the moon haunts you

fanfic blog. mdni. minden. she/her & twenty-one. bf haver. the humble tip jar

[moonyminden]

a gift from khonshu 𓋹

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★⋆ ┊ . ˚ I <3 comments, requests, reblogs, etc.!! Your feedback makes my day!!

[moonyminden]

Not a fic update (yet)!

But I do want to give my thoughts about an anon request that I got recently asking about Marc, Steven, and Jake fronting rapidly or taking turns during intimacy.

It feels very fetish-y to write about DID in such a manner, even if it is a fictionalized portrayal. I'm sure that's someone else's cup of tea, but in my fics featuring the Moon System, I'm still going to write them as their own person.

No hate to anyone who writes or reads that sort of fic, though--I'm a firm believer in don't like, don't read. You just won't read it on my blog in particular.

-Minden :)

[moonyminden]

i miss ur posts sm 😭😭

Haha, I'm still kicking. Still evading the AO3 writer curse.

I'm so, so grateful that people want to read my fanfics. Thank you for sticking around!!

But please remember that these things take time if they're going to be any good, and life is busy.

My fanfics are passion projects, not paying jobs, and there's just one person behind this account.

I promise that these stories will keep coming, but only at a healthy, human pace!!

[moonyminden]

Ok this is kinda inspired by Buzzcut season.

What if the reader has a defferent special thing with both Marc and Steven, but nothing with Jake yet.

So let's say that she's known about jake for maybe a month or two, and they've gone on a couple of dates. One day they've decided to have dinner at home (jake promised to cook something nice, you can either make him really good at cooking or absolutely shit lol). She comes to their house directly after work, hops into the shower to freshen up. When she gets out, she asks jake to put some moisturizer on her back and this kinda becomes "their thing".

Oooh Anu you may be On To Something. I'm putting this in my to-do document....it's already coming to me...I'm connecting the dots....you know, I do love a good Jake moment. & It makes my heart shine when I get to write him!

Also, may I say just how cool it is that you were inspired & asked me about this!! Thank you very much!!

[moonyminden]

hi I just wanna say buzzcut season shot me through the heart in the best way possible. I love the way you write marc 🥹 you capture his bittersweetness so well

Thank you so much, anon. I'm in a bit of a writer's block right now (this upcoming fic needs to be just right), but your kind words are a perfect motivator. You really never know how much a writer truly appreciates your comment!!

[moonyminden]

buzzcut season

In which Marc does for you an act of service. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Marc Spector x Reader; Anon request; No use of Y/N; One-Shot; Established relationship; Fluff; Confession; Shower scene; Reader's gender is not stated; Tasteful nudity; You can't prove I named this after the Lorde song. Not Beta'd. Word Count: ~2,942. Warnings: Shaving razors, bullet wounds, body hair, Marine Corps references, implied age gap, brief injury. Briefer mention of death. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

Sometimes, when Marc caresses your skin with the lightest of touches, you wonder if he is trying to wipe the blood from his palms.

It's a permanent red stain that only he can see. Invisible gore greases beneath his fingernails, slithers down to the lines etched in his knuckles. Spots and spatters across old, textured scars marring the sharp curves of his knuckles.

It will never wash away. Not in the way that matters.

There is not a single universe wherein Marc Spector allows himself to relax. To feel safe. To let go of the iron-clad sense of control over every aspect of his life.

But, lately, you think…he might be trying.

And it's such a vulnerable, tender realization that you're never, ever going to verbalize it, for fear of him reverting, erasing, covering up. You hold it like a secret and breathe it to a star.

You first realized something was different last month when you woke up and Marc was still in bed with you. Not asleep, but resting. And then some weeks ago, he had offered to grab coffee with you—Coffee! Entirely mundane, and entirely unprovoked. You were so startled that you almost refused the offer.

It's not that Marc is some perfect, unfeeling machination of the God to whom he's sworn to serve. He's still a man, and your partner, and he treats you well. It's just that he doesn't always remember this, and usually you're the one doing the reminding.

So today, when Marc picked you up from work, settled you in Steven's flat, and asked if you'd like to take a shower with him, you'd jumped at the chance.

(Well, asked is a strong word. He simply left the bathroom door open and let steam fill up half the flat until you walked in, closing the door behind you. "Took you long enough," he'd said, as if this were a normal person thing to do.)

And now, when he spreads his fingers across your scalp, massaging in an unnecessary amount of shampoo, you are distinctly aware that at any point he could smash your forehead into that shower wall and kill you.

Maybe that's a bad thing. But you close your eyes and lean into his touch, and you reflect on this: Marc is capable of great violence. And such gentleness. He lathers your hair, cradling the side of your jaw from where he stands behind you, just so that you don't have to even hold your own head up.

It's things like that.

You lean your head back, so that Marc might have easier access to the rest of your hair. When you do, he slides his palm from holding your chin to cup around your neck. You keep your eyes closed until he's finished.

He releases you after a moment, and then you're free to turn around and rinse out the suds. Facing him, you don't smile, but you feel yourself soften. Absorb it all in.

"You got a staring problem?" he asks, but there's no bite in it.

Sometimes, Marc looks at you like you aren't a real person. Like you're some Good Thing to put on a pedestal, as a way of justifying his poor self-esteem. And you hate it.

But he's looking at you now and seeing you, and it makes you so happy that you lean forward, hold the sides of his face in your hands, and kiss him, soft and slow.

You don't even notice when Marc holds you by the waist, pulling you close; it just is, and the both of you just are. Wet skin on skin, breath on breath. Taking your time. Tasting. Savoring, not devouring.

He kisses your mouth, the corners of your smile. Your face. Mapping, memorizing. Parting your lips with his, inviting and familiar. Your stomach flips when he trails down your neck, ghosts across your skin, noses your jaw. You lace your fingers through his wet hair, other hand on the back of his neck. Holding on, but holding him. When he returns to you, it's soapy and soft and warm.

Marc doesn't really do boyfriend things. But when you're both sated, he rests his forehead on yours, and closes his eyes.

You're lost in it, this feeling. Bodies pressed against bodies. Entirely open and exposed. Giving and taking. Trusting. Kissing, just because. Marc hums in satisfaction, a low, throaty noise.

And it could be more. It could be hotter, wetter, hungrier.

But, God, this is enough.

This is all you've ever wanted.

Eventually, you must realize that he's probably getting cold. You are taking up all the water. So you part from him, and step around, switching places.

"Let me wash your hair," you say, wishing to return the favor. Marc shrugs with a shoulder, assenting. He grabs around you for his shampoo, as if you couldn't move literally half an inch to do so—but you don't mind terribly. Not when it means he stretches over you, as if it's an excuse to touch again.

And, admittedly, your eyes catch.

There are four concave impressions on Marc's chest, littered over either lung. Stippling and tight, stretching, awkwardly healed over. His Star of David necklace rests in the dip of his collarbone, right next to them.

Bullet holes. Killing shots.

Two from his Commanding Officer. Two from Arthur Harrow.

Four permanent reminders that Marc should have died, but did not.

Twice.

"I'll say do not resuscitate next time," Marc says flatly. He hands you the shampoo bottle.

"Next time?" You frown. "What, third time's a charm?"

He smirks a little at that. In the humidity of the bathroom, his curls—if it's possible—give him almost a boyish look, like it's Steven huddled next to you instead.

You rub your hands together, evenly distributing shampoo across them. "Turn around," you order, and Marc does as you ask. He's just tall enough that the shower head doesn't hit him in the face.

And, oh, his back. Broad and defined and meaty. You could take a bite of his thick trapezius muscle like an animal and feed your young for weeks. There's one scar, an exit wound where the bullet went through, that streaks out like a star.

Clearing your throat, you comb through his dark hair with your fingers. Focus. "I can't believe you used to cut your hair," you say.

"Wasn't up to me. Regulations."

"Then thank God you were discharged," you mutter darkly.

(It's not an appropriate thing to say, and it definitely shouldn't make Marc's shoulders tighten in an effort not to give a startled laugh.)

That's how this night goes. You take turns cleaning, tending to one another. Scrubbing off the day. And, before he can turn the shower off, its head hissing in release, you take one of Marc's hands in yours and gently wash it off.

It's so clean it could sparkle, but you hold it anyway, drawing circles with your thumbs into the sides of his hand. No blood. No blood. You will keep him safe and clean and there will be no more blood.

You make nothing of it—just a simple act of domesticity, that's all—but when you glance up at Marc, he knows.

Neither of you verbally address it. The moment passes.

Once you've both stepped out of the shower, you get to enjoy the visual of Marc soaking wet and impossibly human. Broad shoulders, warm brown skin, head bent while he searches for a towel. Every time Marc Spector moves, an angel gets its wings.

You drag your gaze lower, and wish you were an artist.

When he wraps a tatty mauve towel around himself, you're a little disappointed. But the trail of dark hair leading underneath the towel can satiate you for now.

"Stop eye-fucking me," he deadpans, and that's when you realize he'd been furrowing his eyebrows at you.

"I am not," you protest, darting your gaze upward. "Prude."

Marc tilts his head ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes. His soldier's body straightens. Appears bigger, stronger than he is. It's something masculine and vaguely threatening.

There's two ways this could go: you could tease and pick at and provoke him, and then you'd have take another shower after getting fucked dry and senseless. That's the way, you've learned, that Marc expresses himself most freely. And he likes to express himself often.

Or, you could do something differently. Something you've toyed with in your mind for a while now.

"I have a request," you say. Your voice snaps the tension neatly in two. "It's, um, a personal one."

Marc's eyebrow raises. "Shoot."

You lean against the bathroom sink, body still dripping on the floor. "Would you—this is going to sound dumb." Your ears burn with embarrassment, especially since Marc is just standing there, waiting. "Would you mind helping me shave?"

Marc doesn't say anything at first, but crosses his arms. "You want me to help you shave."

"Yes." Vaguely, you gesture toward the lower half of your body.

Marc gives a considering little nod of his head. "Okay, sure. Where's your stuff?"

You blink. That was…a lot easier than expected. Once you had the idea, you thought you'd have to convince him.

But Marc is trying. Remember?

"I'll grab it," you say, turning and crouching to open the sink's small compartment. Inside, you fish around until you catch an unopened pack of triple-bladed razors.

When you lean up, Marc takes the pack from your hand. Opens it. Grabs what he needs and places the rest of the pack on top of a small laundry hamper.

