#fisara's codices

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once). ⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

Read the rest of the chapter here! :)

[i-never-forgot]

Page 1 [Here] | Page 2 [WIP] | Page 3 [WIP]

I debated on posting these separately bc I wanted it all to be in one place but it’s gonna take me a bit to finish the other two pages and I was excited about finishing this one so I caved

What’s wrong with Eliana, guys?🤔

(Also extremely nervous about my digital art still, particularly Dusknoir—I hope he looks all right🥲)

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑰 — 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑵 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑻𝒀.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱��𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ spider-woman of earth 928c is introduced to some unexpected visitors. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 3.1k a/n 🕷️ ⤏ don't mind me, I'm just chasing a plot bunny. ⤏ this version of the rhino is from the spectacular spider-man universe because I’m self-indulgent and that’s still one of my favorite iterations of the character. I am also adlibbing this version of the 2099-verse because I only know what the wiki told me…and it wasn’t a whole lot. 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

Let’s review all this one last time, shall we?

“Hey, Rhino! You’ll have to try a bit harder than that to catch me!”

My name is—well, you already know that, don’t you?

A furious bellow set every hair on your body on edge. You hooked your feet on the lamppost and curled around it just in time to avoid the crushed taxi launched at your direction. The loan office it embedded itself into had been vacated when the scuffle started, thank God, as had the rest of the street’s occupants. You could hear police sirens several blocks over, trying to navigate the destruction the brute beast had left in his wake. You’d been trying to tire him out in the harsh summer sunlight—just as you had a couple of years prior.

I got bitten by an enhanced radioactive spider, and for the last five years, I’ve been the one—and only—Spider-Woman.

“You’ve really got to work on your aim, O’Hirn, I don’t know what to tell you,” you chided lightly, webbing the taxi and jumping down to swing it back at him. The metal husk caught him right in the chest, managing to knock him flat on his armored ass. “You’ve gotten a bit rusty since I last saw you.”

I’m sure you know the rest—I’ve saved countless people in Nueva York and have kept it intact. (Mostly.)

“I—don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” he snarled, peeling himself out of the vehicle. “I never seen you before—d’you replace Spider-Man or somethin’?”

I lost my husband in a freak accident, I barely manage to keep my small business open, and sometimes I want for nothing more than to burn this suit and walk away from it all.

You raised a brow under your mask. “I’m afraid I’m the only resident web-slinger in this neck of the woods. Did you get your head bashed a little too hard while in the slammer?”

But I’ve learned that no matter how many times I get knocked down, shot at, blown up, stabbed, punched, kicked—you name it—I have to get up. Always.

The Rhino roared instead of opting to give a comprehensive answer to further the conversation, and you narrowly avoided getting impaled on his horn when he lunged. Latching onto the awning of the hotel across the street, you swung wide and squinted down at the mercenary as his momentum carried him directly into the rubble of the obliterated loan office.

I genuinely thought that I had seen it all: science experiments gone horribly wrong, villains of the week that would give horror writers a run for their money...weird-ass situations all around, and I’m weird.

Something…wasn’t right. Your spider sense had been ringing off the chart since he’d first galloped through the wall of your pharmacy demanding a fight—it was persistent and loud enough that it had given you a splitting headache by now. It hadn’t reacted this badly in several years, and you’d care not to think about the circumstances surrounding the last occasion.

But this…certainly took the cake.

This guy…wasn’t the Rhino you’d fought. You hadn’t even heard anything about the prison he’d been sent to being destroyed, or any of the inmates having made a miraculous escape, for that matter. He sounded different, acted different, looked different…not to mention the fact that this…imposter, or whoever he was, had a far more rudimentary armor than that of the first. It looked like a solid compound of some sort bound to his skin, rather than faulty nano-particles that had malfunctioned and locked themselves out of control at the time of its first reckless experimentation.

You’d know that better than anyone. Alchemax had been nothing but a source of perpetual pains in your ass ever since your husband died, the higher-ups far too hungry for imitation superhumans from a century prior to exercise caution or reason. They’d stop at nothing to get what they wanted, the common people they inevitably harmed be damned.

As the crumbling cinderblocks settled, you slipped down and landed lightly on the cracked sidewalk. You lamented the property damage of the entire block just as much as the fact that you were going to have to use your preferred pharmacy’s sister branch, all the way on the other side of the Hudson, and they always took days to refill your prescriptions even after you received the automated alert.

Computers. Damned with them, damned without them.

“Hey, O’Hirn?” you called into the cloud of dust slowly clearing in the mild breeze. “I don’t suppose you did my job for me and knocked yourself out, huh?”

This time, he charged without a sound. You tried to jump away with a yelp, your instincts screeching like a banshee, but his massive fist caught your ankle and slammed you down into the asphalt hard enough to crater around your frame. Winded, you only just caught his heel with both hands before he drove it directly into your chest cavity—you groaned with the strain of keeping his weight at bay, arms trembling with effort. You gasped for breath, eyes searching out his face despite the tears welling in your eyes (because damn that hurt), and twisted your wrist just enough to utilize the spinneret on the top of your wrist instead of in the bottom. The sickly sweet-smelling web nailed him right in the eye.

He stumbled back with a muffled shout, the silk having netted his entire head from the impact. You rolled out of the asphalt angel memorializing your clumsiness and away from his stomping feet, coughing and doing your best to ignore the pain lingering in your back and ribs.

“Got me there,” you wheezed, struggling to your feet. “Now I’m not going to play nice.”

“The hell is this stuff?” he shouted, finally tearing the object of offense free. “It reeks!”

“Something to help put you down for a nap,” you sighed, already threading the nearest dislodged fire hydrant. You waited in a tense crouch until he whirled on you and lowered his head to clock him in the knee.

He shook the ground when he dropped, howling while clutching the dislocated joint. Letting the hydrant loop over your head, you brought it harshly down on the opposite shoulder to incapacitate him further.

The ground swayed abruptly, and you staggered sidewise to keep from stumbling. The Rhino, despite his obvious agony, flashed you a shit-eating grin.

“Didn’t think about that, did’ya?” he goaded, before rearing his good fist back and driving it into the gaping crack in the concrete.

That entire section of the street caved into the sewer system below, and O’Hirn grabbed your ankle once more to drag you with him.

Rubble and unstable brickwork separated the pair of you, and you struggled to get your bearings even as it pinned you in place under running water (rather than actual sewage, thank God—it had taken months for the smell to leave your suit, even if the UMF had decontamination processes preprogrammed) like the odd little bug you really were.

Heart pounding, you clenched your jaw and shoved at the boulders blocking you in, fruitlessly at first—finally, finally they gave, and you surfaced with a ragged inhale.

Your entire body ached. You were going to have to deal with Alchemax soon, you really were, because your health insurance was definitely not going to cover a visit to the ER—your improved healing would still take a while to fix it, even if you were to gorge yourself like usual.

“Just be glad for no broken bones,” you muttered, peering up into the hazy sunlight streaming into the chasm Rhino had created. “Those hurt like a bitch.”

“I think I can help with that.”

You whipped around. “Oh, for the love of—”

Rhino’s fist nearly took your jaw clean off your skull with a dizzying roundhouse that sent you flying into what remained of the sewer’s wall. You collapsed on the service walk, biting your lip fiercely to keep the bubbling whimper firmly lodged in your chest. “Fuck, man, you couldn’t stand to be a gentleman, could you? That’s my good si—”

He cut off your tirade by clamping his fist around the back of your neck, dragging you into open air and glaring down his crooked nose at you.

Were you imagining things or was he…shaped differently than a normal person? Not even being a supervillain, he just…looked weird. Like, really weird.

Or…maybe it had to do with the fact that his fingers easily reached around to the front of your throat and were now squeezing hard enough to block your airway.

“I’ve about had enough of you,” he growled, grimacing as you grappled his arm in an attempt to release his grip. “You superheroes and your smart mouths. If the Big Man ever caught wind of another Spider hangin’ around, he’d blow a gasket.”

You had enough wherewithal to utilize your specialized webs once again, but even though you managed to cover his face again, he snatched your wrists and twisted them to the side to cut off the flow. He snarled and squeezed harder, though a small trickle of relief bypassed the growing panic of suffocating when he stumbled a little. His eyes were going crossed, it was working…

…but not quickly enough. You were fading fast, losing feeling in your fingers and toes, your hands and feet, your arms and legs…your heartbeat thrummed in your ears like a torn war drum, the only sound that followed the dizziness creeping into your consciousness.

Well…you supposed this was it. Definitely not the way you’d imagined going, but…your aunt would feed your cat. There were worse ways to go, certainly—you’d witnessed them firsthand. You just wish that you didn’t feel like such a failure, despite all your countless accomplishments and victories. None of it felt substantial. Not when you had failed to protect those most important to you.

Not when you’d lost your husband. Not when it should have been you.

Your body fell limp. You made one last effort to turn your head and bite the heel of the Rhino’s palm, but he only knocked the back of your head against the wall. You hardly felt it, really, only hearing your tapering pulse and the wailing ring of your spider sense.

“Fuck you,” you tried to rasp, but with no air to speak you only mouthed the words.

The Rhino had the audacity to laugh at that, glittering dark eyes eagerly watching yours steadily glaze over. He reached towards your chin, where he would find the seam of your mask.

Through darkening, blurry vision, you watched a maelstrom of crimson and gold bloom like an aurora over the Rhino’s massive shoulder, illuminating the damp maze of broken rock like neon on a rainy night. Your eyes drifted shut of their own accord as a shape sprinted forth from the vortex at breakneck speed. You hadn’t figured the afterlife would herald a six-foot bodybuilder in blue spandex, but, hey—who were you to complain about witnessing the epitome of masculinity at the time of death?

Listless, you barely recognized being dropped. You didn’t even realize the pressure had been released from your windpipe until your instincts kicked into overdrive. You inhaled so suddenly and so harshly, the burn was what startled you back into lucidity.

Sucking in precious oxygen, you propped your arms beneath your chest and lifted your impossibly heavy, throbbing head to stare in utter rapture as you witnessed what you’d accepted as a hallucination of the peak male figure proceed to kick Alexander O’Hirn’s ass into next week.

“What the hell?” you croaked, sagging into the floor.

The stranger was…lethal, really. Every punch and kick was delivered with frightening force and deadly accuracy. It wasn’t until he backflipped to avoid impalement into the sunlight that you saw the cross between a spider and skull motif caressing his rippling physique. Him then twisting his hands down and launching luminescent red threads to trip the beast mid-lunge only confused you further.

“You ready for the containment field?” called a second stranger—a woman this time—standing propped against an honest-to-God motorcycle in the mouth of the vortex.

The Rhino grabbed the webs and yanked hard. The man, to his credit, didn’t yelp as he was pulled off his feet and towards O’Hirn’s brandished horn.

You reacted before you could think.

Your web coiled around his midsection, and your braking pull slowed his momentum just enough to give him time to lift his foot and dig his heel into the Rhino’s left eye. They both careened into the heap of rubble and under the water.

You scrambled onto your feet, limping to the edge of the walk to peer into the murky depths. You were about to speak to the woman on the opposite side because you wanted to know exactly what in the actual hell that thing was, who they were, and why the hell were they both copying your design when the surface broke into a shower of droplets that speckled your suit. The man tumbled into a heap at your feet, dripping and coughing.

“I’d thank you for your help,” you panted in spite of your sore throat, “but I don’t think he’s down for the count quite yet.”

His head snapped towards you, and you saw the crimson frames surrounding the lenses of his own mask widen. He lurched upright, taking a full step away from you as though you’d tried to bite him. He towered over you easily, well over six foot (even past half?), and his musculature more than emphasized it.

“Hey, no hard feelings or anything, I appreciate the hand,” you said, raising placating palms to him. “I almost kicked the bucket back there, so I owe you—”

He whirled just as the Rhino surfaced from the deep, roaring in fury. His nose was bleeding profusely, but not from his nostrils—was that a bite mark across the bridge?

“Get back and let us handle it!” the man in the midnight suit snarled suddenly, and your heart stuttered.

Your mouth fell open as he launched himself forward, leaving gauges in the concrete where his feet had been planted. You watched, frozen and speechless, as he latched onto O’Hirn’s shoulders and spun him into a glowing red shibari presentation in less than ten seconds. The Rhino lost his footing and collapsed back into the water, though into the shallows. The woman tossed the man a device, and it bloomed into a forcefield that swallowed their fallen prey in a humming yellow cocoon.

“Oh.” You blinked, shut your mouth, and swallowed. “Wow. I need one of those.”

The stranger ignored you, stooping down and hefting the Rhino over his shoulder like he weighed a sack of potatoes.

You blinked rapidly before following his sloshing lumber across the canal. “Wait, wait a second, aren’t you going to—”

“We’ll take it from here, baby,” said the woman lightly, gesturing to the beast who had, oddly enough, fallen into a stiff stasis. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried about it,” you responded tersely, “because that is definitely not the Rhino of my world, you two are just as out of place as he is, and that looks an awful lot like a wormhole that is somehow not causing the known universe to collapse in on itself. Can I please get an explanation, since you both seem perfectly calm?”

The man growled under his breath, shaking his head, while the woman arched an appraising brow at him.

“That’s classified,” he ground out through gritted teeth, and your heart squeezed once more.

“Do either of you work for Alchemax?” you demanded hotly, skin pricking with agitation. “Because if this is another one of their freakshow experiments gone wrong, I am going to blow that place sky high, I swear—”

“We don’t work for Alchemax,” she soothed. She cast another glance at her cohort, eyes narrowing, before she refocused on you with a much kinder expression. “And we definitely have no other intention than getting this big guy back to where he belongs. We’re not your enemies.”

“Just leave it alone, Jess,” hissed the man in blue, resuming his steady pace towards the glowing, shifting maw of raw power. “We need to get back before the toxin wheres off.”

You couldn’t take that nagging feeling anymore.

“Tell me what the hell is going on!” you snapped, hoping the indignation in your voice disguised the fact that your throat was unbearably tight and a persistent sting blurred your sight. “You can’t just—”

He didn’t stop moving, didn’t even turn to face you—not really—just tilted his head to the side enough to regard you with disdain from the edge of his peripheral. You couldn’t see it, of course, nor his expression, but the disapproving drawl of his single-worded reply was enough—more than enough, and you realized that it sounded familiar. “No.”

“Wait, please!” you tried, (begged, more like, much to your chagrin—you hated it when your voice cracked), taking a step forward and trying to decide whether it was worth the risk to web him immobile after his rather impressive (and aggressive) display. “Miguel?”

The imposing figure went stock-still mid-step.

Your breath caught, your suddenly buoyant heart lodging itself firmly in the pit of your throat. He sagged in on himself for a moment, a deep, shaky inhale emphasizing the sheer mass of him—easily thrice your mass—and his ragged exhale was the only indication of weariness you’d observed thus far.

“It would be best,” he enunciated thickly, almost garbled, as though he spoke around a mouthful of gravel, “if you forgot about this encounter altogether, in the long run.”

All you were able to absorb in that split second before he stepped through the contorting portal and disappeared were the splashes of golden light accenting the sharp angle of his cheek and jawline, as well as the subtlest suggestion of a deeply furrowed brow beneath the glimmering material comprising his mask and suit alike—just like yours.

The other woman regarded you for a long moment, something like sympathy clear on her unguarded, unconcealed face. You opened your mouth to entreat her, likewise, desperate for answers when the former stranger had so blatantly refused explanation, but she merely shook her head slowly, reminding you of a gentle, maternal refusal. She, too, wheeled her bike into the portal and flickered out of view.

Then, inevitably, the portal itself dissipated into nothingness within the blink of an eye, as though you’d been hallucinating the entire thing. The tunnel was plunged into total darkness, save the wall of sunlight behind you.

You dropped to your knees, your chin sank into your sternum, and the particles of your mask receded so you could cradle your face in your hands. Hot, embittered tears dripped from your nose and splattered against the concrete, only the faintest suggestions of discoloration in your distorted vision.

Just like that, he was gone.

Again.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ jake struggled to decide whether you were a blessing or a curse to the system—his personal feelings about you didn’t matter. they never had. ⤏ until they suddenly did, that is. ⤏ now he had to fix the mess he caused before he ruined everything for the two he’s trying to protect most as well as you. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader word count ☾ 15.6k a/n ☽ ⤏ this chapter was certainly a challenge to write! I have such a particular interpretation of jake in my head influenced by such lovely headcanons and fanfics in the mk community that I had a bit of stage-fright trying to portray him with justice to my vision of him. having very little on-screen material from which to go off of certainly doesn’t help—steven and marc’s voices are so clear to me, but jake’s is a little more subtle and stepping out to develop it on my own was a little nerve-wracking because I wanted so badly to do him justice! ⤏ I also apologize that this chapter came late—I had a busy weekend on top of homework and I was wrestling with jake’s characterization. but here he is, now! let me know if y’all like how I wrote him! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾   ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc had met you, officially, it had been an accident.

The first time Jake met you, it was an inevitability.

Steven and Marc were wrapped around each of your pinky fingers. Completely enamored with you. Nearly worshiped the ground that you walked on. You had lodged yourself inextricably into their gravitational pull, orbiting them as though you’d always been fixed to their collective side—present almost as often as Jake was.

Jake found it inconvenient at best. Dangerous at worst.

Because despite his near slip-up, fumbling just a bit at the suddenness of stepping in that fateful night Marc had decided to swoop in and rescue you (not that you’d really needed rescuing—you were owed credit for holding your own better than most women with whom they’d ever interacted in such scenarios), the two had not been particularly watchful for him.

Sure, they discussed it more—never around you, of course, worried that you would worry about their unease, being unable to properly identify the source of their combined blackouts. The outlier. But they were doing little else than that, and Jake had almost been concerned about them trying to draw him out by force. Biding their time, maybe. But that was fine—Jake was patient. He waited them out every other time he slipped to the front while they were unaware, save during emergencies, and this would be no different—eventually they’d drop their guard, start to doubt their suspicions, and put the idea to the back of their mind where he dwelt and he could comfortably resume his work.

…That was, provided you were removed from the equation altogether.

London loomed in the height of winter, several months later. They had gotten over themselves long enough to enter full and individual romantic relationships with you, and Jake had to admit that he had never felt either of them as happy as they were around you. Marc had loved Layla dearly, still did, and Jake knew she had been integral to keeping him steady and for some of his healing—but you were different. You were an unknown variable, and yet Marc was putting in his every effort to make it work, not looking to repeat his past mistakes in order to ensure your mutual and assured trust: you knowing the brutal nature of Marc’s past and Marc entrusting you with the intimate knowledge of it.

It had taken time, of course (an excruciatingly long period of it, in fact), but you hadn’t flinched once even when he’d told you of the blood staining his hands, both innocent and villainous, during his time as a soldier and mercenary. You had stayed, hadn’t run, hadn’t treated him like the killer he’d always convinced himself that he was. Marc had been relieved.

Jake had only grown frustrated. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Because Steven’s infatuation with you was one thing. He’d had a few crushes here and there, had been laboring in the dating scene for weeks by the time Marc had inadvertently revealed himself to his alter, and Jake had even tried to help the pobrecito* catch a break once. (Jake couldn’t lie—he’d almost hoped that he could’ve caught a break, too, since Marc had left Layla high and dry and Jake had been pent up with all the mounting stress Marc had only been internalizing instead of dealing with in a somewhat healthy manner—but Steven had deserved to be doted on by a pretty woman at least once in his oblivious, lonely life, and Dylan the tour guide was a very pretty woman.) Steven was a romantic at heart, had sought a meaningful relationship more than anything for the longest, so it was to be expected that he’d eventually fall in with some unwitting little thing ignorant to the myriad problems riddling the inner depths of his psyche—that, Jake could have dealt with, hypothetically, if things had escalated to that point. A quick misunderstanding carefully orchestrated leading to a break-up would have been a simple solution, and while it would have hurt Steven greatly for a while, it would have been ultimately necessary for both the long-term safety of the system and for the security of Jake’s continued, secretive role as Khonshu’s fantoche*.

But Marc getting involved threw an entirely new wrench into the gears of Jake’s plans. Because Marc Spector operated in black or white. All or nothing. Always had and always would. Either he didn’t trust you as far as he could throw you or he’d carry you through the depths of hell barefooted on red-hot coals and have the nerve to apologize to you for stumbling on his bleeding blisters.

Marc’s trust came two-fold, also, now that he was in full cohesion with Steven—he still didn’t readily trust anyone, but if Steven did? He was sold soon after just on the principle of the matter. Steven’s judgment of character was, admittedly, as keen as any telepath’s, despite his naïveté and optimism—and Marc trusted Steven more than he trusted anyone else in the world. Even Layla. Even you.

Even Jake, though it had been entirely subconscious up until very recently.

