you-heard-what-i-meant

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Merlin - Written in the Scars

[Arthur is king, didn't die at Camlann, and knows about Merlin's magic]

After some visitors arrive at Camelot and Merlin has a bit of a day, Arthur feels the need to check on him. He really should learnt to knock before he barges into Merlin's room (or not).

Notes:

Title taken from The Script's song Written in the Scars.

No specific Merthur, but definitely hints of it if you want to read it that way ;-).

Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own (and I apologise)!

Angst, Whump, Emotional Whump, Mentions of Injuries (no detail), Mentions of Torture (no detail), Beginnings of Merthur.

Available on AO3 HERE!

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The hour is late and Arthur is moving fast through the corridors of the castle. Druids had arrived earlier in the day asking for Merlin’s help - Emrys’s help. They had a young girl with them who they discovered bound and gagged in a cave - she was refusing to speak, and what little information they’d managed to gather through telepathic communication wasn’t helping. She was clearly in possession of magical abilities, and it would seem she was abandoned to die by magic-fearing parents. Merlin had spent all day working with her and had reported back to Arthur and the Druids, but the king had sensed all the things Merlin wasn’t saying, and now he felt the need to check in with him. 

The king doesn’t think twice as he strolls into Merlin’s chambers, heading for the dressing area where the man is likely preparing for bed. He’s just about to call out when he catches a glimpse of the man in question. Completely unaware of his friend’s presence, Merlin’s back is to Arthur as he pulls his undershirt over his head and drops it on the bed. The sight of the exposed skin of Merlin’s back causes Arthur’s words to die in his throat.

Arthur is expecting to see perfect, unmarred skin - maybe the odd mark from their many misdemeanours over the years. What he’s presented with is a collage of scars - some deep-set, some raised, large, small, stretching and criss-crossing and twisting. They come into stark relief and almost glitter in the candlelight as Merlin moves, stretching his arms above his head to work the stiffness out of his muscles and drawing Arthur’s eyes along the slender limbs. 

There he finds more scarring. What looks like an old burn covers the whole of one shoulder, clearly continuing over the front of his body. Marks that look very much like rope burn twist around both of Merlin’s slim arms, culminating in a mess of ligature marks around his wrists. Arthur has a moment of sick recognition as he looks to Merlin’s back again - he can place the weapons that caused most of the marks. Whips, blades, fire, arrows… The rest he can only assume are courtesy of falling on something, restraints, and magical wounds. 

He follows one scar - almost black in colour - from just above his bony shoulder blades, up his neck along the line of his spine, disappearing into his hairline. Arthur’s gaze catches Merlin’s face in the window, and finds himself locking eyes with him in the reflection.

Merlin whips around, the flash of gold in his eyes just dissipating as his arms instinctively move to cover his chest before he has the wherewithal to snatch his shirt up from his bed and vaguely hold it against his body. His startled voice comes out higher in pitch than normal.

“Don’t you know how to knock?!”

Arthur’s eyes are drawn to his friend’s shoulder, seeking that horrific burn that he’d seen a moment ago. He just catches sight of it before it finishes quietly fading into perfect, pale flesh. His response is instant. 

“Stop it.”

“What-?”

“Drop the spell.”

Arthur’s words come out a mixture of commanding king and heartbroken confidante. Merlin freezes, and it occurs to Arthur that given the long history of prejudice against magic in Camelot, his words could have an unintended threatening undertone. He should have tempered his reaction. He deliberately softens his voice.

“I just mean… You don’t have to hide from me.”

Merlin’s searching gaze is anxious. Arthur fights to keep his face somewhere between neutral and softly encouraging. 

Neither of them speak for a long moment. 

Finally, the king’s quiet words fill the space between them.

“Your - What happened to you, Merlin?”

Merlin shifts, his blue eyes darting to the floor as they flash gold, his hands fidgeting with the screwed up shirt that he’s barely covering his torso with. Slowly, the scars fade back into existence. He clearly tries to be flippant but his voice comes out more sad than jovial. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

After a moment of indecision Arthur steps forward, gently liberating the shirt from Merlin’s grasp and tossing it back onto the bed. He stands for a moment appraising the man, who shuffles uncomfortably in his exposure to Arthur’s scrutinising gaze even as he raises his head almost defiantly. 

Arthur’s eyes catch on the gruesome ligature marks around Merlin’s wrists. He finds himself reaching for Merlin’s forearm and softly holds it as he appraises the marred skin, the fingertips of his free hand tracing over the scars so tenderly it makes Merlin shudder. It occurs to Arthur that this is a somewhat intimate gesture, but the bond he and Merlin have makes them far more tactile with each other than people would normally expect. 

Arthur looks up to meet Merlin’s eyes,  a mixture of fear and pain in his own. 

“I don’t recognise most of these wounds.”

Uncertainty twists Merlin’s face. 

“No, you… You didn’t see how most of them happened.”

Arthur’s eyes close in regret. He takes a deep breath before he meets Merlin’s gaze again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

Surprise crosses Merlin’s face.

“No, Arthur, that’s not - none of it was your fault.“

“Either way, I’m sorry.”

Merlin doesn’t know how to respond. Silence reigns again. 

“Tell me about them.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

Arthur pours every ounce of sincerity into his voice that he can muster. “Please tell me. I need to understand - there have been so many times I wasn’t there to help you.  After everything we’ve been through, I just want to know you.”

Merlin’s crystal blue eyes are wide, and there’s hesitation in his features. 

“I’m not sure you want to know, Arthur.”

Arthur’s heart aches and the pain of distrust burns in his stomach.

“Why, because some of them are from magic?”

Merlin’s eyes widen even further.

“No! Well… I know you’re still getting used to the magic thing, but it’s mostly that -”

Merlin cut’s himself off, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his eyes search Arthur’s face for something.

“What?”

Compassion floods Merlin’s features. His voice is gentle when he speaks.

“... Because I don’t want you beating yourself up about them.”

Arthur stares, dumbfounded. He eventually regains his composure enough to respond.

“Well there’s not much you can do about that. I already feel a world of guilt just from seeing them. I just really want - no, I need to understand everything that’s happened to you - to us. We’ve never actually spoken about everything, never really taken the time to process all the things we’ve been through.”

Merlin is quiet, doubt lining his features. Arthur realises what he’s truly asking.

“I’m sorry, I have no right to ask. But please, if you can ever bring yourself to tell me, I will sit and listen through every pain you’ve been forced to bear. I owe you the respect of at least knowing everything that you’ve been through, even if there’s nothing I can do to make up for it.”

The unshed tears in Merlin’s eyes almost make Arthur drag him into an embrace, but he knows that right now it would be more to comfort himself than Merlin. Instead he squeezes the forearm in his grasp and grips the man’s shoulder with his other hand - a gesture he has always used to indicate his support and respect. 

Merlin studies him for a moment. Arthur prepares himself for another rejection when the man raises his head decisively. 

“It doesn’t bother me. To talk about them, I mean. I just want to be sure it’s not going to push you into a bad place. You’ve got enough going on.”

Arthur’s heart clenches at the consideration Merlin is showing him. Always. Merlin is always about others - particularly Arthur - first and himself last. He raises his head to match his friend’s.

“Merlin, I promise you that this isn’t about self-punishment or whatever else. I want to know you. If you are willing to tell me, I’d be honoured to listen.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Arthur wants to curl up in a ball. Both seated on the bed, Merlin had started small - “Arrowhead - you were there for that one.” and “No you didn’t know about those ones. I got the stuffing kicked out of me by some of your father’s fan club. Gaius patched me up.”

It soon progressed to “That was Aulfric and Sophia, the Sidhe? You were actually standing right beside me and watched it happen but you were too enchanted to notice anything. That took a really long time to heal. It sometimes still burns, even now. All the scars caused by magic do.”

And eventually they arrived at “I’ve lost count of the number of people who have tried to strangle me or cut my throat” and “Uhhh.. yeah. Those ones… I got taken by some of Morgause’s followers and, um, they didn’t just use normal weapons to make me feel their anger. Wasn’t sure I was going to survive that one, actually.” 

Finally they reached the worst of the scars, still vaguely pink and fresh looking. At first, Merlin just shakes his head - “oh a lot’s happened recently” - until finally Arthur’s gentle-but-insistent prodding gets Merlin to release a resigned sigh.

“Do you remember when… um… When I -” Merlin's utter discomfort tells Arthur exactly the event he’s thinking of.

“When Morgana enchanted you to try and kill me?”

“Yeah.”

“You were missing for days.”

“Yeah… well…” Merlin’s distress comes out in his fidgeting. Arthur suddenly feels sick. Still gently holding Merlin’s arm, he runs his fingers along the scars on his wrist again.

“She tortured you.”

It isn’t a question, but Merlin’s eyes betray his answer. For a moment Arthur can’t find his breath. Eventually his voice cracks on a question he’s not sure he wants the answer to.

“How long?”

Merlin tilts his head, a sorrowful look on his face. “Arthur…”

Arthur speaks through gritted teeth. “How. Long.”

Merlin’s eyes dart away. “Not sure. I lost track of night and day in the end.”

Arthur slams his eyes closed against the storm of emotions twisting in his stomach. Anger. Sympathy. Regret. Grief. He swallows hard and allows himself a moment to breathe - but something is itching at the front of his mind and as much as he knows he has no right to make his friend relive these horrors, he has to know. He snaps his head up, eyes instantly connecting with Merlin’s when he opens them.

“How many times has it happened?”

“- What -?”

Arthur grinds his teeth as pain lances through his chest. He falters for a moment, then his voice comes out almost a whisper. “How many times have you been tortured, Merlin?”

Merlin’s broken look tells him everything he needs to know. Grief and pain tear a hole in Arthur’s chest. He chokes out his words. “I’m so sorry -”

Merlin cuts him off “- Don’t. Please don’t do that. It wasn’t your fault, and without all these scars you wouldn’t be here now. So…” 

“I should have done better. I was supposed to protect you.”

“No, the prophecy was for me to protect you.”

Arthur glowers at the other man. “I should have done better. You mean more to me than you could ever know, Merlin. I should have done better.”

Merlin’s bright blue eyes are sad, yet there’s a hint of defiance there. His voice is strong when he speaks.

“No matter what they did to me, I always knew it was worth the pain. Because even though I couldn’t tell you, even though I hoped one day you could know the real me… Everything that happened to me meant that you got a step nearer to who you needed to become. And while they were busy hurting me, they weren’t hurting you.”

Arthur makes a choked sound, blinking rapidly as he looks away. He flounders for an embarrassingly long time before finding his words.

“Merlin, I… You’ve been all alone with it, all this time. I… I abandoned you. Somewhere inside myself I knew, but I still did nothing about it. I’m so sorry Merlin.”

Merlin knows there’s no response that would appease his friend, so instead he places his free hand on Arthur’s forearm and squeezes. 

They lapse into silence. Arthur is almost unaware of the way he’s running his thumb over a deep scar on Merlin’s forearm, still in his grasp after all this time. He marvels that the man doesn’t shy away from touch after all he’s suffered, and after a moment’s thought it occurs to him that no-one else does touch Merlin. The only person Merlin is at all tactile with is him. 

Something dawns on Arthur. He meets Merlin’s soft gaze. “That spell you were doing earlier - do you keep that going all day just so no-one sees?”

Merlin’s already shaking his head before Arthur’s finished speaking, his dark curls bouncing and a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Not entirely, just my hands and wrists. Why do you think I’m always wearing tunics and neckerchiefs?”

It gets Arthur thinking. He’s only seen Merlin in any state of undress once. Maybe twice. Both times when they were on long journeys and stopped to bathe in rivers. Merlin practically hid from Arthur the whole time - keeping the water up to his neck. Arthur had only glimpsed Merlin’s bare torso for seconds as he entered and left the water. And his skin had been -

“When we’ve bathed in the rivers, you’ve always managed to avoid me seeing you properly. And the few glances I got, I thought your skin was too perfect for someone who’d been in as many scuffles and accidents as you had. I should have known.” 

Merlin gives an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah, I was only just learning about mirage spells at the time, so I tried to make sure you didn’t see anything. I could make myself look like a totally different person, but I was struggling with how to look like me, only better.”