"Is your shaving cream scented?" You ask, reaching above his shoulder to grab a towel for yourself, as the post-shower air has started to thin and cool.

Marc shakes his head no. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really," you say. "I've heard it could be, though. Chemicals or something."

You open the bathroom mirror door, towel draping across your shoulders and down your back. Marc's shaving cream is a nondescript thing. Just a bottle.

"Sit." It's Marc's turn to tell you what to do. He gestures toward the shallow shower ridge; you have to slide the curtain and liner to the other side in order to make room for yourself. Once that's done, obediently, you sit.

There's a little cup on the bathroom sink (isn't there always a random little cup in a bathroom?), which Marc fills with hot water.

As you sit and watch him, you turn the bottle of shaving cream around in your hand. You expected to feel nervous, anxious, embarrassed. Like this is a totally abnormal thing for a couple to do. That this is too much.

Marc knows about being too much for someone.

So with his hands full, he moves to sit on the cold tile in front of you. Places the cup down. Grabs the shaving cream from your hands.

"Spread 'em," he says, patting your knee.

You readjust yourself, opening your legs—baring yourself to him.

And it's just another Wednesday night.

You drop one side of your towel back onto your shoulder and reach out to slick back his hair, as he usually likes it. In the blueish light of the bathroom, you think there's little streaks of gray mottled in.

You tell him so, too. "You're getting old."

Marc frowns, distributing a bit of shaving cream to his open hand. "No, I'm not."

"You are. You're practically geriatric. It's public service, what I'm doing right now. Volunteering to hang out with the elderly."

Marc gives you an unimpressed stare from where he's at, angled slightly below you. "You can go home anytime you want, y'know. Won't bother me any."

"The second I leave, you could fall and break your hip."

At that, he rolls his eyes. Marc is about to reach out, to touch you, but pauses. The look he gives you now is pliant, patient. "Still good with this?"

The sheer fondness you feel for him could knock you over. "I'm still good. You still good?"

Marc doesn't entertain that answer—he would tell you if he had a problem. Once he's sure you aren't going to change your mind, he applies shaving cream to the soft, downy fur between your legs as though it's as normal as spreading jam over toast. It's cool against your skin, velvety and soft.

"So," you say, as Marc carefully—oh, so carefully, so gently—begins to scrape the razor flush against your fur. "Can you summon the suit anytime, or is it only for emergencies?"

"Emergencies."

"But what triggers it?"

"It…" Marc pauses, waves the razor in a tiny circle in the air, then continues his task. "Adrenaline, mostly. It knows when I need it."

"So, it senses when your body gives off danger signals. Your blood pressure, heartbeat, how fast you're breathing."

"No, no, yeah. Something like that."

"If you we were fucking, like, crazy hard, would the suit take over?"

"Stop talking."

Biting down a smile, you watch him. It doesn't hurt. Nothing pulls. Just like anything else, Marc does this with a clinical precision, brows drawn in focus.

There's not a man alive you'd ever trust with this aside from him. Marc has saved your life time and time again—being in a relationship with the Fist of Vengeance isn't exactly a walk in the park. He would put his life on the line for you.

But this is zero-stakes. An act of service.

The two of you alone in London, alone in a yawning flat, cooped up in the bathroom. Like there's no angry God in his head. Like things are okay.

It floods over you all at once, the truth of it, the part you've been saving. For what, you're not sure. But you've known for a long time. Months now. It's a force, a joy, a cup that keeps on filling. Not what Marc provides to you—not the sense of safety, of security. Knowing he's always looking out for you.

This is what you can give him.

Not just a body to hold at night. Not someone to pretend everything will be okay with. To escape with. This is real, and it's climbing up your larynx and out of your mouth.

"Hey, Marc?"

"I said stop talking."

"I love you."

Marc's hand slips, and so does the razor. Instinctively, your body jolts at the sharp sensation—you hiss a breath through your teeth when the blade bites into you.

"Shit." Marc curses, flinches, assesses the damage. There's a thin, messy line of red across the skin below your belly, blood beading at the corners. "Shit. Hold still."

"Yup," you say, clenching your jaw hard. It's not as painful as it is startling, and you look upward—if you can't see it, it won't sting as bad. That's what you're telling yourself.

Marc stands and soaks a soft cloth with warm water. Kneeling before you, while you cross and uncross your ankles in an attempt to be utterly unbothered, Marc gently pats your skin with the cloth until all the shaving cream is gone. His other hand holds your thigh, widening the gap between your legs.

"Is it bad?" You ask, studying the line where wallpaper meets ceiling.

"No. Does it feel bad?"

"Not at all," you say, even though it does, and Marc knows it. And then, "I'm going to have to get stitches. I'm going to die in the ambulance before we get to the hospital."

"So you're fine."

You glance down. Marc's holding the washcloth against you, soothing the sting—and he looks so serious about it, and there is worry swimming in the dark of his eyes. More blood on his hands. It's written across his face, how quickly his guard slid right back into place.

"I hope it leaves a scar," you say quickly.

Marc scowls. "No, you don't. You don't want them."

"Oh, yes. It'll stay there. And I'll like it."

Genuinely confused, Marc meets your eyes.

And you're grinning, despite the fact you're breathing with your chest as to not risk disturbing the cut. "Because it'll remind me of the first time I said I love you."

Marc looks down again. "I just cut you."

"Yes. And I still love you. That kind of thing can't be revoked so easily."

Uncomfortably, Marc repositions himself. With some difficulty, he says, "I'm sorry."

"I'll forgive you if you say it back. That you love me."

"You know I do." And he's right. Marc shows his love to you every single day in every way he knows how.

But he's so tense right now that you have to egg it on, to interrupt whatever he's thinking about. If you leave Marc to his own devices, his night is going to spiral.

That's what you do for one another. You're a grounding force for Marc, and he teaches you how to dream.

So while he makes sure the bleeding stopped, you say, "That was half-assed. Barely a declaration."

Then you know you're getting somewhere, because he drags out as if it's a chore. "Sure...I--love--you."

You can't help but to laugh. "Say it more romantically! Like you mean it."

Immediately, Marc moves upward, hands on either side of your thighs where you balance against the shower rim.

He's so close that you can see the individual lines where his left eyebrow was split years ago.

You open your mouth to say something—apologize for being too candid, annoying, even—but before you can, Marc cups a hand around the back of your neck and says, "I love you."

And he means it.

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn @northsilverstar @radiocerk A/N: give Jalen Brunson the keys to the city. Holy shit, the Knicks won. As promised, the next fic will be quite raunchy to celebrate. (I was writing this fic as I watched the game...if that explains any erraticism.) Anyway, special thank you to the anon who requested this!

[northsilverstar]

OK FINE I WAS THE ONE THAT REQUESTED IT ILOV3ITSOFUCKINGMUCH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAQAAAAAAAAA

TH8S IS SO MUCH BETTWR THAN I WAS IMAGINING IT TO BE OH GOD I AM IN >LOVE<

THIS MADE ME FEEL THINGS I- YOU DONT UNDERSTAND. THIS. CHANGED. ME.

god im probably gonna read it again over and over so many times.................. this was so human and so honest and so intricately lucid

the sorrow of not being able to hold marc and tell him i love him is like a deep alarming headache and this is a soft rag drenched with warm water to the forehead. the kind that makes the pain fade away along with all the overthinking, sinking you into a peaceful slumber. it’s a long kiss on the cheek followed by an enveloping hug, making you feel like you're being cradled. it’s a warm meal filling your stomach as you lay down in a comfy bed after feeling hungry and cold all evening. it’s perfect, it’s what it is.

thank you. <3

can’t wait to read more of your stuff. i’ll be around!!

[moonyminden]

DHMU for the rest of the YEARRR I'm crying my eyes out over this beautiful, thoughtful, SO SWEET REBLOG 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭SCREENSHOTTING ALL OF THIS.

North, your response is literally what every writer DREAMS of. Please, if you have any other fic ideas, I would be so honored to bring them to life for you!! I absolutely loved this experience!! Thank you for trusting me with your idea, and for letting me play around with it. I'm getting emotional haha.

-Minden :)

[moonyminden]

buzzcut season

In which Marc does for you an act of service. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Marc Spector x Reader; Anon request; No use of Y/N; One-Shot; Established relationship; Fluff; Confession; Shower scene; Reader's gender is not stated; Tasteful nudity; You can't prove I named this after the Lorde song. Not Beta'd. Word Count: ~2,942. Warnings: Shaving razors, bullet wounds, body hair, Marine Corps references, implied age gap, brief injury. Briefer mention of death. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

Sometimes, when Marc caresses your skin with the lightest of touches, you wonder if he is trying to wipe the blood from his palms.

It's a permanent red stain that only he can see. Invisible gore greases beneath his fingernails, slithers down to the lines etched in his knuckles. Spots and spatters across old, textured scars marring the sharp curves of his knuckles.

It will never wash away. Not in the way that matters.

There is not a single universe wherein Marc Spector allows himself to relax. To feel safe. To let go of the iron-clad sense of control over every aspect of his life.

But, lately, you think…he might be trying.

And it's such a vulnerable, tender realization that you're never, ever going to verbalize it, for fear of him reverting, erasing, covering up. You hold it like a secret and breathe it to a star.

You first realized something was different last month when you woke up and Marc was still in bed with you. Not asleep, but resting. And then some weeks ago, he had offered to grab coffee with you—Coffee! Entirely mundane, and entirely unprovoked. You were so startled that you almost refused the offer.

It's not that Marc is some perfect, unfeeling machination of the God to whom he's sworn to serve. He's still a man, and your partner, and he treats you well. It's just that he doesn't always remember this, and usually you're the one doing the reminding.

So today, when Marc picked you up from work, settled you in Steven's flat, and asked if you'd like to take a shower with him, you'd jumped at the chance.

(Well, asked is a strong word. He simply left the bathroom door open and let steam fill up half the flat until you walked in, closing the door behind you. "Took you long enough," he'd said, as if this were a normal person thing to do.)

And now, when he spreads his fingers across your scalp, massaging in an unnecessary amount of shampoo, you are distinctly aware that at any point he could smash your forehead into that shower wall and kill you.

Maybe that's a bad thing. But you close your eyes and lean into his touch, and you reflect on this: Marc is capable of great violence. And such gentleness. He lathers your hair, cradling the side of your jaw from where he stands behind you, just so that you don't have to even hold your own head up.

It's things like that.

