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sarahghetti · 7 months

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moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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simply-ivanka · 8 days

Text

If Taylor Swift Had Endorsed Donald Trump

Democrats would scorn her business savvy, cap her ticket prices, and fret over her huge carbon footprint.

Wall Street Journal

By Allysia Finley

Forbes estimates Taylor Swift’s net worth at $1.3 billion. Despite her liberal leanings, the singer-songwriter has amassed her wealth the old-fashioned way: through hard work, talent and business savvy. Her endorsement of Kamala Harris last week is rich considering she owes her success to the capitalist system the vice president wants to tear down.

“The way I see it, fans view music the way they view their relationships,” Ms. Swift wrote in a 2014 piece for the Journal. “Some music is just for fun, a passing fling. . . . Some songs and albums represent seasons of our lives, like relationships that we hold dear in our memories but had their time and place in the past. However, some artists will be like finding ‘the one.’ ” She has become “the one” for hundreds of millions of fans worldwide with lyrics that chronicle relationship woes women commonly experience.

Ms. Swift took advantage of her ardent fan base in 2014 by removing her catalog from Spotify in a bid for higher royalties. “Valuable things should be paid for. It’s my opinion that music should not be free,” she explained. “My hope for the future, not just in the music industry, but in every young girl I meet, . . . is that they all realize their worth and ask for it.”

She also criticized Apple Music for not paying artists during the streaming service’s free trial, prompting the company to change its policy. As she jeers in a hit song, “Who’s afraid of little old me?” Apparently, Big Tech companies.

Last year she reportedly raked in $200 million from streaming royalties on top of the estimated $15.8 million she grossed per performance during her recent “Eras” tour. Some fans have shelled out thousands of dollars on the resale market to see Ms. Swift perform. Americans have even traveled to Europe when they couldn’t get tickets in the U.S.

Her fan base may be more loyal and enthusiastic than Donald Trump’s. JD Vance scoffed at the idea that the star’s endorsement of Ms. Harris could influence the outcome of the election. The “billionaire celebrity,” he said, is “fundamentally disconnected from the interests and the problems of most Americans.” Maybe, but she certainly taps into the problems of young women.

Democrats hope to use Ms. Swift’s endorsement to drive them to the polls. But it isn’t difficult to imagine what the left would be saying about her had she endorsed the Republican antihero. It might go something like this:

The billionaire has gotten rich by ripping off fans, avoiding taxes and harming competitors. Time for the government to break her up. Unlike rival artists, Ms. Swift writes, performs and owns her compositions. This vertical integration allows her to charge exorbitant royalties and ticket prices.

Tickets for her “Eras” tour on average cost about $240. That’s merely the price for admission—not including food, drink or Swiftie swag. VIP passes that include memorabilia go for $899. How dare she make young women choose between paying for groceries or rent and going to a concert.

The Federal Trade Commission must cap Ms. Swift’s ticket prices at a reasonable price—say, $20—and ban her junk fees. Concertgoers shouldn’t have to pay $65 for an “I Love You It’s Ruining My Life” sweatshirt.

Her romance with Kansas City Chiefs tight end Travis Kelce also unfairly boosts their star power, letting them charge more for endorsements. As Ms. Swift writes in one song, “two is better than one.” Mr. Kelce reportedly signed a $100 million podcast deal with Amazon’s Wonderly. By breaking up the couple, the government could reduce their royalties and ticket prices.

Ms. Swift, the self-described “mastermind,” also dodges taxes on her “full income,” which includes some $125 million in real estate and a music catalog worth an estimated $600 million. “They said I was a cheat, I guess it must be true,” Ms. Swift acknowledges in her song “Florida!!!”

Under the Biden-Harris administration’s proposed billionaire’s tax, she would have to pay a 25% levy on the $1 billion increase in her fortune since 2017. But that isn’t enough. Ms. Swift should also have to pay taxes on the appreciating value of her “name, image and likeness,” which the Internal Revenue Service considers an asset.

How much is her brand worth? Easily billions. She might say, as she does in a song, that her “reputation has never been worse.” True, Miss Americana’s image took a hit after reports that her private-jet travel in 2022 emitted 576 times as much CO2 as the average American in a year. When Ms. Swift sings, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” she’s correct. She and her fat-cat friends are what’s wrong with America.

Appeared in the September 16, 2024, print edition as 'If Taylor Swift Had Endorsed Donald Trump'.

#Taylor Swift #swifites #eras tour london #TS13 #trump #president trump #trump 2024 #repost #donald trump #america first

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sky-kiss · 10 months

Note

If you're not already too busy, how about the opposite of that Raphael solo prompt? How about Tav masturbating while thinking about Raphael? Any gender of your choice! :D

A/N: Ahahaha, companion piece to this fic. Hiding it under...Raphael's face? I mean. It's what they're thinking about.

GN TAV Solo: The Devil's Saying, "It's Free Real Estate."

The heat of his skin lingers long after they’ve taken their leave from the Devil’s Den. It’s the first time he’s touched them in all the time they’ve known one another; the reaction is immediate—a surge of electric and liquid heat chasing through the hand and up their forearm. Tav shivers at the memory, shifting in their bed. After months on the road, the mattress feels fundamentally strange, the silence even stranger. There were no insects, no cries of animals in the distance…just the gentle breathing of their companions.

Silence. It’s simultaneously more and less private. They find themselves longing for the privacy of their tent and sleeping furs. Tav chews the inside of their cheek, shifting uncomfortably. They feel him, hear his voice in their head.

Wicked little thing, wanting what they couldn’t have. Why, he could almost respect it.

Tav shivers, hand skating down their belly. It feels like an eventuality, months spent resisting building to this inevitable conclusion. They could pretend before. It was Raphael, teasing, dark as any devil; his interest did not extend beyond the professional.

The touch proved otherwise. Cherries, musk, and sulfur hang in their nose, and Tav hisses, stroking themselves lazily. The Raphael in their head chuckles, the richness of the song making them jerk against their touch.

Good, mouse. Slower. Savor this. What is life without the thrill of expectation? And the hunt.

Tav tries to picture him here with them. Using his mouth or his hands on them. His dark head bent low over their body…but the image is hazy, almost out of character. He shifts in the theater of their imagination, seated beside them on the edge of the mattress, watching them with hooded eyes and a condescending smirk. That’s better. His fingers skated down their torso, back up to stroke the column of Tav’s throat. He’ll linger at their pulse, applying pressure. Just enough to make the world lose its edges.

