marc talks to Steven in the mirror or Steven talks to Marc. Just depends. There’s blocks of white space between them, you see? There are definite moments where they are both blind and deaf to whatever their body is doing.
There’s a third alter. A third man. The same one who had to have committed all those murders back in Egypt and then London and then Turkey. 
“Why don’t we just ask her?” Steven hates being in the ether - the muddled world between reality where he must wait. It’s gotten easier. It’s gotten less heavy, but it’s still unpleasant. 
Marc wraps his fingers around the porcelain rim of the sink. His knuckles turn bone-white. “I don’t know. She hasn’t brought it up so maybe she doesn’t even realize it’s someone else.”
“A little fucked if she thinks that we killed those people, innit?”
“She’s - she’s just a very forgiving person.”
It’s true. You have a whole life that they really don’t know about. They don’t even remember how they first met you. You had simply slipped into their routine - not even blinking at the fact that he was a vigilante in a moon-bright cape and Steven worked in a gift shop, but could decipher ancient texts in under a minute.
You had resources. You had numbers to call. He woke up covered in blood from a new slaughter and you simply pulled him into the shower and washed it from his skin.
Marc stares down at you as water sluices between your tits - dampening the soft curls above your cunt. He notices the water cling to your lashes and catch on your bottom lip. 
“Hold still,” you order as you drag a wash cloth across his chest, down his arms, between his fingers and legs. He stares in wonder - in shock. You glance up at him, pausing as you register the look on his face.
“Why are you here? Why are you doing this? You should get out…I’m…fuck I’m dangerous.”
You drop the cloth and cradle his cheeks. You tug him down and he goes willingly and the kiss is dirty and innocent at the same time. His mouth move furiously against yours. Your nails dig into his face. He lifts you up with all of his magic strength and holds you against the wall and with one quick thrust, he’s inside you. 
“You’re not dangerous,” you sigh and he fucks you harder.
Steven doesn’t mind the safehouse in California. They’re in a place called Riverside where the air is stamped with the scent of citrus. There are lemon trees. Orange and tangerine trees. Old Spanish style architecture. Mexican fan palms that brush up against the powder blue sky. Bougainvillea the color of magenta and peach-pink. The buildings here are newer than in London. Nothing like Egypt. 
It doesn’t seem to matter though. He spends his days in the house with you. He goes hours with his mouth on your pussy and yours on his cock in some yin and yang position where they curl around each other. The house is secluded away in the hills. One-story. Easy escape routes. 
He sleeps well here when he’s in control of his own body. He enjoys wrapping himself around your back as the air conditioning ticks and rumbles. The heat is unforgiving. The sand is closer to dirt and it sticks to his tongue and in his nose. His skin goes golden brown. You pick up Yorkshire Gold and it reeks of home.
Still - he would rather be here with you.
He holds you in the shower, his cheek resting on the rounded curve of your shoulder. He’s already hard, cock nudging against your inner thigh. The shower is lukewarm as it pelts them. The humid wet-air inside this tiny tile box smells like your fancy jasmine shampoo and eucalyptus and ivory soap. You thread your fingers through his curls, gently tugging on it as his hands coast down your back and then the hump of your ass. He knows every part of you now. He knows how deep he can sink his tongue. He knows how to curl his fingers just right. He knows how to kiss you and it’s not how Marc kisses. He uses less tongue and more pressure.
He wouldn’t mind living in you. He wouldn’t mind devouring you in some pseudo-Kronus way or maybe you could devour him and he could be your rib. After all, he has never felt safer than when he is with you. You always have the answers. You always know what to say when his world gets disturbingly small.
Should he ask you about the third man? Would that break the spell of this? You letting him hold you under the sheeting spray of cool water. 
Marc comes to with blood in his mouth. He scans the room where there is absolute wreckage. Broken furniture. Wispy white stuffing spilling from tears in fabric-covered cushions. The tv is a smoking mess as it lies silently on the floor. The screen cracked. 
Something burns in his palm and when he glances down, he grimaces. There’s a gun in his hand, his thumb idly stroking the barrel. He drops it abruptly and it clatters.