Arthur’s heart cracks.

“There’s nothing about you that needs to be ‘better’, Merlin. There never has been.”

Merlin’s eyes are soft and sad. “Arthur, I’ve been hiding who I really am for my whole life. If people saw all this-” he wiggles his scarred arm slightly in Arthur’s gentle grip to demonstrate his meaning “- they would have questions. And people would fear me. A horrifically-scarred sorcerer doesn’t exactly scream ‘trust me’, does it? I mean, look what happened with Edwin -”

Arthur blanches as Merlin’s words. “- Don’t compare yourself to him -”

Merlin sighs good naturedly. “I’m not saying I’m like him, I’m saying that people were scared of him because of how he looked. We’re trying to build a new world here, Arthur, I’ve got to do everything I can to make people like me.”

“People love you, Merlin. You saw the reaction when you became court sorcerer -”

“- Arthur -”

“- Merlin.”

They lock stares, reading a multitude of unspoken words in each other’s faces. Merlin breaks the impasse first. He speaks quietly, his eyes so full of something that Arthur feels the need to gently squeeze the forearm in his grasp again. 

“I’m sorry for not telling you - for not being honest with you again. I just -”

“- Merlin.” The way Arthur speaks his name makes the other man go still. Arthur suddenly feels the weight of what he’s put Merlin through this evening.

“I understand. It’s personal. I’m truly sorry I’ve intruded on something so private. I had no right to demand that you showed me any of this, and I especially had no right to ask you to relive it. ”

Merlin just shakes his head, waving off the notion that Arthur has somehow violated his privacy. Arthur takes it as an indication to continue, speaking just in time to cut off whatever Merlin was about to say.

“But I want you to know that you should be proud of your battle scars. They’re proof that you’ve survived unthinkable pain, that you’ve risked your life time and again to save myself and countless others. You’re the greatest warrior Camelot has ever seen -” Merlin scoffs, about to refute the statement until Arthur barrels over him “- you are. Please promise me you’ll at least never hide these things from me again?”

Merlin’s eyes search the king’s face. He finds nothing but sincerity. 

“I promise.”

Arthur inclines his head in acknowledgement. After a pause, he voices one of the many things that are still bothering him. “You said the magic scars still hurt sometimes - is there anything I can do to help? Is there a salve I can help you put on or something?”

Merlin smiles softly. “No, it’s not… It’s not the scars on the outside, if that makes sense?”

Arthur nods slowly. He often still feels the burn of the Questing Beast’s bite. “Well, I want to help in any way I can. Anytime there’s anything I can do, whether it’s to listen as you rage against the discomfort, apply a salve, or help you to bathe - anything, you come to me. Agreed?”

A cheeky smile lights up Merlin’s features and Arthur’s heart glows. “Do you want to give me a bath Arthur?”

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur’s answer is completely serious. “Yes. Anything you need.”

Seeing the stunned expression on Merlin’s face, Arthur continues. “Look, I’ve never had to deal with anything on my own. How many times have you tended my wounds, stayed by my side through the night so I could sleep safely, helped me to bathe when I’m hurt?”

Merlin goes to speak, but Arthur cuts him off. “ - Don’t you dare say it was your duty. You’ve always been so much more than a servant. And it works both ways. I’m always here for you, understand?”

Merlin’s smile is soft but so full of affection it almost hurts. “I know.”

Arthur grins back at him, the tension melting away as he snatches up Merlin’s shirt and throws it in his face.

“Now for love of the gods, put your shirt back on before someone walks in and gets the wrong idea.”

Merlin wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Wouldn’t want people getting jealous, would we?”

Merlin’s delighted laugh when the well-aimed pillow hits him in the face puts Arthur’s world back on its axis, even as he ducks the barrage of soft furnishings that magically hurl themselves at him. 

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

May I offer some Miller Brother love and whump on this Monday Evening?

Triple Frontier - Breathe Again

Just a little cute brotherly thing with the Miller Boys!

Posted on AO3 Here!

When Reader / un-named original female character (referred to only as "she" or "her" throughout) has an asthma attack, Will does his best to help her until Benny can get her inhaler. The Millers think about their unhappy childhood and how it's made them who they are today. Happy Ending!

Trigger Warnings: Asthma Attack. Character struggles to breathe. Reference to anxiety attacks, child abuse, domestic abuse, death of parents, alcoholism, drug abuse and a near death experience for both of the Miller boys.

I don't own the Miller boys unfortunately, and as usual my work is un-beta'd so my apologies for any mistakes!

Please don't repost, reproduce, sample, or lay claim to any of my work - I pour my soul into these works (and yes, it's cheaper than therapy!), and it's heartbreaking when people do these things!

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Breathe Again

It’s lucky that Will’s hands are twice the size of hers and he’s still built like a soldier - she’s gripping his hand with surprising strength, and a less robust person would be feeling their bones screeching in protest. His other hand is rubbing large, soothing circles on her shaking back as he crouches in front of her, wishing they’d found somewhere more comfortable for her to sit than the stony concrete they were running on. Will’s clear blue eyes are alert and monitoring constantly, but his smile is soft and encouraging. Somewhere in the haze of panic and oxygen deprivation, a thought drifts into her chaotic mind - no wonder the Miller boys could have their pick of the ladies… and the men.

Will is grateful she’s not wearing lipgloss, or any makeup at all, so he can properly assess the pink creeping from her cheeks into the whites of her eyes, and the grey-blue tinge just barely visible around her mouth and through her lips. Her free hand is clutching at her ribs so tightly he can see the bones of her knuckles shining pearlescent through her skin. 

At some point he’ll need to make a judgement call - ambulance or not - and no matter how many brothers he’s held as they bled (his real brother unfortunately included), he never shakes the fear that he’ll make the wrong call or make it too late. 

“Hey-“ his soft voice filters in through her ringing ears, her eyes snapping up to meet his. “ - Breathe with me, c’mon.” He manages to loosen her grip on his hand just enough to press her palm flat against his chest with his own hand over the top, and starts to take exaggeratedly slow, deep breaths. He focuses on keeping his heart rate as slow and steady as he can - a skill that he’s finely honed in his years spent behind a rifle.

Their eyes are still locked, his face relaxed despite the tension of the situation, his blue eyes crystal clear. There’s always something almost mischievous in his eyes, a kind of twinkle like he’s about to make a joke or flirt with you.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she starts to register the steady, strong thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of his heart under her palm, the flexing and relaxing of the firm muscles of his chest as he breathes. And he’s so warm. It’s captivating, and for a moment she’s not so focused on the way her lungs are convulsing and seizing inside her or the feeling of a strap being pulled painfully, crushingly tight around her ribs, or the immediate fear of oh God I’m suffocating I’m going to die. No doubt this was Will’s intention, as he notices the tiny change in her and murmurs soft affirmations that fan his breath across her face. 

The almost intoxicating spell is broken by Benny’s running footsteps as he approaches from Will’s left, and the next second the younger man is dropping to a crouch beside them. His voice has a barely-detectable frantic edge under the steady exterior that’s been trained into him by the military - Will is better at hiding his emotions, controlling his fear, keeping his voice absolutely calm and even.

“The bag was in the locker like you said, took me a minute to find this though-” he’s holding out a small plastic inhaler, shaped like an “L” and with her name and date of birth identified on the printed label on the side. “- this was the only one in there.”

“Great, can you-” Will begins, but Benny is already yanking the cap off the inhaler and holding it out. “- Thanks. Alright…” 

Will’s hand leaves her back and takes the little device, giving it a hearty shake for a few seconds, before holding it out towards her. Her hand shakily releases its grip on her ribs and grabs the inhaler, Will’s long fingers curling around her own to steady it as she forms her lips around the mouthpiece. As she depresses the little canister protruding from the top, both Millers watch her intently. The hiss of the inhaler is somewhat lost in the rasping pull of her breath as struggles draw the medicine into her lungs. Will’s fingers tighten slightly on her own and gently pull the inhaler away from her lips. 

“Try and hold it in -” she manages maybe 2 seconds before her breath huffs back out in a rush, immediately replaced by another gasp of air and a round of coughing. “- Ok, let’s give it a few seconds to start working before the next one, ok?” She barely manages to acknowledge his words with a tiny nod of her head, so focused on trying to draw oxygen into her spasming lungs. 

Benny’s eyebrows are drawn into the slightest frown of worry as he watches her continue to fight for breath. He’s holding the cap of the inhaler carefully in his large hand, making sure to only touch the outside as his free hand occupies itself by taking up the soothing motions on her back that his brother had been administering moments before. A few more ragged breaths pass before Will is guiding the device back to her mouth again. “Ok, one more time. Breathe as deep as you can-” click, hiss, inhale, “- great, hold it as long as you can.”

This time when Will pulls the inhaler away she manages nearly 5 seconds before her breath is leaving her in a whoosh again. He manages to wriggle the device out of her grasp and drops it into Benny’s waiting palm. The younger Miller drops his hand from her back just long enough to deftly click the cap back on before he returns to his gentle ministrations, inhaler gripped tightly in his other hand. Will still has one hand holding hers to his chest, but the other is now cupping her face as his thumb gently glides back and forth along her cheekbone. 

“Great - you’re doing great.” The blonde murmurs encouragingly. Benny’s alarmed by how bloodshot the whites of her eyes are, but his anxious glance at his brother receives the tiniest shake of the head - Will’s silent acknowledgment of Benny’s communication and a response of ‘not now’. 

Their unbreakable bond and  “strange” silent communication is what had made the brothers the US Military’s most in-demand special ops team. They’d always been able to communicate in an odd, non-verbal way. It was almost a form of telepathy they’d developed as Will had essentially raised his baby brother alone, their father killed in combat when Benny was eight and Will was 13. Their mother had collapsed into a pit of grief that quickly led to violent drink-and-drug fuelled rages.

It had finally claimed her life a few months after Will’s 18th birthday. He’d joined the forces, and it had pushed her into a drugs binge so extreme she’d OD’d. Benny was 15 when he’d found her on the kitchen floor.  

Will was legally old enough to be his brother’s legal guardian, and he was lucky his CO saw the potential in him - pulling strings to make sure Will could start his military career and still look after Benny. 

But Benny had spiralled - causing trouble at school, fighting, doing illegal shit, getting arrested, fucking, drinking, drugs (both taking and dealing)… anything to quiet the demons in his head. 

When Benny was 17 Will had found him unconscious and barely breathing on his bedroom floor after a drink-and-drug-fuelled-bender of his own. His instincts and brand-new training had kicked in and he’d flipped his baby brother onto his side, pounding his back and stopping him choking to death on his own vomit just in time. In the quiet, broken aftermath on the bedroom floor Benny had confessed to feeling relieved when they no longer had to sneak around their mother, lest she fly into a rage and Will take a beating to protect him. Will had softly, achingly admitted he was relieved that he no longer had to fear what she would do to Benny while he was at school or work, but that he would always, always take the hits to protect him, forever. He’d had a new danger to protect his baby brother from, but this time he couldn’t take the bruises in Benny’s place. They talked until the sun rose, and that afternoon Benny cleaned himself up and they went to meet Will’s CO.

They’d rapidly risen through the ranks of the forces together, making it to top-tier special ops in just three years. Will made good on his promise to protect Benny too many times to count, but especially 5 years later when he took 2 bullets that were destined to send Benny to meet their parents again. As Benny quietly cried next to his brother’s hospital bed - a sadly familiar situation in their childhood - he realised it was the first time he’d had cause to do so since their mother died. 

Now, with his gaze entirely focused on her face, Benny feels the moment Will starts to relax. A second later there’s an audible change in the sound of her breathing as her chest finally starts to unlock, the strap around her ribs loosening and her lungs falling back into a shallow but steady rhythm. Benny trusts his brother - and his judgement -  unquestioningly, and allows himself to start to climb down from high alert.  

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Will’s hands have moved to her shoulders. With every ragged breath she seems to slump more and more, almost as if bearing her own weight is getting too tiring, and what started as a comforting tactile connection is fast becoming a grip to keep her upright.  