Because he’d fought Jake the last time he’d forced himself to the front to save his life (and yours, by extension, loathe as Jake was to admit it), whereas before Jake had always managed to blindside him. It was a close call—one that Jake could not afford to make again.

And it would be so much fucking easier if you weren’t around so damn often.

Any bit of spare time the boys had that happened to coincide with yours, they were trying to see you: from snack breaks between your classes or on your shared lunch breaks to movie nights featuring home cooked meals and set tables and lit candles because you were just as much of a romantic as Steven was (God help them). You dried one bloom from every bouquet of flowers they ever brought you, keeping them all in a pitcher you used as a centerpiece more than once. You had even started packing them lunches, for Christ’s sake, with plentiful options that either Steven or Marc would enjoy depending on who ended up fronting. Even when either (or both) of you were too tired to go out on the town for a date (which happened so often Jake wondered how Marc hadn’t depleted his bank account already), the long evenings you weren’t obligated to work or study were spent cuddled up on the couch in your apartment or theirs, oblivious to the outside world as you indulged in each other’s company.

The winter brought worsening weather with it, which meant that you were spending more time at home with them. You’d even started spending the night, which was treading on Jake’s very last nerve—his one assured bastion of being able to take the body surreptitiously without Marc or Steven realizing it was put into jeopardy because while you were a heavy sleeper (almost like a fucking corpse, really—he’d had to check to make sure you were even breathing, once), you hadn’t yet gotten used to sharing a bed with someone, which resulted in you rousing slightly any time the body so much as shifted. Marc still had night terrors occasionally, and you’d never fail to comfort him back to sleep, even at the cost of your own rest.

Jake should be thankful, really, if he thought about it for too long. Marc had managed to keep sober long before he met you, but his cravings had dissipated almost entirely since you’d gently steered him towards sodas instead of beer—meaning no more black-out drunk episodes from which Jake had to nurse the body back from the brink. The body rested better with you there to anchor their unsteady mind at the times it decided to bring back the bad memories. You were feeding them better than they’d eaten since living with Layla, hearty and savory dishes that had packed a few pounds onto their lean frame, helping to negate Marc and Steven’s combined forgetfulness towards even the most basic practices of self-care. You had even started buying them groceries in thanks for the dinners they bought you, keeping their fridge and cabinets full and their personal products stocked up throughout the apartment.

You were doing the brunt of his job for him—making sure the body was taken care of and that neither of them spiraled nor regressed. He should be happy that he didn’t have to pull so much weight anymore, that he got to kick back and relax.

So why did it all piss him off so damn much?

You were pretty, he supposed. Not the most stunning bird he’d ever seen, but you were a decent pull on Steven’s part. You got along with the little nerd, and you got along with Marc—which was a feat in and of itself. You had an incredibly dry sense of humor on top of a quick tongue that drew inadvertent chuckles from even the surliest of Marc’s moods. You kept up with Steven’s intellect effortlessly, and the pair of you could talk hours upon hours on the most mundane of topics—oftentimes earning a scolding from Marc whenever the conversation would carry on past midnight (which would only make you both giggle and apologize sheepishly and rarely actually curbed your shared enthusiasm). You mediated their occasional disagreements with utmost diplomacy, always playing devil’s advocate even on their most childish of squabbles, never played favorites even when they’d playfully compete for your affections—you stood resolute in your stance of loving them equally in their own unique relationships with you.

You made them completely, perfectly, incandescently happy. That should have been enough.

It wasn’t.

Because Jake was getting…distracted.

He’d always been strictly about business—the sole reason he existed. He protected the body, no matter the cost. Now he had Khonshu to answer to, and that was difficult enough, trying to balance enough time at night to do the old bird’s bidding while Marc and Steven slept—blissfully unaware thanks to Jake’s skill in repressing them both to the work he’d been doing the last several months trying to cull out the vestiges of Harrow’s cult. 

Because of course that bastard hadn’t taken all his people with him to Cairo to hunt for Ammit’s tomb. Of course he’d left pockets of his followers scattered all over London—assured by his own success, he’d planted them there in order to divide and conquer the city once he’d freed Ammit. And of course they had to be skilled enough at hiding to require him to painstakingly construct an elaborate underground network of people keeping their ears to the ground for any signs. That’s what was taking so long to eradicate them all, and it irritated Khonshu to no end, having to sit and wait when he constantly hounded Jake to ‘execute his justice’. Jake was patient. The god of the moon was most certainly not.

Now add the stress of keeping you unaware of his goings-on? With your infuriatingly saccharine smile and fawn-like fluttering lashes and easy affection that haunted the back of his mind when he did find precious little time to front? He could hardly concentrate on prowling the streets anymore when your detergent of choice had wormed its way into the clothes he kept packed away in the back of Marc’s closet, well away from view (because you even did their laundry for them sometimes when Steven ended up working late on inventory—like a little housewife or something), the scent trapped under Khonshu’s armor nearly smothering him.

Jake knew, deep down though he’d done his best to ignore it, that his ruse would come to a head eventually—Marc was keen on his interiority now that he was no longer in denial of his issues; and Steven was, too, since Marc had let him in on all of it. Jake just didn’t anticipate having to deal with you and your unnervingly observant perception on top of it.

Ultimately it was of little surprise that the scouts for the rest of Harrow’s carroñeros* had put a flag on you, since Jake’s alters spent so much time with you in plain public view. At the very least, it had allowed for that one slippery bastard to finally be put away after somehow surviving Jake’s wrath with him ever having realized it, even if it had put you in danger. The hijo de puta* had played a calculated risk to come after you, trying to cover it up as a robbery rather than a hit to get back at the spectre picking them all off one by one—one that hadn’t paid off in the slightest. He was lucky that Jake hadn’t had the time nor privacy to do exactly what he’d wanted to—a fractured temple via blunt force trauma, hopefully with an added concussion, would have to suffice for the time being. He’d better pray that he wasn’t released anytime soon.

Especially since he’d had the audacity and the gall (and the balls) to target you. Jake wasn’t cruel enough to wish you any harm, don’t get him wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong, necessarily, just…frustrated him to no end. They were lucky that you’d had the foresight to text them, or else that would’ve been the last that Marc or Steven would’ve ever seen of you.

Jake knew that would only have resulted in disaster.

You had crossed over the threshold of being a danger to the system to being a necessity for their safety and sanity—because if something happened to you now, Jake doubted sincerely that he would ever be able to pick up the pieces of Marc or Steven’s hearts and minds. And so Jake was forced to resolve himself to add one more individual to his list. For the betterment of the system.

Joder, pues claro.*

…It wasn’t as if he didn’t like you. He had to admit that much to himself, at least. You were pleasant enough to be around. You did tell good jokes, well thought out ones that made Jake have to think about them a little while before he got them. He appreciated how rational you were about things, rarely letting your emotions impact otherwise simple miscommunications or misunderstandings over which most women would have a conniption, choosing to talk out your problems while also being honest about how you felt rather than giving them the silent treatment or some shit—it was a necessary balance to Marc’s precarious internalizations of his own complicated feelings and his ever-present struggles to express them in a concise and healthy manner. Jake didn’t mind listening in on your tangents all that much, even if the topics didn’t interest him in the slightest—your passion and thought process kept him hooked enough, as did the dimples bordering your smile and the creases crinkling the corners of your glittering eyes. You were a damn good cook, to boot—Jake had snuck your leftovers on those late nights more often than he’d ever readily admit out loud. Neither still were you hard on the eyes.

So…yeah. If Jake found himself co-fronting, lingering in the back of the headspace well away from Marc and Steven’s reach, as Marc watched you gape at the street performer juggling flaming swords while balancing on a unicycle…that was between him and the soft smile tugging at the corners of their host’s mouth that Jake would likely have reflected despite himself.

The early evening had plunged the city into a nose-numbing one—but you’d been itching to revel in the cold, misty air and to venture out into London’s brimming nightlife with the bolstering safety you’d confessed to feeling while in their presence. The entire plaza was thrumming with music and noise and laughter, light and fire mixing to highlight the angles, curves, and planes of your disbelieving face. You were bundled up to the nines to fight the cold, still unaccustomed to the weather in contrast to the south US’ comparatively mild winters, but you refused to tuck one hand into your pocket in favor of clasping Marc’s firmly. Seated on a bench wedged so closely together that even Jake could feel the tremors in your limbs, you remained glued to his side as though to sap the warmth from the body—evidently, it wasn’t working, because you let out a shuddering breath as your teeth chattered when the performer paused to take a break. Another stepped up to take his place, and the loosely gathered crowd clapped to welcome him.

“You’re going to freeze if you don’t let me take you home,” Marc rumbled into your ear, covered by the toboggan he’d insisted you wear to spare yourself from frostbite.

“Just a little longer, honey?” you pleaded, turning your head to gaze up at him with those infuriatingly fawn-like eyes. “It’s supposed to ice over tonight and I just know I’m going to get cabin fever tomorrow.”

Marc huffed out a wry chuckle, unthreading your fingers to coil his arm around your shoulders and to tug you closer, keeping his mouth tucked close to your ear. “You’re a homebody, baby. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble staying inside cuddled up with us for the weekend than you normally do.”

You pouted at him playfully, jutting out your bottom lip, and Marc’s gaze was fixed on it until you smoothed your expression. “All right,” you bemoaned, tilting your head away in faux dejection, “I suppose I’ll allow you to coop me up for the next couple of days…” You fluttered your lashes at him. “...as long as you promise to keep me warm, that is. Won’t you, honey?”

“As if you even had to ask.” Marc dipped his head to skim his brow against yours, peering directly into your eyes. “But that’ll require thawing you out first. It’s not getting any warmer.”

“I can think of a few ways to solve that,” you murmured, half-lidded, and slanted your mouth over his—the breath’s breadth between your lips and his was quickly stolen by Marc with a low, knowing chuckle.

Jake rolled his eyes. Metaphorically, of course. He’d even facepalm if he could. You two were hopeless—and he’d thought Steven had it bad.

Can it, Casanova, remarked the Brit as though summoned by Jake’s internal musing, she’s still shakin’.

“I know, I know,” Marc mumbled, pulling away and shaking his head at your amused expression. It had taken a while for both of them to get comfortable enough to vocalize their seemingly one-sided conversations around you, but you treated it as normally as if you could hear the third party, too. Marc patted your hip and stood, grumbling under his breath at the stiffness of his muscles, courtesy of Jake’s last bloody brawl a few nights prior—unbeknownst to either of his alters, of course. “Come on, I bought hot chocolate. We’ll start with that, and then a hot shower.”

You gasped in delight, lurching up to your feet and latching onto his hand once more. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” you demanded, tugging eagerly at his arm toward the direction of the bus stop. “You could’ve gotten me home hours ago!”

“I wasn’t going to stop you from enjoying all this,” Marc returned, allowing you to guide him in the wrong direction only to see the excited sway of your hips. His eyes cut over the plaza on reflex, but locked onto a couple of guys lingering near the fountain that started to move in the same direction at the same time. His brow furrowed. “Let’s take a shortcut—don’t want to miss the bus.”

He folded your hand over the crook of his arm instead, winding his way through the crowd in an attempt to lose his tail. Jake could feel Marc’s mind crowding with alarm—who they could be, what they would be doing, which group he had once pissed off that now had decided to try to ruin his night—and he edged just a touch closer to the front to peer through Marc’s periphery.

Ah, yes. The bastard with the scar that had come after you had a handful of lackeys, and these cabrónes* were two of them. Twins, big and ginger and mean as hell. Marc was none the wiser to the reason why they were after the body, however—no recognition passed through his racing thoughts—and Jake inwardly cursed.

Steven noticed Marc’s growing apprehension, likewise. What’s wrong, Marc?

“Nothing,” he muttered, causing you to glance up at him questioningly.

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, glancing around the thinning people as Marc herded you towards the end of the plaza where it was quiet and dark. He ushered you into a narrow alleyway that broke out onto the main street, and while your brow was furrowed, you followed him without resistance. “We haven’t gone this way before.”

“We’re being followed,” he muttered to you, glancing over his shoulder towards the retreating lights. “Remember what I’ve told you?”

Your expression morphed from shock to grave in an instant. It was a discussion Marc had reiterated multiple times—being in a relationship with a wanted man always entailed a certain amount of danger, and Marc had hammered emergency protocol into your head in the event that something like this ever happened. He had hoped that it wouldn’t, for your sake, and the fact that you were schooling any signs of fear in all but your eyes only reinforced the reason why Jake hadn’t wanted you involved at all in the first place.

Jake pressed in closer. Marc’s ears were straining in lieu of ample light, eyes trained on the end of the alleyway—which became shadowed as another pair of silhouettes hemmed the both of you in.

Marc, Steven breathed, tone tight with worry, what now?

“Fuck,” Marc hissed, jerking you against his chest. He whipped around to dart back out from whence you’d come, but the twins had caught up. Heart pounding, he cupped a hand around your head and whispered urgently, “I’m going to take these guys down first so you can run back to the plaza where it’s lit and there’s other people. Call the cops and stick with a group and do not go anywhere by yourself, all right? Not until I come get you.”

Your hands were vices around the collar of his jacket, eyes shining in the dim. Your voice quivered. “Marc, I am not leaving you here alone.”

His fingers tightened around your shoulders. Their footsteps were picking up in speed from both directions, echoing off the dampened brick. “We talked about this—you promised you’d listen to me,” he growled. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Us. We’ve faced worse odds.”

“What if—” you started, but didn’t have enough time to finish.

Marc shoved you behind him as the first giant reached out with mitts for hands towards you. Marc latched onto the bulky limb, twisting his wrist and pinning him onto the concrete in seconds. He pressed and jerked and the unfortunate soul’s arm popped out of place—a wet, skin-crawling pop that resonated far more loudly off the narrow walls than it should have. The man cried out in pain.

“Marc!” you gasped.

Jake leaned in as Marc took a blow to the side of the head—the other twin’s paw clapped against his ear and sent him careening into the wall, discombobulated as his hearing rang like a siren. His shaken equilibrium buckled his knees, but he pushed himself upright to land a series of resounding punches along the brute’s side and back, targeting the sensitive places sure to bruise at the very least. The ribs gave under the combination of Marc’s strength and expertise, and like a tree the second twin was felled with a well-timed hook to the chin.

“Go!” Marc snapped over the ringing in his ears, hooking a hand around your waist and shoving you in the direction of the exit between the two groaning gingers. “Get out of here!”

You turned back to look at him, utterly terrified. “But—!”

“Damn it, baby, please just—”

The latter pair of cultists didn’t give him as ample a warning as the former—and they were smart enough to pull the guns from their holsters rather than rely on their hands. The shot flashed like lightning, muffled by its silencer.

Marc staggered back, the burning in his side stealing the breath from his lungs. The tinnitus increased twofold, to the point that your startled shout was drowned out entirely. The pounding of their pulse roared in their ears, and Jake thought he heard Steven hollering over the din trapped in their head.

Marc’s control slipped in his shock and pain. Steven grappled for it in terror wholly driven to protect you. Jake seized the opportunity and yanked them both back into the headspace to block them off as he lunged forward—so suddenly that the body folded in half  from the strain. His knees buckled and his shoulder struck the brick, jarring him.

“This is the guy that’s been giving us so much trouble?” gloated one of them. “All it takes is one bullet?”

“We’ve shot this one more than a dozen times and it’s never stopped him before,” the other said warily. “Where’s all that get-up?”

Jake muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“What’s that?” crooned the fool, gesturing lackadaisically towards him with the smoldering muzzle. “Have something to say before we rid the world of your chaos, asshole?”

“Sí.” The avatar raised his head, glowing eyes casting his assailants' suddenly wan, fallen countenances in a spectral hue. “Dije,” he growled as the familiar ragged bandages coiled around his limbs while he straightened to his full height, “te vas a arrepentir, pendejos.*”

The bullet clinked against the damp asphalt as he was fully enveloped in the armor.

“Ah, shit,” they said in unison.

The shock on their faces precluded the terror that followed his swift movement. The crescents whistled as he slung them in their direction—the cocky one caught it in the throat, plunging through his jugular. Blood splattered in a wide arc against the ground as he fell. The cautious one managed to tumble to the side to avoid it, however—just barely.

A heavy hand grabbed his padded shoulder and whirled Jake around—only to be struck across the temple with an errant piece of pipe. Mierda. The twins were back up on their feet, tag-teaming to make up for their missing mobility.

Jake jerked his head back to avoid another swing, summoning a truncheon from the small of his back and shattered the first’s wrist with a well-timed parry. Two more strikes upon the man’s solar plexus and skull sent him crumpling to the ground, totally unconscious at the very least. Two to go.

He didn’t have time to pause. The gunman fired thrice at his back, but the slugs passed right through him. Jake exchanged blows with the twin for a moment, finally propelling himself off the brick wall and swinging over the expanse of his mountainous shoulders to lock and twist his neck between his knees and bring the behemoth crashing down face-first. He didn’t move again even as Jake leapt back to his feet and pitched another array of darts at the gunman’s retreating back. Sliced flesh, a gurgled curse, and the clatter of metal preceded the heavy tumble of his body.

Jake stalked further into the shadows, tucking the truncheon back into its holster and flexing his fists. He grabbed the collar of the gunman’s jacket and hoisted him upright, pinning him to the wall with his forearm against his throat. Blood dribbled from the corners of the man’s mouth onto the woven gauntlet.

“Tell me where the rest of your amigos* are and I’ll consider letting you go,” he growled.

“Funny,” the man spat viciously onto Jake’s mask near his shielded eyes, “how you think I’ll talk after you murdered them!”

“Just like you attacked a bunch of innocent kids, yeah?” Jake snarled. “Said their scales wouldn’t balance just ‘cause they were picking on someone else? Even though your fucking goddess is dead and you don’t even have the power to read a single palm? Child murder isn’t going to get you where you’re wanting to end up, pendejo, and a little bullying isn’t enough to condone ritual execution!”

The gunman roared and tried to grapple with him, but Jake only pinned his wrists into the mortar with a dart over his head before jabbing him in the ribs. He only noticed the panic button clasped between his fingers once the indicator began to blink a rapid crimson.

“Mierda,” Jake hissed, clocking his elbow across the bastard’s face and snatching the device once he slumped over. He dropped and smashed it with his heel, grinding it into bits.

“...Baby?”

Jake stiffened, head whipping towards the sound of your small voice. You had cowered against the wall, plunged mostly in shadow, but your hunched shoulders and quick breaths fogging against the shafts of light that the street lamp at his back cast tipped off your apprehension. He didn’t have time to react, save to open his mouth, before the distant squeal of brakes, the heavy slam of vehicle doors, shouting, and rapid footsteps at the far end of the alley interrupted him. 

He marched over to you, the armor receding with every step. He glimpsed your eyes in the dark, round and anxious, even as he gripped your arm and tugged you in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he muttered gruffly. “Better scram.”

“What’s wrong?” you breathed instead, resisting him. You were sturdy, he had to give you that, even as the heels of your boots skidded against the rain-slickened pavement.

“Other than having a bunch of madmen with guns on our tails? Nothing at all.” He pulled a bit more forcefully this time. “Let’s go.”

Your protesting noise was drowned out by an ear-ringing report of a gun, and the air near Jake’s ear whistled with the near miss of a bullet. It ricocheted off the brick and had mortar showering the ground.

“Por el amor de Dios,” Jake hissed. “Corres, chaparrita!*”

He pulled you along behind him into a full sprint. The pair of you broke out of the alley towards the crowded plaza once more. You stumbled a couple of times on the uneven concrete due to the awkward mobility afforded by Jake’s unforgiving grip on your wrist, but he was not going to let you go for fear of you falling behind and getting snatched or worse. His scowl and speed drew bemused glances from the bystanders, but their expressions morphed into shock when their eyes passed over his shoulders.

So the bastards were pissed (or desperate) enough to give chase in broad moonlight. They had balls, he had to give them that—and while it made them stupid, it didn’t make them any less dangerous.

He headed towards the far side where the plaza merged onto the main road littered with vendors on the broad sidewalks. People buzzed along the blocked off street—for the entire event would last all weekend and force all the normal goers to circumnavigate the grounds—in tight throngs, along which he had no doubt he could lose the zealots. The tactic has served him well countless times before—and not just in London, or while under Khonshu’s directive. Merging and camouflaging with oblivious civilians and letting one’s hunters pass one by altogether often worked better than trying to outrun them or to hide outright.

The gateway was narrow, and Jake shoved a man twice his size out of his way to hook a sharp left. The man’s curses were drowned out by your profuse, breathless apologies, and Jake growled out a tense, “Callate!*” before narrowly dodging a street lamp since he’d cast a glare over his shoulder at you.