There’s a dead man on the floor. The top of his head blown clean off. Red is soaking into the cheap linoleum. He shouts your name, panicking.
“Here,” you call from behind. Your voice is weak and hoarse. When he turns, he finds you huddled against the wall. Your hand rests on your throat, your lashes fluttering.
“They broke in,” you explain. You are very far away. Your stare is somewhere else. The dead man is not a policeman. He is not FBI. He’s in all black with a red emblem on his chest.
“There are - there are two more in the bedroom.” 
“Did they hurt you?” Marc’s tone is blisteringly harsh. He is both confused and pissed off. He doesn’t like this. His hands itchy with blood and the house covered in a thin film of dead bodies. 
“No,” you say and he knows you’re lying. There’s subtle swelling beneath your eye, but he won’t point it out. At least, not tonight.
He gazes down at the body. Just a body. Just an unknown. There are others after them, then. He puts that much together. He isn’t just running from the law or the government or - whatever 
“That wasn’t me,” Steven announces from his reflection in the shattered television screen. “Must have been the other one.”
“Must have been,” Marc says under his breath.
“This place is compromised.” You rise up on unsteady feet. You square your shoulders and shove yourself away from the wall. It’s quick - a flickering shift in your expression that now means you are ready to plan and strategize and move forward as opposed to back. You never go back. You never think of what they have left in their wake. “I’ll get the car ready. You pack.”
You drive fast. Rubber squealing and burning underneath the tires. They’ll have to ditch this vehicle for another. It’s never really an issue. He knows that you carry credit cards that are connected to a mystery source. Infinite funds. 
You punch the radio on and it’s The Wallflowers. It’s Third Eye Blind. It’s James Taylor. It’s Donna Summer. In the rearview mirror, Steven mutters about wanting Coldplay. Marc twists the knob to another station and something ruthless and jerky spills out. Something modern. Alternative. 
“Who is he?” Marc finally asks. 
You lift one perfect eyebrow as you shoot him a sidelong glance. “Who?”
Your fingers are clenched around the steering wheel and you’re flooring the gas as they go into the deep blue-black horizon of another territory. There’s another mountain range. There’s cacti. There’s sand. There’s husk-dry craters where there once were lakes. There’s a new city. A gas station. There’s the moon.
“Don’t play dumb.” 
You are silent for what feels like hours, but is probably just a minute. You inhale sharply as if you’ve been stabbed before you release a long, winding breath. “Jake.”
“Jake?” he repeats before he starts wracking his brain for any sort of memory of a “Jake”. How can he be unaware? How can he not know about another person in his head or in his body or in his bones?
“He was the first,” you tell him. “The first one I met and then it was you and then it was Steven.” 
That explains the rest. How easily you picked up after “Jake” tore a violent hole through various countries. How you adapted to Marc and Steven.
“He’s a killer,” Marc says.
You bristle. “Pot. Kettle.”
“I kill bad people.”
“He does, too,” you snap. Your gaze is still hard on the road. “He might just be a bit…reckless.”
There’s nothing else to say. Marc settles into the passenger seat and keeps glancing up into the rearview mirror, in case “Jake” decides to make his appearance.  
You drum your fingers over the steering wheel. The headlights burn neon-streaks across the shadowy highway. It’s desolate out here. It’s empty. He opens the window, he needs some air. The wind burns its mouth across his cheekbone - it ruffles his hair. His chest is tight. 
Finally, Marc lifts his arm and touches your cheek. “Are you safe with him?”
He’s seen what Jake can do. He’s seen the broken things he has left in his wake. “Yes,” you reply, leaning sweetly into Marc’s palm. “He’d never hurt me.”
His hand slides from your cheek to your hip to your thigh. You’re still in a sundress because it’s spring in the West. There’s a spot of blood under your eye from those three corpses now rotting in their Riverside house. 
Was it a house though? Was it their home? For a minute, perhaps. Now home is the road and the car and you sitting beside him.