Benny shuffles to sit beside her on the stony concrete, his side flush against hers. He’s blessed with a body that works impeccably well, but knows from experience how exhausting an anxiety attack can be and expects that an asthma attack would feel similar. After all, they’re called “attacks” for a reason. 

He’s used to them from his own perspective, but to watch someone he loves so much fight not to goddamn suffocate… It’s always prickled at the back of his mind that it must be awful for Will when Benny has his anxiety attacks, but now, with the flayed-raw feeling of terror, adrenaline, and helplessness, he suddenly has a whole new appreciation for his big brother. 

She leans into him, and without hesitation Benny lifts his arm and loops it around the back of  her shoulders, tucking her securely against his body. Will slides his hands down her arms and grips both of her hands in his own, folding himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of her. He finds himself suddenly captured by her surprisingly steady gaze, intent clear in her face. After a few seconds she speaks. 

“Thank you. For looking after me.” It’s the first thing she’s been able to say since she came to an abrupt halt halfway through their run together, and her rasping voice is achingly sincere. She holds Will’s gaze for a moment, then twists to catch Benny’s eye too. 

Will’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he has to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. He waits to catch her gaze again before he speaks. “Always, sweetheart.”

Benny finds himself unable to speak when she looks up at him again, his insides suddenly crowded with so many feelings that he can’t express them. He’s not entirely sure they’re all his, certain that some of it is the empathetic absorption of what she’s feeling, what she’s projecting. Fear. Relief. The echo of pain. 

It occurs to him that this is how it feels to have a younger sibling. The responsibility. The terror when something’s wrong and you don’t know if you can fix it. 

Their gaze holds for a long moment before he has to close his burning eyes, and he presses his lips to her forehead until he can push down the tight feeling in his throat. As soon as his lips leave her skin her head droops, coming to rest in the joint of his shoulder with his pec muscle holding her in place. He notices her hands squeezing Will’s in some unheard rhythm, feels the slight tremors that run through her body. 

They stay that way for some time, until Benny’s ass has started to go numb and he’s wondering if she’s fallen asleep. He glances up and catches the glint in Will’s eyes - no doubt reading his mind again, and probably sympathising with his own numb ass. After a few seconds of unspoken communication, Will gives her hands a deliberately firm squeeze and Benny feels the weight of her head lift from his chest. 

The older Miller sibling tilts his head slightly to see her face better.  He can see the exhaustion in her features, the way she seems to struggle to focus on him like her brain keeps zoning in and out. He’s seen it before in so many situations, not least with Benny’s anxiety attacks. 

 He smiles softly, waits for her eyes to focus on his own, and gently inquires “How’re you feeling?”. 

“Yeah, fine.” She answers far too quickly. A conditioned response. Will raises an eyebrow and holds her gaze with his trademark raised-eyebrow-smirk. She relents under his stare with a huff.

“Tired. A bit weird, y’know? My chest and my legs. But I’ll be alright after a shower.”

Will’s nodding, as Benny adds “You should probably eat too, and drink some water.”

She nods jerkily and drops her head again. Will catches his brother’s gaze again, and he hesitates a moment, clearly considering his next words carefully. 

“... I know we were going out to eat with the guys tonight, but -” 

Her head shoots up from Benny’s chest, almost colliding with his chin. “ - No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to get myself sorted -”

Will rushes to reassure her “ - no no no, I’m saying that I’m more than happy to have an excuse to stay in.”

She doesn’t immediately shoot him down again, but neither does she agree. Benny can practically hear the cogs whirring in her head as she weighs her options - not wanting to be the one who craps off their night out, but ludicrously tempted by the idea of a more casual evening with their friends. 

Will exchanges another look with Benny before giving her another get-out-of-jail-free-card.

“Frankie was making noises about getting take out and watching the new Mission Impossible movie on Sky. To be honest it sounds much better than a crowded, noisy bar.”

Benny jumps on the bandwagon. “Oh man, I was praying someone would take him up on that. I’m in.”

Will smirks, keeping with the easy banter. “Why didn’t you then?”

Benny shrugs just enough to slightly jostle her. “I know you old folk don’t get out much anymore, didn’t wanna get in the way of your retirement-club day trip.” Benny fires right back.  

“You’re technically retired too, y’know.” 

“Yeah but we all know I had to do that so the military wouldn’t notice I was letting you take all the glory for my genius.” 

Will outright laughs, and Benny feels the slight tremor of her giggle through the side of his body as he beams at their success. 

His grin softening, Will ducks his head to catch her gaze again. 

“You ready to head back?”

When she nods and starts to untangle herself from Benny, he jumps in to assure her.

“Hey now, there’s no rush -“

“-Nah my ass has gone numb.” She murmurs, gratefully accepting the two pairs of hands that help her to her feet and steady her when she sways slightly, her eyes going unfocused for a moment. 

“One of us can carry you -“

Benny never gets to finish his sentence. “- no no, I can walk.” She smiles sheepishly. “Thanks though.”

They both nod, but neither completely let go of her as they begin a steady trudge back to the Gym they set out from God only knows how long ago.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Thanks for reading!

There may or may not be an alternative version of this scene in which we learn a lot more about the original female character, but it's currently banging around in my head and my spicy brain takes months to actually work through these things, so please keep checking back!

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Triple Frontier - Breathe Again

Just a little cute brotherly thing with the Miller Boys!

Posted on AO3 Here!

When Reader / un-named original female character (referred to only as "she" or "her" throughout) has an asthma attack, Will does his best to help her until Benny can get her inhaler. The Millers think about their unhappy childhood and how it's made them who they are today. Happy Ending!

Trigger Warnings: Asthma Attack. Character struggles to breathe. Reference to anxiety attacks, child abuse, domestic abuse, death of parents, alcoholism, drug abuse and a near death experience for both of the Miller boys.

I don't own the Miller boys unfortunately, and as usual my work is un-beta'd so my apologies for any mistakes!

Please don't repost, reproduce, sample, or lay claim to any of my work - I pour my soul into these works (and yes, it's cheaper than therapy!), and it's heartbreaking when people do these things!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Breathe Again

It’s lucky that Will’s hands are twice the size of hers and he’s still built like a soldier - she’s gripping his hand with surprising strength, and a less robust person would be feeling their bones screeching in protest. His other hand is rubbing large, soothing circles on her shaking back as he crouches in front of her, wishing they’d found somewhere more comfortable for her to sit than the stony concrete they were running on. Will’s clear blue eyes are alert and monitoring constantly, but his smile is soft and encouraging. Somewhere in the haze of panic and oxygen deprivation, a thought drifts into her chaotic mind - no wonder the Miller boys could have their pick of the ladies… and the men.

Will is grateful she’s not wearing lipgloss, or any makeup at all, so he can properly assess the pink creeping from her cheeks into the whites of her eyes, and the grey-blue tinge just barely visible around her mouth and through her lips. Her free hand is clutching at her ribs so tightly he can see the bones of her knuckles shining pearlescent through her skin. 

At some point he’ll need to make a judgement call - ambulance or not - and no matter how many brothers he’s held as they bled (his real brother unfortunately included), he never shakes the fear that he’ll make the wrong call or make it too late. 

“Hey-“ his soft voice filters in through her ringing ears, her eyes snapping up to meet his. “ - Breathe with me, c’mon.” He manages to loosen her grip on his hand just enough to press her palm flat against his chest with his own hand over the top, and starts to take exaggeratedly slow, deep breaths. He focuses on keeping his heart rate as slow and steady as he can - a skill that he’s finely honed in his years spent behind a rifle.

Their eyes are still locked, his face relaxed despite the tension of the situation, his blue eyes crystal clear. There’s always something almost mischievous in his eyes, a kind of twinkle like he’s about to make a joke or flirt with you.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she starts to register the steady, strong thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of his heart under her palm, the flexing and relaxing of the firm muscles of his chest as he breathes. And he’s so warm. It’s captivating, and for a moment she’s not so focused on the way her lungs are convulsing and seizing inside her or the feeling of a strap being pulled painfully, crushingly tight around her ribs, or the immediate fear of oh God I’m suffocating I’m going to die. No doubt this was Will’s intention, as he notices the tiny change in her and murmurs soft affirmations that fan his breath across her face. 

The almost intoxicating spell is broken by Benny’s running footsteps as he approaches from Will’s left, and the next second the younger man is dropping to a crouch beside them. His voice has a barely-detectable frantic edge under the steady exterior that’s been trained into him by the military - Will is better at hiding his emotions, controlling his fear, keeping his voice absolutely calm and even.

“The bag was in the locker like you said, took me a minute to find this though-” he’s holding out a small plastic inhaler, shaped like an “L” and with her name and date of birth identified on the printed label on the side. “- this was the only one in there.”

“Great, can you-” Will begins, but Benny is already yanking the cap off the inhaler and holding it out. “- Thanks. Alright…” 

Will’s hand leaves her back and takes the little device, giving it a hearty shake for a few seconds, before holding it out towards her. Her hand shakily releases its grip on her ribs and grabs the inhaler, Will’s long fingers curling around her own to steady it as she forms her lips around the mouthpiece. As she depresses the little canister protruding from the top, both Millers watch her intently. The hiss of the inhaler is somewhat lost in the rasping pull of her breath as struggles draw the medicine into her lungs. Will’s fingers tighten slightly on her own and gently pull the inhaler away from her lips. 

“Try and hold it in -” she manages maybe 2 seconds before her breath huffs back out in a rush, immediately replaced by another gasp of air and a round of coughing. “- Ok, let’s give it a few seconds to start working before the next one, ok?” She barely manages to acknowledge his words with a tiny nod of her head, so focused on trying to draw oxygen into her spasming lungs. 

Benny’s eyebrows are drawn into the slightest frown of worry as he watches her continue to fight for breath. He’s holding the cap of the inhaler carefully in his large hand, making sure to only touch the outside as his free hand occupies itself by taking up the soothing motions on her back that his brother had been administering moments before. A few more ragged breaths pass before Will is guiding the device back to her mouth again. “Ok, one more time. Breathe as deep as you can-” click, hiss, inhale, “- great, hold it as long as you can.”

This time when Will pulls the inhaler away she manages nearly 5 seconds before her breath is leaving her in a whoosh again. He manages to wriggle the device out of her grasp and drops it into Benny’s waiting palm. The younger Miller drops his hand from her back just long enough to deftly click the cap back on before he returns to his gentle ministrations, inhaler gripped tightly in his other hand. Will still has one hand holding hers to his chest, but the other is now cupping her face as his thumb gently glides back and forth along her cheekbone. 

“Great - you’re doing great.” The blonde murmurs encouragingly. Benny’s alarmed by how bloodshot the whites of her eyes are, but his anxious glance at his brother receives the tiniest shake of the head - Will’s silent acknowledgment of Benny’s communication and a response of ‘not now’. 

Their unbreakable bond and  “strange” silent communication is what had made the brothers the US Military’s most in-demand special ops team. They’d always been able to communicate in an odd, non-verbal way. It was almost a form of telepathy they’d developed as Will had essentially raised his baby brother alone, their father killed in combat when Benny was eight and Will was 13. Their mother had collapsed into a pit of grief that quickly led to violent drink-and-drug fuelled rages.

It had finally claimed her life a few months after Will’s 18th birthday. He’d joined the forces, and it had pushed her into a drugs binge so extreme she’d OD’d. Benny was 15 when he’d found her on the kitchen floor.  

Will was legally old enough to be his brother’s legal guardian, and he was lucky his CO saw the potential in him - pulling strings to make sure Will could start his military career and still look after Benny. 

But Benny had spiralled - causing trouble at school, fighting, doing illegal shit, getting arrested, fucking, drinking, drugs (both taking and dealing)… anything to quiet the demons in his head. 

When Benny was 17 Will had found him unconscious and barely breathing on his bedroom floor after a drink-and-drug-fuelled-bender of his own. His instincts and brand-new training had kicked in and he’d flipped his baby brother onto his side, pounding his back and stopping him choking to death on his own vomit just in time. In the quiet, broken aftermath on the bedroom floor Benny had confessed to feeling relieved when they no longer had to sneak around their mother, lest she fly into a rage and Will take a beating to protect him. Will had softly, achingly admitted he was relieved that he no longer had to fear what she would do to Benny while he was at school or work, but that he would always, always take the hits to protect him, forever. He’d had a new danger to protect his baby brother from, but this time he couldn’t take the bruises in Benny’s place. They talked until the sun rose, and that afternoon Benny cleaned himself up and they went to meet Will’s CO.