People’s attention only grew as the street funneled into a narrow crosswalk connecting to a broader street. Jake hooked a right that time, darting past families and couples as he went. You were keeping up with him surprisingly well, but your panting was getting too loud—your stamina would give out soon. He had to figure out a way to blend the both of you in without drawing attention so the zealots would go on and he could double back to lose them completely.

Another right at the end of the block revealed another market street, though the middle was undulating with dancing couples as a busking band was playing a lively, energetic tune.

“Mierda,” he growled, “las cosas que hago por vosotros, hermanos.*”

Jake hauled you to a brisk walk instead, melting into the ring of onlookers clapping along with raucous chatter and laughter. They would provide good enough cover, but Jake knew he could show neither of your faces or else the ruse would be for naught. That necessitated unbearably close proximity with the bane of his existence for the last few months—and you had clocked him instantly. It wouldn’t fly for long.

Jake broke through the wall of people nearest the booths, thankful for the partial shadow that would aid to your obscurement. He hastily tugged the collar of Marc’s jacket up, ruffled his fingers through their hair to conceal the majority of their upper features, and hooked an arm around the middle of your back to tug you against his chest. You scarcely caught yourself on his shoulders to keep your nose from bashing into his sternum. With his free hand he pulled the toboggan from your head and stuffed it into your pocket before tugging the back of your scarf up the back of your head and over your forehead, overlapping the tails to cover your chin and mouth—which opened as your brows furrowed in protest.

Jake ducked his head, pressing his lips against your covered ear. “If you want to live long enough to see the end of the night,” he hissed, hands slipping to your waist and beginning to sway you in time with the music, “you’ll do exactly as I do. Me entiendes?*”

You pursed your lips, but the indignant flare behind your eyes didn’t flicker once—even as exclamations of shock caught his attention. Jake pulled you further back into the shadows, but to his luck a couple of other dancers swung between the pair of you and the zealots squinting down the street for any sign. 

Jake began to match the others’ movements to appear more natural, the quick tempo dictating the shuffle of his feet—forward, scuffle, back, ad nauseam, faster than he could breathe. He could hardly concentrate on that as well at the moment, unfortunately, given he hadn’t danced in years.

You were hot under your clothes from the running spree, seeping through yours and his shared layers where the weight of your torso was pressed tightly against his. He kept his face tucked close to the sweep of your neck and shoulder, angling his broad shoulders towards them, winding carefully behind more and more couples while keeping careful rhythm. Your panting came harsh and high next to his ear, your breath warming his chilled shell and lobe. Your hands slipped from his shoulders to rest more convincingly on his chest, a firm press to keep your balance. 

Although you didn’t seem to know all the specific steps to this dance, you were obviously familiar with the form and rhythm of it. You were a natural, the shimmy of your hips almost smoother than his own—you didn’t stumble once, light on your feet as you (reluctantly) allowed him to guide you without a single glance behind you to confirm he wasn’t about to walk you into a wall or another person. No, your eyes stayed fixed on what you could see of his face the entire time, forehead perspiring and cheeks darkened from exertion, mouth slightly agape to pull in much-needed air. You were studying him, it seemed like, scanning his features as though dissecting every crease and stretch. 

Jake didn’t like it, not one bit. You already knew too much—the last thing he needed was you committing any of him to memory.

Instead of stopping, the band shifted into an entirely new song with a different beat altogether, but when Jake adapted to it, you did so, too—seamlessly, in fact, perfectly in tune to the body’s movements. (Ew. He didn’t need to think about that shit.) The two of you were so close that your knees would have knocked together if your feet weren’t offset. You were used to it, to him, even though you’d only learned the body while the others were using it. You knew him, even though he was a stranger.

Shit, shit, shit. He was so fucked.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Marc’s sweatshirt over his thrumming heart, anchoring yourself as the tension finally drained from your form—he felt it before he saw it, watching your shoulders loosen as you lost yourself to the music. You almost seemed to be enjoying it, and Jake almost lamented the fact that you were only able to indulge in it under these very dire circumstances. 

Almost.

“Are they gone?” you ventured breathlessly, chin brushing against his clavicle as you tilted your head forward so he’d hear your low tone that caused each hair on the nape of his neck to stand on end.

Jake blinked, then looked back up to the street corner with a deep-set frown. “Me distraiste jodidamente,*” he growled under his breath, shoving the visceral image of your chapped lips to the very back of his mind. “Yes, they’re gone.”

Your expression relaxed, then, into one of relief. The song tapered into an end, allowing both the dancers and the musicians a breather, and Jake finally peeled himself away from you as though your warmth had scorched him. He grasped your elbow again, tugging you through a narrow passage between booths to the mouth of a quiet side street with outdoor diners clustered around tables set out despite the weather.

He expected questions. He expected you to demand answers, like any other person in your situation would. ‘Who were they? Why were they trying to hurt me? Who the hell are you and why are you not Marc or Steven?’

He did not expect, however, for you to drop your gaze to his abdomen and to fish your hand under Marc’s jacket. He flinched back, but you’d already hooked a finger into the hole torn into the sticky, blood-soaked material of Marc’s shirt, fingertip grazing the smooth, whole flesh underneath and searing your fingerprint there in the process. He pushed your hand away, taking a half step back to distance himself from the mix of concern and confusion in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” you asked him quietly, not venturing further into his personal space (to his relief).

Jake clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.

You hesitated. “What’s…what’s your name?”

Fuck his lack of luck, honestly. He half-turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at you.

“...Thank you for saving me.”

He scoffed under his breath. “If you’d kept your promise to Marc in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Your tone instantly sharpened with indignation. “I know what I promised him, but he—you got fucking shot! I wasn’t about to leave you to die!”

“Wouldn’t have died. Just a scratch,” he groused, contorting and tugging the hem of the shirt up to show you the unblemished skin there, smeared with tacky blood against his knuckles. “See? Missed.”

“They did not miss,” you told him matter-of-factly. “I saw Marc fall. There’s fucking blood all over you—I’m not stupid. Do not lie to me.” You stepped closer, then, pointing that same bloodied finger at him and poking him in the sternum. He bared his teeth at you, cornered with the alley wall at his back. “All that back there was something that you’ve got going on, wasn’t it? Marc hasn’t told me about anything like this.”

You were too goddamn smart for your own fucking good. “There’s a lot that Marc hasn’t told you,” he growled, “and for good reason.”

Your eyes flashed. “And I bet you’re the authority on all of that, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I’ve noticed them being vigilant lately, but they won’t tell me what’s bothering them. Lots of private conversations—and no, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t listen in on them—and they get anxious when they’re tired or spacey. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out why they’ve been walking on eggshells ever since you popped up in the coffee shop that night—”

Jake’s jaw dropped open. Things were rapidly escalating out of hand, faster than he could hold them together. “How on earth do you—?”

“Marc is many things,” you said lowly, “but he is not a man who glorifies in violence. It bothers him still to touch me on his bad days, much less brushing up against a stranger. He wouldn’t smirk when he knocks someone out cold—with the pommel of a knife, no less. Neither would Steven, for that matter.”

Jake squared his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest to brush your hand away, glowering down at you. “Why haven’t you said anything to them?”

“Because they haven’t brought it up. I don’t push them for answers that they don’t want to give me. I know it’s already hard enough for them to be open to communicating their thoughts and feelings between themselves—I don’t want to pressure them any more by adding myself to the mix.” You jutted your chin. “But if you’re going to keep putting them in danger, you need to let them know what’s going on so they don’t get caught off-guard again.”

“You need to keep your nose out of my business and let me do my goddamn job,” he ground out.

“It becomes my business when both of our lives get put on the line!” you returned. “And what exactly is your job, huh? Circus performer with a specialty in knives?” You tugged on the hem of the jacket, ignoring how he went rigid. “Where do you keep that costume so they don’t realize they’re wearing it, too, by the way? Because I know for a fact that Steven would’ve mentioned cosplaying as the fucking Mummy if he knew about—”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not a costume.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” You raised a haughty brow. “Do they know you’re running around like an albino version of London’s Daredevil?”

He was not about to explain all of Khonshu’s business to you. You knew too much already, and if Marc and/or Steven even caught wind of the old bird still hanging around, Jake was done for. “They don’t know about me for a reason, chaparrita, and I’d like to keep it that way. They can’t know about me—it’s better for all of us in the long run—so if you’d very kindly just keep your trap shut—”

“You have to tell them about you,” you told him firmly, eyes blazing, “and about whatever vigilante shit you’ve got going on. It’s not fair to them—they think they’re free from Marc’s old merc work, and here you are using the body against their consent to do whatever it is that you please. Do you realize how much danger you’re putting them in carrying on with shit like this?”

“I am protecting them,” he bit back, a snarl building in the back of his throat.

“By getting them ambushed in a fucking alley?” you snapped. “Your involvement in this could’ve gotten all three of you killed!”

“That costume is the only thing that can keep them alive through anything!” Jake returned sharply. “They would’ve been fine!”

“And what about me?” you demanded. “What about my safety? I know I chose my lot once Marc told me about his past, but this is adding a whole new level to all this that I wasn’t prepared for! What if you hadn’t been there, lingering in the background, or—or however you knew to step in? Do I need to live my life looking over my shoulder just in case there’s someone tailing me, waiting to catch me off-guard long enough to hurt me to get to them thinking they’re you? How do you think they’d react if something happened to me out of the blue, just by my being around them and whoever it is you’re fighting, thinking you’re the same person because you share the same face? Even then, they’d try to get to the bottom of it, and they could get shot, or stabbed, or—or whatever, just by trying to clean up your fucking mess!”

“If you weren’t around being seen with our face in the first place, you wouldn’t be involved to start with,” he growled, “and I wouldn’t have to concern myself with keeping you out of harm’s way all the time! You’re a liability to them—if something happened to you, they’d lose their shit, and I can’t have that happen. You’re as much of a danger to their wellbeing as these fucking cabrónes are!”

You retreated then, hurt flashing across your features so fast he almost missed it, before you schooled your expression into something frigid enough that it sent a chill down Jake’s spine. You floundered for words, lips moving without a sound, and Jake’s fuse shortened by the second. You swallowed, then, and roughly tipped your chin up—in defiance, certainly, but Jake didn’t miss the shine of moisture welling along your lash line. “…Do they feel that way, since you do?” you finally ventured. “Somewhere deep down? That I’m just a burden to them?”

“No,” he sighed, tucking his head and scrubbing his hand down his face. “There’s not a thing in this fucking world that they wouldn’t do for you, chaparrita, or kill themselves by trying. That’s the problem. That’s what makes you so dangerous. They care about you far too much.”

“And you don’t, I take it?” you supposed tightly. “Is that your job? Not to care?”

Jake ground his jaw so tightly his temples throbbed. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth.”

“Then tell me why, exactly, you’re so hellbent on hiding yourself from them when they’re already trying so goddamn hard to heal and work together? What gives you the right to opt out and do whatever you damn well please, spilling more blood on their hands at the same time they’re trying to wash them clean?”

“There’s nothing special about me,” he bit out, “and they don’t need me—because if they knew what I’ve had to do to keep them alive they’d never forgive themselves!” Your brows twitched up, and Jake snarled under his breath. “Mierda. Just stay out of my fucking business, will you? The less you know, the better. And do not tell them about this, or about me, me entiendes?”

“I am not going to lie to Marc or Steven, and it’s stupid of you to think that I would,” you told him resolutely. “Either you tell them, or I will.”

“Did you miss all of what I just fucking said?” he spat. “If they know about me, it’ll do far more harm than good. They have a hard enough time reconciling what they’ve gone through, I don’t need to add all my shit to it!”

“You’ve helped them survive what they’ve gone through,” you pointed out, and Jake’s breath stopped short. “I’m not stupid, despite what you may think. I can tell even now that your primary concern is their well-being. But don’t you think telling them that you’re here, and that you’re a—a what, a superhero?—wouldn’t that be better than keeping them in the dark?”

“I am not a hero, chaparrita,” he told you darkly.

“Well, you’re certainly not a villain,” you responded evenly—as if you were stating fact.

Jake scowled. “Did they tell you what happened in Egypt? What really happened?”

Your eyes flashed. “They don’t have to, it’s not really any of my business. I know it was hard on them and they don’t like to talk about—”

“We got shot. Twice. We died! And it was only that armor that brought us back!” Jake flashed his teeth. “Marc let the bastard that did it go, but I killed him. That’s the difference between Marc or Steven and I, chaparrita: I hurt those who deserve it and feel no remorse for it.”

You blinked, then, eyes rounded. Realization dawned behind your gaze, and when you looked sharply off to the side, a stray tear slipped over the curve of your cheek. Your expression tightened, and Jake could imagine that you were finally putting together all the fragments of what Steven and Marc had mentioned offhandedly about their time in Egypt.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, sinking against the wall and dropping his head back against the brick. He dragged a hand down his face with a harsh sigh. He’d completely fumbled this entire situation. “...Mira.* If something were to happen to you, mis hermanos* won’t take it well.” He looked down at you, eyes half-lidded—meeting fire with fire obviously didn’t work with you. Even when Marc was being surly, you only listened when he stopped and lowered his voice. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that you shut down when you were shouted at, based on the way you’d stared at him like a doe caught in headlights. “...Do you really care about them?”

Your head recoiled to stare at him critically. The vessels in your sclera were an agitated crimson. “Of course I do!”

“Then you’ll listen to me, all right?” He straightened and stepped closer, fingers flexing at his side while he repressed the urge to reach out to you. Seeing you upset was doing funny shit to him. (He didn’t like it. Not one bit.) “After what happened tonight, I can’t afford to wait any longer. I need to finish up my business as soon as possible—I spent too long investigating and biding my time to see when those guys would crawl out of their nest. They are dangerous, and I’m going to do my damnedest to tie up all those loose ends. All right? That means I can’t have you caught in the crossfire. And once I get done with that…” He shook his head, casting his eyes upwards briefly. “...then we’ll talk—you know, about…everything else. Do you understand?”

You glared at him for a long moment, lips pursed as you considered him. Finally, you nodded curtly, once.

He raised a brow. “Can you say it for me?”

Your temples flexed. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Buena nena.*” He peered around the corner just to ensure that the zealots hadn’t doubled back, then moved to the edge of the street and flagged down a cab. When they stopped, he gestured you over. You watched him warily all the while, glancing both ways. He reached for the door and grasped the handle, but you laid your hand over his. He froze.

“Please,” you murmured, pleading him with your gaze, “be careful. Keep taking care of them. Let me know if…if you need any help. If there’s anything I can do...” You squeezed his hand, then let it go. “I’d prefer you three to come back in one piece, you know.”

He swallowed roughly, then nodded. He opened the door, and as you stooped to climb inside, his hand curved around the back of your head. You glanced up at him in surprise, but once you were seated, he abruptly retracted his touch.

“I’m trusting you,” you told him. “I don’t want this to be the last time we meet.”

Jake gave you a rueful, wooden smile. “If you’re lucky, cariño*, you won’t ever have to see me again.”

He shut the door, waved off the driver, and shoved his hands into the pockets of Marc’s jacket. He watched the cab round the corner out of sight, closing his eyes briefly, and turned to start walking in the opposite direction.

Read the rest of the chapter here! :)

[asimplearchivist]

"𝓘𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓽?"

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ you and the boys have a set of rules. jake doesn’t like it when you break them. pairing(s) ☽ jake lockley/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 2.3k a/n ☽ ⤏ my first entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events ! I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters! ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY ☽

You froze midstep, a loaded fork raised halfway to your gaping mouth as your rounded eyes darted over to Jake’s silhouette darkening the doorway, the fluorescent hallway lights accentuating the diaphanous material of his prized silk pajama top hanging from the topography of your form.

His question went unheard, and thus unanswered. The headphones covering your ears—set on the noise canceling feature, he knew all too well—had disguised the noisy, fumbling jangle of their keyring, the rasp of the tarnished key inserted into the jammy slot, and the rattle of the unyielding knob as he’d worked his way inside.

You had broken not one—not two—but three rules that they had long since established when you’d moved in with them for—primarily—the ease of travel and the ever-steepening cost of rent. Secondarily, of course, came the benefits of having an additional person to help maintain the neglected residence—chores and errands were remarkably less daunting now with one more pair of hands to fulfill the monotonous tasks involved. Tertiarily…well, waking up to the sight of you in their bed most mornings certainly had its perks, and it made them feel better knowing you were that much safer than living halfway across the city all alone.

Which was exactly why the rules had been established in the first place.

Marc had started them, of course—it should come as little surprise, that. He’d been transparent with you about the nature of his past, although he did omit the more gruesome details, and had made you aware of the fact that he was a wanted man. Thus the very first rule had been set in place—should anything dangerous ever happen involving his past mercenary work, you were to get to safety and wait until he came to you. Stay in public, stay in sight of cameras and civilians, stay away from the action. Of course you’d broken that the first time such a situation had cropped up and had gone directly south, but…that was neither here nor there, at this point. Fortunately, the incident had yet to have been repeated, and you were far better prepared now that he had taken the time to train you on protocol. He’d since made many more.

Steven added domestic ones over time—cutesy and saccharine in contrast to the first—and he invited you to, as well. They mostly revolved around your shared daily lives to set up a stable routine in the midst of your sometimes busy, stressful, and fast-paced lives, although there were a few errant ones sprinkled in that were odd by comparison. He’d eventually sat down and typed them up to print them out and pin them to the fridge, mostly as a joke, but that had devolved into a chart and to-do list thanks to yours and his tendencies to organize things.

Jake’s—while few and far between—were simple, blunt, and short, and rules never with which to be trifled due to his immovable stance on them: like working on the sabbath, allowing him to be a gentleman, or binging ahead on TV series that you both were watching together.

Some were harmless, some were important for the health of the relationship, some were rooted in inside jokes or straight up ridiculous…and some were intended to make sure that harm never befell you because of them, which was why Jake was not pleased in the slightest when—under any other normal circumstance—he would be ‘chuffed’ to see you, for lack of a better word.

Firstly, you hadn’t set up all the locks like you were supposed to do while they were out and you were at home by yourself.

Secondly, you had blocked out all sounds with those headphones—he couldn’t fault you for that, he knew you got overstimulated by noise sometimes (and he even resorted to using them himself at times when the world grew just this side of too loud), but they’d requested that you not use them while they were gone just on the off-chance that someone tried to break in.

Thirdly…perhaps not as egregious a mistake as the prior two, but…you’d cooked and cleaned the kitchen, when it had been agreed upon to split the job between each of you—one person would cook, then (on rotation, in their case), the other would clean, so that preparing the complex meals their individual diets required wouldn’t be so tedious an affair.

The chagrin creasing your expression told him that you knew exactly where you’d erred.

“Hola, chaparrita,” he crooned, pursing his lips to hide the twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as you hurried over to the kitchen island to set down the bowl and to tug the headphones from your ears to hang around your neck. He could hear the music from where he stood, shutting the door behind him and rectifying your initial oversight. You fumbled your phone out of your pocket and paused the track before tucking it away once more. “Qué haces?”

“Hola, amor,” you greeted without meeting his gaze, moving over to the stove to dish up a bowl of pasta. You didn’t look up even as he approached, easing in behind you and sliding his hands around your waist to coil his arms around you. He heard you swallow as he hooked his chin over your shoulder. “How was the traffic?”

“Horrible,” he rumbled, eyes falling to the bowl in your hand, as well as the steam curling up towards his face. As delectable as it smelled, he wouldn’t be so easily distracted by food. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“You’re honestly home sooner than I expected,” you confessed, voice quiet as you attempted to twist around—but he didn’t budge. “Here, it’s still warm. Steven forgot his lunch so I know you’re probably starving. Want to sit on the couch?”

“Que linda,” he chuckled, tilting his head to skim his lips along the sweep of your neck. You squirmed and shrank away with a noise of protest—the rasp of his five o'clock shadow against your sensitive skin always tickled. “Are you going to fess up or am I going to have to drag it out of you, hermosa? Hmm? Qué dices?”

You hesitated, setting the bowl to the side. It wasn’t long. You weren’t trying to make excuses. It was clear that you were perfectly privy to the implication of his low, even tone, and that you were merely ruminating on how best to soften his evident malcontent. Jake didn’t set his foot down in many matters, but when it came to his protectiveness over you…there was no winning on your end. Some might call him overbearing, but you (fortunately) found it endearing.

“Honestly?” you finally ventured, the tension in your frame dissipating as you sank back into his grasp with a blustery sigh. “I forgot.”

“You forgot the habits you’ve had for months?” he pressed, kissing the tender place below and behind your ear to feel you shiver.

“It…it’s a long story.” You craned your head back to return the gesture, bestowing one upon the arch of his wind-blistered cheek.

“Dime,” he murmured, squeezing you and pulling you more tightly against his frame. It was a miserably cold and rainy evening, and walking all the way from the parking garage on the other side of the block had made him consider moving out of England as soon as possible.