You lean your head back, so that Marc might have easier access to the rest of your hair. When you do, he slides his palm from holding your chin to cup around your neck. You keep your eyes closed until he's finished.

He releases you after a moment, and then you're free to turn around and rinse out the suds. Facing him, you don't smile, but you feel yourself soften. Absorb it all in.

"You got a staring problem?" he asks, but there's no bite in it.

Sometimes, Marc looks at you like you aren't a real person. Like you're some Good Thing to put on a pedestal, as a way of justifying his poor self-esteem. And you hate it.

But he's looking at you now and seeing you, and it makes you so happy that you lean forward, hold the sides of his face in your hands, and kiss him, soft and slow.

You don't even notice when Marc holds you by the waist, pulling you close; it just is, and the both of you just are. Wet skin on skin, breath on breath. Taking your time. Tasting. Savoring, not devouring.

He kisses your mouth, the corners of your smile. Your face. Mapping, memorizing. Parting your lips with his, inviting and familiar. Your stomach flips when he trails down your neck, ghosts across your skin, noses your jaw. You lace your fingers through his wet hair, other hand on the back of his neck. Holding on, but holding him. When he returns to you, it's soapy and soft and warm.

Marc doesn't really do boyfriend things. But when you're both sated, he rests his forehead on yours, and closes his eyes.

You're lost in it, this feeling. Bodies pressed against bodies. Entirely open and exposed. Giving and taking. Trusting. Kissing, just because. Marc hums in satisfaction, a low, throaty noise.

And it could be more. It could be hotter, wetter, hungrier.

But, God, this is enough.

This is all you've ever wanted.

Eventually, you must realize that he's probably getting cold. You are taking up all the water. So you part from him, and step around, switching places.

"Let me wash your hair," you say, wishing to return the favor. Marc shrugs with a shoulder, assenting. He grabs around you for his shampoo, as if you couldn't move literally half an inch to do so—but you don't mind terribly. Not when it means he stretches over you, as if it's an excuse to touch again.

And, admittedly, your eyes catch.

There are four concave impressions on Marc's chest, littered over either lung. Stippling and tight, stretching, awkwardly healed over. His Star of David necklace rests in the dip of his collarbone, right next to them.

Bullet holes. Killing shots.

Two from his Commanding Officer. Two from Arthur Harrow.

Four permanent reminders that Marc should have died, but did not.

Twice.

"I'll say do not resuscitate next time," Marc says flatly. He hands you the shampoo bottle.

"Next time?" You frown. "What, third time's a charm?"

He smirks a little at that. In the humidity of the bathroom, his curls—if it's possible—give him almost a boyish look, like it's Steven huddled next to you instead.

You rub your hands together, evenly distributing shampoo across them. "Turn around," you order, and Marc does as you ask. He's just tall enough that the shower head doesn't hit him in the face.

And, oh, his back. Broad and defined and meaty. You could take a bite of his thick trapezius muscle like an animal and feed your young for weeks. There's one scar, an exit wound where the bullet went through, that streaks out like a star.

Clearing your throat, you comb through his dark hair with your fingers. Focus. "I can't believe you used to cut your hair," you say.

"Wasn't up to me. Regulations."

"Then thank God you were discharged," you mutter darkly.

(It's not an appropriate thing to say, and it definitely shouldn't make Marc's shoulders tighten in an effort not to give a startled laugh.)

That's how this night goes. You take turns cleaning, tending to one another. Scrubbing off the day. And, before he can turn the shower off, its head hissing in release, you take one of Marc's hands in yours and gently wash it off.

It's so clean it could sparkle, but you hold it anyway, drawing circles with your thumbs into the sides of his hand. No blood. No blood. You will keep him safe and clean and there will be no more blood.

You make nothing of it—just a simple act of domesticity, that's all—but when you glance up at Marc, he knows.

Neither of you verbally address it. The moment passes.

Once you've both stepped out of the shower, you get to enjoy the visual of Marc soaking wet and impossibly human. Broad shoulders, warm brown skin, head bent while he searches for a towel. Every time Marc Spector moves, an angel gets its wings.

You drag your gaze lower, and wish you were an artist.

When he wraps a tatty mauve towel around himself, you're a little disappointed. But the trail of dark hair leading underneath the towel can satiate you for now.

"Stop eye-fucking me," he deadpans, and that's when you realize he'd been furrowing his eyebrows at you.

"I am not," you protest, darting your gaze upward. "Prude."

Marc tilts his head ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes. His soldier's body straightens. Appears bigger, stronger than he is. It's something masculine and vaguely threatening.

There's two ways this could go: you could tease and pick at and provoke him, and then you'd have take another shower after getting fucked dry and senseless. That's the way, you've learned, that Marc expresses himself most freely. And he likes to express himself often.

Or, you could do something differently. Something you've toyed with in your mind for a while now.

"I have a request," you say. Your voice snaps the tension neatly in two. "It's, um, a personal one."

Marc's eyebrow raises. "Shoot."

You lean against the bathroom sink, body still dripping on the floor. "Would you—this is going to sound dumb." Your ears burn with embarrassment, especially since Marc is just standing there, waiting. "Would you mind helping me shave?"

Marc doesn't say anything at first, but crosses his arms. "You want me to help you shave."

"Yes." Vaguely, you gesture toward the lower half of your body.

Marc gives a considering little nod of his head. "Okay, sure. Where's your stuff?"

You blink. That was…a lot easier than expected. Once you had the idea, you thought you'd have to convince him.

But Marc is trying. Remember?

"I'll grab it," you say, turning and crouching to open the sink's small compartment. Inside, you fish around until you catch an unopened pack of triple-bladed razors.

When you lean up, Marc takes the pack from your hand. Opens it. Grabs what he needs and places the rest of the pack on top of a small laundry hamper.

"Is your shaving cream scented?" You ask, reaching above his shoulder to grab a towel for yourself, as the post-shower air has started to thin and cool.

Marc shakes his head no. "Is that a problem?"

"Not really," you say. "I've heard it could be, though. Chemicals or something."

You open the bathroom mirror door, towel draping across your shoulders and down your back. Marc's shaving cream is a nondescript thing. Just a bottle.

"Sit." It's Marc's turn to tell you what to do. He gestures toward the shallow shower ridge; you have to slide the curtain and liner to the other side in order to make room for yourself. Once that's done, obediently, you sit.

There's a little cup on the bathroom sink (isn't there always a random little cup in a bathroom?), which Marc fills with hot water.

As you sit and watch him, you turn the bottle of shaving cream around in your hand. You expected to feel nervous, anxious, embarrassed. Like this is a totally abnormal thing for a couple to do. That this is too much.

Marc knows about being too much for someone.

So with his hands full, he moves to sit on the cold tile in front of you. Places the cup down. Grabs the shaving cream from your hands.

"Spread 'em," he says, patting your knee.

You readjust yourself, opening your legs—baring yourself to him.

And it's just another Wednesday night.

You drop one side of your towel back onto your shoulder and reach out to slick back his hair, as he usually likes it. In the blueish light of the bathroom, you think there's little streaks of gray mottled in.

You tell him so, too. "You're getting old."

Marc frowns, distributing a bit of shaving cream to his open hand. "No, I'm not."

"You are. You're practically geriatric. It's public service, what I'm doing right now. Volunteering to hang out with the elderly."

Marc gives you an unimpressed stare from where he's at, angled slightly below you. "You can go home anytime you want, y'know. Won't bother me any."

"The second I leave, you could fall and break your hip."

At that, he rolls his eyes. Marc is about to reach out, to touch you, but pauses. The look he gives you now is pliant, patient. "Still good with this?"

The sheer fondness you feel for him could knock you over. "I'm still good. You still good?"

Marc doesn't entertain that answer—he would tell you if he had a problem. Once he's sure you aren't going to change your mind, he applies shaving cream to the soft, downy fur between your legs as though it's as normal as spreading jam over toast. It's cool against your skin, velvety and soft.

"So," you say, as Marc carefully—oh, so carefully, so gently—begins to scrape the razor flush against your fur. "Can you summon the suit anytime, or is it only for emergencies?"

"Emergencies."

"But what triggers it?"

"It…" Marc pauses, waves the razor in a tiny circle in the air, then continues his task. "Adrenaline, mostly. It knows when I need it."

"So, it senses when your body gives off danger signals. Your blood pressure, heartbeat, how fast you're breathing."

"No, no, yeah. Something like that."

"If you we were fucking, like, crazy hard, would the suit take over?"

"Stop talking."

Biting down a smile, you watch him. It doesn't hurt. Nothing pulls. Just like anything else, Marc does this with a clinical precision, brows drawn in focus.

There's not a man alive you'd ever trust with this aside from him. Marc has saved your life time and time again—being in a relationship with the Fist of Vengeance isn't exactly a walk in the park. He would put his life on the line for you.

But this is zero-stakes. An act of service.

The two of you alone in London, alone in a yawning flat, cooped up in the bathroom. Like there's no angry God in his head. Like things are okay.

It floods over you all at once, the truth of it, the part you've been saving. For what, you're not sure. But you've known for a long time. Months now. It's a force, a joy, a cup that keeps on filling. Not what Marc provides to you—not the sense of safety, of security. Knowing he's always looking out for you.

This is what you can give him.

Not just a body to hold at night. Not someone to pretend everything will be okay with. To escape with. This is real, and it's climbing up your larynx and out of your mouth.

"Hey, Marc?"

"I said stop talking."

"I love you."

Marc's hand slips, and so does the razor. Instinctively, your body jolts at the sharp sensation—you hiss a breath through your teeth when the blade bites into you.

"Shit." Marc curses, flinches, assesses the damage. There's a thin, messy line of red across the skin below your belly, blood beading at the corners. "Shit. Hold still."

"Yup," you say, clenching your jaw hard. It's not as painful as it is startling, and you look upward—if you can't see it, it won't sting as bad. That's what you're telling yourself.

Marc stands and soaks a soft cloth with warm water. Kneeling before you, while you cross and uncross your ankles in an attempt to be utterly unbothered, Marc gently pats your skin with the cloth until all the shaving cream is gone. His other hand holds your thigh, widening the gap between your legs.

"Is it bad?" You ask, studying the line where wallpaper meets ceiling.

"No. Does it feel bad?"

"Not at all," you say, even though it does, and Marc knows it. And then, "I'm going to have to get stitches. I'm going to die in the ambulance before we get to the hospital."

"So you're fine."