The hills are dark and bald. The sun has not yet risen. You spread your legs and he moves his hand further until his knuckles meet the cloth of your panties. He curls three fingers around the crotch of the fabric before tentatively grazing his fingertip through the slit of your sex. He is murderously slow. He is lazy about it. He watches your face as he strokes your cunt. He gloats at the way you bite your lip and the furrow between your brows and still - you do not beg him. 
“Just fucking do it!”
A ragged, coarse voice - not Steven’s - bursts from the rearview mirror. Marc jerks and he looks up, but there is nothing there aside from the reflection of the dark night at their backs. 
He frowns and then glances at you. There’s recognition in your expression. There’s a knowing. Did he come to say something? Did he come to speak to you, Marc?
Marc glares before leaning forward and latching his mouth to your throat, he shoves two of his fingers inside you and your foot goes down on the gas. It jolts them both and he does not let up. He finger fucks you ruthlessly - your pussy making wet, sucking noises with each thrust. Your hips buck and your head falls backward and he bites the vein in your neck. Low, broken noises sound from his chest as he fills you up - as he jams himself inside you to the knuckle.
“Let me make you come,” he grunts. “Let me make you feel it. Pretty fucking baby. I love how tight you are - how wet you get.”
You gasp softly - elegantly - like a maiden. A wisp of a moan. You’ve got your hands on the wheel and your foot nowhere near the brake and it’s all calm on that front aside from your pussy clamping down on his fingers.
“She likes it when you twist your fingers up and rub that patch behind her clit.”
It’s that stranger’s voice in his head - in the mirror. Marc doesn’t look. 
“C’mon, Marc. Make our “pretty baby” come.”
It’s mocking. It’s mean. Still - he does what it says and the effect is instantaneous. You break out with a high-pitched oh and then you’re wetting his hand - the seat. You’re gushing like a fountain and Marc can’t quite believe it. He draws his fingers from you and puts them in your mouth. It’s an act he’s never done before and yet he feels as if he has. You wrap your tongue around them - taste your own salt. 
Afterward, you fuck him in the backseat and you’re still shivering from the climax. You’re warm and cold at once. You hold his head to your tit and, at some point, Steven takes over. He rests his cheek above your nipple that he’s sucked raw. He listens to the subtle thrum of your heartbeat. 
“Don’t leave,” he pleads as you ride him, hips rolling back and forth on his thighs and his cock buried balls deep. “I couldn’t bear it.”
You pause and stare down at him. “Why would I leave you?”
It’s because there’s a new wrench thrown into the mix. This other. This Jake. Steven knows the world with Marc. He gets Marc. But this other one is something entirely different. Scary.
“I don’t know,” he says - averting his eyes. “I have a bad feeling.”
You sigh, gripping his face between your hands and kissing him so hard, their teeth click. “I wouldn’t. I’d never.”
Steven has never felt so physically present in his life than right then. He’s got you around him hot and tight as a fist. He’s got your softness and your kindness and your love if he dares to dream it. You had told him once - in the very beginning - that you had found him both utterly sweet and oblivious. Totally harmless.
It had hurt him initially. It was obvious that you saw Marc as a worthy partner while Steven was forever characterized as the bumbling fool. The worm.
“I thought that,” you continued. “I believed that until you’d start speaking in French or Mandarin and then solving ancient Egyptian puzzles. How you spoke of the stars and history and it was - fuck Steven - it came out of you with such conviction and it was so obvious how special you were.”
Steven isn’t sure when this journey will stop. He isn’t sure when he will return to London and the warmth of that loft. The hundreds of books. The pages crisp and lined. His thin mattress and ankle restraints. 
He deepens their kiss. He doesn’t mind going North. He doesn’t mind at all. He stops fretting about the lack of rain.
They see flashes of Jake. They see him with you in mirrors. He is tense and angular. He is a bit laissez-faire except when it’s just easier to kill someone than leave them to the crows. They never have full conversations. He seems to only really come front and center to speak to you or fuck you or both. 
Does he not like us? Steven grumbles. Bit of a bastard, yeah?
Marc agrees. 