“Well, to begin,” you said tersely, though he could tell that it wasn’t directed at him—your repressed exasperation bubbled to the surface as you flicked off the burner and covered the pot with more force than you would normally, disliking making harsh sounds if you could help it, “I started in the middle of the day.”

“Marc warned you it was coming up,” he reminded you.

“I know, but my cycle is also a capricious bitch who’s more indecisive than me, so forgive me if it slipped my mind,” you returned flatly. “So I had to deal with all that during rush hour. Then a whole table came in right before closing and took up an extra thirty minutes because one of them couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted an English Breakfast or an espresso.”

“At ten o’clock,” he surmised.

“Obviously she didn’t need the sleep because she opted for a cold brew instead,” you continued, “like an absolute mad lad.”

“And then?” he prompted.

“Finally got them out of the door, locked up, headed home—then it started raining and just guess who forgot her umbrella this morning?”

“That wasn’t my fault this time,” Jake pointed out indignantly, “since mi hermanito can’t keep his hands to himself when you prance around here looking like that.”

“With baggy sweatpants and crusty eyes? Yeah, the real pinnacle of beauty, right there,” you huffed, although your fondness leaked into your tone. “So I got soaked running from the bus stop to here, dripped all over the floor, pissed off Miss Hutcherson in the process—”

“I’m sure I can smooth her feathers down for you,” he assured, reaching up to skim his fingers along the side of your head, curving around to grasp your chin gently so he could direct your eyes to meet his. “Nothing a little sweet talking can’t fix.”

“She loves you for your churros,” you groused while pouting, “and you should really stop getting involved in all the gossip in the building, it’s going to get you in trouble one day.”

“I’ve got to keep my ear to the ground, cariño; besides, it’s more entertaining than television,” he laughed quietly, muffling the sound by pressing his lips to your forehead in apology. “Did she give you a lecture?”

“On posing a falling hazard without her offering a towel so I could dry off or anything? Yeah.” You reached up and clasped your hands around the nape of his neck, delving your fingertips into his curls and succeeding in not jostling his cap. That rule, it seemed, would be one you did manage to keep tonight. “I finally got up here and had a disagreement with the doorknob—you or Marc need to oil it again, by the way—and dropped my bag trying to get everything locked up, dumped everything everywhere, got pissed off and showered after.”

Jake was doing his damndest to restrain the brunt of his amusement, but you apparently perceived the glitter of mirth in his eyes because you turned your head while rolling your eyes. “I’m glad you find my shitty day so funny.”

“It’s not funny, chaparrita,” he soothed. (It was hilarious.) “Do I need to jot all this down so we can publish the next best-selling kid’s book?”

“Oh, I’m not done yet,” you warned. “I started getting hot flashes and couldn’t get the water adjusted so I just about froze my ass off cleaning up. I nearly burned the butter and almost ran out of parmesan and the pepper grinder got stuck and…stop laughing, this is serious!”

Jake clamped his mouth shut as his eyes dropped to observe the colorful silk draped over the line of your shoulders. “Is that why you’re wearing my shirt?”

“It’s the coolest thing in the house and I sure as hell am not walking around naked since all three of you refuse to buy any decent curtains,” you griped.

“It looks better on you than it does on me, anyway,” Jake said, caressing your arm, side, and settling to grasp your hip. “You know where it would look the best, though?”

“Ha ha,” you scoffed. “Good luck on that front, jefe. We’re not adding having to wash murder-scene sheets to everything else I’ve dealt with today.”

“That all explains why you forgot to lock the door,” he digressed, “but what about these?” He tapped the headphones resting against your clavicle. “Don’t like you not being able to listen for the door.”

“The neighbors made up,” you deadpanned. “I’m lucky there was any hot water left.”

“Ah.” He nodded, acquiescing on that front, at least. “Already? They only lasted two days this time. She really ought to have higher standards.”

“Jake,” you groaned, “I don’t want to hear about her sordid trysts again. Especially after she hit on you on a rebound to get back at her ex…or whatever the hell he’s classified as now.”

“Fine,” he grinned. “...I take it that you did the dishes to distract yourself?”

“The only thing louder than them was the screaming inside my head, so…yeah.”

“Lamento que hayas tenido un día tan malo, mi vida,” he said softly, tugging you into the crook of his arm so your head rested against his shoulder. He cupped your cheek and kissed you properly this time, humming in satisfaction as he felt you relax fully. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you returned. “I’m sorry I forgot the other stuff. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. Just try to remember next time.” He bopped the end of your nose with his finger, smirking as you went cross-eyed for just a moment before you frowned. “I’d rather not have anything other than a series of mildly inconvenient events happen to you.”

“If this happens again anytime soon, I’m holing myself up in bed and hibernating,” you grumbled. “Everything else be damned.”

“And I’ll wait on you hand and foot until the world is deemed fit enough for you to light upon its unworthy surface once more,” he purred. “But for now I’ll kiss it better, yes?”

That did the trick—as his flirtations usually did.

You glanced away, flustered, but allowed him to herd you over to the couch, bowls in hand, and settled you under a blanket to keep your bare feet warm, despite your claims not to need it.

“Just indulge me. At this rate you’ll get hypothermia or frostbite,” he quipped, “and I don’t really feel like digging frozen toes out from between the cushions after the idiocy I witnessed on the road tonight.”

[asimplearchivist]

𝓢𝓪𝓭 𝓔𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ you and jake enjoy having movie nights, but he has the habit of spoiling the endings for you. this time is different, though. pairing(s) ☽ jake lockley/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 1.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my fifth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ this one derailed from me as well. I swear these guys have minds of their own. this ended up being a lot sappier than I intended, but...c'est la vie. I love one jake lockley. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY ☽

“I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“Come on, querida. You should’ve had some idea that this would happen.”

“No, I absolutely did not!” You lifted your face from your hands, twisting to the side with your elbows still planted on your knees in order to glare up at your smirking fellow historical drama critic. “It’s not my fault that I don’t have a sixth sense for figuring out plot lines in the first ten minutes like you do!”

“Says the writer,” he chuckled, eyes glittering. “If it makes you feel any better, Steven wasn’t expecting it, either.”

That did, actually. You and Steven had long since developed the practice of conducting ongoing commentaries and speculations on the potential plotline based on the details revealed in whatever media you’d enjoy together—be it TV shows, movies, or books (print or audio)—whereas Jake was more the type to verbalize his predictions as they came to him, disregarding any suspension of disbelief. At least Marc only remarked on the glaring inaccuracies regarding combat, weapons, or injuries that Hollywood lauded for exaggerated effect.

On one hand, it used to drive you crazy—you preferred to experience things as they unfolded and let the story tell itself, following along for the ride…but, on the other hand, the knowing gleam in Jake’s eyes, the smug tilt of his close-lipped grin, and the way he’d start to pay more attention to you instead of the film (particularly with his hands—rubbing his palm over the line of your, at times, tense shoulders, grasping the nape of your neck and stroking the pad of his thumb along your hairline and under the shell of your ear, or petting your head like one would a beloved pet—about which you could never truly complain) eroded your exasperation over time. Now you almost looked forward to it—even if you still gave him a hard time about the inevitable spoilers involved.

Tonight, it would seem, however, that he’d decided to bide his time in order to see your unprepared reaction without dropping an obvious statement that would have indicated the plot twist to you ahead of time. For once, admittedly, you would’ve appreciated the warning.

“How could they say that about her?” you bemoaned, eyes returning to the screen with prolific lamentation. “She’s literally done nothing to them—she doesn’t even want to marry him, they didn’t have to drag her reputation through the mud!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, querida,” Jake chuckled, “it was visible from miles away.”

You huffed and turned away from him, refocusing your attention on the television screen. You watched the protagonist’s subsequent emotional breakdown with trepidation, frowning as she was scorned and criticized by the people that should have been her allies and had claimed to have been her friends. The only people that believed she was innocent in the matter were her sister and, fortunately, her love interest. He arrived late the next rainy night on a raven-black horse that shivered and bellowed mist from his nostrils as the man, drenched and pensive, dismounted to greet the distressed young woman at the door of her family’s home.

“Hey,” Jake murmured, nudging your side with his elbow. “It’ll turn out fine.”

You glanced up at him, relaxing slightly. You’d been teased in the past by several people for being so emotionally invested in fictional characters and their plight—your ex included—and while you weren’t ashamed of the fact you had the ability to extend so much empathy (even in hypothetical situations), you were sensitive to what others might think. Steven didn’t mind—he was much the same as you, honestly, and that was such a relief. Marc didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, thankfully. But Jake was a notorious tease and found a lot of joy in flustering you, and you were still getting used to gauging his personality since you hadn’t known him as long as the other two—so that he wasn’t poking fun at you about this was a monumental relief.

“I know,” you breathed, sinking into his side. He coiled his arm around your shoulders in response. “He’ll save the day with his money and marry her silly. These things never have sad endings.”

Jake hummed and drummed his fingertips on your upper arm. “It’s a good thing. Wouldn’t want you to be sad, chaparrita. Might have to pay that studio a stern visit otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart squeezed at the sentiment—as aggressive as it was. There was one thing that you had learned for certain since meeting him: Jake showed his love through protectiveness as opposed to the gentler means of the other two men. You’d never want him to hurt someone for you, necessarily (unless they deserved it, of course), but the thought that he would be willing to go up to bat for you, that he had your back no matter what, was far more reassuring than you had ever expected it to be. (Something, something, scary guard dog privileges.)

“Some movies need them, though,” you pointed out. “Sometimes that’s the whole point of the story—something out of the characters’ control happens, and they have to decide how they’ll react. Other times it’s pointless, serves no greater purpose to enhance the plot.”

“Shit happens in real life for no reason, though,” Jake pointed out, voice low as the music onscreen swelled. The love interest was embracing the weeping protagonist, having informed her that he had, in fact, solved the issue. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You nodded, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “Some people are fortunate enough to have happy endings, though,” you murmured. “It’s a dangerous thing to claim, because things could always go wrong, but…” You swallowed, tucking your nose under the lapel of his shirt. “...I’m glad I met you guys. It was worth everything I’ve gone through.”

Jake stilled, falling silent. You had also learned that such intimate proclamations tended to throw him for a loop—he was not accustomed to revealing his inner emotions, since he’d repressed them (and himself) for so long. He was getting better at communicating in general, thanks to Steven’s long-suffering patience and gentle coaxing, but you could tell anything ‘mushy’ made him slightly uncomfortable. (Having noticed this, you’d asked him early on if he wanted you to slow down on giving him affection—but he’d visibly recoiled at that suggestion, more demanding than asking you not to stop. You could only really speculate since he didn’t talk about it much, but you knew that if you were in his position, even if such attention was new, you’d be famished for it. You’d decided he was just embracing his adjustment period instead of avoiding it, like Marc had tended to do at first.)

He shifted, angling his body closer to yours, and tucked the end of his nose behind the shell of your ear. “...We’re glad we met you, too, querida,” he finally murmured, his free hand slipping down to curl around the knob of your knee. He pressed his face into your neck, and you wondered if he could feel your pounding pulse against his lips. “You’ve done us a whole lot of good.”

Chest tightening, you focused resolutely on the television despite the warring urge to arm him up and press a litany of kisses all over his face and head—any affection he felt comfortable doling out was precious indeed, and you would grant him the privacy of tucking himself out of sight, even if it was under your chin. Marc struggled the most with letting himself be seen as any semblance of vulnerable—and while Jake was more inclined and apt to it, he was still learning to trust you in particular, so allow himself to lower his guard and be himself with you (while, simultaneously, discovering and determining exactly who he was).

To receive a compliment of such caliber from Jake, though, was the highest bestowment of honor anyone could receive. He was picky, you’d learned, extremely so—especially regarding people with whom he associated. He had high standards, given the fact that his top priority had always been protecting the system first and foremost. Allowing anyone with dangerous intentions close enough to potentially hurt them was simply unacceptable, and thus he kept most everyone at arm’s length. That was why he’d acted in such a way towards you when he’d been forced to intervene for Marc’s sake, leading to your first ‘official’ meeting—he never gave anyone the benefit of a doubt until they proved themselves worthy of his extremely loyal regard (and his protection).

“I’m glad,” you responded softly. “I always try my best.”

“It’s all we could ever have asked for.”

You caved, but just slightly. You tilted your head down to press a lingering kiss to the crown of his head, nestling your nose into the neatly combed curls and inhaling the complimentary scents of their shampoo and hair gel. You curled an arm around his back and rubbed your palm in a series of circles between his shoulder blades, forgoing the movie for the sensation of his breath hitching against your throat.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For letting me have my happy ending.”

He swallowed roughly, and when his muscles went rigid you almost expected one of the others to surface—Jake had a habit of retreating when emotions got to be too much for him, which you’d never taken offense to (only had ever worried, but it wasn’t usually very long before he slipped back into the driver’s seat to reassure you by diverting the topic to let you know he was okay)—but instead of Steven’s falsetto lilt or Marc’s flat baritone emerging to notify you of the switch, Jake’s rumbling rasp vibrated your skin via his scruffy lips brushing your artery. “It’s I who should be thanking you, chaparrita, for not running for the hills when you had the chance. You’ve…been there for them when I couldn’t be. And you didn’t…you stuck around for me.” He cleared his throat quietly. “Gracias.”

“De nada,” you returned, kissing his head again and reaching up to play with the errant locks at the nape of his neck. “Eres precioso a mi.”

He let out a breathless, if slightly wet, chuckle, and snuggled in closer. You counted it precious. You counted them precious.

“Tengo hambre,” you commented after a while, sensing he might like to have an out. “¿Qué tenemos qué podemos comer?”

Jake retracted, but it was slow and borderline reluctant, if you didn’t know any better. “Let’s order something, chaparrita. I don’t feel like futzing around in the kitchen this late.”

You smiled and reached for your phone. “Sounds good to me. Asian or…?”

“Thai.” To your surprise, Jake tugged at your arms as he reclined, coaxing you to recline on top of him, your back to his chest. He wrapped you up in an unyielding, tight embrace, smothering his face into your neck once more to mumble against your ear. “Those glass noodles Marc’s gotten before are good. With the chicken.”

You tried your best to bite back your smile, but you couldn’t help the heat building beneath your cheeks. You raised your phone over your face to pull up the corresponding delivery app. “Anything for you, handsome. Anything for you.”

[asimplearchivist]

𝓢𝓹𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ you're down in the dumps about the disheartening lack of prospective romantic partners interested in initiating a long-term relationship with you. your ever-helpful coworker amy decides to give you (and a highly interested would-be suitor) a nudge in the right direction—just not in the way you might expect. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 4.8k a/n ☽ ⤏ my second entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ this takes place right before chapter two while steven is preparing for his interview, so before he works up the nerve (courtesy of both his agreement with and coertion from marc) to ask you out. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into that, Amy. What was I even thinking?”

“You were thinking of living a little instead of hermiting away in your flat like you do every conceivable chance you get—you look absolutely stunning, by the way! Tell me how it went!”

You hunkered in on yourself, folding your arms around your torso and pursing your chapped lips. The humid, dusk breeze hurtling through the street tugged at the hem of your dress, the cardigan draped over your shoulders doing little to fend off the early autumn chill. You’d texted her while wrapping up business at the bistro a block over and had walked over to the coffeeshop to clear your head after the entire ordeal and to check in before heading home.

“Horribly,” you said flatly. “I took one of my few vacation days and was subjected to an hour-long lecture on the growing value of cryptocurrencies before being asked if I intended to give up my career once I found a spouse—like I’m just spending the money on uni for funsies.”

“...Oh.” Your coworker’s face creased with equal measure of shame and sympathy. “My flatmate told me he was a decent bloke, save for a couple of rocky breakups the last year or so—I had no idea he was a wanker to boot…and probably at fault for those situations to start with, since that’s the case—but I should have given it more thought before roping you into it. That explains a lot about what little I heard about him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” you sighed and leaned against the humming lamppost at your back, “you had no way of knowing how he’d be in person, and you were trying to help me step out of my comfort zone a bit. It was kind of nice to have an excuse to dress up and go out for a bit, if nothing else. He insisted on paying, too, even if it was an underhanded attempt to woo me…so no money was wasted on my part, at least. I was going to buy myself a pint of ice cream on the way home to distract myself from the crushing reality that no one worth the effort could ever find me attractive and want to pursue a meaningful, long-term relationship with me, but now I’m not so sure. I’m exhausted, and I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise for a solid twenty minutes—I just did a whole lot of nodding along and ‘mmhmm’ing.”

“Firstly, you should treat yourself—I’ll even pay for it since you were the one who had to tolerate all that shit, undoubtedly like an angel because I know you and you’re a painfully polite person—and secondly, I’m not going to unpack…all of that statement, but I am going to tell you right now that you are a prize who deserves the best treatment a girl could ask for and shouldn’t have to. You’re worth it, even if you don’t feel like it—don’t try to deny it, I’ve heard all those little self-deprecating comments you’ve made over the months—and I’m sure there’s someone out there just dying for you to grant him a chance at making you the happiest woman alive.”

“I’m sure—he’s liable to just walk around the corner at any moment.” You rolled your eyes, but your expression softened into one of gratitude when you spotted the conviction on the barista’s face. “...Thank you, it helps to hear that occasionally. Maybe one day I’ll believe it, too.”

“Of course. It’ll stick eventually.” Amy opened her arms to offer you a hug, and you accepted it gratefully. Cheek pressed on top of your head, she rubbed and patted your back in a few soothing sweeps before releasing you and stepping back while drawing the shop keys out of her apron with a grin and a lingering gaze toward the main plaza across the street corner. “...But I honestly think you’re a little more oblivious than I thought if you really haven’t noticed.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, brow furrowing as you fiddled with the thin leather strap of your crossbody resting across your chest. Had she changed topics without you realizing?

“It’s a wonder what a little…gentle prodding can do in the long run,” she continued idly, eyes glittering with mirth as she twirled the jangling keyring on her finger and returned her attention to you. “There’s a reason I talked you into all that—well, besides getting you out on the town for an evening, of course. I think primping yourself did you a lot of good—you’re glowing.”

You blinked and opened your mouth to question her further, but approaching footsteps captured your attention due to their familiar scuffling cadence. You turned and spotted Steven’s slumped silhouette emerging into the ambient, watery light casting a cone around the coffee shop’s entrance. He’d already spotted you, evidently, and his face lit up in an infectiously warm smile as you recognized him. You found yourself returning the gesture subconsciously.

“Hello, mate,” Amy chirped, waggling her fingers at him. “How’d the application process go today? Did you pass the assessment?”

“With flyin’ colors!” Steven crooned, his back unfurling as his shoulders pushed back and his chin raised. He came to a stop near you, hands tucked into his pockets as his chest pressed forward against his otherwise gargantuan jacket. “The lady who looked it over seemed shocked that I knew so much, but that just goes to show you—I told ‘em for months that this ol’ noggin’ of mine wasn’t empty!” He knocked his knuckle on his temple with a toothy grin.

“You’ve got a sponge for a brain, darlin’,” you told him with a chuckle, reaching out and squeezing his elbow affectionately. His eyes softened as he refocused on you, his smile smoothing into a closed-lipped one. “I think you could talk circles around all those stuffy professors at the university, honestly—half of them haven’t updated their sources since the nineties. And it’s not your fault that your old manager had her head crammed so far up her ass.”

“Yeah, well,” he responded, color building beneath the high arches of his cheeks and gilding his tawny skin with rose-gold even under the otherwise unflattering fluorescent bulb of the streetlight, “I just like to read, is all. And I haven’t had to deal with her, thankfully—different divisions and all that.”

You shook your head fondly. He certainly didn’t have to remind you of that fact—the countless hours he’d spent in the coffee shop and the bookstore with his aquiline nose buried in books were proof enough of that. “Did you get all the paperwork filled out? It didn’t give you any trouble?”

“Got it all sorted. I, uh—” He cast a furtive glance towards Amy. “—got help when I needed it.”

Ah. Marc likely had to help him fill in the gaps. You often wondered if Marc was the one that got him his job in the gift shop to start with, but…Steven didn’t talk very much about what he was able to remember from the tenuous times he fronted before he met you while Marc was trying to wrap up all of his personal affairs in attempt to flee from his problems.

Steven didn’t go out of his way to advertise their situation to others, as he and Marc were still trying to iron out all of the kinks with their living situation and attending therapy sessions, but you had the feeling that Amy sensed something was remiss with him because of how often she was around him in proximity to you. She hadn’t ever said anything besides the occasionally affectionate, “He’s a little odd, isn’t he?” but you were always able to distract her with a casual, “We’re all a bit strange.”

“That’s good.” Another breeze skated through the street, blowing over your exposed legs and causing you to shiver. You hunkered into your cardigan and glanced up at the pitch black sky. “I’d probably better hit the store and head home. I can hear a hot shower calling my name, and I intend to sleep in after that entire disaster.”