You glance down. Marc's holding the washcloth against you, soothing the sting—and he looks so serious about it, and there is worry swimming in the dark of his eyes. More blood on his hands. It's written across his face, how quickly his guard slid right back into place.

"I hope it leaves a scar," you say quickly.

Marc scowls. "No, you don't. You don't want them."

"Oh, yes. It'll stay there. And I'll like it."

Genuinely confused, Marc meets your eyes.

And you're grinning, despite the fact you're breathing with your chest as to not risk disturbing the cut. "Because it'll remind me of the first time I said I love you."

Marc looks down again. "I just cut you."

"Yes. And I still love you. That kind of thing can't be revoked so easily."

Uncomfortably, Marc repositions himself. With some difficulty, he says, "I'm sorry."

"I'll forgive you if you say it back. That you love me."

"You know I do." And he's right. Marc shows his love to you every single day in every way he knows how.

But he's so tense right now that you have to egg it on, to interrupt whatever he's thinking about. If you leave Marc to his own devices, his night is going to spiral.

That's what you do for one another. You're a grounding force for Marc, and he teaches you how to dream.

So while he makes sure the bleeding stopped, you say, "That was half-assed. Barely a declaration."

Then you know you're getting somewhere, because he drags out as if it's a chore. "Sure...I--love--you."

You can't help but to laugh. "Say it more romantically! Like you mean it."

Immediately, Marc moves upward, hands on either side of your thighs where you balance against the shower rim.

He's so close that you can see the individual lines where his left eyebrow was split years ago.

You open your mouth to say something—apologize for being too candid, annoying, even—but before you can, Marc cups a hand around the back of your neck and says, "I love you."

And he means it.

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn @northsilverstar @radiocerk The humble tip jar (ko-fi) A/N: give Jalen Brunson the keys to the city. Holy shit, the Knicks won. As promised, the next fic will be quite raunchy to celebrate. (I was writing this fic as I watched the game...if that explains any erraticism.) Anyway, special thank you to the anon who requested this!

[moonyminden]

one of your titles has “waxing” in it and, i don’t know why, that made me start imagining how having our bodyhair (specifically that part) shaved by steven, marc and jake in the bathroom would be like. like... it’d be so intimate and domestic and comfortable and.... ughh do you have any thoughts?? 🥹 i don’t usually submit requests, but you write physical intimacy (even the non-sexual part of it) so beautifully <3 oh and uhh if you find the idea interesting, can you make it gender neutral? i wouldn’t mind at all a reader with a body specified as afab, but being gender neutral would be 🤌 chef’s kiss

i love your stuff 😽 mwah mwah

Anon. Your mind. I have literally never opened an Ellipsus document so fast. Omg. (I hope you don't mind me posting this; I got so excited at the idea!)

Thank you for such kind, considerate words, and for feeling comfortable enough to ask me to write such a potentially vulnerable topic! <3 I will treat it with care.

Honestly, these things are kind of my favorite. Although I do have some more lemon-y fics planned (I see you, Yolk supporters), there's just something so human about, as you said, physical intimacy and just sharing another's space with them, don't you think? Especially when Marc, Jake, and Steven (especially Steven) really care about that space, what it represents, and how you treat it.

I'm so on this--I'm not opposed to posting headcanons with everyone, but something about this scenario just screams Marc to me...please keep an eye out for the fic later tonight or tomorrow! I'm literally about to start writing it now!

-Minden :)

[moonyminden]

(pssst!)

I want to give a gentle reminder that this blog, and everything I write and post here, is strictly 18+! Each of my fanfictions are posted with 18+ as the very first tag. Can't miss it.

I do make an effort to check the accounts of those who are following me, and I will block anyone under the age of 18 who follows this blog or interacts with any of my posts. I have already had to do so three times. This is for everyone's safety, as I can and will post stories written with an adult community in mind.

I am not responsible with what you consume online, but I am responsible for writing in such a way that I feel is comfortable and appropriate for myself. This means that I write and post exclusively for my fellow adults to enjoy.

Thank you for respecting that! <3

-Minden :)

[moonyminden]

waxing poetic

In which you spend an evening with Steven's books until their exhausted owner returns to you. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Steven Grant x Reader; No use of Y/N; One-Shot; Steven is autistic; Established relationship; Vague hurt, lots of comfort; Reader's gender is not stated. The poem is Loin du Monde; its Eng. trans. is by Peter Shor. Very casual, zero-stakes fluff. Word Count: 2,565. Warnings: N/A; this is self-indulgent info-dumping. A bit of Steven angst, but it's open-ended. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

Graciously, Steven had given you a key to his flat a couple weeks ago for convenience's sake, since you spent so much time with one another anyway. You like to think of it as a sort of gift to celebrate being with one another for a little over ten months. (Marc didn't get you anything.)

You'd quickly taken advantage of that key today, using Steven's shower after getting soaked head-to-toe on your commute back from work.

So now, after properly drying off, you get to flip to the next page, comfortable and dry and warm. Smelling like Steven's shampoo. Wearing one of his tees and a pair of his boxers. It's awfully domestic.

Ironic, since he's not even here to enjoy this with you. Poor sap is working late tonight. You'll just have to wait up for him, reading all his books, using up his water bill.

Trusting you with the key to his flat meant trusting you with the stewardship of his books. Not owning them, of course, but tending to them when he's not around. Really, he just invited you to read them, but you take it a little more seriously than that. Because they're glimpses into his mind. Which you want to take very, very good care of.

(Some of his books are so old that you wouldn't dare touch them without, at the very least, a pair of gloves. Steven had scoffed at that and swiftly corrected that wearing gloves can actually be worse for wear on their frail pages.)

(You still don't touch those particular volumes.)

Today's book of choice is a thin little paperback with one of the corners creased from being folded backward for too long.

Rolling onto your back, pressing up against the flattening couch cushions, you hold it above your face. Orange lamplight catches there, illuminating its contents.

The title of the collection is in its native French, which is Greek to you. But the author's portrait transcends language. A sad-eyed poetess gazing upward, pink fingertips pressed against her temples. Beneath reads her name: Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

And though you don't understand what she wrote in her own language, you read Marceline's poems over and over again. Wondering if any of her original meaning or sentiment had been lost in translation. How she felt when she wrote them. Why Steven felt so connected with these poems that he bought a copy for himself to covet and keep.

'Dans vos flots ramenés quand mon coeur se replonge / Ô mes amours d’enfance ! ô mes jeunes amours ! Je vous revois couler comme l’eau dans un songe / Ô vous, dont les miroirs se ressemblent toujours !'

You bask the book's margins, fingertips brushing against old, penned-in ink. Craning your neck and lowering the book to your face, you spot the fibers in the paper, noticing how the edges of dried ink spread out like tiny black stars.

Those hasty ink scratches are in Steven's handwriting. A flourishing thing, denouncing that its writer thinks quicker than he annotates. Each letter connects to the last, overlapping in places, and the sentences tend to flow upward.

Unfortunately, you can't decipher it. Not because his handwriting is necessarily indecipherable, but because it's in French, too. You've grown to expect that kind of thing from Steven, and to appreciate it. How layered his mind is. How many wheels and cogs are whirring at the same time, formulating, piecing together fragments. Making sense of the mundane and esoteric alike with the love of a scholar and practitioner.

There's too much of Steven Grant to keep confined to just one language or experience.

On the next page, beside the original French, a translated version of the same poem lies on the page. You read it aloud, to yourself and the goldfish, adding to the ambient noise of Steven's flat. Mostly the bubbling of the fishtank, the quiet hum of a poorly kept heater, incoherent shouting outside voices, and impatient honks of distant drivers.

"You return in a flood when my heart dives back in," you recite quietly, liking the way it flows off your tongue. "O, my childhood loves! O, the loves of my youth! Once more, I see you rising like water in a dream…" you pause to sit up, balancing the book in your lap. "And once more, your rippling mirrors all look alike."

Admittedly, you like the way poetry reads, but it's another thing entirely to know what it really means. That's Steven's forte, not yours. So you enjoy the words for what they are, and let the curtains be blue just because they happen to be thus.

You flip to the next poem.

It's not there.

The words have been blacked out, marked across, scribbled over in countless layers of darkness. It's entirely unable to be read. Even the title is gone. Gently, you brush your thumb across one part of the would-be poem where the assailant's pen tore straight through the page in their efforts to hide its contents.

There are some things you don't ask Steven about. Things you can't help but wonder about when he subconciously fiddles with the small Star of David charm on his necklace, gazing into space with that murky, faraway look in his eyes.

Perhaps this is one of those things. In his reader's heart, he has rejected the poet's words, marred their very existance. Not erased, nor simply covered, but utterly tarnished and stained. It leaves a somber feeling in your heart, heavy and gray.

You close the book, holding it a little gentler now. It takes a second to pull your mind from it and back to your surroundings, but when you do, there's a slight difference in perspective as you glance around the flat. A new depth.

Mind your business, you think sensibly. You've been together ten months, not ten years.

You step around the couch and to a bookshelf acting as a sort of dividing wall between the Sleep Area and Living Area, as you understand it, and carefully tuck the poetry book back where it belongs. In his tank, Gus circles a little decorative statue of Anubis, the dog-faced god that gives you the creeps.

"Wake me up when you dad gets here," you tell him, and bypass the shelf to fall in a heap onto Steven's bed. You're not tired, but you don't want to go home without seeing Steven. It would feel weird to visit the flat without its owner, after all.

The cat-clock says Steven will be back in about half an hour.

Easy naptime opportunity. Or, at the very least, you can relax without distractions until then, pinned to the mattress by the immense weight of Steven's pressure therapy blankets.

You pull a blanket over your shoulder with more than a little effort, and bury your face into the sheets. That blacked-out page meets you in the corners of your mind.

In what feels like no time at all—you hadn't realized you'd actually fallen asleep—you awake with a start, body jolting. Steven is leaning over you, his hands raised as if he's equally as surprised by the sudden appearance of a home intruder.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he says, just as you say, "Oh, I didn't mean to scare you."

He laughs at this, an awkward, half-hearted sound, and sits on the bed next to you.

The mattress dips in an uncomfortable sort of way, and you have to scoot over to make ample room for him. Brushing the sleep from your eyes, you sit up and get a good look at him.

And oh, he's so tired. Back bent, heavy shoulders rolled forward in a slouch. He pulls his legs onto the bed as if they're objects. When he turns to face you properly, those dark eyes you've fallen in love with are red-rimmed, strained. It's like he's been desaturated, drained of something essential. There's no fight in him this evening.