A pity about the Invasion…it must take precedence. After? After you are fair game, sweetling, your Raphael bends low, pressing his lips to your ear, hot breath gusting across your skin. His palm presses over your heart, enough latent strength to register as a threat. He could break the bone, kill you if it suited him. Would you like that? I would have you just like this. Spread out for me in my House of Hope.

The pressure builds, pleasing pooling in their belly, liquid. Raphael smiles down at them, tsking. In their head, he threads their fingers together, working them harder, insistent and demanding. Tav rocks into touch, biting their cheek hard enough to hurt, willing themselves to stay silent. They come with a wordless cry, muscles pulling taut.

The image of Raphael leaned over them, smug and satisfied, burning behind Tav’s eyes. They turn their face into their pillow, stifling a groan. The ache, the want, remains.

It’s more than they want to think about.

#bg3 tav #raphael x tav #bg3 raphael #asks #bg3 smut

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unpredictable-probabilities · 2 months

Text

General Gadling and the Night Vessels || Chapter 2: Dancing Around Secrets

Summary:

In an effort to distance himself from his growing feelings of conflict about a certain pirate captain, Hob attends a nobleman's gala far from the village.

But then he runs into a familiar face, and what was meant to be a reprieve was now an endeavour to seek answers through sweet-laced words and veiled intentions.

Word Count: 4,436

Notes:

For Sandmanniversary 2024 | Prompt: Secrets

[Read on AO3]

———

Hob stepped through the wide doorway of Fawney Rig, the sounds of chatter and soft violin music reaching his ears.

He was supposed to assign a few soldiers to this party, tasked to wear civilian clothing that would blend in with the upper class, on standby if ever something were to go awry. He decided to join those soldiers, who had now dispersed among the crowd.

He was commended for volunteering in what was a common and menial assignment despite being a general, and he had responded with a polite nod and some words that he didn’t even remember anymore.

A waiter carrying a tray of drinks passed by, and after asking which one didn’t have alcohol, Hob took a glass and sipped from it before walking deeper into the party.

It had been a week since the pirates attacked the docks, and still there was no sign of The Corinthian being rescued. The pirate had befriended his fellow prisoners—common thieves and thugs—and seemed quite comfortable, the easy smile often on his face. Hob hadn’t spoken to him again after that first time when he told the pirate that his captain was alive and free. Hob knew that The Corinthian had a suspicion that he had something to do with the pirate captain’s freedom, and it was not something Hob wanted to discuss. Even so, Hob had grown restless, certain that the rest of the crew would launch a rescue attempt but not knowing when.

So when the opportunity presented itself, he took an assignment that would put him somewhere else, leaving Officer Hector in charge of the jail. Hob could rely on that man to keep watch over the prisoners without fearing that he would mistreat or torture information out of them, and more importantly, Officer Hector would have no problem leading the soldiers in capturing Dream and his crew.

Dream. That really was how Hob was referring to the pirate captain now in the privacy of his mind. ‘Nightmare King’ still felt wrong, after everything Hob learned of him.

And it was this very conflict that put him here in the estate of Roderick Burgess, keeping watch over a party instead of the very real threat of the pirate crew.

It was cowardly, but it was also the only option Hob had thought to take in order not to compromise the capture of the notorious pirate captain. No matter what that man did to help Hob, he had still broken the law by having his crew set fire to a ship. And some paperwork had been stolen from the governor’s house that same night, which led the officers to believe that the explosion at the docks was merely a distraction.

The pirate captain needed to be imprisoned. That was that. And Hob might only get in the way. It would be better for him to keep taking assignments elsewhere until the attempt to rescue The Corinthian happened, regardless of its success.

“Officer Gadling!” a woman’s voice caught his attention.

Hob turned to see Lady Constantine waving him over; she was with two noblemen and one lady, standing around in a loose circle. He nodded a polite greeting and made his way over. Some conversation should take his mind off his worries.

“I heard you’re a general now,” Lady Constantine said playfully when Hob reached their group, settling between the two noblemen. “Seems only yesterday you were just a guard at my birthday parties. You have my congratulations.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Hob replied with a polite smile. “I’m newly appointed, and can only hope to be as good a general as my predecessors.”

“Hm. Though hopefully not as bad as some of them,” Lady Constantine laughed demurely, and before Hob could ask what she meant, the conversation moved forward. “Oh, but I’m forgetting my manners. General Gadling, this is Lord Morpheus Oneiros,” she held up a palm to the nobleman standing to Hob’s right. “He is here as my guest. And of course you’ve already met Lord Westmore and Lady Drisdall,” she gestured to the man on Hob’s left and the woman on her right.

Hob gave them a nod, and turned to look at the nobleman beside him; a flash of familiarity crossed his mind, though he couldn’t place it.

“Good day, General Gadling,” Lord Oneiros’ voice was surprisingly deep and soft. He was holding a glass of drink like the rest of them, and his midnight hair was neatly tied back with a black ribbon.

“An honour to meet you, Lord Oneiros,” Hob said respectfully. He had probably seen the nobleman in some event or other on which he had kept watch back then. Lord Oneiros had a fair face and soft yet angular features that would have turned Hob’s head had they met when they were younger, before being an officer compelled Hob to keep any attraction to other men to himself.

“What business does a general have doing a common soldier’s task?” Lord Oneiros asked curiously, taking him out of his musings. “Is there a particular danger we must be wary of?” he looked around the room.

A panicked murmur began to rise among the nobles.

“No, my lord,” Hob hurriedly said. “I simply wished to personally keep an eye on my men. As a new general, it would not do if one of the soldiers under my command took a misstep and I was not there to immediately remedy it.” He didn’t expect his presence to be questioned at all, but it seemed like Lord Oneiros was more knowledgeable than other nobles.

The group relaxed, and Lady Constantine seemed bemused at their reaction.

“Shouldn’t you be keeping watch at the jailhouse?” Lord Westmore said nervously. “My cousin who’s an officer there said that the Night Vessels might rescue their crew member.”

“Oh my,” Lady Drisdall put a hand to her chest. “Should the village be evacuated? Who knows what sort of atrocities those pirates might do!”

“Indeed,” Lord Oneiros nodded. “Those devils must be drawn and quartered simply for all the worries they cause our noble ladies,” he gave a charming smile to Lady Drisdall, who averted her eyes shyly and covered the lower half of her face with a fan.