Steven perked up. “After all what, love?”

“Oh.” Heat crept into your cheeks. “I, uh…had a date. It didn’t go so well.”

He blinked, brows inclining upwards for a tick in a surprise that he wasn’t quite able to conceal. “I—oh. I-I didn’t realize. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was sort of last minute.” You cleared your throat. “The guy was an ignorant prick anyway. I was lucky I made it out of there with my intellect still intact.”

That managed to draw a chuckle from him, at least, but you couldn’t shake the way his eyes lingered on you, slowly traversing over your silhouette—you felt terribly vulnerable, laid bare under the gentle weight of his troubled umber gaze. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but you couldn’t quite read the expression on Steven’s face—an unusual occurrence, to be certain, as he was an open book to you most of the time—so you weren’t certain what to make of his reaction.

It didn’t help that you were terribly insecure about the situation to start with, given the fact that you would have much rather had Steven as your date instead.

With that desire, however, came an entire Pandora’s box of complicated emotions. Negative past experiences had left you extremely hesitant to initiate romantic connections of any kind. And, despite how much you trusted Steven, you had an extremely difficult time trying to shake off your doubts. The sliver of boldness in you wanted for nothing more than to grab the lapels of his wrinkled, oversized jacket and kiss him breathless to avoid the awkward song and dance of treading that tenuous line between friendship and romance when it came to people who had grown inextricably close as the pair of you had…but the overwhelming majority of your mentality, insecure and timid and wounded, would rather keep him at arm’s length to secure his platonic affection at the very least. If that was all you could ever have of him, you’d take it gladly—but the heart wants what it wants, and you longed for all of him, as selfish as you knew your feelings to be.

He was in a difficult place, trying to rediscover himself and having to reassess his entire worldview, and here you were pining for him like a teenager with a helpless crush on someone far beyond your league. Steven was everything you had ever wanted—so very smart and sweet and sincere—but who were you to think he’d ever be interested in you of all people? When he could have anybody he wanted, far more gorgeous and intelligent and better than you could even dream of being?

A needlessly poetic notion, perhaps, but…you always had been a romantic.

That is why you had never tried your (admittedly poor) luck. You liked Steven, more than anyone else whom you’d ever before met, but…he’d never made a move. He was naturally open with his affection with everyone, amiable to a fault at times, so you couldn’t assume that his behavior indicated any particular favor on your behalf.

Still…you couldn’t bear it to pull yourself away now. He’d become your best friend within a couple of weeks of meeting him, and he was the only one with whom you felt completely safe in this sprawling, suffocating cityscape. You knew without a doubt that you could rely on him for anything—he had proven himself reliable time and again over the last few months, dropping everything when you needed him. You’d give him everything you had in a heartbeat in return—including your heart, although he’d unwittingly taken possession of it long ago.

“I, ah…” Steven cleared his throat, placing his closed fist over his mouth while tipping his head down to look at you through his lashes, “...would you like me to walk you home, love? It’s awfully late for you to be goin’ to the mart by yourself.”

Although you and Steven had fallen into the habit of catching the bus together on the instances that he got stuck taking inventory before he’d gotten fired, given that you both closed up shop about the same time, that routine had fallen by the wayside. He still offered to almost every night, though, oftentimes texting you to check in around closing time (and he’d held you to a promise to let him know when you got home when you refused his offer). You missed your quiet, late night bus rides, honestly, but the last thing you wanted was to inconvenience him by having him make such a long round trip across London.

Tonight, though, with him standing there with those watery, sympathetic puppy-dog eyes, knowing that he understood poor dates better than most (nevermind the fact that he hadn’t mentioned going on any lately, now that you thought about it)…you couldn’t resist him even if you wanted to. Your self-esteem, already dangerously low, had suffered a severe toll tonight, and you needed Steven’s reassurance more than anything (even a scalding shower to scrub your woes away).

“That would be greatly appreciated, darlin’,” you said, smiling wearily. “There’s a store a block away from my apartment complex, so it’s not too far of a walk from the bus stop.”

Steven bobbed his head, and you turned to hug Amy, who patted your back. “Sorry again he turned out to be a wanker,” she said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck on the next one.”

You pulled back and raised a brow at her glittering eyes. “If there even is a ‘next one’,” you chuckled wryly. “I’m just about ready to give up at this point.”

“Bad luck’s bound to turn into good luck eventually,” she said, then turned with her keys. “I’ll see you Monday—have a good weekend.”

“You, too.” You readjusted your purse strap and glanced at Steven, tilting your head towards the other end of the sidewalk. “Shall we?”

“I think so.” He offered you his elbow, and you took it with a quiet sigh of relief. His frame offered a welcome reprieve of a blockade against the wind, and his warmth seeped even through the plethora of loose layers he favored wearing.

Mutual comfortable silence followed your stroll to the bus stop, and you leaned against his arm when you both settled on a bench near the back of the bus when it rumbled through. It didn’t take long for him to readjust in his seat and you straightened on reflex, embarrassed that you’d done it subconsciously without asking him for permission first.

“No, no, love,” he murmured, lifting his arm over your shoulders, “here. Figured this would be more comfortable for you. You’re still shiverin’.”

“Oh.” You bit the inside of your lip, fighting the flutter of your stomach. “Thank you.”

You accepted his embrace, resting your head upon the cradle of his shoulder and sinking into him. His fingers curled lightly around your arm, squeezing absently. You closed your eyes as the tension drained from your body, taking a deep breath, and—in so doing—drew in a lungful of his cologne.

He had no right to smell so damn good.

“What do you need at the mart?” he asked quietly. “So I can help you look.”

“Just some snacks,” you mumbled. “Ice cream, maybe. I have leftovers in the fridge I was going to reheat since he made a comment about what I ordered.”

Steven’s arm tightened around your shoulders. “...He what?”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. He insisted on paying, so I guess he was just watching his budget.”

Steven scoffed, and it was one of the only times you’ve ever heard his tone slip into open disdain. “The gall.”

“It’s over now. I consider it a reward for wasting my time, at least.” You turned your head and tucked your nose under his jaw. “I don’t really want to think about it anymore, if that’s okay.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” he told you, tugging you closer. “Just let me know if he gives you any trouble, yeah?”

“Oh, I already have him blocked, don’t worry.” You let out a snort... “I don’t think he was particularly impressed, anyway.” …and a sigh. “Can’t really blame him.”

Steven sucked in a breath. “Now why would you go and say a silly thing like that, love?”

It had slipped out, honestly. You’d meant to internalize that lapse of self-deprecation, but you found it hard to conceal your thoughts around Steven. You had no answer for him, so you attempted a hamfisted effort to divert his attention. “I have enough food for you, too, if you’d like to stay. I figure you haven’t had much to eat this evening, and you can crash at my place since it’s so late.”

“...Do you want me to stay?” he asked softly. “So you won’t be alone?”

You laughed under your breath. “I don’t know how you do that. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re able to read minds, Steven Grant.”

“No telepathy to be had,” he said mildly, the pad of his thumb beginning to draw circles on your bicep over the chunky knit of your cardigan. “Just…I know how it feels.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be happy to stay, if you’ll have me.”

You wished you could kiss him. You wished you could get away from him before your heart ended up shattered once again by your own helplessness. “Always.”

The supermarket was just short of empty when you both shuffled in, rubbing your arms to wring the growing chill from your extremities. The pop music from a top-forty station gave the aisles a melancholic quality, and Steven trailed you with a basket as you picked up the handful of necessities that needed restocking. A cursory glance at him on the freezer aisle, tilting his head back and staring up at the fluorescent lights thoughtfully, prompted you to grab a pint of raspberry sorbet instead of your normal go-to flavor of ice cream. If he noticed the change from your usual purchase while the sleepy teenage cashier rang up the handful of groceries, Steven didn’t comment on it. You’d rarely seen him so pensive.

Your apartment was blissfully warm when you let yourself back in, locked the door behind you, and turned the television on. You took the paper sack from Steven (having insisted that he carry it even though it wasn’t that heavy) and tipped your head to the living room. “Make yourself at home. There’s more blankets in the coffee chest. I’m going to put these up and grab a quick shower.”

“You wanted a long one, yeah?” he prompted. “Don’t rush on my account. I know where everythin’ is. I can take care of myself, you know.”

You nodded and turned. You were too tired to quibble with him—you knew he didn’t mind you not playing the perfect host all the time. “Okay. Watch whatever you want. My kitchen’s yours.”

“All right.” His hand grasped your elbow. “I mean it: take your time.”

You flashed him a small, appreciative smile. “Yes, sir.”

You watched the color bloom under his cheeks with more than a little fondness. He wrestled the sack back out of your arms. “I know where all this goes,” he blurted. “Go on, then.”

Maybe it was a little selfish of you, but…letting him take care of you just this once wouldn’t hurt anything, right? You chuckled. “Okay, okay—I’m going.”

You retreated to your bedroom and shut the door. Your shoes came off first, then your cardigan and your dress. Everything else followed shortly thereafter—all of it was tossed into the hamper as you tread silently into the bathroom. Frissons broke out over your bare skin as you stepped onto the cold tile, reaching around the glass divider to start the water so it would warm up while you went ahead and started your bedtime routine.

You took Steven’s advice, although with no small amount of guilt at not entertaining him (in spite of the fact that he was a grown-ass man and could very well occupy himself, as he’d said). You hated being separated from him, even through two measly walls, but the urge to get that other man’s lascivious, if critical, gaze off of you as soon as possible was far stronger at the moment.

You stood under the steaming stream for a long time, listening to the music you’d selected to play from your phone. You washed your hair and body with a certain degree of clinicism, doggedly avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror lest your mood deteriorate even more. His skepticism over your ‘generous’ choice of entree shouldn’t have mattered—he’d ordered a meal that would have made bulking bodybuilders jealous—but the subtle comments he’d sprinkled throughout the meal had taken down the carefully constructed walls surrounding your appearance. You’d worked hard to repress your hangups, dammit, and all it took was one lousy date? When he was just an asshole and didn’t even deserve to get under your skin like that?

You growled under your breath and shut the shower off, ringing out your hair and swiping the extra moisture from your skin before stepping out to towel off. You finished up with your skin care routine and went back into your bedroom to put on your favorite sweatpants and t-shirt, topped with a baggy hoodie. When you reemerged into the living room, Steven was nowhere to be seen, but the opening titles of The Mummy were playing on repeat on the television with the case open on the TV stand.

You stepped into the kitchen, following your nose and ears, and found him standing over the stove reheating the leftover vegan shakshuka you’d experimented with the night before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly, lingering in the doorway and fiddling with the ends of your sleeves. “I was going to.”

“You’re dead on your feet, love,” Steven admonished you lightly, glancing over his shoulder with a small, lopsided grin. “I can handle it. Wouldn’t mind a drink, though.”

You wanted to point out the dark circles beneath his eyes and the fatigued slump of his shoulders, but you refrained in order to save his dignity. “Would you like some tea, or soda, or…?”

“A cuppa would be lovely.”

“Is chai okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

You set the electric kettle on (bought just for him, as you preferred iced tea, but you’d never admit that to him because you knew he’d feel guilty about you spending money on him) and pulled the box of tea bags out of the pantry, as well as a pot of honey, for him to fix it how he preferred. You grabbed a mug from the cabinet, as well, and set it out for him. You opted for a bottle of water, pouring it over ice.

“Think it’s ready,” Steven said, and you grabbed a couple of plates for him to ladle portions of the dish onto. You grabbed some cutlery and napkins, as well as your glass, and followed him into the living room.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, setting down the plates on the coffee table before straightening. “Mind if I borrow the loo first?”

“Go ahead,” you told him, sinking down into the couch with a tired groan. He disappeared into the shadows of your room, and you rested your head against the cushion at your back as your eyes drifted shut.

You remained still, listening to the music coming from the TV and to Steven’s movements as he soon came back and stepped into the kitchen. Water poured, clinking of metal on porcelain, socks scuffing on flooring. The cushion next to you dipped and creaked under his weight, and his knuckle brushed your wrist. “Not hungry, love?”

“Just waiting on you.” Truthfully, you didn’t have very much desire to eat, but your stomach was protesting the insufficient sustenance of the salad you’d opted to order instead of the club sandwich with chips you’d wanted. You sat up and pulled the plate into your lap. The inviting smell certainly helped. “I hope it’s okay, I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“Anything you make is mana on earth, love,” Steven assured you. He grabbed the remote and started the movie before sipping his tea tentatively.

“There’s always room for failure,” you responded wryly, but bringing up a mouthful proved that your endeavor had been successful, thankfully. “Oh, thank God. I ended up snacking while I cooked last night and got full before I could try it. It’s okay.”

Steven tried it himself and hummed with pleasure. “It’s more than okay, love.”

“I’m glad.” You turned your attention to the screen and hunkered against the arm of the couch. “...Thank you for all this.”

You felt Steven’s gaze fix itself on your profile. “...You’re welcome.”

The night outside grew darker, and when the both of you finished eating, Steven bullied his way into taking the dishes and washing them while ordering you to stay put. You paused the film in the meantime, tugging the blanket off the back of the couch and curling up beneath it. He turned off the lights and took the other end when you offered it. Other than the occasional chuckle, neither of you spoke again until the credits began to roll. By then, you’d grown sleepy. Steven had anchored you into his side once again, resting his cheek on the crown of your head. You’d started to doze off when the rumble of his chest roused you.

“...You know you really shouldn’t say such cruel things about yourself, love. You looked extra gorgeous tonight.”

You swallowed, and in the safety of the apartment’s darkness you let your expression fall. “I know.”

“You really are somethin’ special.” His fingers drummed slowly against your arm. “I mean it. I’m honored to know you. And I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you.”

“You don’t know how much I appreciate that,” you murmured, even if that traitorous, if scarred, part of yourself denied his claim automatically. It wasn’t fair to him, but old habits die hard. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he responded, “you know, as an apology on behalf of all men for that sorry wanker wasting your time.”

You laughed in the midst of a yawn. “It’ll be a story to tell on holidays, if nothing else.”

“Tired?” he asked.

“Yeah.” You pressed your face into his shirt. “You can take the bed if you want.”

“Now, you know how this debate will end.”

“I do. I still wanted to offer.”

“All right. I will need to shower first, though, if you don’t mind. I still smell like the cleaner they use in the museum.”

You sat up to give him space to stand. The smell of the museum suited him, but you didn’t exactly want to reveal that you’d been discreetly huffing his collar for the last hour. “I don’t. I have your spares in the same drawer.”

“Thank you.” Steven extricated his arm, but after a moment’s hesitation he placed a kiss on your temple. You looked up at him, shocked, and that seemed to be his intention, because despite the outlines of his face matching your flusteredness, he appeared deadly serious. “You mean more to me than you’ll ever know, poppet,” he whispered. “And you deserve all the happiness in the world, bad dates be damned.”

“I…” You swallowed roughly. “Th-thank you, darlin’.”

His mouth opened as though he’d intended to say more, but hesitation won out in the end. He shook his head and patted your knee before straightening to his feet. “Go ahead and go to bed, I’ll take everything with me in there. You need to sleep as much as you can.”

“All right,” you murmured, watching him go. He fidgeted with his hands all the way of his retreat into the bathroom. You couldn’t breathe until you heard the shower whine to a start. Your heart didn’t stop pounding against your ribs until after he exited, curls damp and pajamas draped over his lean form, told you good night, and shut your bedroom door behind him to give you privacy.

When you woke up the next morning and wandered into the kitchen for something to eat, Steven was waiting for you with two bowls of sorbet ready, and you decided then—much to the distress of your frightful heart—that you were in love.

[asimplearchivist]

𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓮

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ marc doesn't like it when you get hurt, even by accident. pairing(s) ☽ marc spector/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 1.4k a/n ☽ ⤏ my third entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ reminding myself that it's okay to keep things short and sweet sometimes. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY ☽

You didn’t notice it until Marc’s thumb compressed the unexpectedly tender flesh just above the joint of your elbow, drawing a sharp yelp from your throat more from surprise than from pain. “Where did you pick that up?”

It was commonplace for you to shower with the boys after getting home from work for the evening, a habit started during one of Steven’s clingier stints months prior when you’d first begun to stay over at their apartment.

You shared that trait, occasionally wanting as much physical closeness with your significant other(s) as reasonably possible to disperse the nasty thoughts or melancholic feelings that would crop up in the back of your mind despite your best efforts. It helped significantly—to that you could attest. On the plus side, washing each other with gentle touches, indulging yourselves in amorous affections (those of which oftentimes got carried away to both of your benefit), and just having someone you fully trusted in such close proximity at your most vulnerable satisfied that once nagging loneliness that used to daily plague your greater consciousness into something far more manageable and docile. You had found your person (...people?), and you could rest assured that they would be there for you always—even at the times when you could scarcely summon the strength to raise your hands to wash your hair.

Marc had started to replicate that tendency soon after Steven’s initial timid request, claiming that conserving water saved money spent on utilities, but you knew better than that—you knew him better than that. You knew that he struggled to verbalize his needs and found it easier to disguise his self-determined ‘weaknesses’ under sensuality laced with practicality. He would often wait until you got ready to shower to join you. You figured that he suspected you knew his ‘accidental’ brushes and bumps and noticeably slow reach-arounds weren’t exactly accidental, but you decided not to comment upon it. You certainly didn’t want to dissuade one of the sole outlets of casual physicality he allowed himself outside of the bedroom.

So when you’d trudged into the apartment with takeout in hand that night, sleeves soaked in coffee because you’d bumped into one of the newbies while going to dump out the pot in the sink, Marc had immediately stood up from the couch to take the sacks. He’d tucked them into the microwave so he could reheat them later before escorting you straight to the bathroom. He’d lavished you the entire time, sensing without words that you were exhausted and didn’t have much energy to move.

“Oh,” you said, looking down as he released your arm and eyeing the tender place he’d spotted despite the poor lighting in the bathroom. You pressed it lightly with your fingertips, raising a brow—you hadn’t even noticed the faintest discoloration in your own skin, as it was barely visible. Your wondering at how he even saw it didn’t last long when you realized that he’d likely been decorated with hemorrhaging most of the time since he’d joined the military and could identify them easily. “I didn’t even…huh. I must’ve hit the countertop harder than I thought.”

Marc frowned, his furrowed brow lowered over his dark eyes as he scrutinized your expression. “You fell?”

“No,” you chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped under the shower’s stream to rinse off the suds he’d lathered over your back. “New guy wasn’t watching where he was going coming out of the kitchen and I bumped into him. I was trying not to spill the coffee and stumbled. Bang, funny bone tickled, and I still got it all over myself. It hurt like a bitch, but I didn’t think I hit it that hard.”

Marc hummed, eyes dropping to your elbow as he reached for your shampoo. “Tilt your head back, baby.”

It wasn’t until later, after you’d both gotten dressed and eaten and settled into bed, that he brought it back up. “...He didn’t push you, did he?”

You cracked your eyes open despite the apartment being just short of pitch black. You rolled over to face him, twisting in his arms, and eased back enough to squint at him in the dark. The faintest illumination of street lights peeking through the windows highlighted the edges of his face, but his expression was cloaked in shadow. His tone, however—low and stern as though afraid to break the hushed, relative silence drenching the apartment—was indication enough of his dour mood.

“No,” you said carefully. “It was an accident. He’s super tall and lanky so he doesn’t always remember to check if someone’s in front of him.”

Marc’s hand spread over the small of your back, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of the t-shirt you wore, its hem having ridden up from your movements. “If he does it again, or if he tries anything…”

“He’s just an oblivious, sleep-deprived college kid, honey. He’s not out to get me.”

He grunted, wedging his other arm beneath you to leverage you against his torso. He tucked his chin over the crown of your head, his heavy sigh tickling the nape of your neck. “Can never be too careful. I never know if…you know. Someone’s hunting for old vendettas.”

You slipped your hand over his side so you could stroking soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “I’ll let you know if he gives me any trouble. I promise.” You pressed a kiss to the skin available to you while constricted within his borderline smothering embrace, which just so happened to be his clavicle. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but you can’t worry yourself to death about me all the time. I can handle myself well enough—I think you know that better than most.”

“...I do,” he conceded reluctantly. “But it’s my job to worry.”

“And it’s also your job to trust my judgment. Trapping yourself in an endless loop of worst case scenarios doesn’t give you any more control of our lives than you already have, Marc.”

“Are you really quoting our therapist right now?”

“If that’s what it takes to get through that thick ol’ noggin of yours, then yeah.” You tapped his temple gently with the knuckle of your free hand. “All three of you make me feel the safest I ever have in my life. I know I can depend on each of you for anything I could ever ask. I’ll never forget that you’ve got my back.” You tilted your head to kiss his neck, feeling his pulse jump against your lips. “And, just for the record, you have me, too.”

