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little-worm-grant · 2 months ago

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Another fic I did for the Coffee & Cream fanzine. If you were a fan of Annihilation you might enjoy this too!

Where the Worlds Collide

Kane x Reader / 3,290 words

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.

Tags: Strangers to something more / gender-neutral reader / touches on psychological, cosmic, and body horror

The air itself shimmered like a mirage, twisting in and out of colours that shouldn’t have belonged to any known spectrum. At times, it burned a molten orange, pulsing with a heat he didn’t feel, then fractured into streaks of blue and violet, pooling like oil slicks in the hollows between trees. At the right angle, it seared a luminous red, a colour so impossibly rich it felt alive—watching. A slow, iridescent slither of light wound through the fractured canopy above, less a beam of sunlight and more a living thing threading its way between the leaves.

Kane had no way of knowing how long he’d been here. The rations suggested a few days had passed, but his body disagreed. There was no hunger, no thirst, only the mechanical memory of eating. Had he eaten? He must have. Yet when he tried to summon the taste of food, nothing came. The absence of time pressed against his skull like a persistent ache, like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.

Each time he stepped outside the tent, the world was different. The trees leaned at unfamiliar angles, their bark slick and too smooth, as though they had been molded rather than grown. The moss on the ground pulsed in patches, an almost imperceptible rhythm, like the slow rise and fall of breath. The only constant was change. That, and his morning coffee.

He sat with the tin cup cradled in his hands, listening to the songbirds mimic a new sound they had learned overnight. Sometimes, it was the usual chirps. Other times, it was warbles that carried an uncanny human lilt, as if an echo of a voice had been stretched and repurposed into their calls. Once, he had heard the scratch of a cricket’s legs—but it had come from high up in the trees, from something far too large to be a cricket. There had been whispers too, barely there, like words dissipating just before he could grasp their meaning. The forest was listening. Worse, it was remembering.

When the decision had been made to split up, it had come down to a vote. Two medics on the team—one would stay, one would go. The others had chosen the Tower, that nameless structure that had no right to exist on any map. His group had remained at base camp, performing the work that was expected of them. But Kane knew his true function. He wasn’t here to keep them together. He was here to keep them alive.

And yet, the question remained, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts like an animal worrying at bone.

What happened to the ones who came before?

Expedition Eleven. Ten had come before, and none had returned. Not a single one. Their presence still lingered—traces in the disturbed earth, in the equipment left behind, in the notes that trailed off mid-thought. But the people? Gone. Absorbed, perhaps.

He had tended to the Linguist’s wounds that morning, wrapping gauze over something that refused to heal, something that seemed to shift beneath her skin. When he had finished, he had found himself untethered. Free to roam, to wander, to slip further into the spaces between certainty and something else. The others made no effort to keep him close. He had long since lost the need to belong. There were no rules anymore, not ones that mattered.

“How long do you think the other group’s going to be gone for?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of camp. He was packing the last few items into his rucksack, shoving emergency supplies into the worn fabric. Preparing, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

You barely glanced up from your microscope. “I don’t question the Psychologist’s decisions,” you said. A measured response. “Just like I’m not questioning yours.”

A strange turn of phrase. Almost an accusation.

He let out a small breath, a ghost of a laugh. “I’m going to scout the immediate area. See if there’s anything we missed. Don’t miss me too much.” The words were meant to be light, to defuse whatever unspoken weight hung between you. He had expected pushback. A reason to stay.

“I won’t,” you said instead, detached, eyes still trained on your work. “Don’t go too far.”

Then, after a pause, “You got your shooter?”

Shooter.

That wasn’t a word you had ever used before.

Kane glanced at you, but you didn’t meet his gaze. He could hear the Geologist’s accent buried in your voice, the same tone, the same inflection. The Geologist, who had asked to be left beneath the tree weeks ago. “Leave me to decompose,” they had murmured, curling into the roots, their breath already slowing, eyes glassy with something more than death.

No one had gone back to check.

“Rifle’s right here,” Kane said, his voice overly cheerful, too loud in the stagnant air. He patted the strap, making sure you heard.

Then he left. He always had to be the first to leave.