Hob nearly bit his tongue in his endeavour to hold back some choice words. “To call them devils might be an overstatement, don’t you think, my lord?”

Lord Oneiros raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Aren’t all pirates a stain on society? Our world would be perfect if not for them,” he nonchalantly took a sip of his drink.

Lord Westmore nodded. “Precisely. Filthy arsonists and murderers,” he said with distaste.

Lady Constantine remained quiet, looking at the nobles with amusement on her features, as if she were watching a play that was quite entertaining.

Hob was far from entertained, but he kept himself composed. “I can’t speak about all pirates, but as for the Night Vessels, I don’t believe there is enough evidence to call them murderers,” he said curtly. He had investigated as much as he could about them for the past week, and most of what he found were contradicting anecdotes that seemed more like rumours rather than evidence.

“Bold words for a general,” Lord Oneiros looked at him curiously. “Some might say it is dishonourable for a man of your position to speak thusly.”

“Is it not more dishonourable to label people as devils and murderers with no proof to speak of?” Hob said evenly.

Lady Constantine chuckled. “Enough of this dreary talk. We are here to celebrate Lord Burgess’ achievements, are we not?”

“Quite!” Lady Drisdall spoke up, now enthused by the new subject of conversation. “Establishing a winery in the middle of his own taverns and inns? Truly brilliant.”

Lord Westmore nodded. “And to think, less than a year ago that strip of land was infested with beggars and peddlers.”

“It is admirable how he managed to turn such an eyesore into the thriving business it is now,” Lord Oneiros agreed.

Hob remembered that operation the previous year, hundreds of families and food vendors displaced just so Lord Burgess could expand his establishments. Hob had risen through the ranks enough already by that point that he wasn’t one of the soldiers assigned to disperse them, and he didn’t even know about it until it was done. But he couldn't believe what he heard and wanted to see it for himself, and so he had been there for the aftermath.

What was once a marketplace full of life and colours had turned into broken stalls and discarded belongings as the former inhabitants were forcibly removed. Hob had seen a few of them picking through the wreckage, trying to save what they could. Standing there in his uniform, he had received a mixture of resentful glares and frightened looks. He still didn't know which was worse.

The nobles continued to talk about the brilliance of Lord Burgess while Hob finished his drink and wished he weren’t on duty so he could actually have something alcoholic. He waved a waiter over to place his empty glass on the tray and began to think of a polite excuse to leave the group.

A pained grunt sounded to his right, and Hob instinctively turned to see Lord Oneiros leaning away from the waiter—now apologising profusely—who seemed to have accidentally hit his shoulder with the tray.

Hob was about to ask if the nobleman was alright, and then their eyes met.

Hob’s breath caught in his throat.

Lord Oneiros’ blue eyes were narrowed in pain and glistening with a thin sheen of unshed tears. And suddenly Hob was somewhere else.

Dangling off a rooftop on a cold night. Staring into the blue eyes of the man holding him by the arm, warm blood trickling down his sleeve as the pirate captain kept his grip despite his injury. The gunshot wound on his left shoulder.

Hob’s gaze flickered over to the nobleman’s own left shoulder, the one that had just been hit by the tray. It was covered in layers of fabric and there was no blood to be seen, of course. Hob’s nerves were just too frayed and he had let his imagination run wild.

He looked back at Lord Oneiros.

Panic was clear on the nobleman’s face as he met Hob’s eyes, and he had tensed up as if preparing to run.

No. It wouldn't be possible… It couldn't be…

Hob felt dread growing in the pit of his stomach, making his muscles tense and his hands cold. In his efforts to get as far from the pirate captain as his duties would allow, he had brought them face to face.

Dream…

In an instant, Lord Oneiros—Dream—visibly relaxed and blinked his tears away, the tension seeping from his shoulders. He turned to the waiter and brushed him off, putting a stop to the scolding that Lady Drisdall and Lord Westmore were nagging the poor lad with. The waiter took the other nobles’ empty glasses as well and hastily walked away.

“Are you hurt, my lord?” Lady Drisdall asked in concern, practically stepping on Lady Constantine’s toes as she walked over to Dream. She reached out a gloved hand to his shoulder, but Dream caught it before she could touch, and gently turned her hand over to press a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“I am well, my lady, thank you,” Dream said with a smile before letting her hand go.

Lady Drisdall turned positively scarlet before stumbling back to where she’d been standing.

Hob’s heart was thudding in his chest, and he stared at Dream as it dawned on him what the pirate-turned-nobleman was doing.

Of course he wouldn’t run away; he had no reason to do so. If Hob were to say right now that Lord Morpheus Oneiros was the Nightmare King from the wanted posters, who would believe him? Even in the highly unlikely event that he would be able to force Dream to bare his shoulder to show the gunshot wound, Dream could just lie about where he had gotten it. Whoever he truly was, he still currently had a nobleman’s status, and he was here as a guest of Lady Constantine, a well-known and respected woman among their class. Hob had no evidence to support such a wild claim, and it would be his word against a nobleman’s.

“General Gadling, is something the matter?” Lord Westmore asked with a frown. “You look uneasy. That lad isn’t a threat, is he?” he looked warily at the waiter now walking towards the kitchens.

“No, my lord,” Hob said as he schooled his features into a more relaxed expression. “It’s not the lad I’m worried about,” he said evenly, giving Dream a subtly pointed look.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about at all on a lovely day like this,” Dream responded. “Especially not with you wonderful officers around.”

There was a twinkle in his eyes that Hob wanted to believe was malicious. But it seemed more like the pirate captain was being playful.

Very well. Hob could play.

“I thank you for your faith in us, my lord,” Hob smiled, meeting Dream’s gaze. “You have my word that I shall protect you from any pirates that might show up today.”

“Is there a chance of that happening?” Lady Constantine asked curiously. “What business could pirates have here, so far from the seas?”

“I ask myself the same question, my lady,” Hob said. He actually had a great deal of questions fighting for attention in his mind right now.

“Have you personally encountered any of these lowlives, General?” Lady Drisdall asked before calling another waiter carrying drinks and insisting they all take one.

They each took a glass, and Hob noted that Dream also picked a drink that didn’t have alcohol. The pirate captain wanted to keep his wits about him. That was to be expected.

“I have, my lady. Once,” Hob said as the waiter walked away.

Lady Drisdall gasped dramatically, and the other nobles exchanged intrigued glances as well. “Oh my! Were you hurt?”

