My-dear-cassy - Want Some Candy? - Tumblr Blog

So i was thinking. We still don't know what Song 21 and 22 will be about in Epic. BUT if we go by the Odyssey and google the list of Odyssesus's adventures (bc i can't force my braind to remember the order) there is exactly one thing between Scylla (and Charybdis) and the Underworld and that's the sirens. So if you ask me here and now i'm pretty sure that Song 21 and 22 are the sirens.

(Obviously whatever happens i'm happy to listen to it i'm just very excited.)

If there's more official information about it or stuff like that sorry for wasting your time and thankies for coming to my Ted talk.

@arkady-d

omg I love what you’ve done with your gender

So ✨️fun fact✨️. My mum really wanted me to get braces because when she finally got the chance for it the doctor told her that it was too late (bs, i know).

Now my teeth are the straightest things on me but turns out they left a small amount of glue when they removed the braces. The glue turned yellow with time and stained my teeth and it's still very visible even though in theory they got the glue off since.

But guess who else has stained teeth (or something like that)! Darth Maul

So if the fictional character i'm simping on can have stained teeth than me too.

The moral of this story is don't worry about you teeth, smile and build your own crime empire (bonus points if you can also get an arch nemesis).

Hey, guys? Make peace with yellow teeth. I'm so serious right now.

I had a dream last night that tumblr came up with a pride flag for closeted gays and it was just a light blue flag with a shrimp on it. People would also wear shrimp pins on their lapels for some Reason???

and the vegan gays started Discourse because shrimp deserved more respect

Not to brag but in my country there was (is?) an mpreg movie that was made before Junior.

That's the kind of information i get from my bf fiance at 3 am.

I guess i just called Strahd a cocksucker while talking to an NPC...

And maybe just maybe i had to pinky promise to the party that i won't call him an "unbaked pie" to his face.

Me: Babe, it's 5am. We really need to sleep.

My bf fiance: *procedes to explain how to fix the lore of the new star wars movies plot using treasure planet*

I feel like not enough people talk about the fact that the lego bonsai tree uses tiny pink frogs as flowers.

You can have a tiny tree full of even tinyer pink frogs!

(Also it comes with a brick separator that is this very pretty bluish colour. )

(Also also it's a very great option if you are looking for a may tree for your partner. There's a reason i'm marrying my bf fiance. He made me a proud frog mum.)

Important life advice from my bf fiance i learned as his backseat gamer:

"Obviously bisexual, othervise it would be too hard to seduce the ✨️Pope✨️."

As a very experienced backseat gamer i really like it when my bf fiance plays ck3 because one moment you think you can finally understand what is happening but than suddenly he's very angry because "those coocksukers elected me as the Holy Roman Emperor!"

My bf fiance just called the sith inquisitor eating souls ✨️girldinneeeer✨️

I'm so proud of him 🥹

Cinderella marries the Prince, part 1/2

FOR SCIENCE

in which the moon knight alter system presents a unique opportunity to settle the nature versus nurture debate, once and for all...

Steven Grant/Marc Spector/Jake Lockley x afab!psychologist!reader

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni) WARNINGS: SMUT (specific warnings in each chapter), questionable ethics/scientific practices, discussion of mental health, psychoanalysis, extensive descriptions of DID, fetishization of mental disorders (DID) NOTES: this fic is really, really morally ambiguous and ireally honestly don't feel great about it. in real life, the contents of this story would be considered extremely unethical, deceptive, manipulative, and there are some serious conflicts of interest. that being said, as someone who is passionate about psychology, i have been wanting to write this for quite some time. if this might be triggering to you, or you feel uncomfortable with the sort of scientific gray area this presents, please don't read it. DISCLAIMER: although i’m incredibly knowledgeable about psychology, i am NOT a professional. all psychoanalyses made throughout the course of this storyline are entirely my own, based on my own interpretations of the characters. in a similar vein, i am also not an expert on DID specifically (although i am well-read on mental disorders and diagnoses), so i apologize for any incorrect terminology or misrepresentation. don’t hesitate to call me out if i say something wrong!

→ the project proposal

→ case study: subject one

→ case study: subject two

→ case study: subject three

→ data analysis

Red Flags Masterlist

CO-WRITTEN WITH @thirstworldproblemss

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

Summary: Sweet as he is, dating Steven means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. 

Read on Ao3

Please note there’s no tag list, but you can be notified of my new writing updates by following @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

🔞 This series is explicit as fuck. Please heed the warnings in each chapter.

Part 1: Sweet, as he is, dating Steven, means you have to be willing to ignore a few red flags along the way. Or alternatively: You get to use that ankle restraint on Steven and sit on his beautiful face. | 9.2k words

Part 2: Something strange is going on with Steven. Or alternatively: how you fix your relationship by giving Steven the sloppiest office blowjob ever. | 9.2k words

Part 3: For the first time since that night, Steven sleeps over, but it might not be him you wake up with in your bed. Or alternatively: Marc makes a dramatic ass entrance. | 4.6k words

Part 4: Steven disappears and you fall into a rabbit hole trying to decode Marc’s secret message. Or alternatively: Marc needs to communicate better. | 8.1k words

Part 5: You try to befriend Marc with mixed results. Or alternatively: God this man is cranky. | 7.1k words

Part 6: You and Marc grow closer, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Or alternatively: Marc refuses to let dead fish lie. | 7.8k words

Part 7: Your subconscious is trying to tell you something important about the choices you have to make. Or alternatively: is it still a threesome if the two men are alters? | 8.2k

Part 8: You and Steven talk and you make a decision. Or alternatively: You spill the beans and things get messy. | 6.4k

Part 9: You and Steven finally reunite. Or alternatively: Marc is a dummy and makes questionable decisions as always. | 8.4k

Part 10: You and Steven try to get used to your new life together without Marc. Or alternatively: Marc is playing (the not ridiculous and totally mature version of) Hide and Seek. | 10k words

Part 11: You overhear things you were not meant to hear. Or alternatively: The girls boys are fighting. | 6.9k words

Part 12: You get more than you bargained for when you follow Marc out into the night. Or alternatively: 🎵 Fighting evil by moonlight. Winning love by daylight 🎵 | 6.2k words

Part 13: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc’s beautiful face buried between your thighs. | 17k words

Fanart

The First date | by @guruan | Scene from Ch. 01

The Fish | by @guruan | Scene from Ch. 05

Goldfish | by @excitedcurtain864 | inspired from Ch. 06

The phone call | by @guruan | Scene from Ch. 10 (Spoiler-ish)

Ten extra minutes | by @guruan | Scene from Ch. 11 (Spoiler-ish)

Pancakes | by @guruan | Scene from Ch.13 (Spoiler warning!)

hey my dear cassy do you love me

No, i don't. That's why i'm spending time with, bc i hate you so much.

I asked my borther if i could do something with his back and i really wanted to try making some fake scars. @arkadyathena told me to post the result.

a little comic about kisses and curses. happy halloween!

(all my comics are here!)

Medicine

SFW - Jake Lockley x Reader

content/warnings: ANGST, fluff, food/hunger, descriptions of violence, blood, Moon Knight activities, insecurity, reader taking good care of Jake

song pairing: medicine - amber run

Marc and Steven can always tell when Jake's been fronting nowadays. Even if he's trying to be stealthy about it.

He always leaves the body hungry. He'll go out on missions and eating barely anything for days. Barely resting. Always vigilant.

Steven can feel the tension is his body from hours of silent movement. Marc can feel each tired bone.

Jake is thorough. He never leaves any blood for the other boys, and certainly not for you. He sneaks in after dark to wash the shame off his skin before crawling into bed next to you, trying not to disturb your sleep.

Lately, there are only whispers of him. The recent work has been brutal. Grueling. He's trying to keep Marc and Steven away as much as he can.

He doesn't want you to see how tired he is. This is his price for life. For protection. For you. He shouldn't complain.

Steven wakes early, groaning and clutching his empty stomach. His mouth reeks of mint when he wakes, a poor veil for Jake's expected morning breath. His skin smells like citrus and teakwood.

He rises on sore legs to find something to eat.

Bastard can't find a midnight snack after bein' out all day?

Steven's annoyance jostles Marc awake. He co-fronts to get them through the uncomfortable process of making and devouring a meal on a system moments from collapse.

When you wake, Marc explains. Steven complains some more. They know Jake is doing his best, but they can't compute how someone so strong couldn't take care of a simple meal...

There are a couple easy days. Marc orders takeout on Sunday. You substitute movie night snacks for a meal on Monday. Steven cooks on Tuesday.

Then, they're gone. You wake up one morning to an empty bed. The usual tears fall and dry, and then you get to work.

You pick up bread and cheese and soda from the grocery store. You make soup from frozen chicken and packaged stock and leftover vegetables.

You have some for lunch. It's good. Filling. You think about Jake.

You stay up and read each night, then fight sleep as long as you can until he returns.

The leftovers sit in a glass container for three days before he comes home.

That night, you're feigning sleep when the front door to the flat creaks open. Slowly, but unmistakably, Jake's footsteps pad toward the bathroom.

You sit up. He doesn't jump, but cocks his head up and back like a curious predator.

He turns his cheek away from you. There's blood soaking the collar of his shirt.

Go back to sleep, cariño, he says firm and unyielding. His voice is higher than usual.

You get up anyway, and he tries to get through the bathroom door to evade you. He doesn't want to hurt you by trying to stop you.

Jake, you say soft and scolding. Let me help you.

He bristles, tucking his head low and breathing through his nose quickly.

I don't want you to see this. You don't need to see this.

But you need me, you say, raising a hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter. My tired angel...

He nearly scoffs at that. But you're right.

You start the shower and help peel off his layers. The wounds are healed but the blood and grime stain. You make soft sounds and give him reassuring words when the fabric and dried blood tug at his skin.

If Jake had the energy to cry, he would.

You drag shampoo through his unruly curls until the water runs clear. He holds your hips, looking at you reverently, leaning against the cool tile.

You dry yourself quickly and then throw the towel over Jake's shoulders, patting it down his body. He mumbles to himself, only stopping when you tilt his chin up to dry his face.

You're so gentle it makes him uncomfortable. You can see it in his eyes- in the way he wants to hold on longer but pulls away.

You find warm clothes and press them in his arms. You promise you'll be right back, instructing him to lay on the bed when he's finished.

Something catches in his throat, thick and immovable.

He coughs. Once. He's tired. Dios, he's fucking tired.

You hear the rustle of clothes as you pull the bowl off leftover soup from the fridge. You add a little more broth to the bowl and pop it in the microwave. You search for what's left of the bread you bought and place it on a napkin. The microwave beeps, you grab a water bottle, and put everything on a tray.

Jake's seated on the bed, clearly fighting sleep as he leans against the pillows.

You sit next to him with the tray and put a hand on the back of his neck. He looks confused.

I want you to eat something before you sleep. I don't care how much, I just need you to have a little food in your system, okay? you say. He feels so, so guilty. He made you worry. He fucked over Marc and Steven.

Please, Jake. You tear off a hunk of bread and offer it to him. It'll just take a minute.

He looks at you first. You're too kind to him. Of course, you're an expert at gauging self-pity at this point, so you urge him softly and run your fingers through the curls at the base of his neck to steady him.

He takes a bite, chews and swallows.

There you go... you encourage. You'll feel so much better, baby, keep going.

You sense his hesitancy as he takes another bite, but you cab practically feel the hunger radiating from him.

Jake starts in on the soup, finding his footing with the spoon and immediately shoveling as much as he can into his mouth at a time without looking too eager.

Your heart clenches. I know, I know... Don't burn your tongue, honey...

Uncapping the water bottle, you wonder how long it's been since he even got a drink. You wonder if it's been the same amount of time since you held him.

Your hand is still on his neck as he takes a drink. He swalllows and pauses his assault on the bowl in front of him.

I can't, he says shamefully. You went to all this trouble for him and now he can't eat everything.

No, this is good, Jake, you assure, clearing his tray and standing. His eyes follow you like you're going to disappear with the next gust of wind. Can you try a little more water for me?

He raises the bottle to his lips. Of course. For you.

You set the half empty bowl near the sink and hurry back to bed. Jake finished nearly all of his water while you were gone.

You smile as he sets it beside him, eyes glued you. His hand shakes as the bottle meets the table.

Querida, he whispers, quiet and tired, thank you.

You rush to untuck the covers at that. Of course, baby. You crawl in beside him and you lay facing him. I love you.

Jake's eyes search around at nothing, then he curls into you, letting you hold him until he falls asleep, which doesn't take long.

He doesn't know why you care for him. But you do. It's as real as Khonshu. Real as blood. Steven and Marc. Soup.

Te amo.

He can touch it. He can taste it. Jake's knocked to his knees every minute he spends with you, even if he's still standing.

In all this, you're his reason to keep going. Tonight, he let's himself believe he's one of yours.

I NEVER WRITE ANGST BC I'M USUALLY BEING A SLUT INSTEAD SO I'M SORRY IF I BLINDSIDED YOU

anyway I hope you guys are eating good. I've been on the Jake train as of late so... more in the near future lol <3

Joel Miller NSFW Alphabet

AN: My first fic on this account :3 I thought I'd join the multitude of people who are starting to write for Joel! For some of these I picture video game Joel, for some I vision Pedro. Let me know if you have the same!!