“We know.” He squeezed you closer, almost crushing the air from your lungs. “I just never want to see you hurt. Again.”

You would never forget the look on his face when he fronted following the fallout of Jake cleaning up the rest of Ammit’s cult. The newly-introduced alter had patched you up already before relinquishing the body to his host, but you may as well have been bedridden in the ICU with how fervently he checked every last inch of you to make sure you were still alive. You hadn’t addressed the tears welling in his distressed eyes, and you’d only managed to calm him down by asking him to hold you so you could sleep some more. The adrenaline rush had fatigued you for a solid week afterwards and he and Steven both had hovered like mother hens.

He’d cradled you so carefully, like porcelain, mirroring the position you were in now.

“We’re careful about things,” you reminded him, “and you’ve got the god of the moon on speed dial. You can relax, Marc. I’m not going anywhere.”

He did, just so. You felt some of the tension drain from his frame the longer you touched him. At some point, he cupped a hand around the back of your head and began to thumb little circles behind your ear. The motion, combined with his rhythmic breathing, lulled you into drowsiness more effectively than melatonin ever could.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you mumbled, fighting the cusp of sleep long enough to voice your thought, “you can give me some fun bruises.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” Marc chuckled, a raspy rumble low in his chest. “Go to sleep, baby.”

You were never one to argue with a good idea like that.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓽 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ the instant marc laid eyes upon you, he knew without a doubt that you were steven’s soulmate. ⤏ he never stopped to consider that you might be his, too. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader word count ☾ 14.0k a/n ☽ ⤏ this isn’t an actual soulmate au, despite the summary, but after reading @astroboots’/@thirstworldproblemss’ and @softlyspector’s flawless renditions of marc, I’ve been absolutely normal about him. (lying. he’s starting to consume me, even though I am still very much a steven simp and adore jake as well. I love one mk system—they’ve become such integral comfort characters to me, it’s not even funny.) ⤏ [but seriously y’all go read Moonstruck, Tales Untold, and Red Flags, rn this instant if you haven’t, as well as all their other works! they’re such inspiring, stunning writers that I envy dearly, and you’ll be enriched by their breathtaking prose for it. Oh, and their smut is phenomenal, too! ;)] ⤏ hope you guys enjoy! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾   ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc met you, officially, it was an accident.

Don’t forget the interview tomorrow, buddy.

Steven scoffed a laugh, lips curling at the edges at the mere thought. “Me? Forget about that? Who exactly do you think I am?”

Marc huffed softly, half-dozing in the headspace as he idly observed Steven’s measured movements: a chipped mug fished from the overflowing dish drain, a cursory glance at its interior in the dim lighting to make sure no residue remained after its last wash, set on the counter while the wailing kettle was tipped over to pour in steaming water. Kettle down on another burner, tin of loose leaf valerian and chamomile popped open, infuser filled and submerged; sugar and oat milk to taste after a moment of cooling blows—too damned sweet on Marc’s tongue, but Steven hummed in satisfaction and set the mug to the side while he dutifully put away the supplies in the cubicle Marc had set up in the corner of the countertop specifically to contain Steven’s frequent messes.

Just reminding you. You haven’t stopped talking about it since last week. Steven would be crushed if he missed out on his interview to get back on with the museum—HR had already cautioned him of a lengthy probation period after the circumstances of his suspension, despite having long since paid off the property damages incurred that spring, but Steven had been too thrilled to go back to take any negativity to heart. He’d seen a position open up for a tour guide online and hadn’t allowed it to leave his mind since—or his mouth, for that matter.

“Well, as long as you don’t take off for Cairo or the other side of Europe while we’re sleepin’, I don’t think I’ll have much to worry about, yeah?” Steven retorted, taking his mug with him to his desk. The empty Thai takeout container was pushed to the side in favor of his piping drink, and Steven was soon cozied up in his chair and plucking his readers from where he’d tucked them into his sweater to perch them on the end of his nose. Marc had stopped paying attention to the text hours before, convinced he’d go cross-eyed from staring blankly at too many more of the incomprehensible glyphs (because in whose right mind would an ax represent anything other than an ax?). Steven’d always had the attention span of a bloodhound—zipping back and forth across pages and books until fixating on something and following the trail to its very end. It was exhausting to Marc, but he had to admit that it had been integral to saving the world (and their own life), at least. “There is a reason I’ve been brushin’ up, you know.”

You’ll do fine. I don’t know why you’re afraid you won’t get hired—they’d be stupid not to, as much as you’ve got crammed in your head. (…Their head? Marc was still uncertain.)

“...It’s not all this I’m worried about, necessarily,” Steven responded after a beat, eyes rising to the window reflecting their shared face. Marc raised a brow at him. “Donna’s got her fingers all up in management, you know—the only reason they’re humorin’ me is ‘cause of a dare hopin’ I’ll make a fool of myself, I’m sure of it—and after everythin’…” His expression pinched, a look far too like Marc’s own for his liking. “...they thought I was bonkers.”

To be fair… Marc began wryly.

“I know, I know. Don’t change the fact that I was mentally unstable in their eyes. Worse, maybe—a maniac.” Steven’s eyes dropped back down to the dusty old tome, his tone growing despondent. “This is probably all just a courtesy to formally dismiss me, and I’ll make a proper fool of myself, then.” He paused, then sighed, dejected. “But what else can I do?”

Go somewhere that’ll actually appreciate your talents, Marc answered firmly. Donna’s a bitch. And if she keeps you from getting this job, I’ll make her regret it.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

Watch me. We wouldn’t have anything else to lose at that point. Marc paused, took in Steven’s melancholic expression, and he blamed his blunt candor on his exhaustion. They don’t deserve you, you know.

“I do know, but I don’t know where else to go. We won’t be able to live off your merc money forever, so at least one of us needs to have a real job since you’re not…bounty huntin’, or whatever it was you actually did, anymore.” Steven scratched his hairline and dug his fingers into his curls to tug them while in thought. “I suppose if they don’t take me back, I’ll have to look into somethin’ else. But for now…” Steven’s jaw unhinged as a yawn pried at Marc’s weariness. The readers were set down upon the page, and Steven rubbed at his heavy eyelids. “Guess stayin’ up wonderin’ on ‘what if’s won’t help much, will it? No, don’t think so.”

Not really. Marc settled further back into his receding lucidity, basking in the serene warmth it provided—just like the soft fibers of finely knit cashmere against his skin. Good luck.

“Thanks, mate.” Steven stood, downed his tea in a long draft, and turned to head for the bathroom to freshen up—but Marc was already fading fast. “Talk to you tomorrow, Marc.”

‘Night, Steven.

Read the rest of the chapter here! :)

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑰 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 . ’ | 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑷𝑶𝑺𝑻

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 🕷️ ⤏ you had already lost him once, and you couldn’t bear the thought to lose him again. ⤏ little did you know, he had lost you twice. 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 🕷️ spoilers for atsv, (minor) (background) (canonical) (implied/referenced) character death, mentions of miscarriage, grief/mourning, canon-typical violence, depression, (minor) injuries, arguing, miscarriage, child death...[more tags to be added] 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼 🕷️ pre-canon, canon compliant, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn, alternate universe, canon divergence, falling in love (again), (borderline) bakery au, pet(s), (street) chases, heart-to-heart, apologies...[more tags to be added]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 — 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑶𝑵 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑻𝒀.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 — 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 — 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑲 𝑨𝑩𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑩𝑨𝑩𝒀.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 — 𝑭𝑼𝑳𝑳 𝑶𝑭 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕 — 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑩𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑳𝒀 𝑬𝑨𝑻.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈 — 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑹. [𝑻𝑩𝑨]

[asimplearchivist]

' 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕘𝕒𝕫𝕚𝕟𝕘 '

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ✴ ⤏ you find optimus musing about the past while surveying earth's celestial sphere. you try not to let your personal feelings impair your ability to comfort him. pairing ✴ tfp!optimus prime/reader | (past) tfp!optimus prime/elita one word count ✴ 9.9k a/n ✴ ⤏ everything happy always happens in the first season, sometimes part of the second season if you’re lucky. this takes place right before the omega keys arc hits full swing but right after optimus receives the message from alpha trion via the star saber. (around/between “legacy” and “alpha; omega”.) it’s the moment of serenity before the storm, you could say. ⤏ I've had this fic gathering dust in my drafts for years bc there should have been three more parts between it and 'yosemite falling,' but I'm updating my docs to word files in preparation to transfer everything off my old pc to a new one (which I haven't had a new pc in nearly fifteen years so I'm anxious as hell bc I don't handle change well but I'm also excited so???) and I figured 'what the hell, I'll go ahead and post it since I've been trying to clean out my drafts anyway. ⤏ the word ‘inamorata’ (italian, I believe) is legitimately perfect for optimus referring to elita one and you can pry that out of my cold, dead hands. t r y m e. (and yes, this also implies that optimus knows latin because he’s a giant n e r d .) ⤏ I also used lots of nods and references towards @ss-shitstorm’s backstory for op and elita in fortuna primigenia because she is optilita god. (the only striking difference is that ‘bee isn’t biologically theirs - they just kind of took him under their wing when he was still fresh off the press.)

Something was off.

You sighed softly and opened your eyes, taking in as much of the darkened hangar as you could before you yawned. The kids were sound asleep, as was the Autobots’ newest recruit (who had somehow managed to curl himself around the haphazard circle of sleeping bags and cots in a rather impressive imitation of a cat), and when you looked over you saw that Ratchet was still tapping studiously away at the main terminal, optics dimmed and distant as he worked. When your eyes adjusted you could see that it wasn’t the Iacon encryptions, but what appeared to be a personnel file. You saw a small picture of Smokescreen on the upper left-hand corner and figured Ratchet was either reading in on Team Prime’s most recent addition or filling out a medical file. Either way, it was way past the medic’s bedtime.

You looked back to the slumbering foursome, taking in how Smokescreen’s doorwings fluttered minutely in time with an occasional ex-vent. You smiled warmly at the sight. The newest recruit hadn’t quite found his place among the Autobot family yet, but with how well he got along with the kids you figured it’d be no time before he wormed his way into the elder soldiers’ hearts. You just hoped he wouldn’t take to Miko too much, because you’d sensed a mischievous streak in him the moment you’d found out he’d managed to convince Jack to pull a Miko.

It’d gotten Optimus the Star Sabre, but...that wasn’t the point.

The girl had wanted to hit off Smokescreen’s arrival with a bang, in the only way she thought suitable for someone who knew nothing about Earth - introducing him to slumber parties. He’d been all for the idea, jumping headfirst into the activities it entailed despite him not knowing a single thing that was going on. He’d loved the movies you four had picked out, and had picked up on the concepts and plots surprisingly quickly.

Ratchet hadn't been too enthused about all the ruckus going on, as one would expect, but Optimus had made it a point to soothe him when the medic would begin to grumble too loudly. It was a brief reprieve for the other Autobots, who’d been rather tense of late and needed a little night of fun, and it served to better acquaint them with their newest addition. Bumblebee seemed to get along with him fairly well, and Arcee seemed to regard him with a constantly exasperated but amused air. Bulkhead...acted amiable enough on the outside, but you worried about him. His near-fatal injury and subsequent recovery had hit him hard, and had hit his spirit harder. You’d thought to call Wheeljack to help lift the green ex-Wrecker’s spirit, but...you didn’t think the others would be nearly so inclined to welcome him back so soon after his day trip with Miko. And you’d seen the way Bulkhead’s demeanor would fall whenever he thought no one was looking - you hoped that he would bounce back soon.

You slowly sat up, being careful to make as little noise as you could manage as you slipped out from beneath the blankets and rose to your feet. You padded silently past the recharging Autobot, holding your breath when he twitched and made a soft noise. He settled down almost immediately after, doorwings flaring and closing slowly. It almost reminded you of a butterfly at rest.

You relaxed when you got closer to the main computer terminal, breathing out softly as you reached out and placed a hand on Ratchet’s pede. He jerked minutely under the unexpected touch, peering down until his optics found you. 

He ex-vented, straightening and returning his attention to the screen. “I’m almost finished. Go back to sleep.”

“You can finish it in the morning,” you murmured back, patting the warm metal beneath your palm affectionately. “A couple more hours of recharge than usual isn’t going to hurt you, Ratchet.”

He paused, his mouth pursing briefly, and you worried that he was just going to shoo you away and keep working. He surprised you by ex-venting long and low, hitting one last button and closing the file before letting his servos fall from the keyboard. 

“Fine,” he muttered, tone weary and all too telling. “Fine.”

You smiled gently. “Get some rest, you stubborn old mech. You’re going to need it if we’re keeping the overgrown puppy over there.”

He scoffed softly, but you didn’t miss the curve of a smile he was trying to hide. “You should as well. Who knows what diabolical plot Miko has devised for tomorrow’s activities.”

“I hope she doesn’t drag out the Monopoly board,” you muttered, smirking up at him. “We may as well kiss another Autobot goodbye.”

You shared a stifled look of amusement before you both cracked and chuckled.

“Sleep well,” he said, turning and walking quietly towards the open corridor.

“Sweet dreams, Ratchet,” you returned, watching him go. A sense of peace settled over you and you gave the hangar a visual sweep. Everything was quiet.

But...something still felt...off. You couldn’t put a finger on it, but…

Well, you were still a bit tired. You wondered if you could catch a few more hours with Optimus - you were already mostly awake, but being able to hear his spark whir and his engine rumble beneath his plating always helped soothe you back to sleep.

Read the rest of the oneshot here! :)

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑰𝑰 — 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ miguel struggles to come to terms with your brief encounter. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 3.5k a/n 🕷️ ⤏ I don’t know that the collective’s HQ is actually an old Alchemax facility, but it made sense to me since the go-home machine is similar to the collider. I haven’t been able to find much information on the wiki about 2099’s world, much less spiderverse miguel’s version, so I’m gonna sprinkle in my own headcanons as we go along until I learn anything different. if any of you happen to know any details (like currency, layout of Nueva York, little things like that) please let me know! I’d prefer this fic not to have glaring discrepancies to the source material if at all possible. :) 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER 🕷️

“I told you that you weren’t up for that. I could’ve handled it just fine.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He could feel Jessica’s eyes trained firmly on his back, though he did his damnedest to ignore the persistent prickling along the back of his neck. O’Hirn was struggling again, given most of the toxin had already worn off, and it was all the restraint Miguel could muster not to just toss him over the boardwalk into the yawning depths of HQ and be done with it.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“I’ve got it,” Miguel responded brusquely, clenching his jaw.

“Just because I’m pregnant,” she started, “doesn’t mean I can’t—”

“I don’t need you getting yourself hurt,” he interrupted.

“I’m only two months in,” she sighed. “I hate to think about what you’ll be like later on. Even my husband isn’t as worried as you are, Miguel.”

“You’re exposed to enough danger as it is,” he growled. “I had it covered.”

“If you nearly drowning is your definition of ‘had it covered’, then I worry about what it means for you not to have it covered.”

Finally, they made it to the containment center, and Miguel dropped the mercenary face-first into the cage, muttering under his breath all the while. The field turned on with a hum, and Miguel released a terse exhale of relief as he stepped back for it all to be finally over.

“Hiya, boss! How’d it go?”

Almost over, anyway.

“Fine.” He turned and started to walk towards his office. “Jess, remember to fill out a report. LYLA, catalog Alexander O’Hirn into the queue for departure.”

Her lax footsteps were declaration enough of her intention to do anything but that.

“You could have at least explained the basics, you know. Since she’s from an adjacent 2099, she’d understand the multiverse theory. The Alchemax in that reality is performing similar experimentations for dimensional travel, and she’d evidently run into their projects before.”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ do you not understand?”

“The part where it excuses you for being an ass.”

He stopped and turned on his heel, lenses narrowing as he glared resolutely down at his companion. “It’s classified to anyone not enrolled in the collective.”

“Ooh, touchy,” LYLA commented, appearing over Jessica’s shoulder like the demonic conductor she was. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Miguel ground out.

“Something happened. Your vitals are all over the place, boss.”

“I told you not to monitor me.”

“Does it have to do with the fact that she’s—”

“Don’t,” Miguel bit out.

LYLA raised her palms placatingly, twisting and regarding him wryly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“She’s not the same,” Jessica reminded him needlessly.

“Of course she isn’t,” he growled. “Why do you think—”

She raised a manicured brow at him, effectively shutting him up. He opted to glower instead. “And because she isn’t the same, you owed her a civil response—especially since the big lug back there almost popped her head off like a cork. She obviously knows your counterpart because she recognized you. I know you’re going through a lot right now, but it didn’t give you a reason to dismiss her like that. It’s not her fault that any of this is happening, and we always need new recruits.”

Miguel bristled. “I’m not recruiting her.”

“And why not?” Jessica propped her fists on her wide hips.

His lenses narrowed further. “You know why.”

“Yeah, I do.” She shook her head. “Because you’re letting your personal bias interfere with the job.”

Miguel scoffed and turned away from her once more. “All this is on a need-to-know basis, Jess. We’re not so sore in need of help that I have to pull every conceivable Spider-Person in the multiverse into the coalition.”

“Don’t you think she needs to know why her dead husband randomly walked out of a portal and acted like she didn’t exist?” LYLA remarked.

Jessica fell silent, obviously in shock, and Miguel dropped his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. “LYLA.”

“I ran preliminaries while you were gone,” she continued lightly. Miguel twisted just enough to watch her use multiple holograms to display your credentials and history as she listed off your name and date of birth. “...Spider-Woman of 928C for five years. Widowed by one Miguel O’Hara of eight years in a classified, freak accident at his laboratory in Alchemax. Refused answers regarding the nature of his death, she snuck in to investigate herself. She was then bitten by a genetically and radioactively modified Goldenrod Crab spider he had assisted in mutating, which imbued her with the classic spider powers, plus…” She squinted at the words streaming across the screen. “...boosted olfactory senses, organic webbing excreting a sedative pheromone, and pigment-shifting abilities that are largely ineffective as camouflage but make for easy changes in hair color and skin tone—oh, look, she gives herself temporary tattoos with it! Neat! She then proceeded to steal the experimental suit of UMF in the same lab and has since been doing her best to stop Alchemax’s schemes and protect Nueva York’s civilians. Heh, the suit colors kind of make her look like a strawberry pie.” She glanced up at Miguel appraisingly. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” he said tightly. “That about covers it.”

“You said you didn’t know much about the canon events of that universe,” Jessica scolded.

“I knew the basics,” he snapped, “which is why I wanted to avoid confronting her. I wasn’t going out of my way to learn the rest!” He cut a glare towards LYLA, who shrank back slightly. “But thank you for the input.”

“Just trying to help,” she replied lamely.

“Don’t bark at her,” Jess interrupted. “You could have briefed me on it. I could’ve gone by myself if you didn’t want to risk exposure.” She tilted her head slightly. “And if you didn’t want to face her.”

The UMF dissipated from his head so quickly that both woman and AI jumped. The midday sunlight pouring in through the windows on the far wall stung his eyes, but he didn’t care. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Jess regarded him coolly for a long moment, and Miguel spun to march himself into the blissfully quiet and empty haven of his own lab.

“You owe her an apology,” the woman called.

Gritting his teeth, he stopped long enough to throw his reply over his shoulder. “And why is that?”

“If you’re in this bad of a state seeing her now,” Jess said, “how do you think she feels having grieved you for five years?”

Miguel’s talons pierced into the meat of his palms as he stayed silent and stalked away.

The lab was blissfully quiet, save the hum and chirrup of the numerous machines and monitors working away in solitude. It was raining outside, drumming against the roof and narrow windows near the ceiling to allow in faint shafts of bleak, tepid gray light. The occasional muffled rumble of thunder made him wince, even as the dark room allowed his eyes to finally relax. Still, it would take a while for his head to stop throbbing.

He had been too harsh on Jessica—LYLA, too—he knew that. He didn’t have an excuse. But the migraine he’d woken up with that morning combined with the fact that any Rhino, no matter what universe they originated from, were royal pains in the ass. Almost drowning and scarcely avoiding impalement had not done anything to improve his mood, either.

Miguel let out a harsh sigh as he sank heavily onto the platform resting at floor level, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. His fingertips dug into his eyes and temples in a feeble attempt to assuage the aching pressure but to no avail. He needed to sleep, seeing as he’d gleaned none the night before after having determined a mission to the dimension directly neighboring his was necessary ASAP—the anomaly might not have fully transitioned until a couple of hours ago, but LYLA’s predictions had been correct and he knew they’d needed to act fast.

Even still, it had almost been too late.

He was always too late.

He gritted his teeth with a growl, shaking his head and straightening to glare up into the shadowy rafters. The patches of amber holograms flickered like candlelight, dancing with images and footage and readouts he couldn’t be bothered to check at the moment—his vision was blurring and if he tried to squint any more today he worried his eyes might pop out of his skull altogether.