“Not by much, he wasn’t nearly as strong as he thought,” Hob quipped, and he noticed the upward twitch on the corner of Dream’s mouth.

“You are fortunate to have come out of that encounter in one piece,” Lady Constantine seemed impressed. “I’ve heard pirates could be rather violent.”

“Did you capture him?” Lord Westmore asked in fascination.

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” Hob made an effort to sound regretful. “He escaped.”

“He escaped,” Dream repeated the words thoughtfully, staring at Hob with a curious look. “Is that what happened?”

The words were innocent enough, but Hob heard the underlying question. And for the first time, he considered the possibility that that encounter bothered the pirate captain too. As much as Hob wanted to understand why a pirate would save his life, perhaps Dream also wanted to know why a general would let him run free.

“Honestly, I…” Hob began, meeting Dream’s eyes.

A strong grip saving him from the fall. Hands that had previously fought him pulling him up to safety despite the stream of blood. The pistol cold against his own palm as he pointed it at the figure stumbling away. Him lowering the weapon. Blue eyes staring into his before disappearing in the night.

“I’m not entirely sure what happened,” Hob said sincerely, still looking at Dream, who returned his gaze with equal intensity.

“Ooh!” Lady Drisdall suddenly cooed, looking at the musicians. “A dance!”

Sure enough, the violin music had changed to indicate that guests may now occupy the dance floor if they wished.

“Will you dance with me, Lord Oneiros?” Lady Drisdall batted her eyelashes.

“Lady Drisdall!” Lord Westmore looked aghast. “A woman asking a man to dance? Have you no shame?”

“It’s quite alright, Lord Westmore,” Dream said. “I was about to ask the fair lady, anyway,” he smiled and held out his hand, which Lady Drisdall took immediately.

They began to walk towards the dance floor, and Hob had a split-second to make a decision.

“Lady Constantine, would you do me the honour of having this dance with me?” Hob bowed and held out his hand.

“Why, of course, General,” Lady Constantine smiled and took his hand.

They took their places at the dance floor, the men lined up on one side facing the ladies on the other. Hob had been quick enough to be able to position himself right next to Dream and make it look natural. He had let the pirate captain go once, he would not let the man out of his sight so easily this time. Dream had tensed up, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge his presence.

The violins slowed, before picking up the tempo again to indicate the start of the dance. The men bowed, the ladies curtsied, and they all stepped forward to meet in the middle before turning and swapping places.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer, General,” Dream said as they stayed in step with the dance and wove along with the ladies down the line.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Hob matched the playful tone. “Lord Oneiros.”

“It would seem so.”

“And yet you helped me. When you had no obligation to,” Hob said as soon as Lady Constantine was out of earshot. He knew it was a risk, making a direct reference to what happened that night and breaking the charade they had been playing. But he would argue that Dream broke it first, when he asked what really happened.

“You helped one of mine,” Dream said evenly. “And I always settle my debts.”

The choreography separated them for a time, which gave Hob time to think about what Dream said. Hob helped one of his? When?

Officer Marsh forced The Corinthian to his knees.

“Where's your captain?” he bellowed and backhanded the pirate's face hard enough that blood swelled from his lip.

“Hey!” Hob roughly pulled the officer away. “What do you think you're doing?”

Hob blinked himself back to the present. Was that what Dream meant? It seemed such a small thing compared to the pirate captain allowing himself to bleed more and risk capture just to pull Hob back to safety.

“One might argue that you have repaid too much, my lord,” Hob said when he crossed paths with Dream again. “The reward might not fit the deed, so to speak.”

They took the hands of their partners for a few steps before weaving through the lines once more. When they returned to the middle, Hob heard Dream’s voice before he realised that the dance had taken them back to each other.

“I disagree,” Dream rumbled softly. “Regardless, I was able to promptly go home that evening. A different officer might have been more inclined to keep my company for longer.”

“Perhaps I just wasn’t interested in your company, my lord.”

A chuckle sounded beside him, and Hob made the mistake of looking right at Dream.

His blue eyes that looked straight ahead to the ladies were bright with mirth, and his rosy lips were turned up in what was possibly the first genuine smile Hob had seen from him. Not meant to be playful nor charm anyone, merely a true reaction.

Hob found himself staring until the steps took them away from each other again.

The rest of the dance passed by without either of them speaking another word, though Hob was always aware whenever they stood close.

***

Morpheus finally managed to extricate himself from the gaggle of gossipping nobles that had surrounded him after the dance. Gadling was nowhere in sight, and he took that chance to slip out into the gardens.

He took a much needed breath of fresh air. It was nearly sunset now, and the air was cool and bracing. Everyone was still inside partaking in the never-ending flow of food and alcohol, and it should be easy enough to slip over the walls unnoticed. He stuck to the shadows as he quietly made his way across the yard.

They already had a plan to rescue Corin, but Lucienne had pointed out that after the theft on the governor’s house, the upper class in the village were now more paranoid and alert. The bounties on their heads had increased even more, enough to tempt even well-off families. They needed to know whether people with more resources were now joining the hunt, or if certain noble families had privately hired people to capture the infamous Night Vessels for the clout it would bring them.

Morpheus volunteered to investigate among the elites, and since everyone on his crew hated undercover assignments which required them to dress in stuffy clothing and endure gossip, no one protested. Morpheus found it unnecessary to mention that he wished to go far from the village to get his mind straight.

When that officer was about to beat Corin bloody to get information, Morpheus had almost revealed himself. He knew that Corin would sooner die than reveal the crew’s secrets, and he was not about to risk it. Morpheus had one foot out of the shadows, then General Gadling stepped in and prevented any more beatings.

Morpheus didn’t plan to save him. He just heard the roof crumble, a cry of surprise, and the next thing he knew, he was grabbing the man by the arm. He might have let go, when he had returned to his senses and almost convinced himself that a fall from that height probably wouldn’t kill a man of that build. But then Gadling met his gaze.

Those brown eyes held no hate nor resentment, two things which Morpheus had grown to expect in the faces of men in uniform. There was only surprise, and worry, when the general realised that Morpheus was bleeding. Worry? From a general to the Nightmare King?

Then Gadling let him go. He had his gun trained on him and he merely lowered it. Gadling could have fired at his leg, that still would have evened out their debts. A life spared for a life saved. And the general would capture the pirate. That was the story that should have made sense for Gadling. And yet…

Morpheus came here as Johanna’s guest to get as far away from the general as much as he could; he didn’t need all the confusion in the midst of their rescue plan. What bitter irony this day had in store for him.