They’d rapidly risen through the ranks of the forces together, making it to top-tier special ops in just three years. Will made good on his promise to protect Benny too many times to count, but especially 5 years later when he took 2 bullets that were destined to send Benny to meet their parents again. As Benny quietly cried next to his brother’s hospital bed - a sadly familiar situation in their childhood - he realised it was the first time he’d had cause to do so since their mother died. 

Now, with his gaze entirely focused on her face, Benny feels the moment Will starts to relax. A second later there’s an audible change in the sound of her breathing as her chest finally starts to unlock, the strap around her ribs loosening and her lungs falling back into a shallow but steady rhythm. Benny trusts his brother - and his judgement -  unquestioningly, and allows himself to start to climb down from high alert.  

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Will’s hands have moved to her shoulders. With every ragged breath she seems to slump more and more, almost as if bearing her own weight is getting too tiring, and what started as a comforting tactile connection is fast becoming a grip to keep her upright.  

Benny shuffles to sit beside her on the stony concrete, his side flush against hers. He’s blessed with a body that works impeccably well, but knows from experience how exhausting an anxiety attack can be and expects that an asthma attack would feel similar. After all, they’re called “attacks” for a reason. 

He’s used to them from his own perspective, but to watch someone he loves so much fight not to goddamn suffocate… It’s always prickled at the back of his mind that it must be awful for Will when Benny has his anxiety attacks, but now, with the flayed-raw feeling of terror, adrenaline, and helplessness, he suddenly has a whole new appreciation for his big brother. 

She leans into him, and without hesitation Benny lifts his arm and loops it around the back of  her shoulders, tucking her securely against his body. Will slides his hands down her arms and grips both of her hands in his own, folding himself to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of her. He finds himself suddenly captured by her surprisingly steady gaze, intent clear in her face. After a few seconds she speaks. 

“Thank you. For looking after me.” It’s the first thing she’s been able to say since she came to an abrupt halt halfway through their run together, and her rasping voice is achingly sincere. She holds Will’s gaze for a moment, then twists to catch Benny’s eye too. 

Will’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he has to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. He waits to catch her gaze again before he speaks. “Always, sweetheart.”

Benny finds himself unable to speak when she looks up at him again, his insides suddenly crowded with so many feelings that he can’t express them. He’s not entirely sure they’re all his, certain that some of it is the empathetic absorption of what she’s feeling, what she’s projecting. Fear. Relief. The echo of pain. 

It occurs to him that this is how it feels to have a younger sibling. The responsibility. The terror when something’s wrong and you don’t know if you can fix it. 

Their gaze holds for a long moment before he has to close his burning eyes, and he presses his lips to her forehead until he can push down the tight feeling in his throat. As soon as his lips leave her skin her head droops, coming to rest in the joint of his shoulder with his pec muscle holding her in place. He notices her hands squeezing Will’s in some unheard rhythm, feels the slight tremors that run through her body. 

They stay that way for some time, until Benny’s ass has started to go numb and he’s wondering if she’s fallen asleep. He glances up and catches the glint in Will’s eyes - no doubt reading his mind again, and probably sympathising with his own numb ass. After a few seconds of unspoken communication, Will gives her hands a deliberately firm squeeze and Benny feels the weight of her head lift from his chest. 

The older Miller sibling tilts his head slightly to see her face better.  He can see the exhaustion in her features, the way she seems to struggle to focus on him like her brain keeps zoning in and out. He’s seen it before in so many situations, not least with Benny’s anxiety attacks. 

 He smiles softly, waits for her eyes to focus on his own, and gently inquires “How’re you feeling?”. 

“Yeah, fine.” She answers far too quickly. A conditioned response. Will raises an eyebrow and holds her gaze with his trademark raised-eyebrow-smirk. She relents under his stare with a huff.

“Tired. A bit weird, y’know? My chest and my legs. But I’ll be alright after a shower.”

Will’s nodding, as Benny adds “You should probably eat too, and drink some water.”

She nods jerkily and drops her head again. Will catches his brother’s gaze again, and he hesitates a moment, clearly considering his next words carefully. 

“... I know we were going out to eat with the guys tonight, but -” 

Her head shoots up from Benny’s chest, almost colliding with his chin. “ - No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to get myself sorted -”

Will rushes to reassure her “ - no no no, I’m saying that I’m more than happy to have an excuse to stay in.”

She doesn’t immediately shoot him down again, but neither does she agree. Benny can practically hear the cogs whirring in her head as she weighs her options - not wanting to be the one who craps off their night out, but ludicrously tempted by the idea of a more casual evening with their friends. 

Will exchanges another look with Benny before giving her another get-out-of-jail-free-card.

“Frankie was making noises about getting take out and watching the new Mission Impossible movie on Sky. To be honest it sounds much better than a crowded, noisy bar.”

Benny jumps on the bandwagon. “Oh man, I was praying someone would take him up on that. I’m in.”

Will smirks, keeping with the easy banter. “Why didn’t you then?”

Benny shrugs just enough to slightly jostle her. “I know you old folk don’t get out much anymore, didn’t wanna get in the way of your retirement-club day trip.” Benny fires right back.  

“You’re technically retired too, y’know.” 

“Yeah but we all know I had to do that so the military wouldn’t notice I was letting you take all the glory for my genius.” 

Will outright laughs, and Benny feels the slight tremor of her giggle through the side of his body as he beams at their success. 

His grin softening, Will ducks his head to catch her gaze again. 

“You ready to head back?”

When she nods and starts to untangle herself from Benny, he jumps in to assure her.

“Hey now, there’s no rush -“

“-Nah my ass has gone numb.” She murmurs, gratefully accepting the two pairs of hands that help her to her feet and steady her when she sways slightly, her eyes going unfocused for a moment. 

“One of us can carry you -“

Benny never gets to finish his sentence. “- no no, I can walk.” She smiles sheepishly. “Thanks though.”

They both nod, but neither completely let go of her as they begin a steady trudge back to the Gym they set out from God only knows how long ago.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Thanks for reading!

There may or may not be an alternative version of this scene in which we learn a lot more about the original female character, but it's currently banging around in my head and my spicy brain takes months to actually work through these things, so please keep checking back!

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

by Maplemind

Steven is spending some time at the museum and trying to ignore the bad memories when a young woman who works in another area of the museum arrives and gives him a whole other subject of interest.

Words: 1495, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Moon Knight (TV 2022)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Characters: Steven Grant (Marvel), Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Fluff, Cute, Discussions of Paganism, Steven Grant Needs a Hug, Steven Grant is a cutie, kind of meet cute, Meet-Cute, Innocence

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Next to Godliness - Moon Knight

Steven is spending some time at the museum and trying to ignore the bad memories when a young woman who works in another area of the museum arrives and gives him a whole other subject of interest.

On AO3 Here!

Fluffy, Cute, Cutie-Fluffy-Stuff!

Although I wrote it as purely friendship, you can read it as the beginnings of romance if you want to!

Reader insert if you want to, otherwise an OFC. The OFC isn't given any description other than dressing boho and wearing beads and crystals.

Discussions of Paganism - based off my own adventures in Spiritualism and Paganism.

Not Beta'd ;-)

Unfortunately Steven Grant / Marc Spector / Jake Lockley / Moon Knight stuff doesn't belong to me, I just like to play with them!

DO NOT edit or repost my fics to other sites / apps, or claim as your own! Thank You!

Steven has lost track of time. So absorbed in staring at the sarcophagus in the corner of the Egyptian exhibit, the world has ceased to exist around him as the rampant noise in his brain has gradually faded into a strange whirring noise. The bright blues, deep reds, and crisp golds slide in and out of focus as his eyes wander over them. Every time he notices something new, he’s reminded of how old these colours are. Ancient. A real person painted these thousands of years ago. A human being - a living, breathing, human being - picked up a paint brush, dipped it in a dollop of azure, and painted with painstaking precision. A real person who maybe stepped back from the completed piece and assessed their handiwork. Were they pleased with what they’d achieved? Did they huff out a frustrated breath and repaint sections? Did they smile and present their work to their king with pride?

Something in his head and his stomach stirs seconds before he senses a presence appear beside him and he’s sharply pulled from his reverie.

A woman a few inches shorter than Steven, her outfit smart with touches of boho, has joined him at the glass case. Bangles and beaded bracelets clack up and down her arms as she moves, and stones hang around her neck on chords - pink, blue (Lapis Lazuli, Steven recognises it from his Ancient Egyptians), green, clear. There’s a gentle, open smile on her face and her voice is bright but soft.

“Hey, I know your face! You’re Steven, right? Used to work in the gift shop?”

Steven’s adrenaline is already running, but there’s a jolt at the mention of his history with this place. It’s like a painful memory he wishes he could scrub out.

“Um… yeah, yeah I did.” 

“You were wasted in there, should have been a tour guide.” At first Steven feels a spike of fear - is she another person making fun of him? - but her smile is still gentle and genuine, it puts Steven at ease somewhat. He can’t help the flush that rises through his face and neck.

“What, really?”

Her smile widens. “Yeah! I loved watching you tell people things that weren’t written on the displays. It was lovely to have someone else here who was actually passionate about their subject.”

“Right, yeah thanks, appreciate that…” Steven shoves down his unease at the compliment. “You’re from the… Pagan exhibit, right?”

She looks mildly delighted at his recognition. “Yep, that’s me!”  

“Yeah, I always wanted to visit but I never had the time, with work and uh…” Steven found himself trailing off awkwardly. “ - Well I guess I’ve got the time now.” Steven snaps his mouth shut. You donut. 

They’re quiet for a moment, then - “It was Donna, right? The reason you lost your job?” Somehow her question doesn’t make Steven flinch. Her voice is gentle, but there’s an edge of something behind it - anger? Distaste? 

Steven finds himself floundering. “Oh, uh, well, not exactly. I mean, she definitely made things worse but -”

“ - Yeah, when I heard what happened I thought… well it was disgusting what they did to you. The way Donna treated you would give anyone a breakdown -” She suddenly winces “God, sorry, that’s none of my business-“ 

“-no, no that’s… it’s fine.” If it had been anyone else, Steven would have told them where to get off, but he doesn’t find her comments grating. In fact, he finds her anger on his behalf… comforting. 

Quiet falls again. Then -

“Hey I’m on lunch, want to come hang out in my realm?”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

They walk to the very back of the museum, stopping at the cafe to get sandwiches, and when they reach the Pagan exhibit she pulls two chairs out of a cupboard in the corner. She puts them down and gestures around.

“My favourite spot in the whole area. Nebra Sky Disk, lots of Gods and Goddesses… and Donna won’t come in here.”

“Why not?”

“She tried to do to me what she did to you. Then I managed to catch her bullying the poor newbie they put in your job. I filmed her taking the piss out of his stutter. I sent the video to head office.”

Steven feels both satisfaction and frustration bloom in his chest. “What, really?!”

“Yeah! You’d think she’d know better than to mess with a pagan. People have been trying to wipe us out forever, we’ve well and truly learnt to fight back. Me and Faye had a little commune with Hecate for the solstice, see if she could help us with the ‘Donna Problem’. Looks like it worked!”

“He-ka-tay?”

“Yeah, the triple Goddess over there, second cabinet on the right.”

Steven looks around, notices a statue of three Goddesses stood back to back in a triangle. “Triple Goddess? Like, three goddesses together?”

“Yeah, sort of. She has three versions of herself living in one body, and you can ask her to lead with the identity that will be of the most use for your request.”

Steven’s heart rate picks up as he feels Marc’s interest stir in the headspace. “Three - three people in one body? Is that… normal for pagan deities?”

She shrugs, head tilting to the side. Her dreamcatcher earrings dangle at a jaunty angle.