Along the bridge of his nose, there's a thin strip of white bandage.

It sends your heartbeat spiking into your ears while you sit up, reaching a hand to place on his knee. Entreating him.

"Hey," you say. "You okay?"

"Oh yeah, yeah," he says breezily. "Real chuffed. Great day. The best. Day."

Ah. So he was working late, but not at the Museum.

You sigh at that, his listlessness, and pull him back to lay with you. He doesn't resist.

Steven lays next to you with several points of contact, as though you're both assuring that the other person is entirely present. Your knees rest against one another, and his hand finds its way to rest on your waist. You cup the side of his jaw, stubble pricking the pads of your palm. He closes his eyes and leans into it, and there's just something in his expression, the sheer heaviness of him.

"You wanna talk about it, or do you want me to distract you?" You ask, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with your thumb.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, eyes still closed. "You ought to go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

You let go of him for a moment, allowing him to get comfortable laying on his back instead, and then fold yourself into his side like a spoon next to a butter knife. You hook your leg with his and fling an arm over his broad chest, hand cradling the side of his ribcage.

Though he's not overtly the cuddling type, Steven's body relaxes, releasing all the tension he's been holding for goodness knows how long.

You physically feel the difference—the cadance of his breath, the slight twitch of his eyebrow. That crooked frown finally evens out. You study his side profile as to commit it to memory, to drink it all in. The slope of his nose and the hastily put-together bandage, stained with something dark in the center. The permanent circles beneath dark eyelashes.

The two of you rest there in tandem, and let the shadows of the flat grow taller.

It's a good move, on your part, you think. To just let him sleep it off, whatever is bothering him. Issues at work? Probably. Not his day work. That wouldn't leave him beat-up and bruised. This—the exhaustion, the quietude—comes from the job with his less-than-agreeable immortal employer.

Again, you think of the poetry book. Of that sad, bone-deep grief in the gentle eyes of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

"I changed my mind," Steven interjects your thoughts, and there's that thinning tone there. "Distraction sounds good, yeah?"

When you open your eyes, you feel that Steven is glancing down at you, and it's so clear that he's trying to hold on to something that you simply have to provide it.

"I was reading about Oedipus," you say automatically. "Last time I came over. And I was thinking about the Sphinx's riddle."

He doesn't respond verbally, but prompts you with a slight nudge of the chin that brushes the side of your head.

"What walks with four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night?" You quote. Honestly, you're just filling the silence, letting your train of thought flow. "And it got me thinking, because you had mentioned that Khonshu, back in the old days, used to be represented with different ages, too."

"Quite symbolic, really," Steven replies softly. "Just like the moon, that one. Waxing and waning, and all."

"Why is that?" you ask, and stifle a yawn against his shirt. Please, talk to me. Let me be here for you, however I can be.

Steven hums in thought. "Lots of overlap wiff these things. Thebes—a different one than Oedipus', this being in Egypt; it's, ah, called Luxor now—was said to be a seat of power for Khonshu. Not that he needs any more power or ego than he already has, I think," he adds bitterly.

"I'm so used to viewing the moon as a feminine force," you confess. "With the phases representing the menstrual cycle."

"Oh, it isn't all that different. When I said Khonshu was a youth during the day, that was tied to fertility." He pauses for a moment, and raises a hand from beneath the blankets to gesture a wide, spread-out hand to the ceiling. "Think of the Greek Ouranos. Remember him?"

"Primordial sky god," you recall. "What about it?"

"Well, he fertilized the Earth from the sky."

"With the rain," you say.

"With his semen," Steven agrees candidly. You follow his hand mimicing little droplets of rain until it lands palm-down on his chest, near your arm.

Hesitating, you ask, "Then, did Khonshu ever…?"

You can practically feel Steven grimace. "It was more a general thing, I think. Sky gods, and that. He was associated with healing, er, verility."

"Such a nice guy," you say with a sort of half-sneer. "Hard to imagine Khonshu healing someone."

"Well, he keeps me fresh in a fight."

Ever so slightly, you tilt your head upward, as to see his face properly. Testing the waters. Gently prodding. "And did you…get into a fight today?"

"A bit," he says. "A bit." He's looking at the ceiling, directly overhead.

So you've narrowed it down to this: Steven is upset with or about Khonshu. There is a reason that he is upset that he doesn't want to share with you, but he does want to share a conversation. Or, at the very least, companionship.

You can work with that.

Gingerly, you lean up on your hands, so that you can look down on him instead of the other way around. He meets your gaze, and there's something deeper there, and there's nothing you can say about it that can make it any easier.

So, instead, you scrunch your body so that your thighs are beneath your stomach, and you're able to slide more or less on top of Steven.

He lets you straddle him, chest-to-chest. His hands find their way to your waist, your shoulderblades, the small of your back. Warmth spreads from his touch all the way to your heart, your belly. You lean into it, pressing your body on top of his, wanting to physically force his nervous system to ackowledge that he's safe, he's safe, he's safe.

"Not giving you much to work with, today, am I?" Steven asks, a smile turning up at the end of his words.

"Plenty enough," you say, and you mean it.

And, admittedly, you are acutely aware that you're straddling your boyfriend in his bed, wearing his clothes, and he's looking at you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and it burns a pool of desire deep inside you.

But that's not what he needs right now. Not that kind of love.

So you lay on top of him and think of anything else to talk about. To take his mind off of whatever has troubled him today. To let him rest.

There will be opportunities for you to ask, or for him to tell. For you to learn about that blacked-out poem, and any others destroyed for any amount of reasons. And more physical, present hurts, too. The bruises. The scars, fresh and old.

Right now, you're more than content with just being here.

And when Steven exhales again, and wraps both of his strong arms around you, you know you've made the right decision.

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn

The humble tip jar (ko-fi)

A/N: I hope you don't mind this one being simple! I drove between three states for five hours today (standstill traffic is my worst enemy), so my brain is pretty fried. Thx for reading!! <3

[moonyminden]

Now that I've got that Marc drabble outta my drafts, I can work on Steven & Jake as requested. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

It just felt so wrong to keep writing without posting anything for Marc, too!!

& remember, if you have a specific trope, setting, fic idea, etc., that you'd like to read, my requests are always open! <3

-Minden :)

[moonyminden]

to bite the hand that feeds

In which you have a calm, adult conversation with your partner, Marc. (in the aftermath of going three for three) ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Marc Spector x Reader; A 35 year old in a situationship goes as well as you'd expect; No use of Y/N; Reader's gender is not stated; mentions of Jake, Steven, Marlene, and Diatrice Word Count: 2,762. Warnings: Hurt, no comfort! Miscommunication, angst, Marc wants to hit a hole in the wall (& almost does); Complicated relationships, mental illness, Reader isn't perfect, arguing, relationship fight, no conflict resolution! ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

A dimming light buzzes on and off above your head, casting the apartment complex in an unflattering gray-green. You crinkle your nose, mildly assaulted by the distant scent of old cat litter wafting under an adjacent door. The carpet beneath you is holding on by a thread, tattered and torn from years of exposure; you brush one of its loose staples with your fingertips where it pokes out next to your ankle.

You're not sure where to go from here.

Nor if you actually wanted to leave.

To end the conversation, yes. But…what else?

You've been sitting down with your knees tucked against your chest for so long your stomach begins to ache. Begrudgingly, you loosen your body, sprawling out your legs in front of you.

It's with a dull click of your house slippers that you acknowledge two things: You are acting like it's your fault, and you don't want to do that anymore.

Also, you can't exactly go to your apartment wearing slippers out in dreary London.

You tip your chin up, leaning the back of your head against the wall.

It's not your fault Jake decided to front and meet you out of the blue. Surely, Marc will understand that.

It's the bit with Diatrice you're nervous about.

Marc's little girl is his own personal ghost. His most precious, vulnerable secret. As fragile as glass.

And Jake started talking as though he was about to show you her grade school graduation pictures.

But it's not about Diatrice—not exactly. It's what she represents. The pain, the privacy, the things Marc will never be ready to speak about.

It's about you seeing Marc for who he thinks he is.

You study your slippers, dull blue things you bought ages ago.

Maybe you should go home. Give Marc some space, like he undoubtedly wants for himself. Let him deal with Jake on his own, as he's been doing, apparently.

But if you leave now, without talking to Marc—there's not a doubt in your mind that he's fronting and Jake's been left behind—then you're giving up. On him and on yourself. Putting your head in the sand, letting Marc call all the shots, as if you're not an adult with your own agency, too.

So you stand up and brush the lint from your soft pantsleg. When you look at the tall door, with all its scratches and chips in the paint, it's just that: a door. An obstacle between you and the man that you can't help but love so fiercely that you'll bend and twist and adjust, just so he'll be happy—

No. The man you love so fiercely that you will have the tough conversations with him. The confrontations, arguments. Uncomfortable, unfamiliar territory that you will blaze through, side by side with him. Because the thing you share, that raw, human thing, is worth fighting about.

Exhaling through your nose, you reach into the pocket you'd hastily shoved your keys into. Your keyring is nothing impressive. A piece of unpersonalized utility, save for a tiny little silver charm of the Eye of Horus. "To look after you," Steven had said, when he gave it to you as a birthday present some weeks ago.

As you insert your key into the lock, you realize the issue.

You're a doormat. And you've been acting like one for too long.

Marc has his problems. And you've done your best these past three years to understand, to be patient and empathetic, and listen. But in doing so, you've forgotten that you have a stake in this, too.

Rather, you can't expect to be treated like his partner when you've been treating him like a grenade about to go off.

Jake had told you, "That's why he can't keep shit, because he's too afraid to lose it."

Maybe he was right.

But Marc doesn't deserve that. Steven doesn't deserve that.

Most importantly, neither do you.

In trying to be everything Marc needs, not only have you failed him, but you've failed yourself. You haven't stood up or fought back or dissented…well, anything. You're so afraid to lose him that you've forgotten that he could lose you.

But that's no way to love somebody.

You turn the key and open the door.

It's anticlimactic, really. It's not like Marc is having a mental breakdown and you have to pick up the pieces of a poor, unstable, uncontrollable man and apologize for something that wasn't your fault in the first place. He's not breaking furniture or whatever it is angry men do.

The apartment is exactly as you left it; clean, warm, and cozy. A little humid, thanks to the poor weather.

Marc's leaning against the kitchenette's little counter, eating a piece of garlic bread.