The forest swallowed him whole.

With no real direction, he wandered. The deeper he went, the more the world unravelled. He had no name for half the things growing here. Vines hung in thick, twisting curtains, flowering in unnatural patterns, their petals curling inward like clutching fingers.

He found an old road, forgotten, reclaimed. The trees had leaned in, pressing their roots through the cracks, warping the pavement into something organic. It looked almost ceremonial, a wedding procession of ivy and creeping moss, arches forming over the path as if nature itself had arranged it for something unseen.

His wife would have known the proper names. The Latin, the origins. He had never cared for any of that. To him, they were just flowers on the same vine.

Then he heard it.

His name.

It echoed from the trees, disembodied, panic threaded through each syllable.

Your voice.

Kane’s pulse spiked as he turned, eyes scanning the undergrowth. He called back, voice tight with urgency, but the echoes folded in on themselves, dispersing into the layered hum of the forest. He moved faster, breath sharp, feet crushing the damp earth beneath him. The direction felt wrong, but he followed it anyway.

The lake appeared suddenly, framed by the remains of a boat cabin. The sight of it made his stomach twist. He knew this place. It wasn’t possible, but he knew it. A memory clawed its way to the surface—fishing trips, his father, the scent of open water. He had thought this was where his love of the lake had begun. But something in him rebelled against the thought.

Had he always loved the water?

Or had something been waiting for him in it?

The air hummed. The birds had gone silent.

He called your name again.

Nothing.

The absence unsettled him more than the voice had.

That night, he had written about it in his journal, flipping back through previous entries only to find his own handwriting slipping away from him. Sentences collapsed inward, layer upon layer, like something had rewritten them over and over again until they were unreadable.

Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead-

He knew it was wrong, but he kept going back to that cabin.

Like the Linguist, who had torn at her own skin, convinced something writhed beneath it.

Like the Geologist, who had whispered leave me to decompose and done just that.

“They’re not coming back,” Kane announced one morning.

You finally looked up. “What makes you think that?”

He gestured around them, frustrated. “Look around. It’s just you and me. We lost all the others.”

“They aren’t lost,” you murmured. Then shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe we’re the ones who are.”

Kane stilled. His throat tightened.

“How? We’re at base camp,” he pressed, “they should’ve been back by now.”

“It’s been less than a day.”

The words slid through him like cold metal. “No,” he whispered. “We’ve been here for days. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve gone with them.”

You reached for his shoulder, steadying him. “Take a deep breath. You want to go? Fine. But give me two minutes. You’re not going out there alone again. You’ve not been the same since you’ve been back.”

Kane hesitated. His hand brushed against yours as though to say thanks, but you pulled away first.

It didn’t take you much time to pack your bag. You tried to keep it light, who knows what you were walking into. Rations, emergency equipment, and a field kit to take samples while on the go.

As you walked over to where he’d waited for you, you glanced at the camp one last time. Certain you would never see it again.

The ground beneath your boots felt unstable, as though something just beneath the surface was shifting in response to your presence. Moss underneath offering a spring in each step. The forest exhaled around you, the hush between sounds stretching longer than it should. Even the insects, which had once filled every quiet space, seemed to be waiting.

Kane stood rigid, his posture coiled, his gaze locked onto the cabin as if looking at it too long might pull him inside. His breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers twitching slightly where they hovered near his rifle strap. You reached for his hand, grounding him, but he didn’t react. Or maybe he couldn’t.

“This isn’t the tower,” you murmured quietly.

No response. If he had heard you at all, he gave no indication.

Your attention shifted. The derelict boat overturned near the water, barely visible beneath its cocoon of vines, caught your eye. Its hull had been split by roots thick as a man’s arm, curling into the wood like grasping hands. But it wasn’t just overgrowth—this was something else entirely. The plants had fused, their species indistinguishable from one another, blending into an unrecognizable tangle of colour and texture. Leaves that should not have existed in the same climate pressed against each other, petals rippling in colours you had no name for. The vines pulsed faintly, as though drawing breath.