“Not ‘normal’, but it’s not an unusual concept. Many faiths believe that we all have different versions of ourselves, and that as our souls develop, we get to meet them and live with them. Three is the usual number, like with Hecate: the thinker, the lover, and the warrior. And I’m sure you’ve heard of “Maiden, Mother, Crone”? Whichever version is needed the most is the one who sort of controls the physical form while the others guide from the ‘soul space’ as it were.”

Steven is sure she must be able to hear his heart hammering by now. “Do you… Do you believe in that?”

Her face lights up. “Absolutely! I mean, we know there are real people with the same thing. I think they call it an “identity disorder” now, which I hate because the word “disorder” suggests there’s something wrong with the person. And I don’t believe there is.”

Something about her makes him think that she’s at least a bit suspicious about his “quirk”, but she doesn’t seem to be judgemental in the slightest. It makes Steven brave. He tries not to knock his sandwich off his lap as his hands begin twisting in his sleeves erratically.

“You don’t?”

“No. I think they just happen to have been able to access the other parts of their soul, and our world isn’t built to deal with that now. It would have been celebrated back when Britain was a pagan land.”

Steven can only nod, his brain running wild with the new information. They sit in silence for a while as they eat, both staring at the triple Goddess statue. 

Eventually she speaks again.

“Hey… You’re always welcome to come here, if you want. You can just grab a chair from the cupboard and sit for a while.” Her earnest expression matches her tone of voice, and for the first time in a very long time, Steven finds himself genuinely trusting someone. 

“I… What if you’re not here?”

She chuckles lightly. Steven notices she’s rolling one of her crystal bead bracelets between her fingertips. “Oh I’m here most of my waking life. I actually kinda prefer it here, I get to show people my world, y’know?”

He nods slowly. She mistakes his silence for rejection.

“I mean you’re always welcome! Whether I’m here or not, just grab a chair and stay as long as you like! Sometimes it’s nice to sit with the Gods and Goddesses, other times you just need to sit in here and be with it all, y’know?”

Steven finds himself all but beaming at her, her enthusiasm infectious. 

“I’d quite like to learn more about it, if you have the time anytime, sometime-” Marc tells him to stop talking. Steven winces. “Sorry, too many times.” he realises what  he’s just said. “I don’t mean - I mean there would never be too much time spent with you, not that I really know you, but I’m sure-” Marc tells him to stop again, and thankfully she cuts him off this time, her smile gentle and genuine. 

“- hey, it’s ok, I know what you mean - I’d love to hang out more and tell you about my world, and maybe in return you can tell me about your Egyptians? They seem to have some stuff in common with the Pagans…”

Her softness puts Steven at ease instantly. He finds himself nodding enthusiastically at her. “Yeah! Yeah that’d be great! Um, I actually have all afternoon, so..”

She lights up like a Christmas tree.  “Excellent! Let’s start with Hecate, and the sarcophagus you were looking at earlier - there’s a symbol on it that looks really similar to one I saw in a book about sigils…”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Fanfiction Authors: HEADS UP

(Non-authors, please RB to signal boost to your author friends!)

An astute reader informed me this morning that one of my fics (Children of the Future Age) had been pirated and was being sold as a novel on Amazon:

(And they weren't even creative with their cover design. If you're going to pirate something that I spent a full year of my life writing, at least give me a pretty screenshot to brag about later. Seriously.)

I promptly filed a DMCA complaint to have it removed, but I checked out the company that put it up -- Plush Books -- and it looks like A LOT of their books are pirated fic. They are by no means the only ones doing this, either -- the fact that """publishers""" can download stories from AO3 in ebook format and then reupload them to Amazon in just a few clicks makes fic piracy a common problem. There are a whole host of reasons why letting this continue is bad -- including actual legal risk to fanfiction archives -- but basically:

IF YOU ARE A FANFIC AUTHOR WITH LONG AND/OR POPULAR WORKS, PLEASE CHECK AMAZON TO SEE IF YOUR STORIES HAVE BEEN PIRATED.

You can search for your fics by title, or by text from the description (which is often just copied wholesale from AO3 as well). If you find that someone has stolen your work and is selling it as their own, you can lodge a DMCA complaint (Amazon.com/USA site; other countries have different systems). If you haven't done this before, it's easy! Here's a tutorial:

HOW TO FILE A COPYRIGHT COMPLAINT FOR STOLEN WORK ON AMAZON.COM:

First, go to this form. You'll need to be signed into your Amazon account.

Select the radio buttons/dropdown options (shown below) to indicate that you are the legal Rights Owner, you have a copyright concern, and it is about a pirated product.

Enter the name of your story in the Name of Brand field.

In the Link to the Copyrighted Work box, enter a link to the story on AO3 or whatever site your work is posted on.

In the Additional Information box, explain that you are the author of the work and it is being sold without your permission. That's all you really need. If you want, you can include additional information that might be helpful in establishing the validity of your claim, but you don't have to go into great detail. You can simply write something like this:

I am the author of this work, which is being sold by [publisher] without my permission. I originally published this story in [date/year] on [name of site], and have provided a link to the original above. On request, I can provide documentation proving that I am the owner of the account that originally posted this story.

In the ASIN/ISBN-10 field, copy and paste the ID number from the pirated copy's URL. You'll find this ten-digit number in the Amazon URL after the word "product," as in the screenshot below. (If the URL extends beyond this number, you can ignore everything from the question mark on.) Once this number has been added, Amazon will pull the product information automatically and add it to the complaint form, so you can check the listing title and make sure it's correct.

Finally, add your contact information to the relevant fields, check the "I have read and accept the statements" box, and then click Submit. You should receive an email confirmation that Amazon has received the form.

Please share this information with your writer friends, keep an eye out for/report pirated works, and help us keep fanfiction free and legally protected!

NOTE: All of the above also applies to Amazon products featuring stolen artwork, etc., so fan artists should check too!

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

All Fall Down - Moon Knight

Summary: Marc and Steven are free from Khonshu and no longer have the suit. This is one time they really needed it. 

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, description of dying, major character death. Happy ending, I promise.

Note: not beta’d. Probably [definitely] inaccurate descriptions of Dissociative Identity Disorder and injury / death. I apologise in advance for any offense caused!

Posted on AO3 HERE!

Do not edit or repost my fics to other sites / apps, or claim as your own! Thank you!

Initially the pain is only the tip of the blade as it pierces his stomach. After that, the sensation is more… obstructive. The steel blade pushed in where it shouldn’t be, getting in the way of his organs, like having a band-aid on a joint makes you feel like there’s something stopping it from moving properly. The pain really hits when his assailant rips the blade free - slicing at a wide angle across his body, tearing its way through his abdomen from hip-to-hip as it leaves. 

Marc staggers backwards, his hands automatically flying to the gaping wound in his middle. The man is leering at him, bloodstained linen shirt and pale, loose jeans almost flapping in the wind. Marc has a moment to register the man’s discoloured, rotting smile before it’s gone - replaced by a look of shock that remains frozen there as he hits the ground face first. The blade in his back is removed by an angel with golden wings and glowing brown skin. Her abundant ebony curls bounce as she rights herself, the blade disappearing somewhere in the elaborate armour that encases her athletic form. Her satisfied look vanishes instantly as she gets her first real look at him.

“Marc!” his name shouldn’t sound like that when it comes from his angel’s lips - choked, horrified. He realises he can no longer feel his legs, that the pain has become a raging inferno throughout his torso, and the ground rushes up to meet him. 

His descent is halted by strong arms, which manoeuvre him onto his back and cradle him against the golden breastplate. Her small features are pinched in terror and fear as she gazes down upon him, her face already beginning to blur. He’s starting to feel hollow, his heart squeezing and thudding erratically.  His lungs have become too full to breathe, as counterintuitive as that seems, but he understands why when the bubbling, gurgling sensation starts deep in his chest and hot, metallic wetness flows out onto his lips with the gasp of her name. 

-------------------

Layla POV

She knows when she sees the wound. But somehow her mind still screams a denial… until he chokes out her name. His impossibly dark eyes are dominated by fear and pain as they lock onto her face, the bright crimson bubbling and spurting out onto his lips a stark contrast to his dark olive-toned skin. Her hand flies to his face, resting flat against his cheek as she tries desperately to bring some comfort to her husband.

“Marc, Marc, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Tawaret! We need help, now!”

Her panicked call is answered swiftly. The enormous Hippo Goddess materialises beside them, towering over their prone forms. 

“Oh my goodness, oh no!” Her hands flap anxiously as she kneels beside them.

“Tawaret, help him, please, heal him!” Layla begs. She knows it sounds more like a command than a request, and any other Deity would have torn her apart for it. Tawaret’s face falls, and Layla already knows what she’s going to hear before the Goddess speaks. 

“He’s no longer in the service of Khonshu, he can’t use the healing powers of the suit anymore. And I - I don’t have the power to heal him. It’s not something I can access. I’m so sorry, Layla, I really am.” 

Layla can see that she means it. The Hippo Goddess is on the verge of tears as she lays a gentle hand on Marc’s head. “May your journey be swift and the field of reeds greet you like the war-hero you are.” Then she’s gone. Layla’s blood runs cold.

Marc’s body is quaking now. The pool of blood surrounding them has spread so far that Layla can no longer see its edge in her peripheral vision. The shallow, rattling breaths are becoming quieter. A shudder runs through him - then it’s no longer Marc she’s holding.

“Lay-la-” Steven chokes out, and it’s suddenly much harder to hold in her tears at the sight of his innocent face contorted in terror and agony. She desperately tries to soothe him.

“Hey, hey Steven. It’s okay-”

“-m - ‘m s-scared-” 

Her heart shatters. His dark eyes are wide and bloodshot. 

“Shhh - shhh Steven, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay -” She sees him acknowledge the lie, fear wiping out the last dregs of hope in his eyes. He tries to speak again - only short, helpless noises escape. 

“Shhh - I’m sorry, Steven, I’m so sorry -” Her tears finally break free, and she holds him tighter. In that moment he locks his gaze with hers, his face spasming as he fights for breath, as the terror overwhelms him- 

Then his face goes blank, his whole form falling still.

 

The sob that punches out of her jolts the still body in her arms. Gone. The realisation that Steven died in her arms hits her like a truck, and she feels a belt tighten around her chest.

 

She barely has time to feel the shock and grief start to set in when the body jolts again, the eyelids spasming over glassy eyes. She can’t fight the flare of hope that sparks to life inside her. It gutters out instantly.

Marc struggles to speak. The weak, choking noises he manages to make eventually form a word “Ste.. Ste-ven-” and his face portrays his crushing grief through his pain “-Can’t-”.

Layla fights down a sob. Her head bobs in an approximation of a nod, her own grief contorting her face. “I’m so sorry Marc - He - I was with him when - when he-” Marc’s eyes bore into hers, he tries to speak again, but now no words escape at all. A strange rattling whine emits from his throat, and Layla feels the panic grip her again - she knows that sound.

She rushes to speak while he can still hear her.

“- I love you! It’s okay, baby, I love - “ 

She’s still chanting her mantra as with a sigh he has no control over, Marc sinks into her arms, his eyes glazing over and his face going slack. He’s suddenly heavy, his weight no longer being held at all. His chest’s shuddering, desperate movements cease. 

This time is somehow different - before, it had been like his face had paused, awaiting his return from the headspace. Now it didn’t even look like him. Nor like Steven. The features are just… empty.  

Layla’s world freezes. It’s only when her chest starts to burn and her heart screams in her ears that she realises her breath stopped with her husband’s. Her whole body is numb, yet tingling painfully. It’s like she’s holding this moment in the palm of her hand, an inanimate object of a thing that she’s detached from. 

With a roar, reality crashes back in and she’s aware of the screaming sobs wrenching themselves from her throat. She curls herself tightly around the body in her arms, fighting her mind’s desperate attempts to look for signs of life, anything to deny reality and divert the truth. She wonders if it’s possible to tear muscles or fracture bones with the force of her sobs, the quakes of her body, as she shudders through the shock and grief. 

Then the coldness sets in.