“No new anomalies, jefe.”

“LYLA.” He dropped his gaze to the glowing figure floating at eye level. She had her arms folded over her chest, glasses pushed all the way up her nose to hide her eyes.

She rubbed her nose briefly. “Yeah, that’s the designation. Don’t wear it out.” She summoned a graph and pointed to it. “The spike is fading in 928C. Everything should be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” He swallowed, dipping his head to scratch the nape of his neck. “Hey, mira, I’m…sorry, about earlier.”

At her lack of response, he raised his eyes again and found that she had blinked away just as fast as she’d appeared.

Miguel released another sigh, cursing under his breath. He’d done enough damage for the day, he figured.

It didn’t take long to get to his quarters. The uppermost floor of the compound was glassed in on all sides, and bigger than Miguel would ever have wanted—but the construction of HQ had been primarily handled by LYLA seeing as he’d been busy hunting anomalies and recruiting other Spider-People to the collective, and with the haste to get everything up and running he hadn’t really stopped to consider anything besides the necessities. The old Alchemax facility suited perfectly to his needs, and having more money than he knew what to do with from his old position in the upper echelons of the blasted corporation, he’d let her have the reins so he could have more time to work.

To be fair, the living space was…nice. Just big, with amenities and furniture that felt a little too modern. (It made it feel all the more empty.)

Miguel shed the UMF suit and chunked it in the nano-regenerator, wincing as he tweaked the bruises around his ribs. Grappling with a man twice your size in a heavy suit of impenetrable armor while underwater was decidedly not his definition of a good Friday night.

He traipsed into the bathroom, tapping the screen to activate the shower and adjust its jet settings and temperature. He’d be healed by tomorrow, he knew, but the soreness would linger for a couple of days. He’d just have to try not to twist too much.

Miguel stopped to scrutinize himself in the mirror, not for the first time (and definitely not for the last).

The warm white light spilling from the mirror’s rim highlighted his silhouette and the numerous scars littering his frame, the edges of his reflection growing hazy from the steam billowing out over the top of the shower’s tall glass walls. He scarcely recognized himself from the man he’d been six months prior. Working so hard combined with constantly improving his strength for better mobility and endurance in the field had changed his figure so vastly from the lean muscle upon which he’d previously relied while managing Nueva York by himself. It felt surreal, sometimes—but if he could distance himself from the man he’d used to be in any way, he’d take it. Miguel no longer wanted to make mistakes like he did. (It might actually kill him, this time, if he did.)

Miguel shook his head with a low growl, reaching up to tug the loose locks of hair off his forehead—and, in so doing, reminded himself of the band still snugly hugging his ring finger. He regarded it for a long, tense moment as he ground his teeth until his temples throbbed. He fought down tooth and nail the tide of fluctuating emotions that the ring brought—when he wore the suit, he barely noticed it. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

Miguel swallowed roughly and pulled it free, dropping it into the little ceramic dish next to his sink before trudging into the shower to scrub away his woes.

He did feel marginally better afterward, which was a small boon. Dressing in his favorite pair of worn sweats helped, too. He wasn’t hungry, but if he wanted to dissuade the headache with the abnormal amount of aspirin it took to even put a dent in his hyperactive metabolism, he’d have to eat something—so he fixed himself a club and choked it down with water.

By the time he’d settled into bed, flat on his back and gazing blankly up at the dark ceiling with an arm thrown over his forehead to shade his eyes from the city lights glowing along the skyline, his nerves had settled for the most part. He’d apologize to the ladies tomorrow. Maybe, as tired as he was, he’d actually be able to get more than three hours of sleep for once. (Doubtful.)

Miguel sighed heavily, shutting his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. If he thought about it he’d get upset all over again. It had taken every iota of willpower he possessed just to get through the whole damn mission to begin with. One would think, after the couple of months that he’d had to get over the entire ordeal (his mistake—his greatest mistake—one he would never be able to reverse or rectify no matter how much he regretted it), that he’d have a better handle on his emotions. He’d fucked up catastrophically. Now he was forced to pick up the pieces by holding the multiverse together with nothing but his bare hands and his sheer force of will. He could never afford to allow his selfishness to influence the fate of the multiverse.

Miguel sucked in a deep breath, but the stretch twinged his ribs again. He turned over onto his side with a terse sigh, grabbing the pillow on the opposite end of the bed and stuffing it under himself in an attempt to buoy the bruises. Despite the darkness, his eyes still made out the shape of the overturned frame on the opposite nightstand.

Even while it was face-down, its glass face cracked beyond repair from the force of a previous breakdown, he recalled in perfect detail the picture it housed. You’d always insisted on printing out physical copies despite it having long since fallen to the wayside with the mass digitization nearly a century prior—the photo albums crammed into a box in the top of the closet were painful reminders of that habit. That one in particular had been your favorite: the pair of you at the park, lying on a canvas, red and white gingham picnic blanket, faces turned toward each other���s and away from the sun. You’d snuck the picture while he hadn’t been paying attention, having shut his eyes briefly because it had been unseasonably warm for early autumn, and he’d admittedly almost drifted off breathing in the fruity scent of your shampoo. You’d never told him about it until he’d noticed it’s addition on your bedside table a week later.

It had been the day of your fifth wedding anniversary. He’d lost you in a nearly identical manner to 928C’s alternative version of you—an inexplicable accident at Alchemax in the robotics laboratory where you’d enlisted your profession. Only when he’d tried to investigate further, he’d been drugged with Rapture by the CEO, and his attempt to revert his DNA back to its previous state was thwarted, resulting in…well, the monster of a genetic disaster that he was now, having to regularly utilize injecting a modified serum to tamp down the more feral aspects of the spider DNA slowly but surely attempting to overwrite his own.

His suit was technology you had developed. LYLA was a product of your collaboration with him. There were still sprinkles of you throughout his entire life, even though he’d buried you three years prior—the dimensional travel watch was spawned from the earliest prototypes that you had started, the Go-Home Machine adjacent technology, the anomaly analysis system—he couldn’t escape the ghosts of your influence no matter how much he tried.

Not that he wanted to. It was both torture and comfort to have you so close.

But losing you prematurely is what had spurred him to irrationality, upon discovering the neighboring universe where you’d lived instead and his alternative self had died—and the fact that you’d had Gabriella had broken what little resolve he’d tried to initially maintain. (Miguel didn’t want to think about the possibility that you might have been pregnant when you’d gone—he’d been vehemently avoiding the thought for years, and he’d continue to do so until the day he died because he wasn’t certain he could bear the confirmation of his worst fear.)

But his desperation to deny the multiverse of its cruel dictation of his life story had come back to bite him—he had paid the ultimate price for his negligence twice over.

Miguel squeezed his eyes shut against the hot sting threatening to spill over. He thought he’d been doing better—an incorrect assumption, evidently. The inconsistency of grief was what struck him blind every time. He’d known that he faced the likely possibility of running into another you going in to apprehend the anomaly, but…hearing your voice had nearly unmended him at the seams. Knowing he’d almost been too late to stop yet another you from getting killed…it had been all he could do to keep it together. Yes, he’d come across as dickish as a result—but if Jess knew how hard it had been to look at you (even if you weren’t his you) without falling at your knees, she’d understand why. He had to distance himself in order to spare both himself and this different version of you from the perpetual destruction that plagued him wherever he tread. He couldn’t lose you again. It would unmake him.

The rip of fabric tipped Miguel off that he’d accidentally perforated his pillowcase. Again. He groaned under his breath, curling himself further around the pillow wedged under his ribcage. The faintest whiffs of your old perfume clung to the cotton, and Miguel inhaled it greedily despite the sorrow that threatened to overcome him at the visceral memories it summoned behind his eyelids.

…He remembered that day in the picture clearly. You’d tasted like strawberries from the large bowl you’d eaten mostly by yourself, the sweetness and tartness lingering under your tongue. He could still feel the warmth of your hands on his face, your fingers carding through his hair as he’d rested in your lap while you read to him from your latest rom-com novel. You’d both ended up falling asleep for a few hours, exhausted from long shifts at work with increasingly demanding schedules, waking to the evening golden hour being overtaken by an ominous cumulonimbus. Halfway home the rain had started, and you’d both been soaked to the bone clambering into your shared apartment—and despite the chill, despite the wicker basket forever remaining warped from the overabundance of moisture, despite your recurring teasing over the years about his forecast research falling painfully short, you’d often recalled that day with unfathomable fondness.

He also remembered the desperation of his name on your lips when he’d found you after the explosion, already half-gone. You’d been terrified, confused—yet once you’d realized the inevitability of the situation, you’d circled around to comfort him instead. He’d never forgive himself for his own weakness preventing him from giving you peace, knowing he’d be all right as you’d slipped away, far beyond his mortal reach. (He wasn’t. But he’d wanted you to think he would be.)

That same desperation had tinged your alternate’s voice earlier. The terror, the confusion. He’d been fighting back tears at the agonizing recollection.

He let them spill, now, muffling himself into his pillow in a vain, feeble effort not to break the silence of his empty bedroom in his empty quarters that comprised his empty home.

…Maybe Jess had been right, after all, he thought later, once he’d had no more grief to shed. Face damp, eyes aching, head throbbing once more, he traced mindless patterns into the top sheet where you would have lain with his talon—always facing him, unless he’d managed to talk you into letting him hold you from behind. If this is how badly he felt from less than a minute’s worth of dialogue, how would you feel?

He did owe you an apology. And as much as the thought pained him, they did need more help around HQ. Miguel drifted into a fitful sleep, wondering if you looked any different under your mask.

[asimplearchivist]

𝓡𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ khonshu was unfamiliar with the concept of self-care, but it would seem that he's unexpectedly well-versed in others. pairing(s) ☽ khonshu/reader | promises kept!verse word count ☾ 2.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my fourth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for promises kept on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ this took a turn I didn't anticipate. khonshu kind of got away from me, tbh. have a flirty old bird I guess? (@angel-of-the-moons I feel like you might enjoy this one.🤭) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY ☽

What are you doing?

The rumbled words emerged from the shadows hemmed up in the corners of the bathroom more like a disinterested observation than a question.

“Would you care to take a guess?” you offered, opening your eyes and glancing towards the dimly lit silhouette having knelt in front of the door.

The warm, humid room was cramped and ill-suited for more than one person to occupy it at one time, but that fact didn’t seem to have stopped Khonshu from materializing at your side—likely in pursuit of tracking down your exact location since you weren’t in the living room or your bedroom like you usually were at this hour. It was a slow night in London, for once—the police channels had been quiet all evening, so you hadn’t felt the need to be prepared for the moon god’s urgent beck and call. Ru was winding down from school and homework with Lizzie watching her favorite baking show, and your portable speaker played music at the necessary volume to disguise your murmured responses to the lunar deity’s incredulity.

Bathing. In the dark. He tilted his skull. The electricity is not malfunctioning.

“It’s meant to be relaxing.” You raised a hand out of the steaming water to indicate the row of flickering candles lining the broad posterior lip of the tub flush against the wall. “And I can see perfectly well.”

He leaned forward, hands planted on his thighs not unlike a child, and you noticed that his staff was propped against the door frame. You are…self-soothing?

He must have picked up that term recently, as you’d definitely never heard him use it before. “Sort of. More like self-care. Liz offered to keep Ru entertained so I could get a breather until supper’s ready.”

Hmm. Khonshu sank back into his haunches. So you simmer yourself…and to what end?

You chuckled, pulling your legs up and folding your arms across the tops of your knees—modesty was a foreign concept to the ancient being, having associated with a culture that dwelled in the desert and thus rarely utilized complete coverings save to block the harshest of sunlight—and while you’d mostly grown accustomed to his penchant for invading your privacy at inopportune times, you didn’t particularly want to explain the entire premise to him with your chest on full display. “Hot water benefits the human body in many ways—relaxed muscles, improved moods, and the like—not to mention the positive effects of aromatherapy and inhalation of steam.”

Is that why you’re steeping a tea bag?

“It was a bathbomb wrapped in cloth with flowers and stuff in it—that’s why the water’s purple. It’s scented with lavender and chamomile. Smell it?”

How could I not? It has fumigated the entire room.

You shrugged. “At least it’s nice—better than BO, anyway.”

His shoulders scrunched in the only approximation of a frown you’d been able to determine. I see little point in any of this frivolity.

“Have you ever had a spa day, Khonshu?”

The inexpressive dimensions of his skull could not morph to adapt to his dripping dubiety, but it didn’t have to—his once uncanny stillness spoke enough to it.

“It’s nice,” you continued, ignoring his skeptical grunt. “With all those priests and priestesses fawning over you in your temples, I figured you’d have been pampered a time or two over the course of several thousand years.”

We were only allowed to interact directly with our avatars—we oftentimes utilized them as oracles, or spoke to the priesthood through statues, visions, dreams, or signs. Khonshu pushed his shoulders back. They would tend to our sculptures and reliefs as if they were our bodies, make offerings to them, enact rituals in our names, but…nothing quite like this.

“That’s a shame. I think a deep-tissue massage would do you a lot of good.” You reached for the exfoliator and the bar of soap and lathered up the perforated weave in order to scrub yourself so you’d at least look semi-productive. “Maybe some moisturization wouldn’t hurt…last time I saw your elbows, they looked crusty as hell.”

At first you thought you might actually have rendered him speechless, but you should have known better—another cursory peek in his direction revealed that he was merely observing.

I do recall a similar practice, he responded, tapering his beak down towards you, although it was generally utilized in preserving the khat of the mortals that journeyed west.

You rolled your eyes. “Of course. It wouldn’t offer you much of a vast improvement, then, huh? There’s not a whole lot I could do for a mummified bird.”

Khonshu scoffed, but said no more.

You began to wash your body in earnest, starting with your face, then moved down your neck, shoulders, arms, torso, pelvis, legs, and feet. You tried to reach around to tend to your back in the same way, but you winced as the action tugged at sore muscles beneath your shoulder blade—a scuffle with a carjacker the night before had resulted in him collapsed unconscious in the street, and you hadn’t trusted the police not to run him over in their haste to capture him (as well as a glimpse of you in their ever-persistent effort in pinning down the identity of their local do-gooder vigilante), so you’d had to drag him onto the sidewalk with…mixed results. The man had been big enough that he could have carried the car away with him, if the whim had so struck him, instead of hot-wiring it.

Allow me.

You startled as Khonshu’s hand curled over your arm to grasp the porous swatch of sudsy material. You watched, enraptured, as the gauze binding his flesh receded like sand slipping through an hourglass to reveal the pockmarked, ashen skin underneath—but you had only a glimpse before he withdrew with the stretched loofa.

Give me your back.

You twisted adjacent to the length of the tub and leaned forward obediently, deigning not to comment upon it. You supposed that wet wrappings wouldn’t be a pleasant sensation for anybody.

Khonshu imitated your earlier actions, although he was unexpectedly gentler. He dragged the loofa in rhythmic circles from the nape of your neck steadily down, from side to side, to the small of your back—then, to your continued surprise, he placed the fabric on your thigh before cupping his hands in the water and pouring it over your skin to wash away the suds. He then wiped away the rest, the roughened texture of his fingers softened by the soap and water, the pliability of your skin, although you noticed this touch lingered far longer.

You said nothing as he began to explore the typography of your spine and ribcage, seemingly subconsciously. To be such a hardass about almost everything, as well as an unforgiving sparring partner, you had almost forgotten how careful he could be. A foolish notion, really, as you were fully aware of how he treated Ru like porcelain on the verge of shattering—he always had. The methodicality of it lulled you into a trance-like state, your eyelids drooping as you leaned into both of his hands, now working in tandem to press and stroke the tension out of your muscles.

…When was the last time someone had touched you like this? You couldn’t recall. Your ex-husband hadn’t usually utilized this intimate a method of aftercare, even while you’d been trying for a baby. You’d been too busy with Ru and chores during the day to schedule an appointment, although you suspected that a deep-tissue would do you a world of good—Khonshu’s armor always healed your wounds if you wore it long enough, but it still often left you stiff if you’d hyperextended yourself during combat.

Khonshu dug the heel of his palm into that one incredibly tender catch under your shoulder blade. You sucked in a breath and winced, your entire back going rigid against the pain that lanced up into your neck. His displeased grunt was much closer to your ear than you’d anticipated, and you opened your eyes to glance up at him out of your periphery to see that he’d hunched over you.

You did not tell me that you were still in pain, he finally rumbled sternly. Why did you release the armor before you were healed?

“I am healed,” you told him, “just a little sore. It’s normal. I guess it doesn’t stitch everything back together exactly where it was before.”

He grumbled in refutation, but tapped his fingertips against the arch of your spine. Relax. It will only grow worse if you are tense.

“It’s not exactly—comfortable!” you squeaked, jerked forward to avoid the insistent digging of his fingers.

Of all the methods he could have used to steady you, reaching up and curling the length of his hand around the column of your throat was decidedly not what you would ever have expected. Your pulse leapt against the perfectly measured, unoppressive pressure he applied, and—in spite of the copious amount of heat flooding your face—you had to admit that it worked to keep you as still as a statue.

An inexplicable warmth—tingly like the slow creep of magic his armor provided to alleviate your wounds, but far more concentrated (and if you didn’t know any better, you’d have remarked that it almost felt like lidocaine)—wreathed his free hand as he began to knead the tightness out of the problem spot. You groaned softly as he did so, the vibration of the sound resonating through his hand and tickling your throat in turn, squeezing your eyes shut as you twitched on reflex to avoid the pain. Even with his magic’s numbing ability, the injury must have been worse than you’d initially anticipated because it swept right around the curve of your ribs and under—

“Hey!” you gasped, lurching away from those long, beguiling fingers as he followed the muscle to your torso and almost brushed the underside of your breast. This caused the blade of his palm to dig into your jugular, pitching your voice into a broken, if muffled, squeal. “Whoa, watch it—that’s off-limits!”

You’ve a rib out of place, he deadpanned.

“I could have my sacrum detached from my pelvic girdle, but that doesn’t mean I’d let you fondle my ass to fix it, either,” you hissed, trying to pull away, in vain.

Why must you be so stubborn? he groused, pressing his palm into your side directly over the rib in question. His soothing power sank into your body, and you had a hard time resisting the relief it brought. I had no intention of groping you.

You’d thought your face couldn’t grow any hotter, but you were promptly proven wrong. You told yourself that it was strictly the proximity of another person that was causing your uncontrollable reaction, that it had been years since the last time you’d been in such a compromising and vulnerable situation, not that it was Khonshu specifically. (You had always been shit at lying, even to yourself, admittedly.) “I, uh…sorry. Just…wasn’t expecting that.”

I did not mean to startle you. The curve of his beak descended over the slope of your opposite shoulder and the golden, emblematic crescent moon bound over his chest brushed against your back. …Just know that if I ever touched you in such a manner, there is no question that you would be anticipating it, Srit mwt.

You mouthed a curse and dropped your head as much as you could manage with him still holding you in place in hopes to hide your utter mortification. He should not have been having this effect on you. Khonshu was many things, but sexual was not a word you had mentally associated with him at any point.

You remembered, idly, that your research into his mythos had revealed that he was regarded as a god of fertility.

“Uh-huh,” you responded lamely, swallowing and surrendering to him just so that it would be over sooner. You’d planned on soaking for a while after washing up to enjoy the hot water, but now all you wanted to do was curl up in bed and scream into your pillow until your heart stopped drumming itself into a tattoo against the inside of your thoracic cavity.

Then the god of the moon had the the nerve—the fucking gall—to chuckle; a low, raspy noise that carried into your ribcage like a subwoofer ricocheted sound through a vehicle. You needn’t worry. I do not extend such invitations lightly…and I am not particularly inclined to commence anything that could not be completed.

Fuck. Honestly.

You were familiar with the banter the pair of you had shared over the years of serving as his avatar, but you’d never known him to…was he flirting with you, or were you imagining things? Surely not. He despised humans, humanity in general, thought himself above mere mortals to the point that he only associated with whomever he’d selected to be his Fist at any given time (as far as you were aware, anyway).

This was new. It was foreign and unexpected and completely out of character for him. Just when you’d thought you had pinned down his personality, he’d gone and revealed another aspect of himself—like a phase of the celestial body he represented. It didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se (quite the opposite, in fact, if you were to be totally honest with yourself; you’d made somewhat suggestive remarks to him in passing before, mostly for humor’s sake, but he’d never before responded in kind), but it was disarming you in a way for which you never could have prepared yourself.

He had seen you naked before—numerous times, in fact, much to your chagrin, since he couldn’t be bothered to at least knock on something before he appeared out of thin air—but he’d never acted like he’d even noticed your body, nor had he ever cared about the modern concept of modesty. You’d learned to live with it, had grown accustomed to him appearing at the most inopportune of moments. You’d just assumed that he might not even feel any attraction whatsoever, or at least not towards you.