18+ MINORS DNI

A = aftercare (what they're like after sex)

Exhausted, is what Joel is. It's not hard on his muscles or bones, finishing is just such an overwhelming experience for him after not relieving himself for a while. He's sluggish, needing a few minutes to pull himself together. He'd prefer to hold you (lazily throw an arm over you) in bed, but if it's just a quickie he'd push through the exhaustion. He'd grimace at your 'old man' jokes, truly starting to believe you now.

B = body part (their favourite body part of their's + their partner's)

In an erotic sense, he loves your lips. Plump and wet, he feels himself twitch. Bottom lip captured between your teeth, Jesus Christ he's getting hard. And when you pout, fuck, he's ready to grab you by the hair and kiss you.

His own would be his fingers. He's good at woodwork, plucking his guitar strings, cleaning his guns. But he's also really fucking good at breaking you with only his fingers; he enjoys shoving his thumb in your mouth, dragging it down your slick tongue; he loves touching himself with you watching, knowing it's driving you crazy; and he adores fingerfucking you firm and slow, twisting, scissoring, and pumping his fingers deep inside your cunt.

C = cum (anything to do with cum)

He doesn't care where he comes, he leaves that to you. But watching his own mess drip and slide down your smooth skin, that really gets him going. He also loves cleaning your creamy pussy by slathering his cum in your mouth, letting you taste both yourself and him.

D = dirty secret (self explanatory)

He sort of wants to get caught. He wouldn't back in Boston, and definitely not when you're wandering your way through the US. But in Jackson, some sly and cunning part of himself wants someone to see how good he fucks you. He wants to boast about how you're his and how much you trust him. He's got nothing to hide, nothing to be insecure about - and neither have you. After being alone for so long, he's lost the reason to care and he finds himself craving attention sometimes.

E = experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?)

He had his fair share of women before the apocalypse. Even after he had Sarah, he was still young enough to have a high sex drive. So yeah, he'd hopped on a few dating apps just looking for a hookup. However, after shit went down? He lost his touch. It'd been so long since he'd slept with someone, he felt like a 15 year old virgin again. After he'd gotten over your first time together, his knowledge and experience soon returned to him.

F = favourite position

Anything where he can hold you up, where all of the control is in his hands and he can make you feel good. Fucking you against a wall as he holds you up? Yes. Having you on top but he's the one ploughing into you? Yes. The thrill of holding you in his arms whilst chasing his high just accentuates the pleasure more.

G = goofy (are they more serious/humorous in the moment?)

When you initiate it, he's goofy. He finds it so cute when you're needy, and he can't help but tease you. But when he needs you, he's serious. He wants to come (and yourself, of course) and that only. He doesn't want to fuck around, he just wants to slap you around and assert his power over you.

H = hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

He doesn't groom himself, but he doesn't really need to. His hair is quite sparse but as dark as his head-hair.

I = intimacy (how are they romantic in the moment?)

It's dependent on the situation. There are times where he can't get enough of you; where he intertwines his fingers in yours, sensually rubs his hands down your body, let's his nose drag down your neck to smell your pheromones. And then there are times where he can't even kiss you because he's in such a fucked up headspace and only wants to relieve himself,

J = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Being alone on the road had him lusting for no one, so he didn't used to masturbate. However, after meeting you his need to relieve himself would spiral out of control. He found himself touching himself in the night when you were on watch. He'd be so tender, so sensitive, and even wet. Joel would put his leather belt between his teeth so he wouldn't make any noise. He'd be furious with it, angry how his body had betrayed him, he was fast and hard and moist. But if he hadn't been around you for a while, and hadn't felt the need to jerk off, he'd be so careful with himself. His hands were softer, his cock was hard and heavy. Pre-cum decorated his tip, and he'd fuck his fist just like he would your pussy.

K = kink (one or more of their kinks)

Impact play. It's not the slapping that arouses him, it's more of the control and trust aspect. He does enjoy slapping your ass and pussy, even your face when you're in the mood. If you allow him (he'll always ask first), the trust you put into him will fuel him even more. You're letting him slap you around, you're letting him destroy you, you're letting him do whatever he wants with you. But also, he enjoys getting hit himself. Tapping his ass as you pass him in the kitchen does not suffice. When you're fighting for dominance in the bedroom and he lightly but firmly slaps your cheek, you instinctively did it back once. It was an unconscious reaction to strike him in the face but fuck, did it turn him on.

L = location (favourite location to have sex)

His couch. His bed seems too domestic and official, it frightens him. Obviously you still sleep in it and have sex in it, but if he had to choose then he'd choose his couch. Plus it's downstairs, and part of him likes it because the living room windows allows nosy neighbours to see how good he's fucking you.

M = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Your lips. Once you pout or bite your lip, he's up and ready. Also your jealousy; he loves knowing that you care about him so much you're starting to develop a physical reaction. He loves being yours.

N = no (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

CNC/Rape play. Yeah he'll slap you around a little bit, but never would even pretend to do that. Having Sarah and Ellie - he wouldn't be able to do that.

O = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He prefers receiving. He's fair and always returns the favour, but he definitely loves receiving. He's like a dog you can wind up, at any tease of going for walkies or getting a treat they go crazy. Well so does Joel. When you're licking an ice pop, when sweat is dribbling down your chin, when you outright bargain with him "if you do this for me I'll go down on you." He loves it, it ramps him up out of any sour mood he was in. When it comes to you, he's decent. It was hard to get used to actually being clean in Jackson, and you both helped each other get over the germ-infectious-reluctancy you both had.

P = pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Joel is usually slow and sensual. He's rough when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, grabs your jaw to force eye contact, when he's slapping your face to snap you out of whatever trance you're in. He's rough for the sake of needing your attention, but when that's on him he's really sensual. He's hard, deep, firm, but also euphoric, desperate and caring.

Q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He adores quickies. Parts of him wants to drag out his need for you for just a few more days so you can have a really passionate moment together, but other times he just wants to ravish you there and then. Once he's got a bit of adrenaline in him, his conscience will cloud and he'll be pushing you to the nearest surface he can bend you over.

R = risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Joel is a risky man. He needs risk to function, he craves the fuel it gives him. He's open to try anything you want, but he's more shy about his own fantasies. When it comes to getting caught, he's pretty risky. When it comes to potentially getting you pregnant, he's the safest guy you'll find.

S = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

His stamina is an additional package along with his experience. He has a few tricks up his sleeve to keep him going. But once he's finished round 1 (probably round 3 for you), he's done for the night.

T = toys (do they own toys? Do they use them on a partner or themselves?)

He owns toys to use on you. It's another trick he uses to drag out the sensuality for you without finishing himself. However, he's open to trying toys on himself if it's what you want. He'd fuck a fleshlight for you to watch, and he'd let you ruin his orgasm with a cock ring if you wanted. He also sadistically enjoys shoving a vibrator in your panties and watching you squirm.

U = unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh he loves to tease. He's a slight sadist, he gets off on watching you break. He has a lot of discreet methods to tease you; he likes to squeeze your thigh, slap your ass when no one's looking, push his leg up against yours under the table. But he has patent methods as well; using being 'drunk' as an excuse to kiss your neck at the bar in Jackson, he'll press up against you when you're doing stable duty, he'll trace your neck with his fingers in the middle of the street.

V = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He knows what gets you off, so he's vocal. He grunts and breathes heavily; but when you're in charge you get him whining and groaning. He doesn't hold back because he knows you love it.

W = wildcard (a random headcanon for the character)

Joel loves competition. Jealousy fuels him. The idea of someone flirting with you sets a fire alight inside him, but not an anger. It's more of a self-assurance and confidence because he knows no one can compare to him. Arrogant, maybe, but it's true. Because of this, he fantasises about a MMF threesome a lot.

X = x-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Thick. He's a little darker than his usual skin tone, and he's definitely a grower (but still pretty impressive when he's soft). He's cut and heavy and curves to the left. With his age he's become more veiny and sensitive.

Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Not as high as it used to be. When he was younger he felt like a hare, but now? He's a tortoise. He can manage a few times a week, but if you want him he'll make-do with his mouth and fingers. He doesn't force himself, he'll save both of you the embarrassment.

Z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

If you're out of it, he'll be out of it. Once you're asleep he's not long behind. Unless you really tire him, he'll wait for you to fall asleep in his arms first.

Disaster

Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader, Jake Lockley x f!Reader

Word Count: ~5.9k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, mental health issues, excessive drinking, tense encounter with police, insensitivity (insensitive language) towards mental illness, pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse and trauma, mentions of abortion. If there's anything else please let me know!

A/N: Please read the warnings! Let me know what you think! Happy holidays!

Marc Spector is a disaster. 

He’s a walking red flag. 

His mind is fucked up, and he’s never known how to deal with it. 

There are triggers and tripwires inside him that even he can’t guess at, that he doesn’t want to look at. 

His knuckles are bleeding, the palms of his hands scraped raw, and he can’t say whether he was in a fight or if he fell. 

Did he stumble and fall? 

Why is no one ever there to help him up again?

Something swirls inside him, a voice telling him to stop, but he won’t listen to those voices tonight. He won’t be the guy shouting on a street corner to a person no one else can see, to people no one else can see.

There are, some part of him knows, people to help him up again. 

He’s just left them behind, shut them out.

“You’ve gotta go buddy.” The voice is American and gruff. It confuses him because he’s not sure how he got to the States. He glances up and around, vision blurred and doubled and tripled but he manages to make out the logo of the Cubs on the far wall of the bar. 

The rough voice is still speaking to him when a hard hand grips his upper arm. He’s dragged upright but he doesn’t remember falling to the floor. There’s a bottle of something in his hand, amber liquid turning around the inside of the glass that feels like shards of a broken mirror in his brain. 

Look, look, look, the mirror says. Look what you said you’d never become again.

He jerks away from the hand on his shoulder, memory like draggers, like the shape of a mother’s love and broken promises, twisting deep inside him. 

The bottle clatters to the floor. It doesn’t burst, the glass is too thick for that, but the sound of it makes him frantic, reminds him of slamming doors and mistakes long past. 

Someone is crying, someone is shouting, someone is hitting him -

No. 

His own hands. 

A whine lodges in his throat, his face smarts. He manages to still his hands.

The hands on his shoulders are shoving him now. “Get this fucking guy out of here. He’s fucking crazy. Something’s wrong with him-,” 

He lands on the street in a heap, and it's cold. 

It’s winter and it’s cold and there are Christmas decorations on this street. Winter decorations, the city of Chicago would probably say. White lights that twinkle overhead when he lands in the gutter, that spin and smash into each other before separating and diving away.

His hands are still smarting and the hard press of iced over snow and slush only makes it worse. 

“Hey,” there’s a voice, feminine and kind, “What’s your name? Are you okay?” He can’t focus on the face that swims in front of him. 

“Marc,” he manages. 

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he wants this person to call-

“Get away from him, lady! He’s fucking crazy. Someone call the cops, he’s gonna freeze out here-,” 

“Marc,” he manages to meet her eyes. She’s older, eyes familiar.

“It’s gonna be okay, Marc," she says.

Marc doesn’t move, but he nods. 

He blinks and blinks and blinks, until his eyes stay closed and the woman is tugged away. “Let them handle it. Cops’ll be here soon enough-,” 

“Cops are going to-,” 

The voices fade away, he stops listening. 

His shirt is wet, his jeans too, and he doesn’t have a coat anymore. 

He thinks about his mother and how he doesn’t want to be like her but it seems like it's inevitable that he will be. He thinks about how he’s shoved Jake and Steven so far away he hasn’t heard their voices in days.

Last, he thinks about you. About the tears slipping down your cheeks when he left, about the way his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt nails of his voice. The things he’d said to you, the fear in the pit of his belly, that poisoned seed long ago planted that spread blackened vines over his body.

Blue and red lights flash, and he finally hears one of his alters. Steven, panicked and worried, and Marc, what have you done now-

He’s answering, the voice in his throat choked, like there’s something wrapped around his lungs and heart. “Fuck off, Steven!” His voice explodes out of him, and the guy from the bar that dumped him on the ground jumps. “I didn’t do anything! I did what I had to-,” 

He’d left you, he’d said horrible things to you, when you said- 

Marc, I’m pregnant.

It should have been okay. 

That should have been okay. 

He should have been okay, should have been able to talk it out and over with you. 

But it wasn’t, he isn’t. 

Another bender.  

He thought he was past this. He hasn’t done this in…eighteen months? Longer? Since he decided to be better for you. Since he decided he couldn’t keep doing that to you - disappearing and getting fucked up and not calling and coming home to you crying. 

How many days has he been gone? Are you okay? What if something happened to you while he was out here fucking wallowing and screaming inside his own mind -

There’s nothing about you that he understands. He’s never understood how you could bear it. How could you bear it? When he does this, when you have to pick up the pieces, when Steven has to clean them up and Jake has to smooth things over with you?

But it's been more than a year, of reconciling his identity, of learning to live with Steven and Jake and not shove them down, of getting help and letting you help support him. 

And now, this. 

Pregnant. 

One word had undone months of work. 

For no reason. 

He wants to go home to you, apologize, work it out with you. 

But he’s drunk and he can’t move. 

The blue and red lights flash behind his eyelids, rough hands again grip his shoulders, sick rolling up from his gut at the feeling of hands against his skin. Hard hands, rough hands. 

Marc doesn’t want to be touched. 

“Stop-,” 

“He’s drunk.” 

“Don’t touch me-,” 

“Hasn’t been violent yet but he’s talking to himself. Something’s fuckin’ wrong with him but we didn’t want him to freeze to death. Some lady said his name is Marc.” 