Marc and Steven watch as he bends you over the sink in the shitty motel bathroom. His pupils are pitch dark as he meets their twin glares in the mirror. His hips snap against your ass with the inexorable sound of sweat-slick flesh meeting flesh. Again and again. You groan as his hand grasps the nape of your neck like a collar. He uses it to anchor you - to hold you still as he continues to ram into your pussy - filling you up. Sometimes he tugs your head back so he can kiss you slow and rough with his eyes wide open and directed at Steven and Marc. 
He is silent. He is always silent. Haughty and smug as you come on his cock. He spreads the lips of your cunt so he can flick his thumb over the tiny bundle of nerves. You go boneless, collapsing into the sink and he wraps his arms around you, hauls you to his chest. 
“It’s alright,” he coaxes as he carries you out of the bathroom and drops you on the ugly, flowered bed. “It’s alright, princess. Jake’s got you.”
And then he kisses you all over, stretching you, kneading you, licking you messily beneath the mirrored ceiling in the trashiest room they could find in Nevada. 
“Stop antagonizing,” you finally chide once you are limp and sated. You roll away from him and onto your stomach. He grabs your hips and lifts them so that he can stuff his face between your legs from behind. He inhales crudely. His eyes glinting at the ceiling while the others stare down.
You are an obsession for Jake. You are a lover for Marc. A dream for Steven. 
You are not easy to possess because even when one of them does have you, you are still split into thirds One slice for each of them. Now, it is a group of three (and Khonshu) trying to make peace in one skull. 
They are still on the run. There is an invisible monster at their heels and most of the time they forget because they’re concentrated on the journey. The leather passenger seat. The landscape. The horizon line. Their fingers inside you. Street tacos shared on an empty beach.
Just this long road of cracked asphalt and scorched earth as they go straight West. As they go North or South, but never back East where the world is still waiting. 
“Don’t question it,” you tell Marc and Steven about Jake. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him in under control.”
“Okay,” Steven relents. “Alright - as long as he’s treatin' you as he should.”
“I don’t care if you have it taken care of,” Marc rumbles. “He seems like a fucking mess.”
“It’s fine, baby,” you singsong as you ride shotgun. “Let’s go”
It's probably not fine. But Marc has learned that you're stubborn as a fucking mule and there's no changing your mind when it's set.
Just chill. Just relax. We've got the time.
You roll the windows down and he drives 100 miles an hour. It’s all dry desert air until they hit the coast and then it’s balmy. You crank the music up until the volume shudders and pounds and it’s some band that Marc doesn’t know, but Steven does and so Marc let’s him take over because why not? 
They’re on the run and it’s the happiest he’s ever been. No justice to deal or alternative lives he has to keep balanced. It only seems to be a matter of avoiding whatever is chasing them. Maybe - Khonshu will fill in if the danger truly gets rough.
Marc tucks his baseball cap down over his nose and grabs your hand as they walk down some nameless avenue near the bay in another silver city. They go to bars and motels and diners and safehouses on quiet suburban streets. 
He could live at the ends of the Earth and be content if it was just like this.
They speed out into the dark, following the egg-shell stream of headlights and yellow road paint and the concrete median. Marc laughs. Steven laughs. Jake is silent. It all comes out at once. He thinks he’s probably ignorant - oblivious - that there is something coming that could end this for all of them. He doesn’t really care. He swings the wheel and goes faster. You lean over, pressing your face into his shirt. You call him beautiful.
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quicksilverownsmysoul · a month ago
Sub Steven thots: him unlocking the hidden mommy kink of his whenever he gets to cum multiple times or gets overstimulated.
Mhmmm yessss. He so would and he’d be so embarrassed about it until he realizes you’re into it too and he just falls in love a little bit more.
Also sorry if it’s a bit of mess it’s been a minute since I’ve written smut and it’s a little rough! It also ends before anything too heavy since it’s a blurb, I’m saving all of that for a longer piece later on ;)
Warnings: smut, overstimulation, mommy kink. This just gets right into it, pure smut
Summary: You unlock Steven’s hidden mommy kink after overstimulating him, mentions of insecurity, brief mentions of Marc
Steven could feel his thighs beginning to quake again as that familiar feeling of pleasure began to arise. He threw his head back into the crook of your neck, his soft pants and moans being the only thing you could hear. You let your free hand come up to brush his sweaty curls from his face and press a light kiss to the underside of his jaw. He preened, nestling even closer into you.