Your curiosity pulled you forward. Kane remained still, locked in his personal war with the past, leaving you to slip ahead. Your pack slid from your shoulder, landing softly on the damp earth as you crouched near the boat. The scent of wet wood and something faintly metallic filled your lungs.

Carefully, you reached into your field kit, retrieving a scalpel. The blade caught the strange ambient light filtering through the canopy, flashing red, then blue. You steadied yourself, choosing a section of vine where two distinctly different plants had merged, their cellular structure braided impossibly together. A light incision. Just enough to—

The moment the scalpel’s edge touched the vine, something shifted.

Not just the plant. The entire forest.

The background hum, the constant thrumming of unseen life, stuttered. The trees did not sway, but the light around them flickered, as if a veil had momentarily lifted and revealed something beneath. The air thickened, pressing against your skin. The ground beneath you felt—wrong. For a fleeting second, your senses betrayed you, your body insisting you were tilting sideways despite crouching perfectly still.

Then, the vine moved.

Not a natural movement, not the slow, creeping growth of a plant. It coiled toward your hand, deliberate, reactive, the wound you had made closing over itself like flesh knitting back together. A faint wet sound. Something between the slow tear of muscle and the slip of damp leaves unfurling.

A pulse of heat shot up your arm before you could recoil. The cut you had made sealed itself in an instant. The plant had accepted the wound—and returned it.

A sharp sting bloomed just below your wrist. You looked down.

A thin red line, identical to the one you had made on the vine, now marred your skin. Blood dripped down towards your hand.

“Kane—” you called for him.

Before you could finish, he was there, yanking you back, his fingers tight around your arm as he dragged you several steps away. His breathing was shallow, his pupils blown wide, darting from your face to the plant and back again.

“What the hell was that?” you stumbled.

He shook his head. “We need to go.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the sample you had failed to collect. But the plant had already begun to change again. The colours shifted subtly, and where you had touched it, the surface darkened, as if absorbing the memory of you. The moment you had shared with it.

Kane didn’t wait for you to make up your mind. His grip on your wrist tightened, his pulse thrumming against your skin, his urgency contagious.

He pulled you away from the boat. Away from the cabin.

Away from whatever had just recognized you.

You were sitting staring into the makeshift bonfire while Kane cleaned your arm and bandaged your stitched wound. He’d used some of the heated water to make you both coffee but you weren’t drinking yours. After he was done, he’d tossed the old bandages into the water and sat back down beside you on the log.

“I don’t think we’re going to find them.” You say quietly.

“What makes you say that?” Kane asked, reaching to put an arm around you.

“I dunno, a feeling.”

“Well what’s the plan now? Do we go back? Keep going forward?”

You hesitate to respond. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“You’ll be with me whichever direction we go.” He grinned.

That wasn’t what you meant and you shook your head. “I don’t want to go back. I feel like I’ve already lost you if I keep going.”

“You haven’t though. I’m right here. I didn’t marry you to give up on you.”

“What?” You say confused. You try to remember when you married him and it was there. The flowers, the perfect day. The memory was far enough away to feel like it wasn’t yours.

The fire crackled between you, casting warped shadows against the canvas of your tent. The flames flickered too quickly, too erratically, as though something unseen was breathing over them. Kane sat close, his body warm beside yours, his arm draped around you with a weight that should have been comforting. But something was wrong.

You stared down at the bandage wrapped around your arm, the clean white cloth already beginning to darken at the edges. The sting beneath it felt deeper than a simple wound, something curling under your skin, remembering the touch of the thing you had disturbed.

His voice reached you again, softer this time. “You haven’t lost me.”

But he was lying.

Or worse, he believed what he was saying.

The memory sat in your mind like a misplaced object. Your wedding. A day that should have been carved into you, vibrant, tangible. You could see the flowers—petals in soft, muted colours, a breeze stirring through them. You could hear the distant murmur of guests. Could feel the weight of the ring on your finger.

But when had it happened?

Where had it happened?

The edges of the thought were blurred, soft, like a painting left too long in the rain. The details felt secondhand, like something recited from a dream you had overheard rather than lived.

Your breath hitched as you turned to look at Kane. “Say that again.”