“Stop, stop-,” 

“Okay. We’ll throw him in the drunk tank, let him dry out.” 

“Stop touching me,” he manages not to slur, to speak clearly. 

Still- 

“What was that, pal?” 

It’s too much. 

Marc throws the hands off, stumbles away from the touch that burns like coal. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want-

He’s knocked into the snow, handcuffs cold around his wrists, so cold they’re hot. He’s trapped and something is burning him and - 

~

“-fucking kidding me?” Your voice is incensed. It comes to him warbled, like he’s hearing it through a tunnel. “His skin is raw. He’s fucking bleeding. He’s bruised.” 

“It was for his own protection. He assaulted an officer and tried to hurt himself.” The voice that responds is feminine and surprisingly calm. “We didn’t have anywhere to put him besides the drunk tank. Couldn’t have him causing problems.” 

Marc shifts, pushing himself upright. His hands are still behind his back, cuffs digging into his skin. His cheek hurts from being squished against the metal bench he’d been slumped on. 

There’s a long silence before you take a breath and sigh. “Okay.” 

A buzzer sounds and then a door slams. “You’re lucky,” another voice says, much harsher than the first. “If that lawyer hadn’t called he’d be facing charges right now. He should be facing charges right now.”

You let out a humorless laugh as Marc stands, shuffling past the other drunks, most of them sleeping, to the door of the holding cell. He tries to peer down the hall, tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Right. Lucky he’s bleeding and bruised and near hypothermic because of the negligence of this department.” 

“You’re lucky he’s not dead in a fucking gutter,” the harsh voice says, male and aggressive. It raises Marc’s hackles, because no one should be speaking to you like that. Not his brave girl, standing up for him in a police department like that wasn’t completely fucking dangerous. “Word of advice, sweetheart? Drop him. He’s not worth it. Guy doesn’t even know his own fucking name. He’s batshit crazy. He should be institutionalized.” 

A door bangs shut again, the receptionist’s voice returns now, much gentler, “He needs help, honey. Serious help.” 

“He’s not-,” you sound broken and raw. “He’s not crazy. We don’t use that word. He’s fine, usually. There was just - something happened that triggered him.”

“He talks to himself,” the receptionist says, not unkindly. Marc leans into the bars of the holding cell, the metal cold under his skin, against his cheek. There’s a heavy pause, the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. “My son was diagnosed with schizophrenia and-,” 

You blow your nose and Marc misses the rest of the sentence. “He’s not schizophrenic,” you say. “Thank you, though.” Paper being folded, shoved into the interior pocket of a coat. “Can I take him home now?” 

Hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else? To help you at least? He was fairly agitated earlier.”

The meaning of her words are clear, and shame wells deep inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.  

“He would never hurt me,” you reply immediately and vehemently. “He knows me. He would never.”

“If you’re sure-,”

“I am,” you answer without hesitation. “Can you - Do you know who asked you to call me? If it wasn’t Marc-,”

Marc closes his eyes, presses his face harder into the metal, eyes clenched shut. “He - uh -  introduced himself as Steven. Sounded British, I guess.” A pause, and then, “Multiple personalities then, not schizophrenic. How many personalities does he have? Are you sure none of them are dangerous?”

Your voice is tightly controlled, a nugget of familiar embarrassment digging into his gut. “Sorry, I’m - I’m not comfortable talking about that. I would just say - just in case you ever deal with someone else like Marc - they’re alters, not personalities. That’s important. It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Your correction is gentle and Marc isn’t sure why he feels like crying. “And no. None of them are violent. It’s a terrible stereotype.” 

The receptionist doesn’t respond, but he imagines her nodding. “Of course,” she says eventually. “And the others know you too?” 

“Yes,” you sniffle. “They work together really well, usually.” 

“Of course,” the receptionist says, clearly placating now, clearly beginning to believe you were delusional about the truth of your situation. 

“Okay. Let me see him now,” you say, voice thick. Marc knows you hear it too, the sympathy and empathy that was rapidly drying up.

And a moment later you’re moving down the hall. You’re there and meeting his eyes, and the look in them is flush with relief. “Marc,” you say, his name safe in your mouth. 

The cell is unlocked by an officer, a different one to the aggressive, angry one. The cuffs are taken off his wrists only slightly roughly, and then your arms are coiled around him, squeezing tightly. 

“You’re so cold,” you’re saying in his ear, a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear you. “Honey, you’re so cold. C’mon. Let’s go home.” 

He follows you down the hall, through the buzz of a door and into the lobby. 

Home. 

Home, where?

“Merry Christmas,” the receptionist calls after you. “Hope everything works out.” 

“Thanks,” you say, hand around Marc’s, even though neither of you celebrate Christmas and he isn’t sure there’s anything to work out between you anymore. 

~

The car is a rental. 

It smells new and the seats are still warm. 

You reach into the backseat and hand him a coat.

He pulls it on, lets you fuss over his bruised wrists, the scrapes and cuts and blood that coats his skin. 

You’re pissed, but he can’t tell at who or what.

“Marc,” you murmur and tug his hands to the air vents. Your voice is sweet, like a balm to him. His hands are cold, like icicles, and he hadn’t even realized. “Keep your hands here ‘til they’re warm,” you say before releasing his fingers and reaching to shift the car into drive. 

Chicago is grim in the daylight, gray and flat, a winter that will last too long. Snowmelt drips from overhead, and the streets are all black slush. 

He’s still not sure when, or how, he got to Chicago. 

His hands start to feel warm again and so he sits back in his seat, not saying anything, not for a long time, not until you pull the car into the hotel’s parking garage and you’re opening the door. 

“They’re right, y’know.” 

You settle back in the driver’s seat, one foot on the ground, one leg in the icy cold. “What? Who?” 

“I need serious help. You’re better off without me.” 

You just stare at him, one tear trailing down your cheek that you flick away with an irritated hand. “C’mon,” you prod. “Let’s go.” You get out of the car, you shut the door and wait.

But you don’t deny it. You don’t say it's not true. 

Marc watches you for a moment, fists shaking in his lap. “Marc,” Jake says, his eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, the first time he’s heard his voice in days. “Let go, hermano. You can rest now.”

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to shove Jake down. 

But he’s there, he’s not going anywhere. 

“Don’t be so fuckin’ hardheaded, Marc. You need to rest. We need to take care of the body. You’re going to upset -,” 

“I won’t,” he snarls, catching the way you jump at the outburst, even through glass and metal you hear him. He’s exhausted, close to burn out, already in the middle of a never ending melt down. He won’t upset you again. He won’t. “I won’t upset her. I will not,” he enunciates and shoves the door open. 

You hold out a hand to him and Marc takes it, letting you guide him through the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators. He knows as soon as he steps inside that he’s made a mistake. The elevator is mirrored and when he meets his reflection’s gaze-

~

“Querida,” Jake says, tucking you into his side, nose against your temple. He inhales the icy scent of your skin. You smell like cold, like Marc’s soap. “I’m sorry. We tried to get him to go home. We tried to call you but Marc-,” 

“Where is Marc?” Your eyes are wide and wet and Jake feels something inside him sink. “Why did he leave?” 

Jake doesn’t know what to say - he only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days, he remembers almost nothing of the conversation that had sent Marc into a self-destructive spiral. Jake settles for what he knows to be the truth, “He needs to rest. He’s exhausted. I need to take care of the body.” 

You nod and the elevator stops. 

He follows you to the room you’d checked into. It’s small but nice. Clean. The bathroom has a bathtub. A big one with claw feet, the way you said you’d always like to have in a house someday. 

“Can I help?” 

Jake turns, finds you in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to help you clean up. I missed you.” 

Jake nods. 

He feels sick, hungover and groggy. He feels dirty. He looks dirty and tired when he meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink. There are circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks look hollowed out, like someone has dug a spoon into the meat of him.

 “Yeah, if you want,” he concedes. 

Jake doesn’t want you to see them like this but you already have and so he might as well accept your kindness, your warm touch. He doesn’t know what Marc’s done, and so it might be the last time.  

You run a bath, you settle Jake in the water, you sit on the edge of the tub and wash his hair. The scratch of your hands against his scalp is nice, soothing. The smell of the shampoo bothers him a little but not enough to say anything. You dig your hands into his hair, into the muscle at the base of his neck until he relaxes into your touch. 

When he’s clean and you’re cupping his chin, running a razor over his jaw and cheek, you ask, “Do you remember what happened?”

“No. Wasn’t aware until we were here and it felt like Marc’s heart was going to-,” 

Jake had come to in the cemetery at the foot of Randall’s grave. Wendy would be to his left, but Jake didn’t dare look that way. 

“No. No, I don’t remember, hermosa.” 

You nod and touch his cheek. “Can I tell you? Is Steven listening?” 

Jake nods, touches your hand. “It’s just us. Me and you.” 

“Jake,” you say. “I told Marc that I’m pregnant.” You swallow and continue before he can answer you. An odd feeling lodges in his chest, hot with something unknowable. “I should have told him in a different way but-,” 

Jake remembers now, flashes of Marc’s despair, the worry gnawing at his gut. The panic and the memories and the fear. It was too sudden, too much-

You. 

Pregnant. 

With his child. 

Marc hadn’t known how to handle it, his mother’s face swimming before his eyes. All the damage he’d be able to wreck on a tiny little life. 

We aren’t ready. 

I know, that’s why we’re talking about it. 

So, what, you want to get rid of it? 

I didn’t say that. I just wanted you to know so we could-

It’s okay. I know I’d be a terrible fucking parent. Just get rid of it. I don’t know why you even told me. 

You’d shrunk away from Marc at that. Marc, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say. 

He’d scoffed, hadn’t looked at you. You think I’d be parent of the year or something? 

No, I’m-

So you don’t want it. 

No! Marc, stop putting words in my mouth!

Things had only escalated from there, egging you on until you’d burst, poking at you, demanding you say something hurtful, to push him away before he could damage you further. You or the - 

“Pregnant?” Jake asks, interrupting you and his racing thoughts, thinking that this is the kind of thing that Grant is much more skilled at handling. 

“Right,” you say, relaxing a little. And he supposes his reaction hasn’t been to antagonize you or run away and so it’s an improved one. “I just…needed to tell him. I needed to tell one of you. I felt so alone and-” 

Jake takes your hand, his skin wet against yours. “Are you okay?” 

“No.” 

“‘Course you aren’t,” he soothes. “‘Course not. How am I lookin’?” He swipes a hand over his face, and you nod to indicate you’re done shaving him. “Lemme get us dressed. Marc wasn’t eating. We can go for pizza.” 

Your face crumples and you nod, standing and shifting away from him. Something like grief flashes over your face but he can’t decipher why. “Okay,” you rasp, trying to clear your voice but it just cracks more. “Okay.” 

“Hey,” he tugs you back by your hand. “Te amo. Siento lo que pasó.” 

You nod again, but don’t comment, tugging yourself gently away. 

~

Steven glances up from a red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the table. The plate directly in front of him is streaked with red sauce and his belly is full.

He’s alone at the table and there’s classic rock playing over the radio and when he looks out the window it’s snowing. 

He’s confused. The last he remembers are police and pain and -

“Steven?” You’re suddenly there, sounding relieved, your voice like a spear of light into the darkness of his world. 

“Love,” he meets your eyes as you sit down across from him. “What happened?” 

“Jake…is he alright? I was only in the bathroom for a minute.” 

Steven nods and takes your hand across the table. “He’s fine.” Steven looks you over, the tautness in your features, the sallow tinge of your skin. Marc’s put you through hell the last few days and he feels irritation spike inside him.

How could Marc do this to you? Again? 

They - Marc hasn’t done this in ages. 

“I already told Jake,” you say quickly. “What set Marc off. I’m guessing you don’t know either. He - I told him I’m pregnant and he didn’t take it well. I shouldn’t have sprung it on him-,” 

“Pregnant?” Steven asks, suddenly realizing why Jake had walked out of the body so abruptly. You’ve just come back from the loo, and it’s clear you were just sick. It’s morning sickness and Jake doesn’t know how to handle that. But - “Pregnant? With - with ours?” When you nod, an unexpected elation curls up his spine. Pregnant. With their, with his, baby. “Oh, dear, that’s -,” 

No wonder Marc had a bit of a breakdown then. 

He stands, rips the napkin that’s tucked into the collar of his shirt out and sweeps Jake’s flat cap off his head, before he rounds the table to you. He tugs you into a hug when he sits next to you, curling his arms around you.

The breath you take is shaky against his chest, a hiccup in your voice. “Oh, Steven,” you whisper, hands curling into his shirt, one of Jake’s button-ups. You must have brought some clothes for all of them, had the presence of mind to remember Jake’s stupid cap he can’t live without.  “I missed you,” your voice is numb and raw and filled with longing. “I love you so fucking much. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he chirps. “Very much. I’m sorry Marc-,” 

Steven stops. 

He’s sorry Marc - what? Ran off, relapsed into old coping mechanisms, worried you, left you utterly alone? All of the above?

“I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into the corner of your jaw. “So sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” you say, fingers digging into his hair, the palm of your hand cupping the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

He pulls back, tugs your hand into his, the warmth of it comforting. “Were you sick? Just then?” He asks, just to confirm. You nod. “Pregnant. Really?”

“You’re taking it better than Marc or Jake.” 

“Was Jake-,” 

“He was putting on a brave face. But I think it thoroughly freaked him out.” You nuzzle his hand when he cups your jaw, tilts your head back so he can see your face. You don’t meet his eyes, gaze downcast. 