Her shudders and sobs halt. She takes one, two, three breaths. Then she sits back on her heels to drink in the sight of her soulmate’s face one last time. She could swear there’s something behind his glassy eyes, a strange vibration running through his body like an electric current. She smiles for him, one last sight for his eyes to see before she gently smooths her fingers over them, closing the lids and putting him at peace. She begins to utter a prayer, to ask the Gods to take his and Steven’s souls to the glorious afterlife where they can live in peace and joy for eternity. Where they’ll wait for her. 

As she recites her prayers, she watches the throes of a body’s settling process after death with an almost detached gaze - or maybe it’s her grief stricken mind giving one last ditch attempt to deny reality. 

There’s the tiniest twitch under the golden-brown eyelids she’s just closed. Then the almost imperceptible spasm of the muscles on the right side of Marc’s greying lips.

She only just registers the weak shudder that runs through her husband’s entire form before an undeniable convulsion hits.

Marc’s chest jolts upward, his limbs tensing as his mouth opens in a silent gasp. Rigour Mortis she tells herself - the nerves dissipating their last impulses- 

She doesn’t finish the thought. 

An explosion of white engulfs Marc’s body. Pale bindings wrap themselves onto his upper torso and shoulders, a hood forming around a mask of dark strips of fabric - the same fabric that wraps itself snugly around each arm and leg. A bundle of white cloak pools around him, piling up on her lap and trailing into the crimson pool surrounding them.

Layla barely has time to acknowledge her terrified thoughts - Oh God, has something evil taken over his body?-  when an audible, desperate choking sound accompanies a sudden, jolting rise of his chest. He twists in her arms, and she sees barely a flash of his skin as the mask pulls away and he turns his face to the ground. With deep, guttural coughing, watery crimson sprays and drips into the existing pool of red as his lungs work to clear themselves. 

Time seems to stretch eternally until his coughing finally eases. As she helps him to lay back in the safety of her arms, she just catches the last slither of his cheekbone as his face vanishes beneath the dark mask again.

Every muscle in his body is pulled so tight he’s practically suspended, arched in her arms. A violent shudder runs through him, before he begins to relax incrementally, a tiny amount at a time, until he’s resting in her arms again.

Under the black mask she can hear the great chugs of air he’s pulling in, matching the deep, sharp expansion and deflation of his ribcage. She’s frozen in shock, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream as she struggles to process - what just happened? What’s happening? What do I do?

Layla can’t tell if he’s staring at her, or just staring. The glowing white eyes give zero indication of the actual focus of his gaze, or the intention behind it.  “-Marc?” she finally ventures. After a second’s pause, he gives a tiny shake of his head. “Steven?” He doesn’t reply. 

She’s still trying to decide if she should speak to him again, or whether the head shake was meant to communicate that he couldn’t answer her, when the mask and hood recede to leave his head exposed. He looks… different. Well he was dead a few seconds ago. But something doesn’t sit right. 

“I - I thought you didn’t have the suit any more?” Her voice quakes in the cold of her body.

Dark eyes lock onto hers. His mouth works for a few seconds, his throat bobbing with an audible clicking sound as he clears the residual blood clogging it. 

“They don’t.”

His statement and voice unnerve her. Her adrenaline spikes again, ready to defend herself if she needs to, when something begins to form at the back of her mind. A vague memory, a suspicion. That night in Cairo - Harrow - Marc savagely beaten into the ground - and then -

“Who are you?” She doesn’t mean it to sound as abrupt as it does.

He blinks at her, his expression wary. He’s still fighting for breath.

“Jake.” He finally huffs out.

She nods her head jerkily. They thought there was a third… “Where -?” She doesn’t need to finish her question. Jake knows. 

“I've got them.” His voice has a gravelly quality that she suspects isn’t all from taking his last breath a few minutes before. 

“-You’ve ‘got them’?” Hope and fear war in Layla’s chest. She searches the oh-so-familiar eyes, finding fear, pain, and a hint of relief in their dark depths. 

“Yeah. They’re safe. They’re still… ‘unconscious’, they took the brunt of the - of it.” The effort of speaking seems to wear Jake out, he’s still breathless, but Layla can’t help herself. 

They’re safe. “-They’re ‘safe’? Safe where? Are they okay?” Layla is err-ing on the side of caution with this stranger.

To his credit, the look of impatience and irritation passes as fast as it appears. Something unreadable but somehow soft replaces it.

“- Yeah, they’re safe. In here -” he weakly gestures to his head “- like I said, they took the worst of it… I couldn’t break through their shock to take control.” he pauses for a moment, and she recognises the look that both Marc and Steven get when they’re looking inside or communicating in their headspace. “They’re gonna be fine. They need time to heal.” He finishes softly, almost affectionately.

 

Relief floods her system. They’re going to be alright. And he clearly cares about them. 

But the reprieve is short lived - they have to move.

“Ok Jake, we need to get out of here. Tell me as soon as you can walk and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

He nods. “Just need a minute… Let the suit give me enough juice to get moving.”

She nods in response, her eyes scanning their surroundings before settling back on this semi-stranger’s face.

“So… I don’t think we’ve really met before.” She ventures.

The man wearing her husband’s face blinks at her, then a slow smile spreads across his features. It’s both slightly unnerving and sweet at the same time. 

“Oh, we’ve met. I’m the one that saves our asses.”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Aww thank you so much, I’m so glad you enjoyed it! 😘

Let Us Take Care of You - Moon Knight Drabble 3

Summary:

Reader is recovering from surgery and the Moon Boys are helping to look after her. Frustrations erupt when she makes a bad decision with a truth from the Moon Boy's past revealed (it explains a lot of their behaviour in this fic). Angst, emotional Moon Boys, fluff in the end.

Notes:

Purely self indulgent! I wrote this four days after I had to have some not-so-minor surgery, and Moon Knight was still being released weekly at the time and I really needed to have our Moon Boys looking after me. Descriptions are based on exactly how things felt to me at the time. Not Beta read, all strange occurrences are my fault! Posted on AO3 Here!

Steven had left you in bed with a promise to take the fastest shower he could. He was worried about leaving you at all, but they hadn’t even had the presence of mind to change their clothes since you were rushed into hospital 3 days earlier.

So when Steven opened the bathroom door to find the bed empty, worry was already creeping through his veins. It was replaced by the icy cold rush of panic and adrenaline when he heard a crash and a sharp cry of pain from the direction of the kitchen.

The events of the last few days had given the three of them many reasons to be grateful for the athletic condition their body remained in (thanks to their service with Khonshu, although that was a delicate topic right now), and as his legs gave an incredible burst of speed and his brain automatically steered him clear of obstacles Steven wondered if part of the power came from having two other people feeding energy and control into the body.

When he rounded the corner and found you hunched over against the kitchen counter, barely holding yourself up and your fingers in a white knuckled death-grip, he felt the blood drain from his face. Your name erupted from his lips in sheer panic.

“Oh God, love, what happened?” He’s doubled over beside you, his terrified eyes staring up into your face as one hand grips your elbow and the other tries to wrap around your shoulders.

Needless to say he’s shocked when you try to shake him off, your face screwed up against the pain in your abdomen and your breath coming in and out of your nose in short, sharp bursts. He notices the glitter of tears on your eyelashes. 

“I’m fine.��� you grind out through gritted teeth. Your bravery is betrayed by faint tremors running through your body.

“What do you need me to do, darling?” The front of Steven’s body is pressed against your side, like he’s protecting you from an armed intruder, the grip of his arm around your shoulders and his hand on your elbow is firm. Through the pulsing red haze and burning heat of shock and pain, his presence is too much for your already overwhelmed senses to handle right now. The humiliation is starting to set in and with everything else it’s making you short tempered.

You try to push him away, but the movement sends another sickening flair of pain through your body and you can’t stop the choked whimper that escapes. Your name sounds broken on his lips as he almost whispers it.

“Just back off!” you snap, and you don’t miss the hurt that briefly crosses his face. Guilt prickles in your chest. “Please…” you add weakly. There’s a pause, and you work to fight away the pulsing darkness at the corners of your vision.

“Would you please let me help you? Please?” Steven implores softly as he puts a half-step of space between your bodies. His impossibly dark eyes are almost desperate as his hands move, one makes a warm presence as it strokes your back, and the other carefully pries your tense hand from the work top and grasps it. You can see his deep need to care for you, to protect you from harm, glittering in his eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m not going to just sit around and have you guys run around after me.” You grind out, trying to ignore the screaming agony and flashing lights dancing across your vision.

“C’mon, love, it’s not like that. And it won’t be for long, you’ll be back up ‘n’ at ‘em before you know it.” Steven’s slightly-shaky words are meant to bring reassurance, but instead the pain and frustration digs itself in deeper and your temper gets the better of you.

“I can take care of myself! They said I only needed help for the first 24 hours. I’m already messing with your life. I’m not enslaving you to me like Khonshu-“ you felt the change before you saw or heard it.

“-For Christ’s sake you had emergency surgery three days ago!” Marc’s voice comes out in a harsh burst. You flinch slightly, sending pain through your body again, but you hear the fear behind his words. His hand on your back has stilled, the other is gripping yours tighter than Steven had.You can feel his strong pulse through your gripped hands, competing with your own racing heart. Suddenly you’re beyond overwhelmed, tears pricking harshly at your eyes as the pain seems to be refusing to settle and a strange mix of anxiety and anger bubbles in your chest at Marc’s reaction. Your legs have started to feel strange, like they’re being burnt but are numb at the same time, and there’s a blinding pressure building somewhere behind your eye sockets.

“Yeah, three days ago-” you challenge, only to be cut off by Marc.

“-They said you couldn’t be left alone for 24 hours! You’re signed off work for two weeks, and you’ve got 3 months of physio!”

His response, although factually correct, hits a nerve and your frustration explodes out of you in one last burst of energy. “Right I’ll just sit around like the damsel in distress so you can play hero! They said I could move around by myself after the first 24 hours, I just wanted make a fucking drink like a normal person!” The pain is still raging, your entire body tight like a strained rubber band, your breathing short and sharp. Yelling has used up the last of your energy reserves and you feel both the light-headed swirl of impending unconsciousness, and the prickling burn of a complete emotional meltdown coursing through your bloodstream.

Marc lets out a huff of air through his nose. For a moment he’s quiet, and you know he’s studying you, assessing how you’re doing. Maybe Steven and Jake are talking to him, because his hand resumes a gentle motion up and down your back and his voice is softer when he speaks again. Your eyes burn with tears and you have a futile hope that none are escaping.

 “I know baby, I know. Breathe through it, it’ll get better in a minute.” You find yourself starting to time your breaths to the motions of his hand on your back - no doubt his intention - and slowly the impending darkness and flashing lights fade out as the pain recedes from a raging inferno to a persistent stabbing feeling.

After several long, tense minutes, you attempt to stand more upright. You make it nowhere near fully straight, that will take days - maybe weeks - yet, but you get far enough to look into your boyfriend’s dark eyes. The fear is still there, but the shock and mis-placed aggression has gone.

“Do you think you can move to the table?” He asks gently, and you’re glad he’s giving you the agency to move by yourself rather than just telling you what to do or manhandling you himself. You take another couple of deep breaths and nod.

He slowly guides you to sit in the nearest chair at the kitchen table, one hand at your elbow, the other on your lower back. He never applies any pressure, just maintains an alert closeness as you make your way to the chair on your own terms.

When you finally reach the seat, Marc helps to lower you down into it, taking the vast majority of your weight and accounting for your inability to bend (or straighten) the middle of your body and your shaky legs. His eyes dart around your form constantly as he gets you settled. Under his -unintentional- scrutiny you feel the need to explain yourself.

“I just wanted to make some tea. I tried to reach up for the tea bags, but it hurt really suddenly and I knocked the mug off the counter and it was instinct to try and catch it... I didn’t think about it…” Your voice is small. Marc’s raised voice and outburst has made you edgy on top of the shock of the incident itself, and the pain has made you feel unsteady and sick. You suddenly realise just how rough you actually feel.

Marc sighs as he drops to a crouch beside you. He knows he’d be exactly the same, refusing to be helpless in any way. Hell, he knows he was exactly the same back when he was a mercenary, before Konshu and the suit.