His brow furrowed. “You haven’t lost me.”

“No, the thing before.”

“I didn’t marry you to give up on you?”

There it was again. That certainty. Like he knew it to be true.

Like he had always known.

But the longer you stared at him, the more you questioned if you had always known him.

A sharp pressure bloomed at your temples. The fire crackled louder, though neither of you had moved.

“Where did we get married?” you asked.

Kane blinked. “What?”

“Where?” you repeated, each word weighted.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. He frowned, gaze flickering away, toward the trees, toward the nothingness that surrounded you both. You could see him grasping for it, for a detail, for a single thread to hold onto.

The wedding was real. Wasn’t it?

The firelight made his face unfamiliar for the first time. Shadows caught in the hollows of his cheeks, casting angles that hadn’t been there before. The longer you looked, the more those details refused to sit right.

“Kane,” you whispered, not sure anymore if you were calling his name or testing it.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. A short, humourless laugh left him, but it was frayed at the edges.

“I don’t—I don’t know.” His fingers flexed on his knee. “It’s like it’s right there, but—” He exhaled sharply. “Shit.”

The fire let out a loud pop, sending a spark spiralling up into the dark. Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, he met your gaze.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

The question sent something cold curling down your spine.

Because he wasn’t asking where.

He was asking if.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure of the answer. You shake your head.

The fire sputtered, low embers pulsing with uneven light, as though struggling against some unseen force pressing down on it. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the perimeter of the fire’s glow, something moved—not a rustle, not the natural disturbance of undergrowth, but a slow, deliberate shift. The forest itself was listening.

Kane’s shoulders sagged, his fingers tracing absent patterns into the dirt beside him with his free arm. His breath came shallow, a quiet tremor beneath each exhale. “I think I know where the others have gone,” he murmured, the words barely making it past his lips. Then softer, almost reverent—“It’ll be me soon.”

A pulse of unease rippled through you, settling deep in your gut. The words weren’t spoken in fear. They weren’t a warning. They were a certainty.

“Don’t talk like that.” You reached for his arm, half-expecting the heat of his skin, the familiar solidness of him—but he flinched. Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant.

“I’m not going to let that happen to you.” You reassert.

His head turned slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch his profile, the shifting glow casting moving shadows across his face. He looked like himself, but at the same time, he didn’t. The bones of him were the same, the slope of his jaw, the curve of his nose. But something beneath it—some small, imperceptible wrongness—made him feel like a memory poorly recalled.

He exhaled, his shoulders shaking with something between laughter and grief. “If you stay, you won’t ever be able to get back out. You’ll be stuck here with me.”

The words settled over you like a damp cloth. Heavy. Stifling.

There was no argument in his tone. Just another truth.

“And I can’t make you stay.” He finally murmured as though it pained him to say.

You swallowed, your throat dry, though you hadn’t noticed the thirst until now. Had you drunk anything today? The coffee still sat beside you, untouched, the surface unbroken. It looked wrong, as if it had been sitting there for longer than you had been at this fire.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants.

You should have wanted to leave. You should have recoiled at the thought of being trapped, of being swallowed by this place like all the others. But when you searched for that instinct—the one that should have screamed at you to run—you found only stillness. A quiet, creeping sense of inevitability.

Maybe this had always been where you were supposed to be.

“Maybe I don’t want to go.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. If you enjoyed too please consider following, reblogging, or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day

#kane x reader #kane x you #shimmer kane #kane annihilation #oscar isaac #annihilation brainrot #annihilation #coffee & cream fanzine #annihilation movie #jeff vandermeer #area x #southern reach #the oscar isaac collective #shimmer!kane #mix of books and movie

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little-worm-grant · 2 months ago

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I Need A Hero (But Not That One)

Steven Grant x You / 2,456 words / Masterlist.

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Summary: Is from the perspective of reader running their own store in NYC, in comes this masked lunatic and some invisible threat only he can see. What else can you do besides reach for a bag of chips?

Tags: Strangers to friends, gender-neutral reader, minor mentions of violence, mostly fluff

Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.