Gods you were driving him mad, the only thing on his mind was you. If he could he would spend all his waking hours and nights like this he would. Forget the field of reeds, heaven was right here in your arms as you worked to give him his forth orgasm of the night. He was sitting in between your legs, his back flush against your chest, pants and boxers barely pushed down his thighs, he was too needy when he got home to even let you remove them all the way. His shirt was unbuttoned allowing for your hands to roam his chest as you pleased.
But your hands were occupied, one tangled in his hair and the other was wrapped around his cock. Expertly getting him off as he let out a high pitched whine as you pressed your thumb to his slit. “Doing so good for me, my good boy.” He whined at your praise, repeating after you that he was your good boy. “Can you give me one more?” You asked, voice sweet and sultry that had him wild with lust.
He nodded dumbly, hair flying wildly in his haste to please you. You laughed and leaned down to press another kiss to his jaw. “Use your words Steven.”
He wet his lips and tried his best to from a coherent sentence, he was never able to talk much durning moments like this, too lost in the pleasure to utter anything other than whimpers and pathetic moans. But he tried for you, managing to get out a “yes, yes please darling. Please.” His voice was thick and raspy which had your pussy throbbing in response. He looked up at you, eyes half lidded and glassy, he was perfection.
You sped the pace of your hand up and he bucked up into your hand as he came, a whine was pulled from his throat along with something else. “Mommy,” he moaned, his accent accentuating the word in a deep tone. He did it again and again as he came, you let out a soft moan of your own at the secret he had revealed.
But as soon as his head cleared from it’s scrambled state he sat up abruptly in your arms, his mind already jumping to the worst possible conclusion. Even Marc was there in the back of his mind, watching him from the mirror across the room. His face was red and and his teeth were gritted as he demanded to know why Steven had let that slip. Knowing well that it was a secret Marc held as well.
Marc had spent years keeping that secret from you, gritting his teeth or leaving a harsh bite on your neck to avoid moaning that out when you were together. And of course Steven would let it slip the first time you stuck your hand down his pants.
“Steven?” You asked, a hand coming up to gently rub his back. “Are you alright honey?” You were worried, afraid that perhaps you had pushed him too far for his first time with you.
He turned in your arms, his eyes pricked with tears. The sight had your heart clenching, knowing that he was jumping to his own conclusions. “I-I’m s-sorry,” he hiccuped, already panicking, afraid that he had just blown it all with you by revealing that hidden kink. “I’m so sorry darling. Please don’t be mad.”
Your expression softened as your hands cupped his face, using the pads of your thumbs to wipe his tears away. “Hey you.” His eyes were wide at your soft accepting touches. “I’m not mad, I could never be mad for something like that.” You hummed, rubbing soft touches on the apple of his cheeks. He sniffed and gave you a shaky smile in return.
“In fact.” You continued leaning close. “Let me tell you a secret. I loved it.” His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a sigh of relief mixed with a whine. Gods he didn’t think you could get anymore perfect.
“You did?” He asked voice shaky, he could hear the soft curses of Marc in his head, loving how this was turning out. Give me the body, Marc asked, voice whiner than usually. Steven muttered back a shut up mate, you’ll get your turn before turning back to see your answer.
“I loved it so much.” You pushed him back down onto the bed, straddling his hips as he stared up at you with pleading eyes. “Mommy is gonna show you how much she loved it.”
He whined. “Momma, please.” His hands coming up to pull at your shirt. You leaned down to kiss his cheek, your hands already beginning to roam his body again. His eyes rolled back as you began to rock yourself against his hips, he made eye contact with Marc who was fuming at Steven’s denial of giving him the body. Steven let out a small smirk at his small victory.