Steven nods and releases your chin, let’s you curl into him. “Right. I think they just need a bit of time.” 

“Not sure that’s the case. Marc literally ran to another country to get away from me,” you say miserably. “Jake doesn’t know what to do or say. I think he just wants it to go away. And the really terrible thing is, that was what I wanted to talk to each of you about. What we’d do. I don’t know what to do or how to feel.” 

“You mean-,” Steven snaps his mouth shut. The last thing you needed was him dumping his own feelings onto yours, especially after Marc and Jake have made you feel unwanted and weird respectively. “Never mind that. I’m bloody thrilled. And if - if you don’t want to have a baby, then I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what.” 

You pull back and meet his eyes, brows pulling together as you search his gaze. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation as your lip wobbles dangerously but then your arms are circling his neck and you’re breathing out hard. “You’re amazing. Have I ever said before? You’re amazing.” 

“If anyone is, it's you, love,” he says, holding you close, feeling the beat of your heart against his. “Chasing Marc halfway across the world. I-I’m really not sure what we’ve done to deserve that.” 

You pull back and stare at him, your gaze guarded. “‘Course I came. You told the police to call me. I’d already figured out he was in Chicago when they called. I was on a layover in New York. But I had no idea where to go once I got here. The police were so fucking horrible. They-,” you stop and clutch him harder, like you mean to shield him from whatever happened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what they were saying. Marc is lucky Murdock likes Jake so much and that he had another lawyer friend in Chicago he could call.”

“You knew exactly what to do. We’re so lucky to have you.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry Marc left you like that. I’m sorry he gave you such a fright.” 

You shift, so your head is against his shoulder, and for the first time you relax a little. “No. It’s, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. He’s been doing so well for so long, and I just said it. I know how he is about -,” you force yourself to stop talking again. “Really, it was unfair of me. And then he had to hear the horrible things the police said, after everything he’d already been through.” 

“You defended us though, yeah? It’s alright.” Steven wasn’t there, but the moments come in glimpses, Marc’s shame and embarrassment, the way you’d spoken up for them, corrected the receptionist, done everything to help them. 

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s not okay, what happened.” You shake your head, vehement in your disgust. “They shouldn’t treat people like that. I know things could have been much worse but it doesn’t make it okay.”

“‘Course not. One problem at a time though, love. Nothing came of it. Okay?” 

It takes you a moment to respond, but eventually you nod back, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, Steven. Are you hungry? Jake said Marc wasn’t-wasn’t eating.” Your voice warbles. “Wasn’t eating, just drinking himself sick.” 

“No, I feel alright now. Maybe a bit hungover but fine. Just tired, really.” 

You nod and pull away, yanking your bag into your lap and searching for some money to leave on the table. “Do I make him that afraid?” You whisper, not looking up. “Have I misread everything so badly? That he’d hurt himself like that?” 

Steven shakes his head, “Not everything is about you, love. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, or himself, really.”

You nod, but you don’t look like you believe him. 

“He’s going to leave me, and take you and Jake with him.” 

“No,” Steven says, picking up Jake’s cap to stuff in his pocket as you both stand. “Never,” he cups your face between his palms. “We’ll never let that happen, dear heart. We can’t be kept away from you.” 

~

It’s dark outside when Marc wakes, wrapped in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed. 

He feels better. 

Clean and fed and rested, at least a little. 

He’s only wearing a pair of briefs, the comforter a heavy weight on his chest. 

You’re sitting up next to him in bed, your eyes glassy where they’re glued to the flickering TV. 

He says your name and you look at him, immediately sliding down next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder as you bury your nose in his neck. 

“Marc, I’m so sorry-,” 

He’s shaking his head but he can’t get the words out. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault. 

It’s him. It’s always him. 

It was bad already, but the police station only made it worse, reminding you surely of why he’s not good for you, why you deserve better. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be. You go quiet, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It’s not your fault. It’s me. It’s always fucking me.” 

You stroke his cheek. “You’re wrong, you know.” 

He huffs out a laugh, cycling through everything he’s ever been wrong about. “Yeah.” 

“Marc,” you tilt his face into yours, so close that the air he breathes is your breath. You smell like his soap, like minty toothpaste. He inhales, holds the breath of you inside, sure this is the moment you tell him to fuck off. “You’re wrong about being bad for me. I’m not better off without you, that’s exactly why I followed you here. The shit they said -,” 

He dares to tuck you closer. 

His head is clear now, and he can feel Jake and Steven close at hand, watching and waiting, making sure he doesn’t fuck this up again. 

But the body has slept and his belly is full and he’s not drunk or hungover or standing at the foot of his little brother’s grave. 

He’s okay. He’s good. 

“This isn’t about that.” 

“Like hell it’s not.” Your voice is gentle. “You believe that shit.”

“No,” he sits up and pulls away from you, paces the length of the hotel room even though he’s freezing. “No.”

But it didn’t make it any better. Reminds him of what his kid would go through with him as a father.

Unstable. Crazy. Whatever you want to call it. 

“Marc,” you say his name again. 

Safe. He’s safe with you, always. Even when you disagreed, even when you were mad at each other. “Honey, look at me.” 

He does. 

You look vulnerable, swathed in the comforting mountain of sheets that aren’t yours. “Let me say what I need to.” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “I should have approached you about it in a different way. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you ended up in that police station because of it.” He opens his mouth but you give him a look that dries the words on his tongue. “I’m pregnant. We did that together. We make the decision about what comes next together. All of us.”

He gives a short nod, panic welling in him again at the thought. 

Everything about it, about having a kid and being a father, reminds him of the sharp smell of booze, the clack of belt loops, the fear of death, rising tidewaters. 

But you’d be there. 

You’d never be that kind of mother, that kind of partner. 

“Even if I don’t - even if I’m not her,” he finds himself saying, the words unbidden and sagging with grief. “You’re right. The police station has everything to do with it. Even if I’m not her, I’m still this. I’m still what she made me. I’m still what people think of me.” 

Shame, he hates to admit that he still feels it, even with you. Sometimes he hates that you know, that he has to be reminded you know what happened to him, that you know Jake and Steven and might like them better than him. 

You hold a hand out to him, and Marc steps readily towards you. You pull him under the blankets, fingers digging into his skin, fussing and fidgeting with the necklace looped around his throat. “Marc,” you whisper, hands curling into his hair.

He loves the way you say his name, how often you say it. 

But his skin prickles with unease. “No kid needs to deal with all my shit. I’m never gonna be good for them, because of what happened to me.” 

You fold him close to you, cocoon him in your scent and the shape of your arms. “Or,” you nudge your nose against his. “You’ll be good because of it. I’m not afraid of you being a parent. I’m afraid of losing you.” 

Marc scoffs, “You don’t have a single fucking concern-,” 

“None. Not one. But we’re - we don’t have enough space. And I don’t know how a kid will fit into our life and our plans. We wanted to travel. I’m getting a promotion soon.” You touch his cheek. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If it’s the right time.” 

Normal concerns, he realizes. Totally banal concerns, that is what has been plaguing you. 

“You get so afraid that you aren’t enough, that someone is going to leave you behind, that you self-destruct before anyone has the chance to explain what’s going on.” You lean your forehead into his. “You ran before I could explain.” 

“You’re mad.” 

“Yes,” you agree. It’s straightforward, it’s easy to understand and digest. “I’m mad. But not forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” You lace your fingers with his, kiss the backs of his knuckles. “You’ve gotten and are getting help. You try to be better every single day. We, me and you and Jake and Steven, we have a system that works for all of us. We have a way of making things work. Shit happens. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just something that happened.” 

It’s hard to internalize, hard to reconcile. He’s broken and he hears the words that echo through years. It’s all your fault. 

“It’s always me-,” 

“No. It’s not. And either way, we’re here to help. Don’t shut us out.” 

He swallows, can’t think about himself anymore, or his mother, or his past, or the police station. You though, he can always think about you. 

A memory swirls up, staring at a picture Steven had taken of you at the park last spring. Back when benders were so common for Marc, but you were determined to see him to the end of the tunnel, the light at the end. He’d been drunk already, eyes wet, when the old lady next to him on the plane leaned over and said, “Beautiful.” 

Nothing more. Only that. 

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant,” he lets his voice lilt into a question. 

“Yes. I’m not sure how, we’re so good about condoms and birth control.” 

“Shit happens though, right?” He echos your words. “It’s just something that happened. We’ll deal.” 

“Together?” You venture. 

He nods, firm now. You believe in him, whether he’s crazy or not, fucked up or not, worthy or not, you believe in him. “Together.” 

Marc pauses, curls his arm around your shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m sorry about the last few days. I think - I can’t help but think about her. I don’t wanna be like her.”

“Marc,” your voice is firm. “You won’t be. But if you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I would not let what happened to you, happen to my baby.” 

And that -

Shocks Marc. 

He shouldn't have had to rely on his own mind to create protectors. 

He should have already been protected. His father, his father should never have let it happen. 

Marc looks at you, the fierce look in your eyes. No, you’d never let that happen. You’d never become his father. 

And somewhere inside him, he knows he’ll never be his mother. Not with Steven and Jake and you to guide him home. “Nothing is wrong with you,” you reiterate. “Nothing. This isn’t a question of whether you’d be a good parent, if you’d fuck up. This is about us, and what we need. All the rest will come as it may.”

Your hands are on his again, gentle over the bruises and cuts he doesn't remember getting.

"Okay."

Between the four of you, things would be okay.

"I'm not going anywhere, either," he says. "Not again. You won't lose me."

You shoulders drop, relief pours over him. .

moment's silence

#NightSkyChallenge: Prompt 7 — The night I lost a bet. [“You know what this means, don’t you?”] [6.6k]

— Summary: Joel has no idea why Bill gifts him with the book. Had he rambled about you that much? It seemed impossible—to be fair, but surely there were other things besides your name on his tongue. Besides how much you love your books and care for them. Besides how much he's learned since he met you because of them.

Either way, the book means you lost the bet. Joel cares for very little since Outbreak day, but this—oh, this he took it to heart. You'd lost, and he intended on collecting his prize.

— A/n: Canon-divergence; Reader and Tess met Joel at the same time, and all three became a tight-knit unit. | 🏷️ Tags & warnings⚠️: explicit mature content, minors DNI; age gap, mentions of canon-typical violence, confessions, touch starved, dry humping, oral sex (m receiving), slow & deep sex, but also rough sex?, dirty talk, little spoon Joel.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤmasterlist | read on ao3

All he can think about when he sees the bookshelf is your words, even if they were spoken on a whim years ago.

"There's no fucking way you can find a classic in good conditions anymore—not even Joel 'I can find anything' Miller is immune to decay and years of nature taking over. They're all gone, Joel. I just have to accept it. I bet there's not a single one that hasn't been wrecked by either people's ignorance or fucking mold eating every single page."

He remembered those words as clear as the day's first rays of light.

Not because of them, precisely. Because of what came after. He had blurted, "Bet what?" out of sheer instinct, only for you to reply with:

"Anything."

Maybe you were being metaphorical at the time, but Joel took it seriously. He outreached his hand for you to shake. "I'll take that bet."

If he never found a book, nothing would change.

If he won, on the other hand. Well—there's something Joel's been wanting from you for a long, long time.

That's why when he enters Bill's house for the first time, Joel stops dead in his tracks on the corridor leading to the kitchen.

You'd been to the house before with him and Tess.

Just like him, you had stood outside the whole time while Tess and Frank went about their rambles and deals. You, Joel, and Bill were all cut out from the same cloth—death stares etched onto your faces as if you were marble, grumbled conversation that came up here and there between long sips of wine.

Neither you nor Joel had been inside yet.

It's the third time he visits, first one without you, and he sees it—

Bookshelf.

One of Bill's doors is open on the way to the kitchen revealing what used to be an office but now looks more like a symbiosis of an atelier and library. It's — nice, Joel guesses.

It's not his thing.

Books — those are your thing.

Joel has no idea what connects you to the pages, but he knows it runs deeper than just academic pleasure, or snobbiness (an assumption made by many who met you).

It's as if whatever elements existed within paper, inked with words that strung together beautiful stories — it moved you.

Joel was entranced by the way you were able to quote several passages.

Few things remained that were worthy of admiration, or interest. He easily placed your small and precious book collection high above on his list.

That, and your ability to bring those stories to life somehow.

"Are you a reader?" Bill's voice is expected — Joel heard his steps approaching and stopping behind him when he did.

He scanned all the shelves, so he looks back to answer Bill. "Not really. Tess never mentioned who's the little Librarian between us? Our reader's absent today."

"If my, uh... —

If mine... if they brought strangers into our situation... I wouldn't be happy either."

"Oh. Well. They seem to listen to you as well as mine listens to me."

"I hope she feels better soon." Bill says the words and they sound so real. Spoken freely, not through gritted teeth or accompanied by his usual stiff shoulders.

Joel's hands rested on his hips. "Yeah." He hated this part — with Bill and Frank it was harder to not talk about things. He was pretty sure Bill didn't even like him, just like Joel didn't like him that much, but they saw each other. Understood one another. "Yeah, me too."

"The medicine you gave — it helped." That came out through gritted teeth. Joel held back from smiling at the unspoken admission—you sold me real shit. It's saving my partner. Thanks. "Frank's talking about — lavender. Herb garden and all. God."

Joel snickers and they exchange a look. "Good luck with that."