There I’d been, minding my own business, trying to look busy in the store during the graveyard shift. I put in my best effort not to glance at the clock—everyone knew time crawled when you paid attention to it. My patience had worn thin hours ago, and I was beyond ready to head home. For what, you might ask?

Absolutely-freaking-nothing.

It was bliss. Being home was simply the best. There, I had my cat and all my junk—knickknacks from long-forgotten trips, cluttered piles of ‘stuff’ I hadn’t quite found a place for yet. Every day, I promised myself I’d get around to organizing. Every day, I promptly ignored that promise.

One more hour. That was it. Chances were I’d survive that, probably. I might even treat myself to some takeout on the walk home. Anything to keep me going.

I gave up on half-heartedly organizing the mugs and undoing the colourful, often crude, words people arranged with the lettered ones. It was always the same—no lack of creativity when people were wasting time, and I might have even appreciated the effort if I weren’t the one constantly undoing their handiwork.

With a sigh, I slumped over the counter like some tormented soul, feeling the weight of my shift bear down on me. What felt like an hour’s worth of work had, in reality, been about ten minutes. My eyes drifted to the snack aisle, and I silently reprimanded myself for considering dipping into the stock. I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t find something to do.

That was when I saw him.

Some guy sprinted past the windows, clad in a head-to-toe white costume, his breath misting in the cold night air. He stopped just long enough to hunch over, hands on his knees, sucking in air before forcing himself back into a full-speed run. It would have been almost comical if it weren’t so utterly tragic to watch.

For a moment, I was able to return to my well-practised routine of staring at anything but the chips or the clock.

Fifty-seven minutes left. This was the worst. The store clock had to be off, though—I couldn’t remember the last time I changed its batteries. I pulled out my phone, only to groan when it smugly displayed an hour and two minutes. I shoved it back into my pocket and decided the store clock was gospel.

Then, the same white-suited guy came bursting through the store doors. He slammed against them as if trying to shake off the cold that clung to him, his breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. His head jerked around, scanning the store, hands fumbling desperately for the door locks.

What a nutter.

"Can I help you?" I called, louder than necessary, to snap him out of whatever frenzy he was in. His glowing eyes flickered toward me before he resumed his wild flailing at the doors.

“No… wait—yeah! Actually, hang on a minute,” he panted, gesturing vaguely in my direction, either acknowledging me or silently telling me to stay put. Abandoning the locks, he grabbed the nearest shelf and dragged it against the door with a loud scrape. “You got anything heavier? Push that!” He pointed at another display shelf.

My city had faced at least three doomsdays in the past month alone. I was over it. A world filled with superheroes wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

"Can you not do that?" I asked, exasperated, stepping out from behind the counter. Not fully toward him, mind you—I wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t seem immediately dangerous, but these days, you never knew. Begrudgingly, I pushed another display toward the door, stopping at a safe distance. “You do realize I have to clean all this up when you’re done?”

“I’ll clean everything up, I promise! It’s this Jackal—he’s been a right pain in my arse! I’ve been trying to shake him for ages. Thought doubling back might throw him off, yeah?”

“Jackal? Like a dog?” I pulled a face. It sounded weird, but weird was kind of normal around here. My curiosity got the better of me. “Well, can’t you just laser it?”

“Wot? No!” he scoffed, abandoning his barricading attempts to shoot me an incredulous look. A souvenir shirt tumbled to the floor. His reaction made me think I’d insulted him, but it was hard to tell through the mask.

I elaborated, gesturing vaguely at his glowing eyes. “I mean, what’s the point of having those if you can’t laser with them? Do they help you see better or something? Also, pick that up.”

He sighed and bent to grab the fallen shirt, attempting—badly—to fold it. “I didn’t exactly get a say in all the bits, alright? Does it really make me look like a psycho Colonel Sanders?” He gestured down at himself.

It did.

I shook my head, watching as he gave up folding and just shoved the shirt back onto the disrupted shelf.

“I see just fine, thanks,” he continued. “No lasers, though. Handy in the dark when I’m too tired to switch on a lamp, but that’s about it. Still love my carrots, though.” He chuckled, but the humour barely lasted a second.

CRASH!