“I get it, I do. But you gotta be patient. It wasn’t exactly minor surgery and you’re still on the heavy drugs. We can’t risk messing up the repairs they’ve done, and there’s no need to make it worse for yourself when we can help-”

“- I don’t want you all to-” you begin, shaking your head but Marc is already gesturing for you to stop.

“- don’t, baby, please. We can’t bear to see you hurting, especially when we’re right here and can help you so much if you’ll let us.” The burning compassion in his eyes kills the response you were formulating. You suddenly find yourself unable to meet his eyes.

Marc’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones and swiping away the wetness of traitorous tears. He looks -and sounds- close to crying himself. “Alright. I need to check your stitches, is that ok?”

You nod silently. Marc softly runs his hands down your arms, then carefully pulls up your shirt and delicately checks for any damage. There’s a long, stressful silence as Marc carefully manipulates the dressing on your stomach to see your wound better. You clench your teeth and focus on breathing evenly to prevent a whimper from escaping your throat.

“Looks okay, just a bit raw from the sudden movement.” Marc confirms finally, and as he lays gentle fingers against your skin to check for signs of internal bleeding or infection, you find yourself blurting out what’s currently on your mind.

“Is Steven freaking out?”

He glances up at the mirror, then focuses back on you. “Yeah. You know how he is.” His answer is surprisingly honest, and suddenly his head jerks up again, staring into the mirror steadily.

Marc is silent for a moment too long, glaring into the reflection of the mirror on the wall behind you. “What’s he saying?” You ask, an edge to your voice. Marc shakes his head, an annoyed look crossing his face. “It’s not Steven.” You blink. You’d only met Jake once.

Marc had fallen badly ill and wouldn’t accept any help. With a raging fever, violent cough and unable to keep any food or water down, Steven wasn’t able to convince Marc to either give up the body or accept help, and Marc was still the strongest of the alters when it came to control of the body. When it reached four days of not eating, the fever still hadn’t broken and Marc was no longer coherent. He was weak enough that Jake finally managed to take over. The two of you had spoken very little, with Jake struggling to maintain their failing body and only conscious long enough to refuse professional medical help and request whatever he felt they needed to get better (electrolyte drinks at first, then meal replacement shakes, and eventually soup. Open the window - another blanket - close the window - take the blanket away - around and around.). On the sixth day the fever broke, and finally on the eighth day an exhausted Jake surrendered the body to Steven, who carried them over the line to recovery.

“Okay, what’s Jake saying?”

A muscle is twitching in Marc’s jaw. “He wants to help.”

“Fine.” You manage a small shrug, tiredness starting to take over.

Marc gives a sharp shake of his head. “No. I don’t trust him.”

By now you’ve had enough. Your elbow thuds onto the table, forearm upright to support your heavy head as you drop your forehead into your open palm. Your other arm has found its own way to drape protectively around your swollen, sore abdomen. Staring at the floorboards you grind out “What the fuck is he gonna do Marc? Put a bullet in my head to put me out of my misery? Jesus, just let him help if he wants to. But if you and Steven want to take all the responsibility for putting up with your useless lump of a partner then… Whatever.”

Marc is silent for an unexpected length of time. You don’t really care to notice, the haze of an abused body making you miserable and strangely detached. Your attention is busy floating off somewhere outside your body when movement catches your eye and your boyfriend shifts to kneel right in front of you. His warm hand rests gently on your knee, and when he dips his head down to gaze up into your face it isn’t Marc you see. It isn’t Steven either.

You lift your head slightly. “Jake?”

Jake’s expression is sombre. “Honey, you’re not a ‘useless lump’, you’re recovering from some pretty heavy surgery.”

Your expression is almost dead, but tears spring to your eyes again as you tilt your head towards the smashed mug “kinda useless -“ then gesture towards your uncomfortably swollen stomach “- kinda lumpy.”

Jake looks incredibly sad. You suddenly wonder how many times he’s heard Marc’s internalised self-hatred, whether he tried to comfort him only to find himself talking to a metaphorical brick wall. He gently squeezes your thigh. “I know it sucks right now, okay? I know you’re uncomfortable, and in pain, and I know it’s wearing you out.” He pauses, and you can see the minuscule movement of his throat as he swallows.  “We know you’ve been struggling for a while, even before the surgery, and not just with the physical stuff. We can see it. But we really want to help, honey. We’d put you in the suit if we could, I swear. So please let us help however we actually can?”

You find yourself having to divert your gaze from his, reminded too much of the fear in Steven and Marc’s eyes earlier.

“Honey?” Damn Jake and his incredible perceptiveness. You sigh.

“Is… I’m sorry I made Marc angry.”

You see Jake’s startled recoil in your peripheral vision. You feel it in your soul. Then he’s leaning in closer again, his hand squeezing your thigh so firmly you wonder if Marc is back. The voice that whispers your name like a prayer is all Jake, though.

“You - you didn’t make him angry, honey. He just - we just need to make sure you're okay.”

You don’t answer, and there’s a few beats of silence before Jake lets out a sigh like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He shifts his weight slightly, and on the edge of your gaze you see his head drop.

“There was no care for us, no-one to make sure we were okay when we were growing up. Marc especially took the worst of it - and there was no help for him when he was in pain, no-one to try to ease his suffering other than me and Steven, but it’s the same body so it wasn’t ever really a relief. We still feel the pain even when we’re not in control, y’know?”

Your brain boggles at his words. You notice him nod his head slightly, you wonder if he’s talking to the others in the headspace, then he raises his head with a movement so decisive you can practically feel the resolve rolling off him in waves.

“And it terrifies us to think that you might feel the same way - that you might be hurting, or scared, or just down, and think there’s no-one to help. Because we will do anything, give anything for you. So please, please let us help you. please?”

You lift your head, stunned. Jake’s face is so sincere, the tears that threatened to fall earlier start to trickle down your cheeks in earnest. Jake's thumb is rubbing soothing circles on your thigh as he patiently waits for your answer. Unable to find words, you slowly nod. He nods in response; a small, lopsided smile easing the tense lines of his face.

“It’s not forever. I know it feels like it right now, but they said you can go back to work in two weeks. And I think that means we have an excuse to spend some quality downtime together, y’know?” Jake’s thick accent adds a suggestive edge to his words.

A bark of a laugh escapes you, and you feel the tension in your face ease slightly. “Well.. We can’t do that until at least week four, so you’re out of luck there.”

A stricken look passes across Jake’s face in a flash, but he quickly smothers it with a smirk. You feel a frown twitch through your eyebrows before Jake speaks again. “Damn, I guess we’ll have to get started on that ‘watch list’ we’ve been making. And the doctor said to eat whatever you want, whenever you want while you’re on those good drugs, so I really hope you want a lot of take-out…”

You snort out a laugh but it’s short lived, the mirth washing away like the tide. That look you caught sight of is bothering you. “Jake… what was that look just now?”

Jake feigns innocence. He’s terrible at it. “What look?”

“Just now, right after I said we couldn’t…” You trail off leadingly. He doesn’t take the bait.

“You mean my sexy look?” Jake wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. A smile breaks across your face but it’s fleeting and you’re not letting this drop. Your tone is almost one of warning.

“Jake…”

The look on your face seems to say more than your words or tone ever could. Jake sighs and drops his gaze to the floor. When he looks up at you again a few seconds later, his expression is serious.

“I wasn’t suggesting that. I wasn’t even thinking about it -”

“-Jake -”

“ - I would never think that was okay. Not right now. Not any time you're hurt, or just don’t want to -”

“ - Jake - “

 “ - You know that right?”

You sigh. Jake’s being so powerfully sincere it feels like all three of them are speaking to you as one. Maybe they are. You gently cup his face in your hands, having to use your grip to pull him closer as you can’t bend nearer to him. He follows willingly, kneeling up to bring his face an inch from yours, his hands snugly tucked against the chair under your thighs so he doesn’t put any pressure on your body at all.

“I know. and thank you, all of you.”

He genuinely looks confused. “What for?”

“Everything.” Giving him no chance to argue, you press a -very gentle - kiss to his lips. His response is so careful it makes you want to cry again, especially when he eases away after just a few seconds. Resting his forehead against yours, your entire vision is swallowed by his deep, incredibly dark eyes as he murmurs. “Siempre, mi angel.”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Let Us Take Care of You - Moon Knight

Summary:

Reader is recovering from surgery and the Moon Boys are helping to look after her. Frustrations erupt when she makes a bad decision, and a truth from the Moon Boy's past is revealed (it explains a lot of their behaviour in this fic). Angst, emotional Moon Boys, fluff in the end. One use of the F word.

Notes:

Purely self indulgent! I wrote this four days after I had to have some fairly intense surgery, and Moon Knight was still being released weekly at the time and I really needed to have our Moon Boys looking after me. Descriptions are based on exactly how things felt to me at the time. Not Beta read, all strange occurrences are my fault! Posted on AO3 Here!

Steven had left you in bed with a promise to take the fastest shower he could. He was worried about leaving you at all, but they hadn’t even had the presence of mind to change their clothes since you were rushed into hospital 3 days earlier.

So when Steven opened the bathroom door to find the bed empty, worry was already creeping through his veins. It was replaced by the icy cold rush of panic and adrenaline when he heard a crash and a sharp cry of pain from the direction of the kitchen.

The events of the last few days had given the three of them many reasons to be grateful for the athletic condition their body remained in (thanks to their service with Khonshu, although that was a delicate topic right now), and as his legs gave an incredible burst of speed and his brain automatically steered him clear of obstacles Steven wondered if part of the power came from having two other people feeding energy and control into the body.

When he rounded the corner and found you hunched over against the kitchen counter, barely holding yourself up and your fingers in a white knuckled death-grip, he felt the blood drain from his face. Your name erupted from his lips in sheer panic.

“Oh God, love, what happened?” He’s doubled over beside you, his terrified eyes staring up into your face as one hand grips your elbow and the other tries to wrap around your shoulders.

Needless to say he’s shocked when you try to shake him off, your face screwed up against the pain in your abdomen and your breath coming in and out of your nose in short, sharp bursts. He notices the glitter of tears on your eyelashes. 

“I’m fine.” you grind out through gritted teeth. Your bravery is betrayed by faint tremors running through your body.

“What do you need me to do, darling?” The front of Steven’s body is pressed against your side, like he’s protecting you from an armed intruder, the grip of his arm around your shoulders and his hand on your elbow is firm. Through the pulsing red haze and burning heat of shock and pain, his presence is too much for your already overwhelmed senses to handle right now. The humiliation is starting to set in and with everything else it’s making you short tempered.

You try to push him away, but the movement sends another sickening flair of pain through your body and you can’t stop the choked whimper that escapes. Your name sounds broken on his lips as he almost whispers it.

“Just back off!” you snap, and you don’t miss the hurt that briefly crosses his face. Guilt prickles in your chest. “Please…” you add weakly. There’s a pause, and you work to fight away the pulsing darkness at the corners of your vision.

“Would you please let me help you? Please?” Steven implores softly as he puts a half-step of space between your bodies. His impossibly dark eyes are almost desperate as his hands move, one makes a warm presence as it strokes your back, and the other carefully pries your tense hand from the work top and grasps it. You can see his deep need to care for you, to protect you from harm, glittering in his eyes.

“I’m fine. I’m not going to just sit around and have you guys run around after me.” You grind out, trying to ignore the screaming agony and flashing lights dancing across your vision.

“C’mon, love, it’s not like that. And it won’t be for long, you’ll be back up ‘n’ at ‘em before you know it.” Steven’s slightly-shaky words are meant to bring reassurance, but instead the pain and frustration digs itself in deeper and your temper gets the better of you.

“I can take care of myself! They said I only needed help for the first 24 hours. I’m already messing with your life. I’m not enslaving you to me like Khonshu-“ you felt the change before you saw or heard it.

“-For Christ’s sake you had emergency surgery three days ago!” Marc’s voice comes out in a harsh burst. You flinch slightly, sending pain through your body again, but you hear the fear behind his words. His hand on your back has stilled, the other is gripping yours tighter than Steven had.You can feel his strong pulse through your gripped hands, competing with your own racing heart. Suddenly you’re beyond overwhelmed, tears pricking harshly at your eyes as the pain seems to be refusing to settle and a strange mix of anxiety and anger bubbles in your chest at Marc’s reaction. Your legs have started to feel strange, like they’re being burnt but are numb at the same time, and there’s a blinding pressure building somewhere behind your eye sockets.