“What are you looking at lovely?” You asked, face pressed to his. He looked back up at you, realizing you had caught him silently fighting with Marc. “Is it Marc?” He nodded. You smirked following his gaze to look into the mirror. “Don’t worry, you’ll have your turn.” You spoke directly to Marc before turning your attention back to Steven. They were going to be in for a long night ahead
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bunnysfics · a month ago
ruined surprises (moon boys x f!reader)
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PAIRING: Steven Grant & Marc Spector & Jake Lockley x F!Reader. WARNING(S): N/A. SUMMARY: When (Y/N) goes to work, she accidentally leaves her phone at home. Steven, being as helpful as always, retrieves her phone to hand it over, so she has it during her shift. However, a few things pop up on her phone that have him a little bit occupied.
Having an early morning shift, you were up and out of bed before the sun had even started to bleed through the windows. You were quick to get changed into your work clothes, only taking a small moment to gaze at your boyfriend's sleeping face. He looked so relaxed, and you were glad your movement from the bed hadn't woken him up - you did not want to ever be the reason he was disturbed from the only time where he was truly at peace.
Taking that little moment would cost you your phone, but you were none the wiser as you left the flat without it, leaving it on the bedside table by accident. Your job didn't really allow you to use your phone, as you were facing customers most of the day, but the main reason you would normally have it on you was to make sure that your boyfriend, and his alters, were okay. And they were also your main emergency contact should anything go wrong at work - but that was mostly to keep Steven and them in the loop, thus keeping their anxiety at bay.
An hour or so passed before Steven found his eyes being attacked by the sunlight coming through his curtains. Groaning, he turned and subconsciously reached out to touch you, only to find a cold, empty spot on your side of the bed. Blinking in confusion, Steven sat upright in the bed you shared, his head swivelling around anxiously as he automatically assumed the worse.
"She's at work, remember? They had her take someone else's early morning shift."
"Oh right, yeah... I totally forgot, didn't I?" Steven sighed in relief, thankful for the fact that Marc and Jake were there to remind him when things had changed. Marc more so than Jake, because Jake tended to keep to himself and simply observe.
The familiar sound of your ringtone broke through the air, causing Steven to jump out of his skin before he quickly turned to look at it with wide eyes.
"Oh dear - she forgot her phone!" Picking it up, his eyes squinted as he tried to read the letters on the screen. Tess? Who was Tess? Had he met them before? Before he could figure out if the name rang a bell, the call stopped and your phone screen went back to black.
"You guys don't happen to know a Tess, do you?"
"Hm, no... it doesn't ring a bell. What about you, Jake?"
Jake simply shrugged in the mirror, his head shaking side to side as he wordlessly answered their question.
"Maybe you should open up her phone? See if it's anything important?"
"I can't do that! She'll - she'll kill me!"
"We can always blame Jake?"
"Ni se te ocurra!" Jake glared at Marc for even suggesting that, and it was obvious he was holding himself back from slapping him on the back of his head.
As they started to argue back and forth, Steven bit his bottom lip in thought before he found himself opening up your phone. He knew the pattern you used, and he had never thought about using it to open your phone before. But the random name in your phone, and the fact you had forgotten it at home, made Steven worry about your safety. His head had a tendency to make up the worst kind of scenarios, especially now that you were involved in his life.
A text from Tess popped up on your screen, prompting Steven to press on it and open it up. From there, he could see your whole message history between yourself and this Tess.
"Tess just sent her a text. It says: 'Y/N, sorry I tried ringing you, I forgot you had taken that extra shift today. I was just wondering if you were still looking to meet up?'" Steven frowned as he spoke, his words a little unsure until he finally managed to grab his glasses and put them on his face.
"It just sounds like she has plans to meet up with a friend. Nothing to worry about." Marc tried to be reassuring, but it was obvious Steven was nervous for you and your safety.
"Scroll up a bit - see if she has anything to hide." Jake spoke up, quirking a brow from the mirror as he crossed his arms. While Steven would normally ignore Jake's suggestions, he could not help but follow suit and start slowly scrolling up to read your messages.