"I'll definitely need it." Bill's hands pat his sides, and Joel recognizes his motion before bolting out of a conversation. "Feel free to look at them," he waves a hand in direction of the shelf before leaving Joel there alone.

He does look.

One by one, Joel checks the titles because if you were here, that's what you'd do, and "when in doubt, always do what you must".

He hated that your words stuck to his brain so easily.

They were sticky like honey, which also resembled your voice. Or maybe that was only the way he heard it — Joel enjoyed listening to you talk.

"When in doubt, always do what you must" came after he left behind some supplies in order to help during a run, and you'd gotten mad at him for the first time.

It was then that Joel noticed how fucking tough you were.

Complete the mission. Help when you can. Do what you must.

If he was here already, he might as well read all the titles. Who knew how long he'd last? If he'd be here again, or if you would?

When his eyes land on Frankenstein, Joel knows he hit the jackpot.

That's when the memory of your bet sparks behind his eyelids, and he's cursed with the way you smiled that day.

Anything.

There was something Joel wanted, badly.

He cut out his own permission to want anything that strayed from finding Tommy again, getting clues to somehow discover a way to find his brother, get him back, but you planted the seed in his subconscious by simply existing — he was powerless to stop it.

One second, you and Tess walked into his life.

The next, he had on one side a best friend who cursed as much as him and on the other a menace who popped into his subconscious state, giving him dreams for the first time in years.

You two brought back a sense of humanity into his day-to-day life.

In return, Joel tried his best to do good for both of you.

Keep you safe however he could. Slip extra ration cards into your stack so you could more.

Small things like that — things that he later realized were only the seeds for the want that blossomed.

Joel wanted you out of the smuggling business.

He wanted you to be safe.

It was fucking ridiculous.

Your hand never missed the trigger timing — if there was anyone around the neighborhoods he lived more skilled in knives than you, he'd eat his own hand, and you were clever.

Quick, sharp, rational.

Despite all of that, he hated the sight of your back whenever a deal had them going outside.

Every time he saw a pistol or any other weapon in your hands, he wanted to throw it away as hard as he could.

And here he was, facing Frankenstein.

Anything.

Fuck. Joel hated how he hesitated.

If it belonged to anyone else, his hands would've already made the book meet the secret parts of his backpack, but he couldn't do this to contacts so good like Frank and Bill.

He couldn't fuck up this one.

Shit.

(Maybe he did like the two men, after all. Just a little.)

Joel has no idea why Bill gifts him the book.

One minute they're sitting alone drinking scotch while Tess and Frank finish up the trade and the next, they're talking about old hobbies they regretted not paying more attention to. Conversing like two normal people. Like Tess and Frank do, only without all the niceness and excitement.

At one point, Bill asks, "Did you see anything you liked?"

It takes a second for Joel to realize he's talking about the room and the shelf. Joel shakes his head. "Wasn't a big fan of readin'." A lie, he thinks. "Even that's a stretch. I — probably should've done it more now that I think about it."

Bill's answer is a hum. "Yeah. Lots of things I wish I should've done. Properly. Piano's one of them."

Joel eyes the item in the room. He recalls you and Tess talking about how Frank was lucky to know an instrument. "Frank's good at it, though?"

"He was rustier when he arrived, but yeah — he's doing good now."

Joel admires that. Some things are probably talent, he figures. "Practice's everything. 's why I feel bad for people whose thing was, like, artsy. Y'know?" He lists you and Frank as examples. "They ain't got means to do what they really love now."

That's when Bill shares that Frank paints. Piano and drawn, painted art — that was nice. Frank probably missed a lot of things.

If what you said was true and artists withered without their art like some plants did without sun or water, then he must be sad nowadays.

The new information sparks up a memory. The abandoned art supply on Canbose with 5th Street — was it possible there were some there?

Joel kept the doubts to himself so as to not spark any hopes of things he'd fail to deliver, but the real surprise is that he and Bill have their first conversation there.

It's a nice one.

Joel loathes that his brain comes up with the knowing looks both you and Tess would give him and Bill if either of you saw the way the two men can converse so easily once the guns are gone.

Bill's — he's okay.

Rough around the edges, sure, but in polished, sturdy ways.

He's also a little box of Pandora.

The last thing Joel could expect was being called aside by Bill before he leaves with Tess, only to find him hiding behind the door waiting for him with a furtive air in his stance, as if there could be any secrets that they'd keep from theirs.

Bill extends the copy of Frankenstein without meeting Joel's eyes. "Here." He all but shoves it into Joel's hands, and then nods. "It's the one you kept touching."

There's no reason to play bargain or pretend this is a gift he's too humble to accept.

He does as he's told, thanks Bill with a long nod, and walks out.

It does beat at his mind on the walk back to the QZ, though—had he rambled about you that much?

It seemed impossible—to be fair, he always managed to keep the conversation away from himself, but surely there were other things besides your name on his tongue. Besides how much you love your books and care for them. Besides how much he's learned since he met you because of them.

Either way, the book means you lost the bet.

Joel cares for very little since Outbreak day, but this—oh, this he took it to heart. You'd lost, and he intended on collecting his prize.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTWO DAYS LATER

The smell of your apartment envelops him every time.

Everything's open.

You keep plants hung in several places on your wall, and they're all so tall and green. Big, imponent, and your habit of walking through the place and touching one of them, sometimes going as far as plucking a leaf or petal out of them—the air suddenly turned into myrrh, lavender, eucalyptus.

Joel wished he smelled nothing other than here.

"Heard you were feelin' better," Joel says as soon as he has eyes on you.

There's more color on your cheeks. When you smile, Joel sees it reach your eyes even if it remains small in your lips. "Still feel like shit, though."

Tongue sharp as ever, then.

He chuckles and walks in as you move aside in invitation, gaze checking through the apartment as he takes off his shoes.

Joel always pays attention to everything that surrounds you.

While you ask about the trades you missed, he takes note of the spotless state of everything around him. Stainless windows, shiny floor, a sharp citrus scent lingering even around you.

Stress cleaning — check.

"Did you finish the food I gave ya?"

"Of course," you answer. Joel's happy to hear that — you ate very little on the first day you got sick, and he gave you some of his food to make sure you ate.

The two of you take a sit in the kitchen, and as you talk about work, he analyzes you better.

You had your most comfortable clothes on. They came from a box he found not long ago that was your size exactly; the shirt has wet stains on your chest, and your wet hair tells him you felt good enough today for the first time in a while.

Good enough to gather the patience to wash your hair in the sink.

"Don't mind Inoctus, you know he says that shit about the Fireflies all the time. I ain't gonna argue with him again," Joel waves a hand, and then gets to the part he wanted to talk about. "Never mind him, though — did Tess tell you about what Bill and Frank found for us? What Frank fixed?"

"No, not yet."

Excellent. "We've got some good news. Oh — and before I forget. D'you think that art supply on Canbose still has some supplies left?"

"The one that intersects with the 5th?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. I don't see why it wouldn't have," you shrug your shoulders. "It's close enough to the QZ for it not be completely raided and I don't see who would prioritize stealing art supplies in the middle of everything." It made sense to Joel, and he felt a rare sense of giddiness tingling. "Why?"

He leans back on the chair. "Frank's a painter."

"No way."

Joel grins — you understood him. "Yes, way."

"Fucking hell. Is there anything he doesn't do?"

He laughs. "I know. I felt the same way."

"He plays the piano, he should be obliged by law to stick to that cool thing."

Joel likes it when you're feeling a little petty — the scrunch on your nose is adorable. He wants to pinch it between his fingers, even if he never did. "Anyway..." He shares the other updates about the trip to their house without you, then talks about the people who contacted him — the ones that gave him any trouble are your expertise, and Joel loves the set on your brows when you're listening.

He has no idea how someone who looks so precious can have such a wicked mind.

"She looks so — I don't know. Not this ingenious. Mean. How the fuck does someone who's always hummin' songs under her breath can intimate grown-ass man?"

"You're the only fucker who thinks she looks like an angel, Joel."

"Nah, we both know that's a lie."

"No, you're just delusional. If anyone thinks she looks angelic you better bet they're comparing her to Lucifer."

Was he? Delusional.

Tess always made him feel like he was faced with a Truth Mirror whenever he opened his big mouth around her.

After a couple of hours, you've already cooked some things — with the little help he could offer — for the both of you, taken notes of the people you need to talk to.

Joel realizes that time passes only when you.

Outside of your presence, it's all a snowball. Stale.

"Ah, shit." You get up in a rush.

"What?"

"Almost lost the time for my pills again," you mutter under your breath.

"You really need a watch." From where he sits at your kitchen table he can see your profile — the roll of your eyes. He huffs in disbelief, ignoring the feeling of his mouth tugging in the corners.

After you take your med, you sit on the couch and find his gaze from across the room. "Clean the table for me?"

Joel never says no to you.

Not for lack of want — fucking god must know how many times he's craved saying it, enunciating each letter with gusto. No.

It never came out.

He cleans the table thinking about how much he's delaying it.

The book's inside his duffel bag that remained next to your door all this time, but it weighs on his back somehow.

He did more than just clean the table as he tried pushing down the little mean jabs his mind took at itself.

You can't force her to stay outta business.

She ain't never listened to a soul in her life—who are you to tell her what to do?

Once every while, you would venture into Joel's personal space and place a finger where his brows pinched together. The first time it happened, the effect had been immediate—Joel was so shocked by the act that his whole face relaxed; not his body, though. His body froze, and he had stood there in a perfect portrayal of a statue.

You do that when he sits on the couch.

Your presence is so damn familiar to him that even lost in his own mind, he finds his way through the maze. He sits by your side, leans back, and drops his head on the couch.

When he feels your finger touching his frown, Joel opens his eyes.

"What's bothering you?" Your finger leaves, and he misses it.

Joel turns his head to the side. "Nothin'." He likes the way the color's back to your cheeks. A week on anti-inflammatory meds made you a little gray, and nothing about you was dull.

"You're a shit liar," you say.

He scoffs. "No, I'm not."

"You really are, though," you argue, fighting a smile. "And just so you know, your accent gets thicker the harder you try."

At that, he frowns. "No, it doesn't—" and fuck, he hears it. How the fuck did you notice that? His frown deepens, and you chuckle at him. "You pay attention to the strangest fuckin' things." It's said in the same gruff way he says most things, but there's enough admiration underneath it that you hear it for what it is.

"And thank god for that — it's what's kept me alive. Us alive," you snort, giving yourself the credit you're due for once.

In the end, he blurts it out. "I found it."

"Found what?" you ask, truly confused at the abrupt change.

"Something you told me I couldn't."

"That's... oddly vague," you reply. "I name a lot of things you can't find. You seem to think you have superpowers."

"No powers. Just talent." He shrugs, and gets up to retrieve the book. "What's the one thing you told me there was 'no fucking way' I could find?"

The second it takes for your brain to connect the dots is the time Joel needs to find the copy in his bag.

Joel sees your eyes dropping to it when he turns around. Widening. Freezing that way. Your lips parting only a couple of inches as your jaw slowly drops.

He sits with more satisfaction on your couch than he's sat anywhere in a long time.

The book falls with a soft thud between your bodies.

All the space he puts between you two is replaced by it —

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he asks.

When you look up, Joel's caught off guard.

The moisture in your eyes shines under the light coming from your kitchen. Joel's throat becomes restricted by an invisible force, and his eyes sting in response to the sight.

"What the fuck, Joel?" your hands pick up the book with a reverence that makes his skin tingle. "Where... how —" both times you start, then stop. "My god." He just watches. You turn the book around, eyeing every millimeter. "This is real," you mutter. He's aware you're not even talking to him at this point. "Have you—" you look up at him, and he feels special enough, "have you opened it? Are the pages—it's whole?"

The way you breathe out the word.

A reverence. So sacred.

Joel might as well consider the bet paid if he wasn't so far gone on what he wants.

Kind of.

"It's whole," he confirms.

Joel almost opens up his mouth to make a teasing remark. Ask if you'd like to be left alone with it, maybe. Instead, he lets you examine it to your heart's will, which takes a while.

He's always comfortable in the silence with you.

That's when he started realizing the trouble he was in.

When he came over just to sit at the same table as you. Have dinner in silence while you cleaned your guns. Sometimes, he'd imagine a bottle of scotch would make the two of you end up in whispered conversations under the dim, yellowish lights of your place, but it never happened.

Joel's too much of a coward to let his guard down with you.

He wouldn't be able to do what he did with the others — a sweet release in the dark; an impersonal match of bodies, mingled in sweat and joined in more ways than it should seem possible, but never looking each other in the eye.

You looked him straight into his soul when you spoke to him. Every time.

"This means... you won the bet," you say.

Joel blinks out of his thoughts. "Sure does."

"So." You put the book down gently on your lap, then gaze at him, eyes piercing into his. "What d'you want?"

Tough question. Joel felt the tingle that never left his skin covering him from head to toe. His throat constricts around the words — his body starts to heat up. He shakes his head, and is overwhelmed by how the air seems to charge between you both. He licks his lips, and says.

Like a coward, his eyes fall on Frankenstein before he speaks.

"Can't have what I want." The naked truth. What's the point of lying to you, anyway? You're a shit liar. "So I'll ask for a close second," he adds quickly. Something magnetic pulls at him, and he looks up — a mistake. Fucking mistake—you never looked at him this way. Is that red on your cheeks? "I — uh; I want a voucher. A veto power."

You blink, utterly confused. "What?"