The masked lunatic went tumbling backward, rolling with surprising agility before catching himself. His attempts to barricade the door had ended exactly as I expected—badly.

I immediately backed up behind the counter, peering over it to assess the damage. This guy was single-handedly trashing my store. Maybe insurance would cover it if I told them a costumed weirdo was responsible.

Reaching for a bag of chips, I silently wished I had stocked popcorn instead.

Nothing. There was no one there. I turned back to the supposed hero and waved a hand at the wreckage, chips in hand.

"What the hell did you do that for?!" I demanded, punctuating my question with the pop of an opening bag. "You’re paying for everything you break, by the way." Chips included.

“That weren’t me! It’s the Jackal! Look—it’s a big ‘un!” He pointed dramatically at the entrance.

I followed his gesture. Nothing. I looked back at him with the deadpan stare of someone far too tired for this nonsense.

"You’re on something," I muttered. "Can you do this outside?"

“I swear, I’m—”

Before he could finish, something invisible sent him flying across the store. He skidded, rolled, and barely managed to catch himself before knocking over another display.

I crunched on a chip and watched the ridiculous scene unfold. It was like a nature documentary gone wrong.

“So… Jackals are invisible?” I asked, tossing another chip into my mouth. I flipped the bag around to see how many I had left. “How do you even know where it is?”

“I dunno! I don’t make the rules!” he wheezed, scrambling to his feet just as another unseen force knocked him back. Desperate, he yanked a shelf down, sending rows of neatly stacked souvenirs crashing to the floor. “I’m so sorry!”

I groaned but did nothing to stop him. What was I supposed to do? Jump in and fight an invisible dog?

I expected the shelf to hit the ground, but instead, it bounced—hard—off something unseen.

“Oh wow,” I murmured, watching the impact. “You were right. I never doubted you for a second.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I did,” I admitted. “But I believe you now. That’s got to count for something.”

While the chaos raged on, I finished off the last of my chips, shaking the bag to fish out the stubborn crumbs stuck at the bottom. Satisfied, I crumpled the empty packet into a ball and lobbed it into the trash behind the counter. Wiping my hands against my pants, I leaned forward, watching the absolute disaster unfold in front of me.

“So… uh, anything I can do?” I asked, more out of obligation than any real desire to get involved.

“Better you stay back. Or…” He ducked as something unseen swiped at his head, sending a stack of keychains flying. He twisted, barely regaining his footing, before calling over to me, “Actually, yeah—I could use a hand.”

I groaned. That was my mistake for asking. “What do you need?”

“Think you could help me get rid of this thing?”

I scoffed. “I’m not killing it!”

“I meant just help me get it out of the store!” he snapped.

I glanced at the mess—toppled shelves, shattered mugs, a floor littered with overpriced souvenirs—and, yeah, I had to agree, Caspar the unfriendly dog needed to go. But how? Inspiration struck, and I cupped my hands around my mouth.

“HEY, YOU! YOU’RE A BAD DOG!”

Glowing eyes whirled on me, appalled. “That’s not what I meant! Also, it’s not a dog it’s a Jackal and that’s not helping!”

Before I could fire back, his head jerked toward me, his whole body tensing.

“It’s coming your way. Duck!”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I threw myself to the side just as the shelves behind me exploded into a clattering mess of broken wood and tumbling stock. Something rushed past, hot air brushing against the back of my neck, and my stomach twisted with the realization that whatever this thing was, it had been that close. I landed on my hands and knees, heart hammering.

Real heroic stuff, I know. Give me some credit—I was running on the fumes of an eleven-hour shift, and I don’t get paid enough. I had just learned invisible nightmare creatures officially ranked high on my list of ‘Things That Terrify Me.’

“It almost got me!” I shrieked. “Get it!”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder!” I yelled, flinching as another crash erupted behind me. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the store, vibrating through my chest, and suddenly, the air shifted.

Something was right behind me.

A wave of scorching breath ghosted across my neck, and every hair on my body stood on end.

“If I die on the clock,” I gasped, flattening myself against the floor, “I’m coming back to haunt the hell out of anyone who’s ever wronged me. Starting with Colonel Sanders wrecking my store!”