You close the door behind you and lock this, this, and this until the door is firmly shut, closing the two of you off from the outside world.

You kick off your slippers by the door. Marc doesn't say anything, so you don't, either—even as you sit directly in front of him on a bar stool, divided by the counter.

Behind him, a gloomy London sky is heavy with yellow rainclouds threatening to spill.

You lean your elbows on the counter. And you feel a lot less anxious than you did mulling everything over in the hallway.

"Weren't sure you were comin' back," Marc says after a few moments. His jaw is tight when he speaks, and he's looking everywhere but at you.

"You didn't come after me," you state pointedly.

"Didn't think you'd want me to."

And it's such a Marc response that your palms begin to sweat. You can get mad at him. He is a safe person to be mad at. And he can be mad at you without pushing you away.

"That's a really convenient answer," you say, and that gets his attention. He fixes you with a dark, flat stare.

"So you've been talkin' to Jake behind my back?" Marc asks, voice low and strangled.

Your breath shallows in your lungs. And, promptly, you stand from the stool. Walking over to Gus and Other Gus' tank, you let Marc struggle with it, your insanswer, your indifference.

You unscrew the little fish-food container and sprinkle in an ample amount, blue light reflecting off your face.

Gus and Other Gus flutter toward the tiny floating bits, their mouths popping open and shut.

Marc's eyes drill holes in your back. "Not gonna say anything?"

"I don't know what you want me to say." And it's a little petty, and worse, it's unconstructive. But as you watch the goldfish eat their dinner, you realize how unfair it is that your own dinner was ruined.

And, if you search deep down, you actually are kind of pissed off.

"That was none of your business," Marc growls,and you can't help but to turn around. His sheer presence takes up every inch of the room. "It's none of your business, that shit, but you just stood there and ate it up. It had nothing to do with you. My- my daughter has nothing to do—"

"Your daughter has nothing to do with you!" You snap back, surprising the both of you. "Christ, Marc, what did you want me to do? Say hi, Jake, glad to know you exist for the first time ever. Please, tell me everything you know about Marc's personal life so that I can use it against him, just like everybody else on the planet."

"Don't engage!" Marc's body caves in on the word, his actions animated, exasperated. He gestures around with a hand. "I don't want you to talk to—to him, to have a fucking conversation about—God, please, can you just go? Can you fucking leave? For once?"

Your shoulders tense, face reddening. "Oh, totally. I can just keep running away when things get too hard for you. That's how adults process their emotions."

"I process just fine!" Marc exclaims, running a hand through his hair. The muscles in his arm flex, taught and tight.

You bark a flat note of laughter. "Yeah, I can tell. That's why you're throwing a shit fit about Jake—who I just met! Just met!—telling me something that I didn't even ask! Literally did not ask. It's not my f-"

Marc's fist crashes hard against the counter, sending little papers scattering to the floor. "You don't fucking know me. You don't. You try, but you don't. You--you walk right in here, stick your nose where it doesn't belong, drive me fucking crazy—"

"You feel good hitting things? Makes you feel like a man?" Aghast, you stride across the floor, backtracking your way to the front door. "I'll stay with you, Marc Spector, but don't you dare think I'll let you intimidate me like that."

The air in the room disappears.

"Stop. Stop walking." Marc's breath heaves in his chest, but his body is solid as stone when he cuts off your path. "Don't—Don't. I'm sorry."

"You have more than that to apologize for," you state, casting a hard stare into his tired, tired eyes.

Silence.

You try to think of something to say—a clever retort, or something your therapist said, or—

But just as quickly as he had riled himself up, Marc visibly deflates in front of you.

It's not the dissasociative stare you've seen before, when he knows he's in the wrong and doesn't know how to right it. This is something grim and raw and utterly exhausted.

You take the opportunity to catch your breath. To collect your thoughts. Resist the urge to jump at the chance to comfort him.

With a voice quiet and low, scraping against his throat, Marc takes a step away from you. "I don't—I don't like it when he shows up. I didn't want him to hurt you."

"He was cooking me dinner," you say, eyebrows drawn together. "Did you really think I was in danger?"

"He kills people, amor. Kills them."

That stops you. "I thought you weren't…doing that. As much. Anymore. I thought Khonshu…"

Marc looks ragged, undone. "I try not to unless it's unavoidable. But he doesn't care. That's why I didn't want you to meet him."

You scrub a hand over your face. "Okay. Just—hold on. Let me reassess the situation."

Marc looks like he's about to say something, but you hold up a hand in pause.

"I was doing the dishes and you—Jake was on the phone with Marlene. How does he know Marlene?"

A pained expression casts over his face. This, normally, is when he shuts you out. Stomps on the conversation until it's dead and you apologize and pretend nothing ever happened.

You tense up like an animal, blood thrumming in your ears, preparing to fight back.

But in a miserable calm, Marc says, "She's his. Diatrice."

Oh. You weren't expecting that.

"I think we should sit down," you say, glancing away from him and at the aging hardwood floor.

It's never been in Marc's nature to follow orders. Not in the Marines, and certainly not under Khonshu. But he storms to the couch anyway.

Casting a quick look out the window, you see the first droplets of rain race down the window pane in thin, interlacing lines. Terribly stereotypical, for it to rain at a time like this. The outside matching your insides.

But you knew what you were getting into when you moved to London.

You step into the kitchenette's little plastered floor and begin to plate for two. You doubt that either of you actually has an apetite, but it's not in your nature to let things go to waste. So you shovel a generous amount of spaghetti into a bowl and place a piece of garlic bread on top. Insert a fork. Snow on some parmesan cheese. Repeat for another bowl.

Are you stalling? Yes. But at least you're trying something new.

When you walk to join him at the couch, Marc is sitting in that masculine way you like. Taking up as much space as possible. Knees spread apart, one arm over the top of the couch. But one hand covers his mouth, and the look on his face is terrible.

Primly, you clear off a little coffee table, placing three books into a neat pile on the floor and replacing them with your dinner.

You sit directly beside him, legs tucked beneath you, your knees pressing against the side of his thigh.

"Let me figure out how to put this," you say, wringing your hands, glancing up at the ceiling as if it can help you. It doesn't.

"I understand that there are things, very personal things, that you don't want to share with me. And I respect that, Marc. I do. But it—there's a line between keeping your privacy and literally shoving me away. And I can't just sit by and let you push me away one day, then bring me back the next. It's been three years of that. All this back and forth. I need—I need honesty from you. Whatever you can give me."

You clear your throat and add, "I want to be with you, Marc. But I can't do that if you don't let me know you."

"You wanna know the real me?" Marc says bitterly, leaning in on himself, elbows on his knees. Clasping his hands, shaking his head once, twice. "This is it. This is what you get. I lie to you and I hurt you and I'm not going to change for you."

Rain pounds against the walls, creating a harsh, white-noise that muffles the room around you. "I don't…agree with all of that," you say softly, and lean back into the couch. "I can't tell you that you're good. You won't believe me. But I have to ask why you've been wasting so much time with me when I can't seem to ever make you happy."

Marc is quick. So quick you can't flinch before he's in your space, grabbing at your hands, yanking you to face him. To take up all of your vision. "You," he says, strained, hurt flashing across his face. "You are the only thing. You and Steven. The only things. You can't—You can't say that. You don't mean that."

And it breaks your heart. All of this. It's a physical sensation, a tightening, winding pain in your chest that wrenches your face and clogs your throat. "Marc," you warble, and it doesn't sound like your voice anymore when you start to cry. Choking against a tightening throat, you say, "We have to just talk. Please."

"God damn it," Marc curses under his breath, defeated, and takes you into his arms.

You sob, poised between the couch cushion and Marc's shoulder. Utterly furious and frusterated. But the words don't come.

The two of you lay there, a pile of shuddering, sweating bodies, for what feels like hours. Outside, the rain is relentless, and soon, thunder shakes the precariously-placed bookshelves that line the flat's thin walls.

Marc keeps you tight against his chest, forcing you to surrender your whole weight on top of him. And you do. You give up. You give up everything and lay there with him. There's no point in speaking. You don't know what to say anymore.

Marc is quiet, too.

He strokes your back in slow circles with his thumb. It soothes you, just as the rise and fall of his breathing against yours does. Slow circles on your back turn to broad, gentle strokes with his palm under your clothes, skin against skin.

Once you're finished after letting your body feel what it feels, you bury your head in the crook of Marc's neck. Soaking him in, willing every minute to take away just the slightest bit of hurt from him and give it to you.

Or, at least, for him to tell you where it hurts.

That's all you want. That's all you've ever wanted.

For him to tell you where it hurts. For him to stay.

"Please figure this out with me," you say, hoarse and quieted by the storm. "It won't be hard. We love each other, don't we? That means we have to talk."

Marc doesn't answer.

What's worse is that you didn't expect him to.

Thunder rumbles deep against the floorboards, rising through the couch, its bass fizzling in your ribcage.

You close your eyes.

When you wake up alone on the couch the next morning, Steven is making chia seed and almond milk pudding for breakfast.

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love The humble tip jar (ko-fi)

[moonyminden]

the travelers of the night

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Hi there! Welcome to my tag list. If you would like to be tagged in my upcoming Moon Knight fanfics, please interact with this post however you're most comfortable with; a like, comment, or reblog will do. I will tag you in this post, too, as to keep track.

˚⋆𓋹⋆ If, at any time, you would like to be removed from the tag list, please let me know! There is zero obligation to stay (or join!). This is a zero-stakes, just-for-fun thing. I will not get offended either way.

˚⋆𓋹⋆ Sincerely, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my fanfics and supporting what I do!

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Current tag list constellation:

@wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn @northsilverstar @radiocerk @thatbitchelena @queerponcho

[moonyminden]

hi girl!! ur fics are so amazing I love them so much!!! I wanted to ask if u do tag lists?? Bc I would love to be tagged in ur fics!!!

What a lovely anon to wake up to!

I would be honored to create a tag list for you, and anyone else interested in keeping up to date with my fanfics. Keep a look out for that post coming out today (I'll hyperlink it in my masterlist, too).

Thank you so much for asking, and for reading. It really means the world to me that you care!!

-Minden :)

P.S., there might be another fic out later today...