"A veto power over you." It's the closest he could think of on his way here. Some kind of power, since Joel has no right to demand anything from you. "On a decision. I—If you said you're comin' on a mission, for example. I could say 'no. Veto.' and that'd be it. No arguments. I want a veto card over you. Just one."

You stare at him for a few seconds, and Joel can almost see the engines in your brain turning.

Joel sometimes feels you're more than just yourself. The eyes on your head see far beyond what's in front of them, and he feels naked quite often when in front of you.

"Just tell me what you want," you say.

Can't have what I want, he told you. He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."

"How would you know?"

"I just do," he argues.

"Maybe you're wrong."

"I'm not!" The storm swirls and lifts him from the couch. Joel turns his back to you, overcome by the reality of it all. "I know I'm not. There isn't—what I want is impossible. There's no such thing anymore. It ain't like the books, or finding fucking chocolate or—it ain't. I wanted you safe. How fuckin' stupid is that—" he chokes on air, gasping around the words. "There's no safe anymore." Softer, and lower, it comes out again. "There's no safe."

Most of the time, Joel's control is kept on a tight leash. His hands have a vicious grip around it because if he loosens it, it'll run off.

His hands are shaking now. He should turn back to face you, to see if he's just said too much or fucked it up somehow, but—you get up. He hears the squeaking of the couch and your steps approaching.

Then, as slowly as you approached him when you first met, he feels it:

Your hands slide around his middle. Your palms spread across his back and contour his waist, and you're hugging him—you hug him from behind, and Joel's chest expands with the air that your presence brings.

"Joel." You hug tighter. He can feel your upper body pressed against his back, and his hands come up to rest on top of yours, shaking as they are. He wants to speak up, but you beat him to it. "I thought I was going crazy, Joel."

Crazy? He is going crazy. You're wrapped around him and the world is yet to implode; Joel feels a knot in his throat that wasn't there before. "Why?"

It hits him — the answer.

Before you're able to say it hits him in the chest, because your hands grip him by the ribcages but not with force; all your fingers need to do is apply gentle pressure on him and Joel feels that you want him to move, so he lets you.

You spin him inside your hold, and Joel goes willingly.

When he's turned and facing you, the answer is there, all over your face.

Your hands stay on his back, but your eyes are searching on every inch of his face for any sign, for anything to deter you from what you want to do.

Joel sees it. He is delusional.

"I want the impossible too," you say. It comes out in a soft whisper, and Joel mentally curses all the moments of silence between you two where he felt the air as palpable as you inside his arms right now. When you looked at him, almost through him, and he turned a blind eye to it in fear that it was exactly what he wanted and craved for. "Is it — too much?"

He's incapable of answering.

His hands come up to your face, and he fits his palm on the set of your jar, where his thumb can touch your cheeks.

You melt to the touch, eyes closing along the way.

All those times you two shared a laugh and a look, and the silence hung in the air as your eyes were unable to leave each other — this. It could've been this.

"Tell me to stop and I will," is all he can say before he dives.

Joel meets you underwater.

The same way you're drowning in his hands with all of your weight supported on his body, Joel submerges as his mouth meets your kiss.

It's a waiting game — you were waiting for the moment he'd realize, he thinks.

Joel may be out of touch with reality itself, but some things can pierce through different dimensions.

Raw things never fail to elicit the strongest form of feeling and your desire pulls him under—real, demanding.

Although he remembers being a vocal partner in bed, he has no words or taunting remarks for you—he'd rather kiss.

Your mouth parts so eagerly for him that Joel wants to shut up.

He has you shutting up, moaning in his mouth as his tongue slides on yours. His fingers grip tighter on your hair. Your arms cling to him, then both of them let go to wrap around his shoulders instead, and Joel feels the despair as you climb up higher, as you press your body harder against him.

He understands it. Empathizes, even — he's feeling it on him the same way.

Your desperate, wet kisses rekindle connections long lost in his brain.

Joel remembers the desperate and insane horniness of youth when hormones mix with inexperience and everything feels new and like a raw, open nerve.

This tastes like those moments.

It'd been so long since Joel was touched and your hands start a mapping of his body that start to get him drunk.

It hits him that it's you. He's kissing you, and you're kissing back with so much force that he has no air, there's no air in his lungs—

He pulls back, gasping, and feels your nails digging into his scalp. The moan scratches the back of his throat and Joel only notices his eyes are still closed when your forehead touches his and your breath starts mingling with his.

Opening his eyes is a blessing. And a curse, most likely.

Seeing your mouth swollen and puffy makes him greedy.

Then — "Are you stopping?" you ask. Hoarse voice. Breathless. "I didn't tell you to stop," you add, whining.

Joel picks you up in one motion, and the laughter that bubbles out of your chest reminds him that you're light — you're the ghost that pops up in his dreams shining with the pink hue of sundown and you're the hope of his mornings, the scent of coffee and pages and herbs that make him feel like this earth could still have a sense of home even if he denies that fact, gritting his teeth at the fact the world still goes on.

He pins you against the nearest wall. One without a shelf, or furniture.

With you pressed against the wall, he has better support. He can trace your thighs with his palm, can get his hands underneath your cotton shorts, your blouse.

"Are you trying to kill me?" you ask him. Your head hits the wall behind you, and Joel looks up to see you watching him as he maps you. You visibly swallow when your gazes meet, and Joel wants to say so fucking much, but nothing comes out at first.

All he wants is to make the pink on your lips become permanent.

He wants to rip every item of clothing on you with his hands, and wants to —

"Joel," you lean forward, capturing his lips in a kiss and stealing all the images he had of you pinned on your own wooden floor, cheeks pressed against it as he took you from behind.

When your tongue meets his, Joel feels something snapping.

He growls into the kiss, both of his hands groping your asscheeks as he desperately grinds his hips against your body.

This kiss is even better than the first, even if it kills all of his oxygen faster.

Joel never kissed like this. Not this messy, this wet and sloppy mess of need, and dry humping, and swallowing your moans only to have them be echoed back to you when you grind your hips down in the perfect way—

When he pulls back for air this time, Joel grips your head by the hair, making a fistful at your nape.

"This is not just now, is it?" he asks. His own voice sounds like sandpaper and pure lust, and he's not even beginning.

"No, no," you shake your head. "I need you, Joel."

"Fuckin' hell," he has more to say, but now he needs you naked. "'m gonna take off your clothes. Then I'm gonna eat your pussy 'cause I've thought about it too many fuckin' times." Your jaw falls open at him, and Joel smiles despite himself. "Yeah. You gonna let me, baby? Hm?"

Your only answer is to nod desperately, grinding against him as your eyes close.

Joel's in heaven. "Did I win what I want?" he asks.

"What?"

"My veto," he pulls you away from the wall and starts carrying you to your bedroom. "I still want it. Can't have the impossible but I can have a veto."

You laugh as he kicks your door open. "You want a fucking veto? Joel, all you have to do is hold me by the chin and say 'no' or 'yes' and I'd do it. It's that simple. Always have been. " You grab his face between your hands and pierce him with those All Seeing Eyes. "I'll give you your veto, if that's what you want." You kiss his lips, sighing softly. "'m sorry I can't promise you I'll be safe, but I can promise I'll try."

Joel knows he's about to do something that can't be taken back when he lies you down.

He nods just so you know he understood, but the knot's formed again and if he speaks, Joel will cry — the words wouldn't come out anyway, even if he wants to say them.

Joel's unsure if they haven't been burned out of his tongue.

He takes off your clothes one by one. Ironic for someone who wanted them ripped to pieces not a minute ago, but to have you laid in front of him soothes the desperation somehow.

His plans get interrupted, though, because once you're naked and all of his brain is mushed into nothing but skin skin you you touch touch touch, you stop him from kneeling down at the edge of the bed with a touch and one request, "You too?" your gaze is so open and vulnerable that his hands go to his shirt. "No — lemme. Please."

Joel does, and you do the same to him, taking his clothes off one by one.

When you drop to his knees in front of him, Joel is powerless.

He's too stunned to say or do anything but look.

Even his hands that itch to touch only manage to do so when they're flying for some support so his knees don't buckle and he falls — you grab his cock by the base with one hand, look up until his eyes are locked on yours, and then licks a wet stripe from his balls to the tip.

Then you do it again, and again, until Joel's coated in saliva, and you can suck around the tip, swallowing him down in one go.

He grips your hair for life support, cursing under his breath.

Joel's vocal about how much you're fucking killing him.

You go at it slowly, which is even more torture, but he gets it. He remembers you talking about not being with a person for the longest time. How it made no difference for you to have the physical or not because the attraction wasn't there unless there something underneath it — for someone who's out of practice, you must have the knowledge.

Your tongue runs on the sensitive skin between the dick and his balls, your mouth suctions when it's taking him down and when you start bobbing your head, using your hand to cover the parts your mouth can't reach, Joel has to physically pull you back.

"Stop, stop —" his hand on your hair pulls you back, and Joel curses again when you whine at having to let go. "'m gonna fuck you, baby, it's okay, 's okay," he gets you up by the neck, and is kissing you right after.

That's how he falls in bed with you — with his cock leaking pre-cum, his back already coated in sweat and your mouth tasting like him.

Joel eases the fall with his hand, not wanting to crush you with his weight. He wants to eat you out — Joel wants to bury his face in you, but when he makes a move to go down, your legs clamp around his waist and your head starts shaking.

You pull back from his kiss, "No — later, you can do that later, just — please," you guide your hand between your bodies to hold him and guide his cock to your entrance. "Waited too long, Joel."

I need you, Joel.

"Wait, wait — " it'll be over too fast if he sees you all the time. Joel has an idea. "A position that's better for you first. I wanna see you too, but I want you to feel good. Turn around for me."

"You want me on all fours?"

"No," he shakes his head. "Just turn around."

You obey him, and Joel grabs one of your pillows to push under your waist. You rest your cheek on the one under your head, and he positions himself first before crowding your space with his head on the crook of your neck.

He dips his fingers in first, spreading your wetness all over you before lining up.

It's sinful how good the position is.

He fills you up, bottoming all the way out. Joel's thick, but not too long, and he knows this angle is as good for you as it is for him. "Feels good?" he asks in your ear.

Your only response is his name.

"Is that a yes?" he pulls all the way out, and slams it back in, wanting to feel the drag. Wanting to feel your walls clamping around him. How you open up to accommodate all of him. "'Cause you feel like — fuckin' heaven, baby — louder, say it louder —"

"Feels amazing, Joel," you cry.

He knows it does. Joel hasn't felt anything remotely close to pleasure in a long time, so this might be too much, he might be in danger of growing an addiction, but he's past caring.

He drags it out.

Joel wanted to fuck you senseless a while ago, but now all he wants is to stay buried in the tight and warm haven of your cunt until you're both too spent to move a muscle. "'m gonna stay — all fuckin' night — inside you, baby — hm, whaddaya think?"

"Yes, please—"

"God, I love — that's all you can say to me."

"Don't stop," you cry out louder.

"I won't." He couldn't.

He doesn't want to. He doesn't.

Joel thrusts into you slow, measured and deep, until the heat in his groin is climbing like your nails digging at his sides. He loses count of how many times he sucks on your shoulders, how many bite marks you must have on your neck, of how many single-worded compliments he spills in your ears as he fucks the words out of you.

When you beg to cum, Joel flips you over and hoists your leg higher so he can go in deeper, and he fucks you the way you've been begging him to — crying around his fingers for harder, and faster, Joel, please, please, I'm not gonna break —

He gives it to you like both of you have been dying to receive, and when your legs start shaking around him and his name drops from your lips in a scream, Joel pulls out, coating your stomach in the hot strings of his cum.

He doesn't collapse on top of you, which is a miracle.

He does lay strategically next to you in order to avoid his own mess until he's able to feel his legs again.

Your fingers thread his hair during that time.

The spasms of your legs make him smile, and the little hums that leave you without you even realizing make Joel float on his bliss.

When he comes back to himself, he gets up to get a warm towel. He cleans you both, just enough so sleeping is okay. He pulls up the duvet and puts you underneath it before climbing under as well.

When he lays, Joel expects you to turn around;

Instead, you wrap around him in octopus style, and whisper, "Turn around."

He obeys, and is rewarded by you spooning him.

Joel thinks he might be dreaming.

"Are you gonna be here tomorrow?" you ask after a while.

Your bodies are as tangled as they can be. Your hands caress the hairs on his chest and your breath is on his neck, and still, you are stared he'll leave.

"D'you want scrambled eggs or you prefer the toast?" he replies.

There's a kiss on his neck. Another on his shoulder. He grabs one of your hand to pull it to his lips, and kisses it.

"Scrambled."

"'kay. Where d'you keep your sugar? I can never find it."

"I'll show you tomorrow," you kiss his shoulder, and squeeze his body. "Joel?"

"Yeah, baby?"

He can feel your smile because your lips are on his skin. He's gonna use that more, he thinks. "I might wake up rubbing myself all over you," you whisper.

He laughs. "Fine by me."

🏷️ @sakuralikestars — @mostardentily — @thegreat-annamaria — @leiticia — @polyglot-noodle — @casssiopeia — @earthtocharlene — @levylovegood — @lavenderhhze — @gracie7209 — @waywardwolfbonklight — @shadytalething — @sanzusmile —@yesimwriting — @celestialstar111 💖

⚠️ if anyone being tagged would like to not be, just let me know in my inbox (which you can also use to talk to me about all the appeals of Joel Miller with his hair slicked back, you know... or what you thought of this one.. just saying... &lt;3

Red Handed, Part 1

Pairing: Steven Grant/Mr. Knight x fem!Reader (Mentions of Marc Spector/Jake Lockley x Reader)

Fic Type: One-Shot Series

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Moon Boys Masterlist]

Summary: Porn without plot, basically. Steven shows you a side of him you rarely see.