He headed to the part of the wall with the most overgrown vines, but before he could reach it, a figure stepped out from behind a tree and blocked his path.

Morpheus halted, his eyes immediately searching for weapons and finding none. The general was in civilian garb, after all. The guns would be hidden.

“Interested in my company now, General?” Morpheus said to the man standing no more than three feet from him, fighting the urge to draw his daggers.

“I’m interested in answers,” Gadling said, though his eyes still held no anger. “Why are you really here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Morpheus said.

At first he worried that the general somehow knew he would be there, which would have meant the entire plan of the crew could have been leaked. Gadling still wouldn't have known what he looked like, so he said some choice remarks about pirates in an attempt to provoke the general into revealing that he was there to capture the Nightmare King, but Gadling actually defended the Night Vessels. Morpheus blamed his surprise about that as to why his guard had been lowered and he didn't manage to avoid the hit to his injured shoulder.

“I already answered that, and what I said was the truth. I'm here for my job.”

Morpheus narrowed his eyes. One didn't go very far into piracy without knowing how to detect falsehood. The general had tensed up at the question being returned, and his demeanour became significantly more guarded. Perhaps he had been telling the truth, but not the entirety of it.

Very well. The general could keep his secrets. But first Morpheus had to make sure that those secrets didn't endanger his crew.

“And part of your job is to capture the Nightmare King, is it not?” Morpheus tilted his head slightly to the side.

For a moment, Gadling just stared at him. “Do you intend any harm upon those people?” he nodded towards the party.

Morpheus raised an eyebrow at that aversion to his question. “Tonight, I leave them as I found them. Alive, inebriated, and entirely full of themselves.”

“And who is Lord Morpheus Oneiros?”

“You must let me keep some secrets, General,” Morpheus said coyly.

Gadling took a step forward, and Morpheus drew a dagger from his sleeve and flung it.

The blade whistled past the general's head and embedded itself into the bark of the tree.

Morpheus used the distraction to close the distance between them and grabbed the general by the lapels of his coat. He spun them so that they were hidden in the tree's shadow, Gadling’s back against the trunk.

In the next heartbeat, Morpheus had drawn his second dagger and was pointing it at the general's throat. He was about to warn him to stay away—

“Dream, I just want to understand.” There was a hint of fear in Gadling’s eyes but his voice was steady. “Who are you, really? Why is there such a hefty bounty on your head when I can't find a single solid evidence of a crime that would justify it?”

“What did you say?” Morpheus breathed, more than a little taken aback

“Who are you? What's really going on—”

“What did you call me?” Morpheus tightened his grip on the general's lapels even as he retracted the blade an inch.

Gadling held his gaze for a few heartbeats, and continued to do so when he spoke. “Dream,” he said quietly. “I heard The Corinthian call you that.”

When he was telling me to run away, Morpheus remembered.

“And you presume you can do the same?” Morpheus said with a quiet edge to his voice.

“It feels more right than…” Gadling swallowed. “It just feels right.”

“Stay away from us, General Gadling,” Morpheus hissed before roughly letting him go.

He quickly retrieved his first dagger from the tree, hid both back in his sleeves, then scaled the wall and jumped down the other side without looking back.

Only his crew called him by that name. The family he found and swore to protect.

And he would never be family with the likes of soldiers.

———

<- (Chapter 1)

(Sandmanniversary 2024 Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

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faeriekit · 8 months

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The WIPpening, 2024 (WIP tag game)

"Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs."

Okay, @hailsatanacab tagged me (thanks!!) and I do want to play, but here's my problems. 1) Half my WIPs are entitled "untitled document." Don't ask me why. I'm superstitious. 2) I finished the first fic in a decade in 2022, which means I have a decade of unfinished WIPs. There are genuinely hundreds of these, potentially 200-300. This is not feasible.

Here's what I'm going to do. I am going to parse this down to...ten-ish current WIPs. I am going to post them here below. Feel free to request whichever one you like, by title or number, in my tumblr inbox, and I will answer each ask with...mebbe 200 words minimum of WIP when I wake up in the morning. Cool? Cool. 😎

Untitled Document (primary) (dp x dc)

Untitled Document (most recent) (dp x dc)

Holy Ageswap Batkid! (dc)

alien Danny dp x dc (1)

Chet Thomas FakeLastName Timkon Clone baby (dc)

Naruto8

Fanfic(Marvel + batman) SpiderCass (dc x marvel)

Superboy Danielle bones prompt fill dp x dc

fanfic(Danny Phantom)demon!au(2ish) (dp)

Send me an ask with a WIP number or its silly title! I will warn you: Some of these are secret fics. I haven't started posting all of these anywhere just because I planned to snap them up in a few hours and they just took me so looooong (；′⌒`). But if you ask a question, I'll answer what I can, and if you make a request, I'll give a snippet. It's free real estate.

OH RIGHT, PEOPLE. Uh, uh.... *spins a wheel* How about... @hashtagdrivebywrites, @chromatographic, @cyrwrites, @mysterycyclone, @stealingyourbones, uh, who else writes...@glucosegaurdian, @tachvintlogic, and...@silk-scarlet-ribbons. Why not. Feel free to either play or ignore me entirely! See everyone else tomorrow! (✿◠‿◕)

#ask games #faer nonsense #faer winds

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eretzyisrael · 2 months

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by Jessica Costescu

The philanthropist and billionaire Mortimer Zuckerman cut off millions of dollars in funding to Columbia University citing the school's failure to address rising anti-Semitism, the Washington Free Beacon has learned. Zuckerman pledged $200 million in 2012 to endow an institute focused on interdisciplinary neuroscience research. But the billionaire owner of U.S. News & World Report began questioning Columbia's handling of rampant campus anti-Semitism following Hamas's Oct. 7 attacks on Israel and ultimately halted funding after several months of discussions, according to a Zuckerman Family Office spokeswoman.FreeBeacon

"The recent decisions and actions taken by Columbia have been antithetical to the University's mission and it is simply not the same institution it was when Mr. Zuckerman made the pledge," the spokeswoman told the Free Beacon. "We will continue to evaluate the situation in the hope that Columbia will restore its reputation, standing and mission as a respected educational institution."

Zuckerman founded Boston Properties, a real estate investment trust, and ran it for nearly 50 years before stepping down as chairman in 2016. In addition to U.S. News & World Report, where he serves as editor in chief and publisher, Zuckerman also owned the New York Daily News for 24 years until he sold it in 2017.