[moonyminden]

˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ I want to thank all of you for reading!! I can't believe that one of my fanfics already has twenty-three likes when I just posted it a day ago!! Really means a lot to me. For the next couple fanfics, I'd like to know: would you like to read about Marc, Steven, Jake, or the whole system? Your feedback matters!! (And, to the anon who sent me their Steven-related request: don't worry, I'm working on that, too!) - Minden :) ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

[moonyminden]

going three for three

In which Jake does his job. His real job: trying to protect someone. Whether they like it or not. (continued in to bite the hand that feeds.) ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Jake Lockley x Reader; Non-Established Relationship; No use of Y/N; Reader's gender is not stated; Marlene, Diatrice, & Layla are all mentioned! Jake is the father! Word Count: 2,131. Warning(s): Hurt, no comfort! Jake smokes a cigarette. Marc's general mental state and some dramatized MK (2022) versions of his DID. Complicated relationships and absentee fatherisms. Break-ups and divorce mentioned. No conflict resolution in this one! ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

Marc doesn't smoke.

But he's out there on the piss-poor excuse of a balcony—really, just a concrete platform—and his hand is cupping at nothing with a lit cigarette poised between his index and middle fingers. In the other hand, he holds a cellphone to his ear.

Marc has a collection of burners. Some are there for when he's out on the run. Others, like this, are kept safe in a lockbox. You know that one burner is for Frenchie. One is for Layla.

And another is saved just for Marlene.

While you busy yourself with washing the afternoon's dishes, you wonder if you'll ever be reduced to a contact name buried in a box beneath his bed, too.

Rinsing suds from a plate, you peek out the window again, as if to check if he's actually out there. But that thick, heady scent is hard to miss.

This—the smoking, the phone call—leads you to one of two conclusions: either Marc has finally lost his mind, or that's not Marc at all.

You place the plate into a dish rack and dip your hands in the sink to clean another.

Narrowing your eyes, you steal a longer look through the foggy window. Decidedly not Marc. And he's not moving like Steven, either. His back is straighter than Steven's, for one. He's carrying himself as though he's exactly where he wants to be, arms bent on the railing, facing the alley. If it were possible, you think the bend of his shoulders is almost…relaxed. And you hear him laugh when you turn the faucet off.

You're not completely in the dark. You know that Marc had a brief, complicated relationship with a woman named Marlene Alraune before his marriage and subsequent divorce with Layla El-Faouly. And you know that brief, complicated relationship with Marlene resulted in a baby who he's only met once.

There's a weird feeling in your stomach. You scrub a bowl with a sponge over and over and over until it sparkles.

You've known Marc for over three years. In those three years, you've learned two important things: Marc is going to do to himself what he thinks he deserves, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.

And usually, when there's even the slightest of references toward his past—the real, raw past that didn't die with him—it ends in a disaster. Self-deprication, violent mood swings. Sudden break-ups and guilt-fueled reconciliation. Staying out for nights on end, throwing himself at the mercy of the God in his head—the only creature, perhaps, that hates Marc more than he hates himself.

The first time he opened up and told you about his daughter, Steven fronted for the next five months.

You place another dish in the dishrack. Not-Marc snaps the cellphone shut. Takes another drag of the cigarette. Exhales into a gloomy, gray sky.

Eyeing the smaller pile of still-unwashed dishes, you unplug the sink drain and rinse your hands off. They can be attended to once things return to normalcy. Once your pulse settles down. You wipe your hands on a spare rag, but it does nothing for the anticipatory sweat budding on your palms.

Not Steven and Not Marc means Not Your Business.

You don't know this guy. The one you can't see anymore while you tactfully move to the couch, putting as much room between you and the balcony as possible. Which is also closer to the front door, in case he's not as dear to you as his companions have proven to be.

You reach for the remote, laying next to a scattered pile of DVDs. None of them are in their intended cases. And though the television is playing, and the sink has finished draining, you find yourself entirely focused on the balcony door.

It opens.

The cigarette is gone, but the scent clings to his tee. The man gestures with his cellphone. "Marlene," he says, by way of explanation. Markedly, his accent isn't at all like Steven's—closer to Marc's, but not by much. "You eat dinner?"

"Not yet," you say carefully, and angle your body on the couch to better observe him. "I was trying to clean up a bit before adding to the mess."

"I appreciate that," he grins. "What're you in the mood for?"

This is the last conversation you expected to have. But living with Marc means learning to adapt. You clear your throat. "I was thinking pasta."

He starts rifling through the pantry, turning his back on you.

You sit there. While he starts to, evidently, cook you dinner.

And, as if you could be any less shocked, he is humming. Under his breath. But louder than the TV's tinny little voice. Moving around the little kitchenette like he owns the place. Closing the silverware drawer with a nudge from the belt around his hips.

"Garlic bread?" He asks, looking over his shoulder at you.

"In the freezer," you say.

Marc has shared a lot with you. His death and resurrection by the hand of the Egyptian God of the Moon was surprisingly easy to digest (after the Blip in 2023, you'll believe in just about anything). But the personal stuff…that's a little more complicated.

Once it became clear that your strong-will and faith outweighed Marc's uncertainty and general distrust of everyone, there was a lot to talk about: Dissassociative Identity Disorder, his being a loyal fan of the Chicago Cubs, Autism; his past relationships, and yours; Generalized Anxiety Disorder; which side of the bed you preferred to sleep on; Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whether he's a morning shower or night shower kind of person.

Learning what kind of person he is when he shares a body with another man.

Or…two. He's striking up the stove now, setting a pot of water to boil. And you're sort of just watching it all happen.

"Y'know, I never knew why she picked Diatrice of all things," he says, and the genuine surprise of such a casual remark about his daughter sends you standing upright. Then sitting down, like a fool.

"She can't pronounce Beatrice. Think that's what she was going for. Eric probably suggested it." He reaches up and takes a glass jar of tomato sauce from a cabinet. "Don't think Marlene knows many Beatrices."

Alarm bells are shooting off in your brain left and right. You're not supposed to be hearing any of this. But he's telling you anyway.

"I figured her name would be…more French when I first heard it." You hesitate, trying to pick out the most appropriate words. How to change the subject the quickest. "What's yours?"

The man pauses and turns to you, wearing Marc's clothes like they don't fit. He seems taller, somehow. More full. He gives you a crooked sort of smile. "I'm Jake. Hope I didn't make you uncomfortable by springin' up outta nowhere."

Gingerly, as though you're approaching a stray animal you might befriend, you make your way from the couch to the kitchenette. The cigarette smell is worse up close.

You lean your elbows on the counter and say, "You scared the shit out of me. And still are."

"Sorry 'bout that," he says, and it sounds surprisingly honest. He opens the oven to slide in a baking sheet with a loaf of garlic bread. He doesn't wear oven mitts. When he shuts it, stands to his height, and turns toward you, you're just struck with it—how genuinely off-kilter you feel right now.

"Take it you don't get too many visitors." He grins again. That's a thing in of itself. Marc has that sardonic, crinkle-eyed smile you can wrestle out of him occasionally. Steven finds open expressions a little easier, though he's too shrewd to truly smile with his teeth.

But this guy—Jake—he seems to be having the time of his life pouring in a box full of dry noodles into a boiling pot of water.

You wonder why you've never met him. Why he's here. Why he was talking to Marlene instead of Marc. Why she called. Why the hell he told you about his daughter in the first place.

"I don't…think you should tell me any more about Marlene," you say, crossing one ankle over the other. "It feels like I'm invading Marc's privacy."

"Well, you're not," Jake points out tactfully. "My business, too. And I'm not tryin' to shoot the fair or nothin'. But I don't like it when you don't know things."

You chew on that for a minute. "That's considerate of you. I think. But it's up to Marc to tell me that, isn't it? You wouldn't like it if Steven aired out your secrets when you weren't there, would you?"

Jake laughs at that, giving the flat a sidelong glance. "I'd love to see him do that, actually."

That was charming. Too charming. If you're not careful, you're going to lose your nerve. You bite down on the inside of your cheek. "Okay, well, morally, stop telling me about your daughter. Marc won't like it."

Jake fixes you with a stare you've never seen before. Not on that face. "Marc's not here."

It sends a flush down your skin, and you have to tear yourself away. You kick off from the counter and go to the other side of it, using it as a sort of physical barrier between the two of you.

But Jake isn't done. And he speaks with his hands, gesturing, pointing, letting them do the talking. "What Marc fails to realize is that the more he keeps you in the dark, the more danger you're in. Don't believe me? Ask Marlene. Ask Layla. Ask yourself. That's why he can't keep shit, because he's too afraid to lose it. I'll call Marls back right now, and the two of you can have a very long discussion—"

"Jake!" you exclaim, affronted. "I know. But I've told you no, like, three times already. I'm not going to keep repeating myself. For Christ's sake, I just met you!"

"You've known me for way longer than that," he says, and turns to stir the pasta.

The kitchenette's ceiling light has taken to buzzing the past couple of nights. It starts up again now. You fix it with a glare so heated you're surprised when it doesn't burst into flame.

But, for reasons you can't explain—maybe something Pavlovian, because you can't help but to feel something when Marc's around, even if it's not him directly—your temper cools. You fold in. Somewhat. For now. You squint over at Jake.

"I believe in Marc," you say with some difficulty, as though you could defend Marc from a version of himself. "I don't agree with him, necessarily, but I do believe that he's doing what he feels is right."

"¿A poco?" Jake scoffs, turning to face you. "You think he's that self-aware?"

You're about to bark out a retort, ears burning, but stop short. There's a sort of glimmer in Jake's eyes. A different sense of humor.

He's aiming toward something.

Baiting you.

Steven once explained that, in a System—the collective that makes up who Marc truly is—there are roles. Duties. Marc is the host. The original. The one who got the diagnosis. It's not exactly a clinical thing, but each Alter—like Steven, like Jake—serves a sort of purpose to keep Marc going. To keep him safe.

And you don't know what the fuck Jake is getting at. Or what his purpose is right now. But you're not enjoying his company at all.

"You better wash those clothes before you leave," you say, and press your lips together. It's a bad attempt at, what, a clap-back? But you're physically averted toward conversations without a constructive point, and Jake's looking at you like Marc's making the greatest mistake of his life.

So you leave the kitchenette. Stride across the room. Grab your keys from where they hang on the wall, and promptly slam the door behind you.

Facing a plastic potted plant in the building's dingey hallway, you scrub a hand across your face.

Ironically, you really wish Marc were here.

But you can't imagine what it's going to be like once he comes back. The hollow look in his eyes when he learns what transpired. It's a violation. Boundary-breaking. The kind of thing that means the streets of London are about to be very, very safe soon, because Khonshu's vengance is going to flow through the streets like blood.