A/N: Based off of an idea from @johnny-simpfinger and the responding fic from @marc-spectorr. You two have awakened some things in me, thank you. Yes I wrote this in a day no I am not ashamed and I will not be unless Oscar Isaac himself sees this (The title was originally supposed to mean something like they almost get caught, buuuut, I lost it :/)

Rating/Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, NSFW under the cut, exhibitionism (no one sees/hears/is aware), semi-public sex, rough sex, dom!Steven, glove play, weapon play (those batons are put to nasty uses), fingering, oral (f receiving, although there’s some dirty mimicry happening in place of a strap-on), unprotected PiV, edging, powerful orgasm, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, excessive praise from the one and only Steven Grant, lots and lots of nasty nasty things going on under the cut

“Aw, love...” Steven cooed, as if he wasn’t totally wrecking you, “You alright? Do you need me to slow down?”

Slow down. Pfft. As if he wasn’t already going far too slow.

It wasn’t like you’d meant for his to happen when you and Steven went out tonight. But goddamn, those thugs had been a rowdy bunch and Mr. Knight had to put them in their place. You can’t help it that your boyfriend’s hot as fuck on top of it.

He’d seen you drooling over him; perhaps quite literally. So when he— given a boost of confidence in the suit, even with his mask off— suggested, “You need me to take care of you here, little dove? I’ll make sure nobody sees, sweet thing.”

And he’d held true to that.

He has you backed up against a cold wall in an alleyway. The streets of London are quiet in this part of the city, save for the occasional car that drives by. From the way he’s standing, it could be mistaken for two people conversating privately. Nobody can see the fact that while his right hand braces you, his left is up your skirt, fingering you to pieces.

With his glove on.

Though he’d taken the time to remove his mask, he hadn’t felt the need to remove his gloves. The soft fabric is creating a new, electric kind of friction that’s nearly painful, but the extra sensitivity it’s causing when he brushes up against your clit is all but heaven itself.

If only he’d go faster.

He has two fingers buried inside your heat up to the knuckle, crooking them just right at that glorious angle that makes you see stars— but ever so slowly. He pushes them in at a snail’s pace, praising you at the obscene wet sounds emanating from between your legs, before slowly curling them inside you, pressing against your walls. When you bite back moans and whimpers, he gently shushes you, pressing loving kisses to your temples. His arm is wrapped around you, keeping you standing, while his free hand grips your waist.

“Move your hips, sweet thing,” He whispered, and you eagerly started to grind against his palm. He chuckled in your ear, kissing your forehead. “That’s it, there you go. Tell me when you’re close, yeah?”

You don’t need to. He quickens the pace of his fingers, pumping them in and out of you and rubbing your clit until you’re shaking, dripping, until you’re being pulled apart from the inside out and you’re going to literally be crushed from the force of your orgasm—

And then he stops. Steven withdraws his hand and rests it on your stomach, frozen save for the iron grip he has you in to try and halt the rocking of your hips on thin air. “Easy, dove. Easy. Please don’t cum yet.” It sounded so polite, so sweet, so soft. How could you refuse him when he’s asking so nicely?

So you hold back. Every fiber of your being is focused on holding back your euphoria, equivalent to an old wooden fence stopping floodwater. You very nearly do cum, crying out in your struggle so that Steven has to capture your lips in his to muffle it.

Finally, it’s over. Your hips stop moving, but your body feels too hot and shaky. You’re on fire. You’ve been electrocuted. You’re spontaneously combusting. “S-Steven...” You whine, desperate for him to provide the relief he let escape.

“Shh,” He coos with a chuckle, glancing around to ensure nobody heard you. His dark eyes lock on yours. "Are you past it, sweet thing?" When you give the barest resemblance of a nod, he leans down to nip at your ear, breathing a question so lightly you barely hear him. "Can I taste you?"

You're glad you're not on the edge anymore, else he'd have just sent you way over it with his words alone. Your brisk nod is all he needs to get to knees and push your legs apart, hooking one over his shoulder and holding onto it by the thigh tight enough to leave bruises. The chilly night air on your swollen heat masks you gasp; you do it a second time when he blows warm air on your clit. “Don’t cum until I tell you to, alright? You gonna be a good girl for me?”

Weakly, you whimper and nod your agreement. Steven doesn’t give you any more warning before he pushes your skirt up with his free hand, diving straight between your legs. His grip on your skirt is a tight fist against your stomach, which he breaks just enough to hold your hand when you silently ask by dropping it down to rest on his knuckles. You tangle your fingers in his damp curls, pulling enough to make him actually growl and nip at your sensitive folds in warning. He’s lapping at you mercilessly, sucking your clit and grazing his teeth over its swollen surface. He places open-mouthed kisses there before licking anywhere he can reach. His fingers leave your thigh to grip your hips, helping you grind against his face however you want— no, need to. Your fingers tighten their hold in his hair, and, then, he has it. He’s reached that threshold of pleasure again within you, brought you to the edge of a steep cliff and showing you the view of the deep lake below. All you have to do is jump.

“Don’t, love,” Steven moans into you, knowing your body well enough by now to understand just how close you are. “Don’t. Not yet.” He leaves your sweltering sex— but not without dragging his tongue up your slit, groaning deep in the back of his throat at the taste of you. You almost— almost— cum anyway, his gorgeous sounds nearly pushing you into that ecstasy without your consent. Steven stays right where he is, holding your hips and watching you with big lust-blown eyes and waiting to see if you’ll do as he says.

It’s an effort to draw away from the scorching fire in your lower stomach, an effort not to throw yourself into that pleasure anyway. But you do it. Because of him. For him. He asked you nicely. His beaming smile when he sees you’ve climbed down from your near-high makes your heart pound for a wholly different reason. He rests his chin against your leg for a second as he peers up at you, smoothing your skirt. “Good girl. I knew you could do it, love. So proud of you, pretty girl.”

Steven massages your inner thighs. “Such a good girl. Such a pretty girl. All for me, yeah? You’re not such a good girl for Marc, are you? Or Jake? Is that why they have to tie you up sometimes, darling? So you behave?” Your breathless nod makes him chuckle, the sound reverberating through your core. “Aw, poor darling. You can hold out just a bit longer, yeah? I don’t want you to cum yet.”

A flick of his wrist, and you see the shiny reflection of one of his batons. Good lord. You’re going to die here. Your own boyfriend is going to kill you via edging and you’d die a happy but frustrated woman. “Steven,” You grind out, hips trying to rock desperately and find any friction they can.

Steven tuts, running the cool metal of his baton up and down your inner thigh, making you shiver. “Behave, love. I don’t want to have to tie you up. I’ll take care of you, I promise. Just gotta open you up a bit more, yeah?”

Wait— is he— fucking— oh god—

He kisses your leg, peering up at you in question. “Is... Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah,” You squeak, not entirely clear-headed.

Steven continues his back-and-forth ministrations of the baton on your leg. “You need to tell me immediately if I go too far, dove. Promise me?”

“I-I promise.”

Steven readjusted his hold on you, sliding his baton higher, and higher, until he was able to run it through your dripping folds. You shudder at the sensation of the ice cold metal on your heated, tortured skin, and then cry out too loudly when he starts to gently slip it into your entrance. “Sh,” He whispers, massaging your leg over his shoulder. His eyes are between your legs, a blissed-out grin on his face as he watches the way your cunt devours the baton, inch by inch, until it’s bumping up against something devastating inside you. He pauses for a second, glancing up at your face to determine if he should continue. Your slack-jawed expression, eyes rolled back, is enough for him to drag it back, slowly, before gently thrusting it back in.

Steven kisses your inner thigh, biting and sucking and leaving marks as he rocks the baton in-and-out. “That’s it, there you go.” Your hips automatically try to rock despite the uncomfortable stiffness of the weapon, making Steven chuckle. “You like that? Just like that?” Using his goddamn baton, Steven slowly, slowly fucks you to the brink of annihilation yet again, until you’re writhing and moaning so loudly that it’s clear all propriety has left your head. You could care less if anyone walked by right now, or hell, even came into the alleyway. You wouldn’t even realize they were there, so absorbed in the sensation of stopping your orgasm and Steven Steven Steven.

“So good for me, sweet thing,” Steven praises as he pulls the length of the baton from your drenched sex, smirking when he sees it glistening in what little light there is. Your chest heaves for air, and your whole lower half is cramping from the built-up of tension. You really don’t think you can take anymore, no matter how nicely he asks. He brings the baton up to his mouth horizontally, and you gasp erotically when he licks the length of it, cleaning it of your juices thoroughly. His eyes flick up to lock with yours, feeling you watching him; he smirks, turning the baton and sucking on the end of it. Without breaking eye contact. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t moan obscenely loudly. He knows you love that look on his face— it’s been awhile since you’ve used a strap-on for him, and you’re regretting that immensely.

When he finally pulls away— not without dragging his tongue along the bottom of the baton— his smirk is even wider. “I’ve got an idea, love, if you’re up for it.” He takes your weak whimper as a sign of acceptance, slipping one end of the baton up between your legs so that it rubs wonderfully against your swollen clit. He presses your thighs together to hold it there, so that one end sticks out like... like...

“Just like your strap-on, love,” he breathes, against your legs, “Just not as secure.” You’re surprised when he stands up, slipping off his jacket. “Look at you, dove. So pretty for me.” He drapes his jacket over your shoulders to shield you from the chill, buttoning it a little to keep it secure on your shoulders. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing his powerful forearms— you half wonder if he gets some of his definition from holding you down.

He kneels down again, holding you steady by an arm wrapped around your knees and his bent leg acting as a balance for you. He kisses your hip bones, delivering kitten licks the closer he gets to the baton. “S-Steven,” you whine, and he responds immediately.

He wraps a hand around the baton and pulls it down a bit, making it grind against your pulsating heat. An explosion of pleasure ripples throughout your body at the sensation of the metal against your sensitive flesh. You clench around nothing, causing your essence to trickle down the baton. You see the moment his eyes light up, when he licks his lips and kisses your hip. “Silly girl, I just cleaned that.”

Keeping a firm hold of the baton, he takes it in his mouth as far as it can go, sucking your juices off with a satisfied hum. Steven pulls back-and-forth with his head and hand, making sure that every drag of the baton across your clit makes you see stars. He doesn’t break eye contact as he sucks in his cheeks, twisting the baton against you so hard you cry out, grasping for his shoulders, his hair, anything to hold on to. You’re not sure where he got so good at sucking fake dick, and honestly you wonder if he practices with your strap-on when you’re not home. What’s worse is what you can’t see, but you can feel: he’s grinding his crotch against your leg with slow, sensual circles of his hips, trying to give himself some relief while staving off his own orgasm.

He pulls away just as you start to feel your climax approaching, licking his lips and feeling the need to “clean” the baton again before making it disappear. “So good for me, dove. You’re so sweet. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.” He stands, steadying you against him. “You ready to cum, darling?” Frantically— desperately— you nod. Steven can’t suppress the mirth in his face, nor his chuckle. He massages your aching hips, nudging his nose against yours. “Want me to fuck you properly, sweet thing? Want me to make it so you can’t walk right for a day or two? Fill you up so good you’ll be dripping a trail of me all the way home?”

His filthy words— which you’d bet anything he learned from Jake— make you impossibly wetter, more desperate.“Agh, Steven, please—“

Steven captures your lips in a searing kiss that tastes like you, like him, like hot metal and salt. He turns you around, helping you brace against the wall before kicking your ankles apart and pulling your hips back toward him. You hear his voice against your ear as he nips at the shell of it. He has one arm wrapped around your waist, his free hand rapidly undoing his belt. “Tell me if I need to stop, dove. You remember what you need to say?”

“Red,” You breathe, and he kisses the nape of your neck as if in reward.

“That’s right.” Carefully, he slides into you, taking it slow to let you adjust to his thick length. It feels so much better than the baton, and you’re a moaning, whining mess in his arms as he bottoms out with a groan. His forehead falls to rest against your spine, fighting his hips so that you can take a second to recover, to get used to him and the burning pleasure radiating through your whole body. Praise spills from his mouth almost mindlessly. “Oh, you’re such good fucking girl, taking me so well. So good, so— agh, fuck—tight, you sweet, gorgeous girl.” You whine, a hand almost reaching down between your legs, but Steven gently guides it back to the wall. “None of that. Be a good girl for me, lovey. I’ll take care of you. Said I would, yeah?” Keeping one arm around you to hold your back against his chest as he doubles you both over, a hand slips down to rub harsh circles on your clit simultaneously with the rocking of his hips. All the while, his words carried over your wild cry. “You like that, darling? So good, so wet, so pretty, all for me. I’m gonna make you cum, so hard you forget your own name. I’ll be right here to bring you back from it, I promise. You gonna scream so loud everybody hears it? So everybody hears how good I make you feel, how well you take me?”