The son of Ukrainian Jewish immigrants, Zuckerman has consistently donated to a variety of Jewish and pro-Israel causes. In 2016, for example, he launched a $100 million STEM initiative to provide scholarships for American and Israeli researchers, with the goal of fostering scientific collaboration between the United States and Israel.

For months, Zuckerman engaged in conversations with Columbia, raising concerns about the school's governance and handling of campus anti-Semitism following Oct. 7, the Zuckerman Family Office spokeswoman told the Free Beacon. Columbia, in response, requested time to "rebuild trust and demonstrate better governance."

But that rebuilding failed to take shape, prompting Zuckerman, a media and real estate mogul, to pause millions in funding. Columbia had become the forefront of campus anti-Semitism, with protesters eventually storming Hamilton Hall and barricading its entrance. In-person classes and the main graduation ceremony were canceled.

#mort zuckerman #mortimer zuckerman #boston properties #columbia university #antisemitism

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notbecauseofvictories · 11 months

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Halloween Week of Horror (Games)

It’s that most horrible time of year, and I've decided to explore the spooky world of text-based games. My list of games is cribbed from this post and this post.

GAMEIFY HORROR // DAY 1

DAY 2: 13 laurel road, unbecoming, what girls do in the dark, the open house, return

13 laurel road

an interactive fiction game about the relationships we have with places and reconciling with trauma. You play as a young man named Noah who has been tasked with picking up some things from his cousin’s old house.

This one was surprisingly affective, given that there is no objective horror—no jumpscares, no mysterious noises, no ghosts beyond the perfectly ordinary ones that plague all of us.

Still, the set up (a young man, tasked with grabbing some things from the old family house) and the conclusion (coming to terms with the intergenerational cycles we fall into, giving you the chance to break free from them) worked wonderfully for me. In particular, I liked the way the game conveyed Noah's internal conflict---the refrain of "I won't think about that," and the way that you as a player aren't quite clear who is still alive as you move through the abandoned family home.

...I am a little disappointed that there weren't ghosts though.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 1/10, mostly for ambient horror and decay

OVERALL GRADE: B-

unbecoming

a sonically-textured interactive horror fiction exploring cycles of trauma and unspeakable forces of nature in a mythic rural American landscape.

Well, damn. I think that’s the second time I’ve put that in my notes, but also—damn. Damn does this game deserve it. Despite the lack of images (just text, white and sharp except when bleeding into red) it felt extremely well-realized, lived in. Maybe it's just because I know these places, have been to these farms, have looked at Dust Bowl photographs of children on buckling front porches, but the scenery was its own character---which is amazing when there's no actual scenery.

Not to mention that the story gets into one of my soft places and digs---the fraught ritual and cycles of repeated harm; the kind of blurry boundaries that make such effective horror. Family as obligation and a horror story you can't always escape. Not to mention how the gameplay makes you complicit in continuing that horror...

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, not necessarily overtly, but uh. There is a giant hungering pit, and corpses in beds.

OVERALL GRADE: A-

what girls do in the dark

This little game is based off one of the greatest fears they had as a teenage girl: showing up late to a stranger’s slumber party.

Of all the games on this list, this was the first one that—as soon as the credits rolled—I immediately wanted to play again. I wanted to see if I could get a different ending, if I could somehow "win." There’s just something about those haunting scraps of “maybe you could have saved yourself...” that tantalize you, and make you want to try for a happier ending.

....not to mention that I have a well-documented weakness for deals with the devil.

I'll also add that the almost MS DOS style prompts ("TAKE [ITEM]" "OPEN DOOR") were devastatingly effective; a way of narrowing your choices while also giving you the illusion of choice.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 3/10, given the blood and the creeping horror

OVERALL GRADE: A-

the open house

We at Northtree Real Estate (in partnership with Optix Dynamix Labs) are proud to present our new, state-of-the-art, open house simulator! Come and take a quick tour of 15615 Hollow Oak Lane, a familiar and comfortable showcase home in one of our premier developments!

This particular game is just cool as hell. As someone who (like many millennials) has been addicted to Zillow and other house-hunting websites, this landed with immediate effect. What if scrolling through virtual walkthroughs on your local house hunting website opened up a portal to the unknown? What if it showed murders immediately after they were committed? What if, as you go further and further into this virtual house, you were going out---into something vast, unknown, and chilling?

Amazing, clever, wonderful.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, largely for unreality and a couple creepy images that still linger with me.

OVERALL GRADE: A

return

a text-based horror game about coming home

The more of these games I play, the more it becomes clear that what I like is horror that verges on the inexplicable—dream logic and images that refuse to resolve into reasonableness. I loved that here: the static, the mycelium, the pier with its strange dead-already fish, the self that guides you through the next cycle. What does it say about our horror stories if there is no going home? If it's just cycles of returning and rebirth and horror we can't escape?

(Sidenote, I am in love with Carver, and the little bit woven in about cybernetic/android assistive devices was tantalizing.)

Again, it's amazing how these text-based games manage to convey so much, so richly, with just words. Or maybe I just have an overactive imagination.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 7/10, just because the sense of unreality is so strong, I wouldn't recommend it for anyone who doesn't enjoy that

OVERALL GRADE: B

#gameify horror #the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind

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weewoo911 · 4 months

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Ok but this post and the picture of Lou w a baby got me thinking blorbo thoughts

Tommy’s sister/half sister having an emergency and asking Tommy to watch her baby last minute and everything is so rushed that he forgets that Buck is coming over for a date night and so when Buck knocks Tommy opens the door w a baby in his arms like “Evan I’m sorry, let me explain-”

Buck:

Then they have a cosy night in 💖

#i just want good things for buck #let him have a soft night in w his boyfriend and a lil baby #bucktommy #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy prompt #its free real estate #911 abc

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tickle-bugs · 1 year

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If prompt requests are still open, I have a beetlejuice one! We all know Adam is a huge jokester. I like to imagine that Adam and Barbara like to play around and see who can make Lydia laugh the hardest. Adam is always winning with his jokes, so Barbara decided to take matters in her own hands and tickle Lydia since the game just said to make Lydia laugh, but never said it could only be jokes. Adam accused Barbara of cheating and the jumps on her and tickles her and Lydia. Sorry if this doesn’t make sense lol feel free to disregard it if it doesn’t make sense or if prompt requests are closed. Thanks!