You didn't ask for Jake to show up and start…doing whatever he was doing. Smoking. Ruining the environment. Ruining your afternoon. Ruining...something else, potentially.

It's going to cause a fight later.

You didn't plan this far. You sink to the carpet floor that hasn't been cleaned this week. And sigh.

No dinner tonight, then. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

The humble tip jar (ko-fi)

[moonyminden]

yolk

In which you realize that Steven wants to do things to you, too. The type of thing you're too nervous to ask for. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚ Tags: 18+; Steven Grant x Reader; Explicit; No use of Y/N; Porn without plot; One-Shot; AFAB Reader; Semi-established relationship domesticity...Really, it's just Steven goin' down on somebody. Word Count: 2,030. Warning(s): Talks about consent and comfortability. Reader-insert has anxiety. ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

The flat is full with the sounds of shared laughter, the bubbling of Gus' lovingly managed tank, sports announcers shouting about tiny men in white uniforms chasing after a baseball on the television. London daytime traffic pours in from an open window near the kitchen sink.

And you're standing in the living room area with Steven in the middle of the day, and he's asking to go down on you like he's ordering from a menu.

Casual. Breezy. Hungry.

He's looking down at you, dark eyes crinkled from the remnants of a smile. "Whaddya think?"

Maybe you're not hearing straight after all. "If…you…want to?"

Actually, that's not really your answer. You want him to want you like that. And...Could he? Does he really mean it?

In the past, your pleasure was a request. An afterthought. A chore. But sex with Steven is a conversation. A constant back-and-forth with reassurances and laughs and strange noises and delightful surprises. No shame or embarrassment.

But…still. Maybe it's too much. Maybe you're too much. Maybe you should change your mind.

"Stop that," he says, and wags a finger at you. When your brows furrow, he says, "Getting in our heads, are we, love?"

"I just—" you hesitate, heat rising to your face. The peeling wallpaper behind him is suddenly very interesting to look at. "Are you sure? That you would want to? That's…you've never done it before, right? What if you don't—what if I taste bad? What if I smell bad?"

While you humiliate yourself, regretting one word after the other, Steven's fingertips sneak underneath your shirt. Palms cupping your waist, resting on cotton pants, his fingers brush your warm, bare skin in small, lazy circles. As simply as he might stim with his hands free, drumming on a tabletop.

Once you're done stammering, burning with shame, he says simply, "This isn't all about you, innit? Maybe it's for me. I could be positively peckish. You just happen to, you know, conveniently be 'ere."

"That's incredibly selfish of you," you say, but it's a weak attempt. So you try again. You're going to be brave. And honest. You look at him. "If you want to do it, you can."

And he's there. Of course he is. Watching you expectantly, broad shoulders with their usual slump, dark hair tousled and curled. Heavy-lidded eyes like spilled ink.

"I need you to say yes," he says. His jaw clenches, and the hands on your waist are firm. "I won't do anyfing without hearing you saying yes."

Your pulse skitters out of pace. It takes you a moment for it to hit—the seriousness, the reality of the situation. But it's not…it doesn't feel…you're not in danger. At all. It's the opposite. Steven is giving you all the authority he can provide.

So you meet his gaze, and your feet are planted on the ground, and London is still alive through the window. "Yes, please. Steven. I want you to."

For one beat, two, nothing happens. A considering draw of his brow tells you that he's waiting for you to change your mind. But you don't.

Like it's the easiest, most normal thing in the world, Steven glances around his flat. "Want it here? Or, er, there? I don't know what's…best. For this typa thing."

Disarmed, you can't help but to smile. "I'll go anywhere."

"That's very flattering," he says earnestly, "but I mean, d'you want to be standing? Or laying down?"

"Oh! Um, standing. That's fine."

"Then let me lead you to a more, er, stable…" his words trail off, but he gestures toward a far wall near the back of the flat. Cozy, book-lined. Less industrial.

And, the walls point inward toward the ceiling, like a triangle. Which means that you have plenty to lean on.

Ever the gentleman, Steven takes your hand in his and leads you there. You let him, and take the moment to check in with yourself, asking: is this okay? Am I making a good decision for myself? Do I want to?

But when he turns to look at you, there's just a hint of hesitation, of worry, in his expression that you steel yourself immediately. So much so that you walk right up to that wall and lean the back of your head against it and wait for him to join you.

Yes, you want to. Yes, this is a good decision. This is about to be a very good decision.

Steven palms the side of your face. You search his expression for anything you might have missed—but you're forced to close your eyes and accept the sweetest of inviting kisses. It's a brush, a reminder, something to ground you. When you part, he's smiling again, and you think you might be, too.

"Any point," he says with a pointed finger. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

"I will," you say, and then it's this: Steven exhaling. Leaving you there and meeting you somewhere else. Settling to a comfortable position on his knees. When he looks up at you, your stomach drops to the ground.

"Help me with these, love." He reaches to pull off your pajama pants, hooking around the waistband.

Swallowing hard, you place a hand on his shoulder to stabilize yourself, and step out of your clothes. The air is chillier here in the corner, but all you feel is an internal heat kindling low in your belly.

You stand on one foot and use your free hand to slip from the last remaining layer. A small part of you wishes it were a more racy, exciting garment than plain underwear, but it's off on the floor now, anyway.

Steven's expression changes into something softer. "Oh, my days."

You shift on your feet. "Is this—um, is this okay? I haven't exactly, ah, shaved."

"Okay?" Steven echoes, visibly emboldened. He shifts on his knees, surveying each inch of your exposed skin with calloused hands. "It's magnificent. You're magnificent. Maybe I should take my pants off, too. Make it even."

When you laugh again, it breaks the seal; you fully give into the moment, the shared space between you. There's no reason to be scared; this is Steven—witty, incredulous, clever Steven—kneeling suppliant, asking if he can pleasure you.

His hands stroke your bare thighs while he noses the curve of your hip bone, and it's so—he's so there, so overwhelming, that you have to bite down on your lip.

Yes. This is exactly what you want. Him against you. Him with you. On you. All over you. Your body calms down, and you allow yourself to feel.

You feel the slick run down your thighs before he sees it. Your knees knock together almost comically.

"Please," you whisper. But you don't have to ask.

Steven starts slow. He presses kisses to your lower belly, the outside of your thighs, sending cool shocks against your skin. A huff of breath escapes your mouth, hands holding his curls for dear life.

Encouraged by your small, traitorous noises, he begins to leave little bites here and there, sucking and scraping his teeth against your stretch-marks. Taking as much of your skin into his mouth as he can.

He leaves you panting. Trembling. Aching with a newer sort of need.

When his eyes open, there's a gleam to them, a certain set to his mouth. "You'll forgive me," he says softly, "For what I'm about to do."

Your throat runs dry.

Gradually, ever so patiently, Steven drags his mouth to your inner thighs, savoring each soft piece of skin until he finally finds the wetness in between.

You slap a hand over your mouth. Drop it. Feel the wet lap of his tongue against your hot core.

He wastes no further time. Your free hand shoots out against the wall, keeping yourself aloft as his tongue finds its way to your center. He licks in and out in careful, considerate strokes, tasting and teasing.

A quiet, trembling moan is drawn out of you, your head lolling on your shoulders. "Steven…"

He hums against you in reply. Gaining pace, Steven's tongue flicks against, across, inside, outside, everywhere, lapping you up like you're his last meal on earth.

For all the danger he puts himself into, it very well could be.

Your body suddenly convulses, hips bucking into his face. You open your mouth to apologize, dazed, but Steven moans against you, taking it, his hands moving from your hips to cup the back of your thighs as tightly as he can—pressing himself even closer to your heat. You don't have the mental space to wonder how he's able to breathe.

It's there you yelp—a sudden, loud "Steven!"—and gasp for air, stars dancing in your vision. He's got you exactly where he wants you. Steven's head bobs up and down, his tongue working in broader strokes now, easing into a steady rhythm that sends your legs shaking so badly that your whole body weight is supported by your other hand against the wall.

Your body throbs, alive with two separate pulses, all of your senses shut off and electrified with each flick of his tongue.

Lost in the rhythm, you grind your hips against his face. The only coherent noises you can make are pathetic whines and pleas, screwing your eyes shut with the effort to stand.

He's ruthless, relentless, breathing over your soaked skin—You groan, "Fuck, Steven, keep--keep going, keep doing th—"

He does as you bid him to. Gloriously, he doesn't stop. In those first moments, he got as far and deep as he could; now that you're shaking, desperate, something greater building inside you, Steven settles in on patient little circular patterns that leave you gasping for air.

One of his hands leaves your thigh. You dare to peek an eye open.

It takes everything in your power not to crumple to the floor.

With his other hand, Steven greedily palms his hardened length, barely visible over the thick bend of his muscular shoulders. But it's so obvious. He pleasures himself as he pleasures you, going further and further in tandem. You wish you could help him. Touch him, too. But it's all you can do to keep standing.

The back of your head bounces on the wall, but you don't care—the fucking apartment could catch fire as long as he doesn't stop. You aren't sure if you're breathing.

Over and over and over, worshipping you, devouring you, Steven works you to your breaking point. He takes a quick breath, causing your heart to stop, and then he's there and there and there, and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You try to hold on, to savor that little thin line of utter bliss before the—but he's moaning into you, his mouth full, his hands full, and he's not stopping, he's not stopping, and there's a greater internal force begging to release just as his own back shudders and strains—

It's a supernova in that tiny, cramped flat. You cry out just as Steven guides himself to his own release, but—Steven doesn't stop lapping every ounce of you until there's nothing left to give. You're his to taste, to savor. He doesn't stop until your chest rises and falls and you can hear the world around you again.

It's only then that his shoulders untense and he allows himself to feel it, groaning your name against your leg.

Moments pass. Minutes, seconds—you can't think straight while your body compresses, tightens, relaxes. You exhale with all your might.

Steven leans his head on your wet thigh, back expanding with heavy breath. But you can't leave him there, alone on the floor. Weak and wobbling, you sink to your knees to face him eye-to-eye, reaching a shaking hand to support his exhausted face instead.

Rough stubble scratches your palm. His chin is slick with you, but his expression—eyes blown, mouth soaked, entirely flushed—despite just bringing you to climax, possibly the easiest in your life, he has the nerve to look concerned.

"Did I hear you hit your head, love?" ˚ ༻⋆𓋹⋆༺˚

the humble tip jar (ko-fi)