You can’t breathe. You can’t see. All you can hear is Steven’s stream of filthy promises and praise. All your focus is between your legs, where he’s about to brutally split you in half. Steven readjusts— his hands hold your hips against him— and then you all but scream as he pulls nearly all the way out before slamming back into you. White and yellow dots explode in your vision as he sets a rapid, destructive pace, pounding into you hard enough to punch your breath out of your lungs with each snap of his hips against yours. The wet slap of skin-on-skin, your breathless sobs, and his deep groans fill the alleyway in an obscene mix that clearly emphasizes what you’re doing if anyone were to walk by. Car headlights flick past as someone drives along without even realizing what’s happening. Steven has gone utterly silent save for sounds of pleasure, all his focus on rutting into you as hard as humanly possible.

Steven somehow quickens his pace, but his rhythm is faltering. He throws his head back with a moan. “Love— agh— close, I’m close—“ Both if you are breathing so heavy it’s hard to catch any kind of words or gasps that might be struggling to be said. Still, Steven manages to say more. “C-can feel you there, dove; cum with me— letgoletgoletgo— agh!”

His words send you over the edge.

Hard.

You scream so loudly it tears at your throat. Tears stream down your face as your voice echoes throughout the streets, your whole lower body tightening like a vice around him. Steven violently slams his hips into you once, twice, then unleashes a growl as he cums right alongside you, hands squeezing your hips nearly too tight as he empties everything he has deep inside you.

True to his word, Steven’s made your whole mind foggy. You can’t comprehend or understand anything other than the sheer strength of your shared orgasm, your vision slowly returning from going white and blacking out. You’ve both stilled right where you are, lost in each other and the afterglow, heaving and gasping for breath like you’ve been drowning. You can feel sweat dripping from his hair onto your back, and realize you’ve both soaked through your clothes entirely. As your mind comes back to you, your boneless body nearly slumps. The only thing holding you up is Steven’s grip.

Steven’s hips tentatively rock against yours a couple of times, testing the waters after a minute. You choke back a sob as your hypersensitive flesh throbs at the sensation. Steven shushes you lovingly. “Shh... Can you give me one more, love, just one more?”

And because he asked so nicely, he somehow manages to slowly fuck another orgasm out of you, albeit far less powerful. When you come down from your second high, Steven is still moving his hips, helping you ride it out, before his movements speed up a bit as he chases his own high. He goes still a few moments later, as he pulses against your walls; his movements spur another, much weaker orgasm from you. Steven kisses your shoulders, still holding onto your hips. “So good for me, love.” He brushes your hair out of your face, kissing your temples. “Let’s get you home now, yeah? There’s a cup of hot cocoa with your name on it, and a warm bath... That sound good?”

Weakly, you nod, crying out as he pulls out of you. He adjusts your clothes and his, one handed, before sweeping you up into his arms bridal style. “...Did I hurt you, dove?”

Blissfully, you nuzzle into his chest and shake your head. “No. Not at all. We should do this more often.”

He chuckles, a sound which comforts you, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

~~~

The next morning, when Marc wakes up to you curled up against him in Steven’s clothes, he can’t help but melt. A glance to the clock reveals that you’ve both slept late, and so to wake you up he starts peppering kisses all over your face, soft and slow, running his hands up and down your sides—

He freezes. The hoodie has just ridden up and the sweatpants have just fallen down, revealing the start of a bruise. Worried, he pulls your pants down a little further— then you get a very rude awakening when Marc tears your pants completely off and rides your shirt up. “M-Marc?!”

“Jake, what the hell did you do?!”

Jake was only just waking up in the headspace. “Hm?” When he sees all the marks on you from Marc’s eyes, Jake forces himself to the front, running his hands gently over the bruises that fit his fingertips in confusion. “¿Qué carajo...? I didn’t do this.”

“Well I certainly didn’t,” Marc snaps.

“Guys...” you say softly, so tired your head falls back against the pillow. It’s then that Jake notices the absence of Steven.

“Where’s—“

“Too tired to so much as make a peep,” Marc replies, stunned.

Jake and Marc glance at each other in confusion in the mirror. “You’re saying that Steven—“

“Yep.”

“...Sweet, innocent Steven?” Jake is in disbelief.

Marc shrugs helplessly. “Guess he’s not as innocent as we thought. At least we know he wouldn’t have hurt her.” Jake can’t help but chuckle as he pulls your pants back on. “What’s so funny?”

“I underestimated him, hombre. Didn’t think he had it in him.” Jake lays down beside him, smiling with adoration when you subconsciously snuggle closer. He’s still chuckling to himself as he opens his arms to hold you closer, surprised and amused by the turn of events.

————————————————————————

Thanks for reading!

Tags: @dameronsknight @sylkisdagger @atzlena @gucciboots @pastel-0-princess @poeticsorcery @rosaren2498 @love-on-the-murder-scene @wintergirlsoilder2 @blackcat-midnight-thatsme @multifandomsw @bookloverfilmoholic @khaotic-kris @hb8301 @soggumm @simonsbluee @jonathanbyersgf @bluestuesday @magnet-girl @rosellacwrites @dweeb-central @ilymorepls @drwhofangirl1963 @loonymagizoologist @auszimbo @tealrivers @laters-gators12 @izbelross @xcatnapsx @child-of-the-moon-gods @djarinsgirl27 @sokoviansorceress @eerievixen @cold-buffet-ham @upbeat-cascade @stark-kirk-rogers-grant-blog @candydancey @rqmanoff @jakelcckley @johnny-simpfinger @marc-spectorr

ill say it once and ill say it again, when marc spector gets comfortable enough around you, the praise kink is gonna come out and it's gonna come out hard, and lemme tell you, there's nothing that man loves more than being told he's doing a good job and hearing how good he's making you feel - i'm literally not taking any arguments about this

and you shouldn't hear any arguments because it's just so correct.

marc spector x reader smut under the cut.

~1.6k words

The first time it happens, you think it's a coincidence. You tell yourself it's coincidence - the way Marc keens in your ear, comes so hard his eyes roll back, fingers latched into your skin like you're the last person on Earth, like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

It's a coincidence surely, that you'd threaded your fingers through his hair moments before, tugged gently, and whispered, "Good. You are so fucking good. You are so good to me."

He doesn't mention it, afterwards, and you don't either. How he'd practically wailed, how his grip left little divots in your skin, crescent moons left behind like a brand.

You've always praised Marc, let him know how good he made you feel. You've always known that he needs that. But you think that's the first time he's let you see how much it affects him.

Sometimes, you feel as though you'll never really know him. Not all of him, anyways. But you don't mind, there'll always be something to uncover and you love a puzzle - even one with sharp edges.

Years, you have been with him. It's been years, and still vulnerability came at random times, usually with a stony expression and a look in his eyes that said he expected to be found wanting, or ridiculous.

But it's not, he's not.

The sound of his pleasure is so sweet, so good, you can't imagine how he'd kept it inside for so long. The way he absolutely ached for you has always been obvious, but this is new.

And you want to hear it again, you want to see him desperate again, desperate to please you and hear your praise.

So you try it again, and soon, a few days later, when he's buried between your thighs, fingers digging delicately into the plush flesh of your thighs, fingertips skimming up to your hips, the dip of your waist. His shoulders are propped beneath your thighs, legs draped delicately over his shoulders and biceps.

You wait until he's focused, lost in you and far away, to say - "You're doing so well. So fucking good." And then, "You look so pretty like this."

His eyes flash up to yours before they flutter shut, mouth tightening around a groan, fingers digging tighter into your skin.

He likes it. Marc likes it when you tell him how good he is.

Your breath catches. To know is one thing, to hear the desperation is another things entirely.

You want to draw it out of him slowly, torture him with the sound of how fucking adept he is at making you lose your absolute last brain cell.

His breath is warm against your cunt, chest heaving in tight little pants.

His shoulders may as well be cut from marble, just like the rest of him. The smooth glide of muscle as he shifts like a beacon in the night for restless tired eyes. You could spend days tracing the shape of his collarbone alone, licking away the glow of sweat on his skin.

"God, do you know, Marc? You always make me feel so good," you slide your hand through his hair, tug on the ends of his curls. "Do you like hearing me say that?" You ask, teasing him only a little. "I like telling you. You're fucking gorgeous and too good to me."

He’s nodding into you, hips rutting against the mattress, weak groans slipping past his lips. "I dunno, I don't fuckin'-,"

“You like knowing how good you make me feel, huh?”

He just keeps nodding.

Your mouth fills with saliva. You want to watch him make himself come, drunk on your words and the pressure of his cock rubbing against the sheets.

"You like hearing it." This time it isn't a question, and he stills suddenly. "I like knowing you like it." Marc doesn't look at you this time, focusing his attention instead back on your pussy, on the slick, swollen folds, the mess that is his doing. You've lost count of how many times he's made you come, and your brain is slow to catch up to the self-deprecating twitch of his lips.

He looks into you like the answers of the universe could be found there as long as he avoided your gaze. His eyes are hard again, focused, like he thinks you might be making fun of him and doesn't want to call you on it.

His mouth is wet, chin damp with your arousal, and you want to tell him you like that too, how thoroughly he ate your pussy, all in hopes of hearing how much you liked it, of hearing how good he was at it and how good he is for you.

How good he is for you in every way, especially when he's broken you down into pieces, into almost nothing, having drowned you in pleasure and stripped you bare until there's nothing left. He's reassuring himself that he's good for you, that he belongs there with you.

Still, he must know.

That he makes you see God.

Even the tip of his nose is wet, for fuck's sake.

Marc releases the grip of his hand on your hip, dragging it under your thigh to push your knee down, spreading you wider as he laps at you gently. He doesn't hold back the rumbling moan though, when you curse at the sensation of his mouth against you, barely touching, like the breath of a barely there brush of air.

"Marc," you moan, tossing your head back when he does it again, just breathes on you, skims his tongue lightly up your folds, so delicately you really aren't sure it's happening.

But when you glance down, hard umber eyes are watching you closely, brows lowered over a tense gaze. His eyes flick away again, the warmth of his large palm dragging down your thigh where he'd pinned it against the bed.

He circles your entrance delicately instead with one finger before he notches his thumb there, slowly pressing into you. You dig your fingers into his other arm, sweeping your fingers down his forearm, before hooking your hand against the crook of his elbow.

You whine, waiting for his mouth, but he just slowly pulls his thumb away from you, sealing his mouth around it instead, sucking away the musk you left on his hand. "I love seeing you like this," you try again. "You look so pretty." Your voice shutters, and it's an effort not to slam your eyes closed when he crocks two fingers inside you, stretching you open carefully, with a focus that makes your head spin. You catch him nodding though.

To be the center of his world, is to feel like you're burning, like you're drowning or flying and you can't decide if you need to surface for air, or if you might plummet to the ground if you try.

"So pretty. Make me feel like I'm -,"

He moans on the word pretty, and doesn't seem as embarrassed as he did a few minutes before. When your hips rock up off the bed, because the tips of his fingers are brushing something inside you that your own can't reach, and his mouth has sealed around your clit, you dare to whisper, "Good boy."

Marc's whole body seizes, shoulders stiff where they're pressed against the backs of your thighs. "Fu-uck," he groans out, nose nudging against your clit and you moan again, twitching against him, hand gripping the edges of one curl to tug hard until he looks up at you. "Baby," he licks his bottom lip, brown eyes drowned in the black of his pupils. "Please. You're fucking killing me."

He punctuates the sentiment with a forceful plunge of his fingers, the tease of his touch against your cervix deep inside you. You gasp and yank on his shoulder until he pulls his hand away from you and follows your mouth with his. Marc doesn't protest, lets you lick into him with a hum, lets you pull him close and slot him near you.

When you reach between you to palm his cock, you find him impossibly hard and leaking. He shutters when you touch him, when you whisper praise into his ear. "You're so good to me. You always make me feel so good. No one else has ever made me feel like this. No one else can do this to me."

He's preening under your touch, under your words, the caress of your hands against his skin like fire on coal.

He's listening to you now, quiet and breathy and desperate. You don't stop talking until he licks into your mouth, jaw jutting forward as his tongue slides against yours, over the tips of your teeth. "Y'gotta stop."

"Why?" You gasp, his hips flush against you when you guide him inside you.

You clench around him and he groans. "Because 'm gonna fuckin' come if you don't."

"S'okay," you keep your gaze level with his when he presses his nose against yours, breathing him in, the sheen of his skin in the low light, the smell of him like something you'd willingly bury yourself alive in - like something primal. Sweat and the raw scent of his skin and sex. He smells like you too, you think distantly, pussy clenching tighter around him at the thought. "I want it. You deserve it, you've been so good to me. Made me come so many times."

"Fuck, baby."

But he's moving now, hips jerking against yours. "You always make me feel like -,"

You don't get to finish that thought again, Marc fighting to devour you as he fucks you.

You'd let him, you'd let him consume you, you'd let him steal your soul. You break for him again, as you jabber more words of praise, desperate to see that look again, desperate to watch his eyes roll back, desperate to know only you can do this to him, only you can tell him how good he is.

Limitless - Chapter 1 - Moon Knight 🌙✨

Pairings: Jake Lockley x F!Reader, Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader

Genre: Fluff 💛 (maybe smut in later chapters)

Summary: After you break up with your cheating boyfriend you move to another part of town. Being single while carrying a child under your heart is hard, but you recieve help and support from the most unexpected person, your grumpy neighbour.

A/N: I wanted this story to be about Jake only, but come on, you can’t have one boi without the other two; as Steven said: they come as a package deal. We’re focusing on Jake mainly though (at least in this chapter - I swear I love them equally, I swear I don’t have a favourite when will I stop lying to myself)

Chapter 2

Keep reading