Okay, I Believe You

Summary: After a long drought of joy, the Maitlands hold a competition to see who can make Lydia laugh first. No Beetlejuice AU where Lydia summons the Maitlands on accident while trying to bring her mom back.

Something that Barbara will always love about her husband is his unflappable sense of joy. His light never wavers. As a bit of a cynic, she used to take it for granted, but now…his light is the single-most important blessing a ghost could ask for.

Even now, doing a crossword from almost twelve years ago, Adam’s still smiling. She’s watching him delight himself every time he figures out an answer and it should be more heartwarming than it is, but her mind keeps drifting.

She flips through one of the Deetz’s photo albums. Dozens of pictures of Lydia, lovingly arranged, spell the story of her childhood. A wobbly, gap-toothed toddler in too-big rain boots grows into a shaggy, unabashedly weird child. Smiling.

“Do you think Lydia likes us?” Barbara’s gaze turns towards the attic door. Lydia’s trapped downstairs at one of her father’s real estate dinners. Her absence guts Barbara a bit.

“Of course, honey. Yesterday, she said we were ‘pretty okay’, remember? That’s a big upgrade from ‘tolerable’!” He straightens out the newspaper and watches her over it. She averts her eyes.

“Yeah, maybe.” Barbara chews on her thumb. “Sometimes I wonder if she wished she’d gotten her mom back, instead of us.”

Wordlessly, Adam stands and folds her into a hug. She tucks into the frigid crook of his neck and sighs. Even in death, they fit together perfectly.

“I think—“ He pauses to run his fingers through her hair— “that Lydia shows her affection much differently from other people. We shouldn’t take her normal as anything strange.”

“You’re right.” Barbara sighs. “It’s just…when I think of her, I think of her frowning. Even with all these pictures, I can’t imagine her smile. Her joy.”

“Tell ya what. I’ll get her to crack a smile and you’ll see what I mean.” Adam leans back a bit to catch Barbara’s eye.

“You think you can make her smile?” She looks up, sliding her hands to his waist.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll make her laugh.” He grins.

“So confident. Maybe I’ll beat you to the punch.” She raises her brow. He laughs heartily.

“You’re on.” Adam sticks out his hand to shake and Barbara takes it.

….

A dreary scene unfolds at the dining room table. Real estate execs politely choke down Delia’s food as Charles attempts to dazzle them with his nightmare house. Maxie Dean seems to be the only one enjoying himself--his loud, grating guffaw bursts out every few minutes. A giant taxidermy bear, poised and ferocious, rattles on its stand behind him. The giant red bow on it threatens to slip free.

Lydia, wearing a frilly yellow nightmare of a dress, busies herself with trying to kill Delia with her eyes. The pointed impact of her silverware against the near-inedible steak on her plate sets a pace for the whole affair.

“Hey, Lydia.” Adam leans on the back of Lydia’s chair. Immediately, she sits up straighter.

“What are you guys doing down here? They’ll see you!” Lydia hisses under her breath. When the table breaks out in mechanical laughter, she rolls her eyes.

Barbara thinks of the time she walked in on Charles and Delia and shudders.

“They definitely can’t see us. Don’t worry about it.” Barbara pats her shoulder.

“We just had to visit our favorite occult expert.” Adam ruffles her hair. Delia looks over curiously. Lydia glares until she turns away.

“This seems like a drag.” Barbara surveys the table. “What’s with the bear?”

“That wasn’t always there? I thought that was one of your dad’s…choices.” Adam squints at it. Lydia sighs.

“Gift from Maxie. Kill me now,” Lydia mutters, flicking a piece of rubbery steak across the table. When it hits the plate of the agent across from her, she levels him with a challenging stare.

“Well, I can’t do that, but…bear with me.” Adam gestures to the bear with a mischievous grin.

A bowler hat lifts off of the hat rack and bobs through the air, ducking behind ugly sculptures and chandeliers to avoid prying eyes. It lands haphazardly atop the bear’s head. Adam gestures with more enthusiasm.

Lydia snorts quietly.

“I’d offer him some of this steak, but…it seems he’s already stuffed.” Adam scrunches his nose and an apple floats into the bear’s open mouth. Lydia ducks her head to hide her smile.

“What do you think a bear’s favorite constitutional amendment is?” Adam whispers, already chuckling at himself. “The right to bear arms. He’s already halfway there!”

Lydia rolls her eyes with deadly force, but she’s still smiling. Barbara puts a hand over Adam’s mouth before he can gear up for another unbearable joke.

“Okay, my turn.” Barbara grins mischievously.

Maxie Dean taps a knife against his glass for the attention of the table. All eyes turn to him and the bear.

Barbara flicks her wrist and a vinyl on the other side of the room slips free. It lowers itself onto the record player and the needle drops harshly. A gentle beating of drums fills the room.

“Whoa, well that was…convenient—“ He looks uneasily towards the turntable—“but I love some mood music.”

When Maxie next opens his mouth, it’s not his squeaky voice that leaves him. Instead, in a guttural shout, he booms:

“DAAAY-O!”

The dining room goes quiet, save for the record. Maxie clears his throat. Lydia’s eyes widen.

“Sorry, I’m not sure what--me say day me say day me say daaaayyy-o--”

Chaos erupts in the dining room. Harry Belafonte’s crooning voice fills the space as everyone but Lydia is forced to their feet. A conga line of disgruntled real estate mooks chugs around the table. Charles stiffly beats an ice bucket like a drum. The bear rocks around the room on its stand, shimmying with the music. Delia and Maxie spin like tops.

Lydia sits at the perfect center of the storm, watching the whole thing with a gaping grin. Barbara waits for even a chuckle of disbelief, but all she gets is:

“Make Delia put the fruit bowl on her head.”

…

“I can’t believe that didn’t work!” Adam pathetically kicks a pile of their junk and shakes a few things loose. A magic eight ball rolls across the attic floor and disappears in some far off corner.

“Honey, you’ll have to do better than a hat on a bear.” Barbara snorts. “I’m shocked my plan didn’t work.”

“...you are?” Adam raises his eyebrow. Barbara swats his arm.

“I brought the roasted pig to life and made it chacha! That’s precisely her sense of humor.”

Lydia comes up into the attic humming. The door squeaks but doesn’t shut behind her.

“That was awesome.” She sighs happily and twirls. “Almost made wearing this dishrag of a dress worth it.”