Was that assumption incorrect? Had you misread his body language all this time? Was he just worryingly skilled at hiding any reactions he could have had? You hadn’t a clue—you didn’t know what to think, especially since you swore you could feel each individual crease on his cool, coarse palms against your heated flesh. He was a dominant entity, controlling out of necessity given the nature of his creed, but you’d never thought that it could carry over into a context quite like this.

…Of course, you’d never thought he’d offer to help you bathe, either, but here you were: naked, wet, and as vulnerable as one could be, trying very hard to hide exactly what he was doing to you simply by touching you comparatively chastely in sharp contrast to what the tone of his voice might have indicated.

You cleared your throat, realizing that you’d been quite a little too long. You could almost hear his smug grin—if he were even capable of displaying it in his primary, decayed shape. “...Thanks. For the…for the help. I feel a lot better now.”

Impatient, as always, he tutted. Just a moment.

“No, really, I’m good, you’ve worked your ma—gic!”

The sharp, high noise that escaped you as his hand compressed your rib and set it back in place with a dull click was worse than you could’ve imagined. Khonshu, mercifully, withdrew as quickly as he’d approached, leaving you reeling and dazed. You sucked in a breath, gritting your teeth against the urge to cringe, and probed your side experimentally.

There. That wasn’t so bad, now was it, hmm?

“If you weren’t a literal deity that could smite me from this plane of existence, I would offer you some very choice words on the quality of your bedside manner.”

That has never restricted you before. Khonshu’s spindly form creaked as he stood and straightened to his full height (or as close to it as was possible, given the bathroom’s low ceiling), leaving you shivering in the humid air he stirred in his wake. Although I doubt you will complain that I finished the job that you failed to allow the armor to finish.

“Well,” you started indignantly, “I guess I can count on you to finish everything I don’t, then, huh?”

A beat of silence passed, and that was arguably worse than anything he could’ve said in reply.

You dropped your head into your hands and groaned. “Forget I said that.”

He had the audacity to laugh at you. Should you ever require assistance, he crooned, all you need do is to call my name. I will hear you at any time or place.

You reached a hand back to deliver him a solitary finger, refraining from the urge to crawl into the drain and drown yourself. “I think I’ve had about enough of you tonight, thanks.”

If that’s all you can take, then I worry that you couldn’t—

“Shut,” you ground out, “the fuck up.”

Khonshu laughed as he slipped back into whatever the hell sort of fifth dimension he lived in when he wasn’t plaguing you with his insufferability.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓒𝓞𝓝𝓢𝓣𝓔𝓛𝓛𝓐𝓣𝓘𝓞𝓝𝓢 . ’ | 𝓜𝓐𝓢𝓣𝓔𝓡𝓟𝓞𝓢𝓣

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 ☾ ⤏ everything you thought you knew will fall apart. 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockey/reader 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ☾ mental health issues, anxiety, panic attacks, depression, (inaccurate/canon-accurate depictions of) dissociative identity disorder, sleep deprivation, mental breakdown, self-esteem/worth issues, insecurity, (background/canonical/minor) character death, divorce, robbery, breaking and entering, (canon-typical/gun) violence, tension, suspense, blood and (minor/head) injury, police, ambushes and sneak attacks, chases, arguing, kidnapping, attempted murder, concussions, confrontations...[more tags to be added] 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼 ☽ canon compliant, pre-canon, post-canon, angst with a happy ending, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, first meetings, love at first sight, coffee shops, bookstores, friends to lovers, meet-cute, ancient egypt(ian literature & mythology/deities), self-indulgent, therapy, cooking, established relationship, domestic fluff, denial of feelings, dancing, worry, investigations, texting, first aid, first meetings...[more tags to be added]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈  ☥ ‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈  ☥ ‘ 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓽 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ☥ ‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 ☥ ‘ 𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭 . ’ [𝓣𝓑𝓐]

[asimplearchivist]

☽ 𝕄𝕆𝕆ℕ 𝕂ℕ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋 𝕄𝔸𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝℙ𝕆𝕊𝕋 ☾

☾ 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ☽ ☽ [header(s) credit] | [divider(s) credit] ☾ ☾ Follow @asimplearchive and turn on notifications for updates! ☽

‘ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓 . ’ | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓

[ AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST ] 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ⤏ (Khonshu/SingleMom!Avatar!Reader) 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 ⤏ Khonshu possesses as many facets of divine responsibilities as the moon has its phases—a warden of protection and vengeance has been his primary identity for centuries. In addition, one might add, he patrons fertility and childbirth. However, fatherhood is another matter entirely. 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ⤏ dubcon (only in first chapter), cheating/unfaithfulness (not performed by reader), mild/implied/referenced sex(ual content), infertility, divorce, labor/childbirth complications (non-graphic), near death experience(s), gun violence, gunshot wounds, mild gore, blood and (minor) injury, mental breakdown(s), death threats, intimidation, jealousy, possessive behavior…[more tags to be added] 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼 ⤏ canon compliant, pre-canon, angst, (domestic/tooth-rotting/family) fluff, hurt/comfort, (attempts at) humor, pining, slow burn, eventual romance/relationships, strangers to lovers, (magical) (unplanned) pregnancy, kidfic, ancient egyptian literature & mythology (references), protectiveness, vulnerability, miscommunication, banter, (denial of) feelings (realization), holiday/Christmas fluff, ballroom dancing…[more tags to be added]

☽ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ☾

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈  ☥ [𓅘𓏏] (‘𝓷𝓗𝓽’ | 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂𝓮𝓻, 𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓱)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈 ☥ [𓋩𓏏] (‘𝔁𝓽𝓶𝓽’ | 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ☥ [𓂋𓎨] (‘𝓻𝓱𝓷’ | 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓽 [𝓲𝓷])

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 ☥ [𓈐𓊪𓇋𓇋𓅱] (‘𝓱𝓻𝓹𝔂𝔀’ | 𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓭, 𝓭𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷𝓮𝓭)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕 ☥ [𓂧𓁷𓏏] (‘𝓭𝓗𝓻𝓽’ | 𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈 ☥ [𓎿𓇋𓇋𓏏] (‘𝓗𝓼𝔂𝓽’ | 𝓯𝓪𝓿𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓭)

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈𝐈 ☥ [] (‘ ’ | ???) {𝐓𝐁𝐀}

‘ 𝓒𝓞𝓝𝓢𝓣𝓔𝓛𝓛𝓐𝓣𝓘𝓞𝓝𝓢 . ’ | 𝓜𝓐𝓢𝓣𝓔𝓡𝓟𝓞𝓢𝓣

[ AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST ] 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ⤏ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 ⤏ everything you thought you knew will fall apart. 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ⤏ mental health issues, anxiety, panic attacks, depression, (inaccurate/canon-accurate depictions of) dissociative identity disorder, sleep deprivation, mental breakdown, self-esteem/worth issues, insecurity, (background/canonical/minor) character death, divorce, robbery, breaking and entering, canon-typical violence, tension, suspense, blood and (minor) injury, police, ambushes and sneak attacks, chases, arguing, kidnapping, attempted murder, concussions, confrontations...[more tags to be added] 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼 ⤏ canon compliant, pre-canon, post-canon, angst with a happy ending, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, first meetings, love at first sight, coffee shops, bookstores, friends to lovers, meet-cute, ancient egypt(ian literature & mythology/deities), self-indulgent, therapy, cooking, established relationship, domestic fluff, denial of feelings, dancing, worry, investigations, texting, first aid, first meetings...[more tags to be added]

☽ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ☾

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈  ☥ ‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈  ☥ ‘ 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓯𝓵𝓪𝓽 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ☥ ‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 ☥ ‘ 𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭 . ’ [𝓣𝓑𝓐]

𝕄𝕆𝕆ℕ 𝕂ℕ𝕀𝔾ℍ𝕋 𝔼𝕍𝔼ℕ𝕋 | 𝕄𝔸𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝℙ𝕆𝕊𝕋

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼) ⤏ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader ||| khonshu/reader 𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 ⤏ all of my entries for the ‘23-'24 bingo event found here: @moonknight-events, hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch! :) 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ⤏ …[more tags to be added] 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼 ⤏ …[more tags to be added]

𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺

☾ “𝓘𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓽?” ☥ [jake lockley/reader-centric | constellations!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓢𝓹𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 ☥ [steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓮 ☥ [marc spector/reader-centric | constellations!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓡𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵 ☥ [khonshu/reader | promises kept!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓢𝓪𝓭 𝓔𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 ☥ [jake lockley/reader-centric | constellations!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼 ☥ [steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse] ☽

☾ 𝓗𝓲𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 ☥ [marc spector/reader | constellations!verse] ☽ [TBA]

[asimplearchivist]

' 𝕐𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝔽𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 '

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ✴ ⤏ when the kids grow restless during the weekend, you entreat optimus to take the group of you out for 'educational' purposes—all goes well until a thunderstorm strikes, but it could have resulted worse. pairing ✴ tfp!optimus prime/reader word count ✴ 15.1k a/n ✴ ⤏ I’ve never actually been to sequoia national park, but I read up on it a little and found out you can’t just camp anywhere in the park - but for the sake of this fanfic, I’m going to tweak it a little. thus is the beauty of fanfiction, I suppose. also, since it’s kind of in the middle of the school year, there’s not a lot of people visiting the park so optimus has more leniency on not being confined to his altmode than he would normally (plus he has scanners that would detect anyone nearby). ⤏ on a smaller note, ‘s’mol’lis’ is derived from latin ‘mollis solis’, which means ‘soft sunlight’. because cybertronian (at least according to fanon, which I accept as canon) uses a lot of adjective strings describing the word they’re saying all at the same time on different frequencies (see: the masterpiece that is Fortuna Primigenia by SS_Shitstorm), it might be difficult to derive every meaning from hearing it, especially taking into account the fact that we can neither hear all the frequencies they use nor fully understand their language to begin with, but this is can be taken as the full meaning of the word even though it’s technically a descriptor. consider it a term of endearment that’s really subtle but not really a term of endearment at the same time - it’s just how optimus sees you. I also picked latin because that’s what many of the names are derived from and it’s just convenient as well as ancient/alien-sounding when you tweak it a little. ⤏ now that I think about it, this oneshot has a lot of similarities to FP, actually…consider it an homage of sorts, since it’s been my most recent reread of it that inspired me enough to finish this old thing. :) the poem referenced is ‘Serenade’ by Mary Weston Fordham!

“Truth or dare.”

“Um...truth.”

Miko groaned. “You’ve been picking truth this whole time!”

Raf shifted nervously, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he glanced at Miko from his laptop. “You made Jack lick the floor.”

“He’s got a point,” you said, looking up from your textbook.

Miko groaned a little louder, folding her arms and pouting. “You guys are no fun.”

“No one likes licking the floor, Miko. And I would hope you don’t.” You jotted down a definition in your notebook. “He’s still brushing his teeth. He’s been in there for ten minutes.”

“Of course no one does! That’s the point!” the girl cried, her bangs falling into her face. She brushed them behind her ear with an irritated huff. “Fine. What’s a place you want to go to?”

Raf perked up a bit at this, seemingly relieved that it was a relatively tame question from the Japanese girl. “Oh, uh...well, Italy is up there, since that’s where my family is from...but one of my cousins went to Yosemite and he said it was really pretty there. I’d love to see the trees.”

“Yeah, that’s always been on my bucket list, too,” you admitted. You reached for one of the highlighters strewn on the couch cushion next to you, marking an important quote on the page. “I read that they get up to two hundred and fifty feet.” Miko’s eyes rounded. “Wow, that’s like...fifty Optimuses!”

“Only about eight,” Raf corrected, “and it would be Optimi, since his name is derived from Latin the way we understand it, but yeah. Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Miko stuck her tongue out at the boy, and you chuckled softly. “What about you, Miko? Got anywhere you want to visit?”

“Besides Cybertron?” she quipped, casting a glance towards the groundbridge looming far behind you. “Not really. I’ve been to most places I’ve wanted to go already.”

“By sneaking in through a groundbridge,” Jack grumbled from the stairwell. He still looked worryingly pale, a stark ivory against his jet-black hair.

Your brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, raising a palm and sinking into the couch between you and Raf, jumping and scooping the writing supplies towards you. “Remind me next time why I won’t play truth or dare with Miko ever again.”

“Hey!” she cried, and you rolled your eyes with a fond smile.

“Let him lie, Miko. He’s just had a traumatic experience. Who knows what’s been on these floors.”

She huffed, but seemed to drop it nevertheless. She turned her attention to you. “What about you? Truth or dare?”

“You already know my answer,” you responded.

The girl growled. “I might start playing with ‘Bee. He’s more fun.” She tilted her head, rubbing at her chin as Jack muttered a quiet ‘you mean more gullible’ that she, thankfully, didn’t hear. She shot Raf a look when he snickered, though. “Hmm…what about...nah.” She pursed her lips and studied you intensely, as though she were trying to read your mind. You felt dread begin to bubble low in your belly. “Do you...oh!” She straightened sharply, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Do you have a crush on anybody?”

You stilled, feeling your stomach grow cold and leaden. You tried to play off your hesitation by giving her a pointed glance before returning your attention to your homework. “No.”

Unfortunately, the girl was better at reading people than you’d hoped. An absolute shit-eating grin twisted her face and she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oooh, you dooo!”

“I do not,” you tried again, but you felt your face betray you by warming at her accusation. Dammit, self.

Your denial only served to excite her further. “Oh my god - who is it? Is it someone at school? Someone in your class? Is he hot?”

“Miko!” Jack reprimanded, looking like he was suffering from secondhand embarrassment. He gave her a scandalized glare. “Leave her alone. She said she doesn’t.”

“But she’s blushing!” the girl insisted, gesturing towards your face. You ducked your head on reflex. “You only blush when you’re guilty!”

“It’s because you keep heckling her!” Jack persisted.

“Like you’re one to talk, lover boy!” Miko crooned. “‘Oh, ‘Sierra’ this, ‘Sierra’ that - you’re no better than a girl!” She froze, then nearly gave herself whiplash looking back at you. “Oh! Is it the guy on the track team? I saw him talking to you during lunch the other day!”

“He was asking for my chemistry notes because he couldn’t be bothered to take them himself,” you deadpanned.

“Still! Isn’t that how every high school rom-com starts out? Hot jock asks all-A’s nerd for her notes and they end up plastered over the hood of his car by the end of the movie?”

“Miko!” Jack exclaimed, leaning protectively over Raf, whose cheeks had turned bright red. He looked like he was trying to melt behind the safety of his laptop screen. “Stop that!”

“What?” she demanded. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You tried to will away the blush saturating your cheeks. “That doesn’t mean you should - just chill, Miko, I don’t have a crush on anyone at school.”

Unfortunately, you seemed to have only shot yourself in the foot. Miko began to vibrate in earnest, and some distant aspect in the back of your mind that had a maternal love for the girl was worried that she would hit a frequency that would make her phase through the loveseat. “So you do have a crush on someone!” she squealed.

“Would you four quiet down?” Ratchet hollered from the computer terminal. “Some of us are trying to retain our hearing, you know!”

“Afraid of losing it, Docbot?” Miko called back, making you choke on your own spit.

“What?”

“Shut up, Miko,” Jack hissed, ducking his head to avoid the fire cast your way by blazing cyan optics. “Just shut up.”

“Sorry!” you called, crossing your toes within your shoes. You hadn’t written your will yet.

Fortunately, Ratchet didn’t seem too particularly inclined to commit homicide that day, and only gave Miko a hard look before returning his attention to his work with a low grumble of what could’ve been Cybertronian.

You looked back at Miko with furrowed brows and pursed lips, scolding her with your eyes. She shrugged with a smug smile.

“Anyway,” you pressed, “I don’t have a crush on anyone right now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly drop the subject.”

“Fine,” she groaned dramatically. “But I will find out who it is eventually.”

You rolled your eyes again at her insistence, deciding to be the bigger person and refocus on your homework. The four of you lapsed into silence for a long while, the scratch of your pencil and the clicking from Raf’s keyboard filling the silence with a familiar ambiance. Jack seemed to be enduring an existential crisis from the horror he’d experienced (despite the fact that he had willingly taken part of it at Miko’s challenge), but you had the bad sense that Miko was plotting because she was being too quiet, even if she had resumed scratching in her sketchpad with a bright pink pencil.

It was never a good thing for Miko to be quiet.

Distantly, you heard the door of the silo crank open, followed by the deep, familiar rumble of the local Prime’s engine. You perked up and peered over the back of the couch, watching him emerge into the hangar and slow to a smooth stop. He transformed, but while you tried to follow all the moving parts, your eyes failed you. You were sure it would never cease to amaze you.

“Hi, Optimus!” Raf called in greeting, catching his attention. As he drew up to his full height, he regarded the four of you with warm optics and that familiar barely-there smile, returning the sentiment. You cast him a small grin before returning to your studies.

“Did you find anything?” you heard Ratchet ask him.

“Unfortunately not,” rumbled the Prime. You counted his footsteps until he stopped (likely near the medic) - five heavy, even thuds of metal on concrete. “The signals I did track only led to small deposits that are still forming. I saved the coordinates for later observation.”

Ratchet hummed, and you heard him drumming his digit tips on the hollow kibble of his forearm. “We’ve got enough to last two weeks, give or take, not accounting for emergencies. I’d advise checking our usual deposits within the next few days.”

“Noted.” There was a long pause. You could swear you felt your ears burning, but it faded almost as soon as you noticed it. “Where are the others?”

“Patrol. They’re trying to put off their bimonthly physicals,” the medic scoffed. “You’re the ever-noble leader - would you care to set a good example?”

Optimus let out a low hum, but you were surprised to notice that he didn’t sound very pleased. If you dared to consider it, it almost sounded as though he was filled with dread. Nevertheless, he responded, “Of course, old friend.”

He must not like doctor’s appointments, either. Relatable.

“I’ve been meaning to check the pneumatics in your shoulders and upper spinal strut,” Ratchet said absently, and you heard him clicking on the computer console. You glanced over your shoulder and saw that he’d moved over to the monitor he used for medical readouts, squinting and noticing that he was bringing up schematics of Optimus’ frame. “Ever since that incident in the last energon mine, I’ve noticed you’re not lifting as much as you usually do.”

“There is a lingering ache,” Optimus acquiesced quietly, as though hesitant to admit it. “Do you suspect there is some damage?”

“Possibly. You weren’t built a weight-lifting frame type by any means - the fact you held nearly the entirety of the cave ceiling up for as long as you did was by a pure miracle. You certainly aren’t Bulkhead.” Ratchet stroked his chin briefly, then pointed to the rotator joints connecting Optimus’ arms to the concave cuffs that housed them. “I suspect you might have strained the cabling, at the least. That would be the easiest to fix. If there’s a tear in the joint itself, I’ll have to patch it and you’ll have to rehabilitate.”

“I don’t feel the damage is that severe,” Optimus responded almost immediately.

Also doesn’t like being under the knife, you observed sympathetically.

Then an idea occurred to you, and you didn’t stop to consider the pros and cons of it before you spoke up.

“Do you mind if I sit and watch?” you called to Ratchet, catching both mechs and the other kids’ attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask you more about Cybertronian physiology, but it kept slipping my mind.”

Almost as soon as Ratchet opened his mouth, probably to refuse your request if you knew him well at all, Optimus’ optics brightened minutely. “Of course.”

“Optimus,” Ratchet started, staring at him askance. “You realize it will be incredibly invasive - I need to check the integrity of your sparkchamber, among other things-”

“You can prioritize around that, can you not?” the Prime inquired evenly. “It wouldn’t hurt for her to observe everything else. She could depart whenever it came to that.” Optimus cast a look at you, pointed and appraising. “Correct?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, catching the medic’s optics. “I’ll leave when you get to the nitty-gritty stuff.”

Ratchet’s mouth worked wordlessly, optics flickering as he gesticulated in half-aborted movements (such a hand-talker, he was). When it was apparent that he wasn’t going to win the argument (if one could even call it that - he’d been in checkmate the moment Optimus had given you his blessing), the medic ex-vented heavily and cast his optics towards the ceiling. “Very well. But only you can observe,” he pressed with a firm look to Miko, “and for the love of Primus don’t distract me with any lead-helmed questions. It takes long enough to perform physicals without an observer.” He paused, then mumbled to himself, “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“You needn’t fix it if it isn’t broken,” Optimus pointed out, and you spotted the subtle curve on the corner of his mouth.

Ratchet shook his helm, grumbling low in his chassis, and started towards the corridor. He made a beckoning gesture over his pauldron, and Optimus cast you a glance before following. You smiled giddily and set your homework aside, hurrying across the mezzanine and down the stairwell. You thought you might’ve heard one of the kids snickering, but you were too caught up in your excitement to take true notice of it.

Read the rest of the chapter here! :)