“Oi! You said I didn’t look like him!” His voice came from somewhere across the room, slightly breathless but still dripping with indignation.

A deafening smash sounded above me.

I peeked up in time to see the white figure hurling my carefully arranged souvenir mugs—one by one—at empty air.

My eye twitched.

“I never said that!” I shot back, ducking as a particularly heavy ceramic one narrowly missed my head. “I don’t know what to call you! I’ll take it back if you stop trashing my place and trying to get me killed!”

Still locked in combat with the unseen enemy, he yelled, “It’s Steven! With a V!”

I stared at him. “That’s it? That’s your superhero name? With a V? Laaame.”

“Oh yeah, I got one of those too!” He dodged, then perked up as though he wasn’t actively in a life-or-death struggle. “Call me Mr. Knight!”

“I’ll stick to Steven.”

“You know wot? That’s fair.”

Another crash. Another shelf knocked over. My sanity officially hanging by a thread.

“Will you please get this thing out of here?!” I bellowed.

“It’s not gonna leave if I’m here!”

“Then YOU get out?!”

Steven hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking off toward the door. He vaulted over the mess of fallen shelves in what could have been an impressive leap—if he hadn’t caught his foot and gone crashing down in a spectacular heap.

“I’m okay!” he groaned from the floor.

“You sure?”

“Yeah! Super. Thanks.”

He scrambled back up just in time for the Jackal to slam into him. He flipped, twisted mid-air, and landed hard, limbs sprawled out in a way that made it hard to tell if he was fighting for his life or really committing to breakdancing. I don’t even know where the batons came from, but he was using them for what I assumed was to keep the dog from clamping down on his face.

This better not be how I go out.

A desperate, half-baked idea sparked in my mind. Might not have been a good idea, but, well, we were fresh out of those the moment Steven decided to use my store as his personal wrestling ring.

I scrambled toward a pile of knocked-over broken ornaments and snatched up the broom.

“Steven!” I called, gripping the broom in both hands as he flailed his way toward the door again. “Throw it at me!”

“Throw what at you?!”

“The Jackal!”

“Wot?! That’s the opposite of what I should be doing! That’s the WORST plan!”

“I know. Just do it!”

I planted the base of the broom against the bottom of the wall, bracing it, my free hand steadying a haphazardly taped-up ornament that dangled off the end. It probably was a bad plan, but at this point, I was banking on the element of surprise.

Steven, still wrestling with the invisible force, managed to find his footing, gripping something unseen with both hands. He took a deep breath and swung it around.

One…

Two…

Steven heaved, stumbling backward.

And then—impact.

The Jackal slammed against the broom, hitting it with enough force to snap the wooden handle clean in half.

I ducked back and screamed.

The thing screamed.

I was pretty sure Steven was screaming too.

The broom buckled, its remnants collapsing in a pathetic heap, and I scrambled away until my back hit the wall.

Then—silence.

The weight in the air shifted.

Steven coughed, dragging himself back to his feet, waffling on about something being “gone” or “handled” or whatever. I barely heard him.

My store was a wreck.

My gaze drifted to the clock.

Thirty-three minutes left on my shift.

I laughed, low and hysterically. Steven looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

After all was said and done, he stuck around to help me pick up the pieces—literally. Surprisingly, he even walked me home afterward, though I turned down his offer of tea in favour of picking up some takeout.

There was no way I was ending this day without one.

“You didn’t need to stick around,” I muttered as we reached my apartment door.

“I know, but it wouldn’t have felt right if I didn’t,” he admitted. “Can’t go ‘round trashing my mate’s shop and not help, can I?”

I gave him a sideways glance. “We’re mates now, are we?”

“Well, I mean, I don’t—”

“Relax,” I cut in. “I’m messing with you. We can be mates.” I pushed my door open, then turned back with a smirk. “But you’re banned from ever stepping foot in my store again.”

Steven exhaled, as if he’d been expecting that. “You know wot? That’s fair.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. If you enjoyed too please consider following, reblogging, or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day

#steven grant x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant #mr knight #moon knight #moonknight #strangers to friends #moon knight fanfiction #oscar isaac #mix of series and comics #moon knight comics #moon knight series #the oscar isaac collective #coffee & cream fanzine

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little-worm-grant · 2 months ago

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Steven sending this to who?