"Woah... woah woah woah!" After each 'woah', Steven's eyes grew wider and wider, to the point you could easily confuse him as some kind of humanoid Pug.
"What is it, Steven?"
"I bet it is something saucy."
"Please get your head out of the sewer."
"We all share the same head, hermano."
"... Touché."
"No no, guys, shush - this is serious!" Steven rushed to the mirror, holding the phone by it so they could see the screen as well. It showed an exchange between yourself and Tess, where you were getting advice on how to surprise your boyfriend with some sexy lingerie. There were even Pinterest pictures of various options, which honestly would make all three of them drool at the sight of you.
"Wait... this actually is saucy. How the Hell did you know?"
"Lucky guess?"
"Guys... we ruined her surprise for us... she's totally going to hate us for this." Steven whined, throwing his head back as he felt guilty all over again.
"No no, Steven, we're fine - everything is fine! We can just pretend this never happened!"
"If anything, hermano, she will still look sexy as Hell - even if it isn't as much of a surprise as she may have wanted it to be."
"Jake's right. She may not even surprise us until a few days from now, anyway, so we may actually forget? Maybe this Tess, or whatever her name is, is just wanting to meet with (Y/N) today to help her pick out some lingerie?"
"Is it not a little weird that she's talking about this stuff with a friend we have never met before?" Steven frowned in thought, as did Marc and Jake. Steven did have a point, but the message history seemed to only really focus on the lingerie. How had the two of you even met? Steven scrolled all the way up to the top, only to let out a long sigh of relief.
"Oh, never mind, this Tess Black works at some kind of lingerie shop, and it's near (Y/N)'s work. Now it all makes total sense." Chuckling in disbelief at his own worriedness towards the situation, Steven facepalmed. "And here's me thinking the worst..."
"Well, at least now we know."
"Yeah, but Marc... she's actually going to kill us if she finds out we were snooping in her phone. Especially if she finds out after making a load of effort to show herself off." Steven can't help but grimace at the thought of you getting angry at them. He had never seen you be proper angry before, and he was almost frightened of the prospect of it happening all because of him.
"Just don't tell her. Unread that message from Tess and just pretend that you didn't see anything. Jake and I will keep our mouths shut as well."
"Yeah, don't worry too much about it, hermano. We've got this."
"Yeah... yeah, we've got this." Steven tried to put on a confident smile, but it was awkward and felt weird on his face. Listening to Marc's advice on setting the message as 'unread', Steven turned off your phone and pocketed it. "Can one of you front for when we get to the shop? I-I don't know if I can keep the truth from her..."
"I'll do it." Jake was quick to answer, causing Marc to quirk a brow and Steven simply nodded before he found his eyes rolling back and he was inside of the mirror, Jake taking his place inside of the host body.
It wasn't long before you had clocked the fact you were missing your phone. You were patting at your pockets helplessly, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips, before you spotted a familiar figure make his way into the store. At first, you thought it was Steven, but when you noticed the cap and the slightly wary look in his eye, you could instantly tell it was Jake.
"Hey, princesa. You lose something?" He grinned at you, waving your phone in your face. Grabbing it, you grinned back at him, thankful that he had been thoughtful enough to bring it over to you while you were still at work.
"Thank you for bringing it. I got worried for a second there that something might have happened at home, and I wouldn't have been in the know." Your large grin turned into a more sheepish smile as you rubbed at the back of your neck.
"It's not a problem, princesa. It was Steven's idea, anyway, he just had... something to think about, so he couldn't front." Jake's explanation, and the pause within it, seemed a little off to you, but you simply kept the smile on your face, none the wiser to the events that had taken place between you leaving the flat and Jake coming into the shop, your phone in his hand.
"Well, I better get going so you can focus on your job. I'll see you later though, yeah?" Jake lent down to give you a surprisingly gentle peck on the side of your face.
"Of course, see you later." You nodded, gazing up at him lovingly. "Just make sure that your calendars are free tonight, okay? I have something special to show the three of you." A sly smirk makes its way onto your lips as you lower your voice into a hushed whisper.
"Oh I'm sure you do, princesa. And we can't wait to see it."
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