“I think you look positively haunting.” Barbara twirls Lydia under her arm, trying to shake a giggle out of an already-silly mood. No dice. Lydia gives a playful curtsy and flops down on a milk crate.

The attic door creaks open and Delia tumbles in. The levity evaporates.

“Why are you poking around up here?” Lydia scowls.

“I was not poking, I was…observing the feng shui of the attic stairs.” Delia sniffs and dusts herself off. She steps tentatively into the attic, looking at the various piles of Maitland-Deetz junk with distaste.

“What do you want? I’m busy.” Lydia taps her foot against the floorboards. Delia approaches her gently.

“Have you ever read Matilda?” Delia asks loftily. Lydia glares at her hard enough to elicit a squeak of fear.

“In that charming novella, the titular young heroine develops…supernatural abilities under extreme emotional stress. But ultimately she uses them to rid herself of her greatest enemy and becomes a hero.” Delia gestures fervently at Lydia and receives a blank stare in return.

“So does Carrie. What’s your point?”

“Look, when I was a youth…I often felt trapped and holed up. I know you must feel that way now, in our new house—“

“You think I’m trapped in here with you? You’re trapped in here with me. This is my house.” Lydia leaps to her feet suddenly. The motion destabilizes a pile of junk at the end of the room. An old lamp falls over.

“Lydia--” Delia swallows nervously. Adam, seizing the moment, rattles the shutters and piles of clutter. Barbara grins at him. He winks.

“This can’t be happening.” Delia’s eyes dart around. Adam nudges the magic eight ball towards her. It stops at her feet. Outlook not so good.

“Perception is reality, right? You said it yourself.” Lydia stalks towards her.

“Hang on, kiddo,” Barbara murmurs in Lydia’s ear, then concentrates. Lydia’s feet rise slowly off the ground as she levitates. She squeaks in surprise, then resolves her face back into murderous mischief.

“Leave this place!” Lydia shouts, and Adam flings a cross stitch kit from a high shelf. Delia yelps and scrambles backwards. She looks up at Lydia in terror.

Is this healthy for their relationship long-term? No. Is it fun? Absolutely.

Delia screams and flees the attic, falling down a few stairs by the sound of it. Adam slams the door shut behind her.

Lydia grins, bright and free, and it’s the most distinct show of joy they’ve seen from her…ever. Much like the pictures gathering dust up here, she’s radiant. But…still no laughter. Barbara’s not above admitting when she’s desperate.

“You can put me down now.” Lydia twists to peer at her, still bobbing in place. Barbara chews the inside of her cheek. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

“Remember, you can’t kill me if I’m already dead,” she murmurs, then skitters her fingers over Lydia’s stomach.

Lydia giggles, then cackles, kicking her legs where she still floats in the air.

The Maitlands gasp in unison--Barbara in sheer joy and Adam in betrayal.

“B-Barbara!” Lydia throws her head back as she laughs. Barbara squeezes her sides once, gently, and she squeals, shaking with the force of her laughter. Barbara thinks back to the photo albums--Lydia has her mother’s smile.

“I didn’t think this would work.” Barbara’s hand passes through Lydia by accident and her voice leaps an octave or five. Lydia scrambles for her hand and pulls it out of her stomach.

“That’ssobad,” Lydia gasps out, giggling like a maniac. Her eyes glitter with sheer joy as she squeezes Barbara’s hand. She almost seems to be waiting for something.

Oh. How sweet.

Barbara scuttles her fingers up Lydia’s ribs and her voice completely drops out. She hides her face in her hands but it does nothing to dim the room. It takes her a moment to uncurl once the tickling stops, but Adam catches the flash of disappointment that she tries to smother.

Lydia floats back down, bewildered and bright pink, as Barbara takes a victory lap around her husband.

“I win! Yes!” Barbara floats straight off the ground in a joyous little spin. Adam splutters and gestures at her. She sticks her tongue out at him. He splutters louder.

“You are disqualified for eternity--”

“On whose authority--” She snickers.

“What is happening?” Lydia throws an old pillow directly through both of them. It thumps uselessly to the ground.

“We were having a little contest to see if we could make you laugh. I won.” Barbara grins. Adam growls and starts reeling her into his arms. She gasps and starts trying to worm away.

“You did not win, you cheated--”

“You guys are so…weird. Why do you care if I smile?” Lydia’s nose wrinkles with the force of her thoughts. She doesn’t look upset, which is promising, but she’s quickly reaching neon levels of blush. Her teenage need to look cool is very visibly warring with her smile.

“Well, kiddo--” Adam speaks smoothly while wrestling with a giggling Barbara-- “We care about you. Is that such a radical concept?”

As Lydia stands there, quietly bowled over that someone would look at her with such care, Adam busies himself with tickling his wife within an inch of her undead life. Barbara’s laughter floods the attic, the lights flickering in time with the music of it.

It’s so simple to them, Lydia thinks. Joy.

“You gonna stand there like a ghost or are you gonna help?” Adam grins, lifting Barbara clear off the ground. She shrieks in surprise and starts stumbling her way through bargaining. Lydia coos at her mockingly and accepts Adam’s invitation. As she approaches, Barbara starts talking faster, and Lydia’s heart warms.

“Wait, guys, we can talk about this--”

Adam buries her face into her neck and she squeals, somehow higher pitched than Lydia. Barbara throws her head back to laugh and it’s warm in its familiarity. Lydia dismisses the memories swirling like watercolors at the edges of her mind, instead opting to tase Barbara’s ribs. She snorts through her next peal of laughter, tossing her head from side to side as she tries to hide. The snorts find her anyway.

Adam and Lydia exchange a mischievous look.

Adam descends on one side, Lydia on the other, and Barbara giggles so violently that she phases directly through the floor. Adam and Lydia burst out laughing, leaning on each other for support. Barbara trudges back up the attic stairs, grumbling, and it sets them off again.

“Next time, we’re setting up rules.” Adam wipes his eyes.

“Next time I’m sending you through the floor,” Barbara fires back, wiggling her fingers in his direction. Adam yelps and disappears entirely.

Lydia’s too busy laughing at him to acknowledge the flutter of excitement at ‘next time’, but she’s overjoyed that it’s there.

#my fics #beetlejuice musical #ticklish!lydia #ticklish!barbara #lydia deetz #barbara maitland #adam maitland #they're a family your honor #im in love with barbara and it shows i fear #also sorry for delia's voice being so weird i remembered that catherine o'hara plays her in the movie and i couldn't stop thinking of moira #from schitt's creek of course

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