#moon knight #steven grant #oscar isaac

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little-worm-grant · 2 months ago

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Imagining him serious frowning at the beach tho 😭❤ this was a cute read

Unspoken Words - Marc Spector

Marc Spector x gn!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Marc doesn't know how to express his feelings

Word count: 755

A/N: This is my first Moon Knight / Marc Spector fic

Warnings: English is not my first, second or third language, so sorry for any mistakes

Marc went through a lot, so when he met you, he decided that maybe, just maybe this time everything would work out for him, a chance to breathe, to live and not just survive. You had been together for a while now, but he never uttered the three words you always hoped to hear. He had been hurt by the world and by those who should’ve cared for him. He built a massive brick wall around his heart, walls that you are trying to tear down each day that passes. You gave him grace, you gave him time and space.

Today is beach day. No thoughts, no worries. Just you, your lover and the gentle waves of the sea. The beach was quiet, almost empty. What else would you expect on a Tuesday morning? You had it all to yourselves, a little piece of heaven just for you two.

As peaceful as the scenery looked, Marc didn’t quite know what to do with himself. The truth was, he had never experienced simple days like this. Days where there is no tension, no anxiety. Days where the demons of the past weren’t consuming his thoughts.

You made him want to open up, but he was still learning how. The relationship was in his opinion still new, still fragile. How much of himself could he show you? How much of his darkness would you accept? His mind clouded with insecurity until he looked up and saw you walking toward him, two ice creams in hand.

“Stop thinking so hard,” you teased.

“I’m not,” he shot back, but the look on his face betrayed him.

You gave him a knowing look. “Marc, I can literally see the gears turning. Love, relax. We are at the beach, let the sea carry your worries away. Let’s just enjoy today, okay?”

He exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. Took his ice cream and sat down beside you on the towel. Quietly watching the waves, breathing, simply existing in the now, in the present. Slowly, his head found its way onto your lap, and sleep took over. One of your hands held a book, while the other gently caressed his soft curls.

Finally, he rests, you thought.

The day passes by quietly. When the sun dipped low, you woke him up, gathered your things and headed back toward town.

“I’m sorry,” Marc murmured.

“For what?”

“Well… we came for a fun day at the beach and I ended up falling asleep. I should’ve stayed awa-”

You cut him off with a gentle kiss.

“We came to the beach to relax and for the first time in forever, you actually did. That’s all that matters to me.”

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

As you walked back home, you passed a little flower shop. Marc paused. “Wait a minute, I’ll be right back,” he said, disappearing inside the small shop. When he came back, he was holding a small bouquet of red tulips.

“Marc? What’s the meaning of this?” you asked smiling.

He hesitantly handed them to you. “I might not say it out loud just yet, but I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Eum… well yeah…you can google the meaning of it.”

He stood there, hands in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Watching how your fingers tapped the screen of your phone. Seeing the page load made his heart pound even faster in his chest. What if you are not impressed? What if this is not the right way to tell you… Stealing quick glances, waiting and hoping…

*Google search: Meaning of red tulips:

Result: Passion, love -> Their deep red hues evoke feelings of passion, love, and lust — making them an especially popular choice for new, younger couples. They can also mean “believe me” or “my feelings are true.” So, the next time you're trying to woo the person you admire, send them an alluring bouquet of red tulips.*

Your smile softened. There it is, the smile that calms the storm within him. The one that chases the cloudy days away.

“Love, come here,” you whispered, pulling him into the deepest hug you could give.

He might not have uttered the three words you longed to hear or translated his love into tangible, spoken words yet, but they were there. Lingering on the tip of his tongue and when he’s ready, you know he will repeat them every single day. You are his, and he loves you dearly.

_____________________

Posted this in this fun tag game and decided to post it as a stand alone fiction. Hope you enjoyed it!

@quiet-night-sky-writers-blog

#fic rec #marc spector x you #marc spector #marc spector x reader #moon knight

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