“Yeah, three days ago-” you challenge, only to be cut off by Marc.

“-They said you couldn’t be left alone for 24 hours! You’re signed off work for two weeks, and you’ve got 3 months of physio!”

His response, although factually correct, hits a nerve and your frustration explodes out of you in one last burst of energy. “Right I’ll just sit around like the damsel in distress so you can play hero! They said I could move around by myself after the first 24 hours, I just wanted make a fucking drink like a normal person!” The pain is still raging, your entire body tight like a strained rubber band, your breathing short and sharp. Yelling has used up the last of your energy reserves and you feel both the light-headed swirl of impending unconsciousness, and the prickling burn of a complete emotional meltdown coursing through your bloodstream.

Marc lets out a huff of air through his nose. For a moment he’s quiet, and you know he’s studying you, assessing how you’re doing. Maybe Steven and Jake are talking to him, because his hand resumes a gentle motion up and down your back and his voice is softer when he speaks again. Your eyes burn with tears and you have a futile hope that none are escaping.

 “I know baby, I know. Breathe through it, it’ll get better in a minute.” You find yourself starting to time your breaths to the motions of his hand on your back - no doubt his intention - and slowly the impending darkness and flashing lights fade out as the pain recedes from a raging inferno to a persistent stabbing feeling.

After several long, tense minutes, you attempt to stand more upright. You make it nowhere near fully straight, that will take days - maybe weeks - yet, but you get far enough to look into your boyfriend’s dark eyes. The fear is still there, but the shock and mis-placed aggression has gone.

“Do you think you can move to the table?” He asks gently, and you’re glad he’s giving you the agency to move by yourself rather than just telling you what to do or manhandling you himself. You take another couple of deep breaths and nod.

He slowly guides you to sit in the nearest chair at the kitchen table, one hand at your elbow, the other on your lower back. He never applies any pressure, just maintains an alert closeness as you make your way to the chair on your own terms.

When you finally reach the seat, Marc helps to lower you down into it, taking the vast majority of your weight and accounting for your inability to bend (or straighten) the middle of your body and your shaky legs. His eyes dart around your form constantly as he gets you settled. Under his -unintentional- scrutiny you feel the need to explain yourself.

“I just wanted to make some tea. I tried to reach up for the tea bags, but it hurt really suddenly and I knocked the mug off the counter and it was instinct to try and catch it... I didn’t think about it…” Your voice is small. Marc’s raised voice and outburst has made you edgy on top of the shock of the incident itself, and the pain has made you feel unsteady and sick. You suddenly realise just how rough you actually feel.

Marc sighs as he drops to a crouch beside you. He knows he’d be exactly the same, refusing to be helpless in any way. Hell, he knows he was exactly the same back when he was a mercenary, before Konshu and the suit.

“I get it, I do. But you gotta be patient. It wasn’t exactly minor surgery and you’re still on the heavy drugs. We can’t risk messing up the repairs they’ve done, and there’s no need to make it worse for yourself when we can help-”

“- I don’t want you all to-” you begin, shaking your head but Marc is already gesturing for you to stop.

“- don’t, baby, please. We can’t bear to see you hurting, especially when we’re right here and can help you so much if you’ll let us.” The burning compassion in his eyes kills the response you were formulating. You suddenly find yourself unable to meet his eyes.

Marc’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones and swiping away the wetness of traitorous tears. He looks -and sounds- close to crying himself. “Alright. I need to check your stitches, is that ok?”

You nod silently. Marc softly runs his hands down your arms, then carefully pulls up your shirt and delicately checks for any damage. There’s a long, stressful silence as Marc carefully manipulates the dressing on your stomach to see your wound better. You clench your teeth and focus on breathing evenly to prevent a whimper from escaping your throat.

“Looks okay, just a bit raw from the sudden movement.” Marc confirms finally, and as he lays gentle fingers against your skin to check for signs of internal bleeding or infection, you find yourself blurting out what’s currently on your mind.

“Is Steven freaking out?”

He glances up at the mirror, then focuses back on you. “Yeah. You know how he is.” His answer is surprisingly honest, and suddenly his head jerks up again, staring into the mirror steadily.

Marc is silent for a moment too long, glaring into the reflection of the mirror on the wall behind you. “What’s he saying?” You ask, an edge to your voice. Marc shakes his head, an annoyed look crossing his face. “It’s not Steven.” You blink. You’d only met Jake once.

Marc had fallen badly ill and wouldn’t accept any help. With a raging fever, violent cough and unable to keep any food or water down, Steven wasn’t able to convince Marc to either give up the body or accept help, and Marc was still the strongest of the alters when it came to control of the body. When it reached four days of not eating, the fever still hadn’t broken and Marc was no longer coherent. He was weak enough that Jake finally managed to take over. The two of you had spoken very little, with Jake struggling to maintain their failing body and only conscious long enough to refuse professional medical help and request whatever he felt they needed to get better (electrolyte drinks at first, then meal replacement shakes, and eventually soup. Open the window - another blanket - close the window - take the blanket away - around and around.). On the sixth day the fever broke, and finally on the eighth day an exhausted Jake surrendered the body to Steven, who carried them over the line to recovery.

“Okay, what’s Jake saying?”

A muscle is twitching in Marc’s jaw. “He wants to help.”

“Fine.” You manage a small shrug, tiredness starting to take over.

Marc gives a sharp shake of his head. “No. I don’t trust him.”

By now you’ve had enough. Your elbow thuds onto the table, forearm upright to support your heavy head as you drop your forehead into your open palm. Your other arm has found its own way to drape protectively around your swollen, sore abdomen. Staring at the floorboards you grind out “What the fuck is he gonna do Marc? Put a bullet in my head to put me out of my misery? Jesus, just let him help if he wants to. But if you and Steven want to take all the responsibility for putting up with your useless lump of a partner then… Whatever.”

Marc is silent for an unexpected length of time. You don’t really care to notice, the haze of an abused body making you miserable and strangely detached. Your attention is busy floating off somewhere outside your body when movement catches your eye and your boyfriend shifts to kneel right in front of you. His warm hand rests gently on your knee, and when he dips his head down to gaze up into your face it isn’t Marc you see. It isn’t Steven either.

You lift your head slightly. “Jake?”

Jake’s expression is sombre. “Honey, you’re not a ‘useless lump’, you’re recovering from some pretty heavy surgery.”

Your expression is almost dead, but tears spring to your eyes again as you tilt your head towards the smashed mug “kinda useless -“ then gesture towards your uncomfortably swollen stomach “- kinda lumpy.”

Jake looks incredibly sad. You suddenly wonder how many times he’s heard Marc’s internalised self-hatred, whether he tried to comfort him only to find himself talking to a metaphorical brick wall. He gently squeezes your thigh. “I know it sucks right now, okay? I know you’re uncomfortable, and in pain, and I know it’s wearing you out.” He pauses, and you can see the minuscule movement of his throat as he swallows.  “We know you’ve been struggling for a while, even before the surgery, and not just with the physical stuff. We can see it. But we really want to help, honey. We’d put you in the suit if we could, I swear. So please let us help however we actually can?”

You find yourself having to divert your gaze from his, reminded too much of the fear in Steven and Marc’s eyes earlier.

“Honey?” Damn Jake and his incredible perceptiveness. You sigh.

“Is… I’m sorry I made Marc angry.”

You see Jake’s startled recoil in your peripheral vision. You feel it in your soul. Then he’s leaning in closer again, his hand squeezing your thigh so firmly you wonder if Marc is back. The voice that whispers your name like a prayer is all Jake, though.

“You - you didn’t make him angry, honey. He just - we just need to make sure you're okay.”

You don’t answer, and there’s a few beats of silence before Jake lets out a sigh like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He shifts his weight slightly, and on the edge of your gaze you see his head drop.

“There was no care for us, no-one to make sure we were okay when we were growing up. Marc especially took the worst of it - and there was no help for him when he was in pain, no-one to try to ease his suffering other than me and Steven, but it’s the same body so it wasn’t ever really a relief. We still feel the pain even when we’re not in control, y’know?”

Your brain boggles at his words. You notice him nod his head slightly, you wonder if he’s talking to the others in the headspace, then he raises his head with a movement so decisive you can practically feel the resolve rolling off him in waves.

“And it terrifies us to think that you might feel the same way - that you might be hurting, or scared, or just down, and think there’s no-one to help. Because we will do anything, give anything for you. So please, please let us help you. Please?”

You lift your head, stunned. Jake’s face is so sincere, the tears that threatened to fall earlier start to trickle down your cheeks in earnest. Jake's thumb is rubbing soothing circles on your thigh as he patiently waits for your answer. Unable to find words, you slowly nod. He nods in response; a small, lopsided smile easing the tense lines of his face.

“It’s not forever. I know it feels like it right now, but they said you can go back to work in two weeks. And I think that means we have an excuse to spend some quality downtime together, y’know?” Jake’s thick accent adds a suggestive edge to his words.

A bark of a laugh escapes you, and you feel the tension in your face ease slightly. “Well.. We can’t do that until at least week four, so you’re out of luck there.”

A stricken look passes across Jake’s face in a flash, but he quickly smothers it with a smirk. You feel a frown twitch through your eyebrows before Jake speaks again. “Damn, I guess we’ll have to get started on that ‘watch list’ we’ve been making. And the doctor said to eat whatever you want, whenever you want while you’re on those good drugs, so I really hope you want a lot of take-out…”

You snort out a laugh but it’s short lived, the mirth washing away like the tide. That look you caught sight of is bothering you. “Jake… what was that look just now?”

Jake feigns innocence. He’s terrible at it. “What look?”

“Just now, right after I said we couldn’t…” You trail off leadingly. He doesn’t take the bait.

“You mean my sexy look?” Jake wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. A smile breaks across your face but it’s fleeting and you’re not letting this drop. Your tone is almost one of warning.

“Jake…”

The look on your face seems to say more than your words or tone ever could. Jake sighs and drops his gaze to the floor. When he looks up at you again a few seconds later, his expression is serious.

“I wasn’t suggesting that. I wasn’t even thinking about it -”

“-Jake -”

“ - I would never think that was okay. Not right now. Not any time you're hurt, or just don’t want to -”

“ - Jake - “

 “ - You know that right?”

You sigh. Jake’s being so powerfully sincere it feels like all three of them are speaking to you as one. Maybe they are. You gently cup his face in your hands, having to use your grip to pull him closer as you can’t bend nearer to him. He follows willingly, kneeling up to bring his face an inch from yours, his hands snugly tucked against the chair under your thighs so he doesn’t put any pressure on your body at all.

“I know. and thank you, all of you.”

He genuinely looks confused. “What for?”

“Everything.” Giving him no chance to argue, you press a -very gentle - kiss to his lips. His response is so careful it makes you want to cry again, especially when he eases away after just a few seconds. Resting his forehead against yours, your entire vision is swallowed by his deep, incredibly dark eyes as he murmurs. “Siempre, mi angel.”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Aww thank you! I was aiming for the heartstrings! 😘

Moon Knight Drabble 2 - Pain is Contagious

A/N - Self indulgent fic, not gonna lie!

AO3 available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42039369

Female!Reader is in a relationship with the Moonboys - but she's behaving strangely. The Moonboys spin themselves into an anxious frenzy and decide they're finding out the issue regardless. Vague discussion of menstrual / period issues. Angst with a fluffy ending!

Perfunctory statement that I do not own any of the Moon Knight characters. This is unbeta'd, please excuse any strangeness! One swear word...

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

“- it’s really cool, innit?”

“Mmm.”

Steven can’t help the thrill of worry that runs through his veins at your response. He’s been trying to keep a smile plastered on his face all evening, but as time has worn on he’s found it more and more exhausting to battle the anxiety running riot in his mind. Something is off with you, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Something's off.  Marc observes in his ear. He’s watching from the reflection of a particularly shiny artefact on a shelf of the nearest bookcase. Jake is observing from the window.

Steven runs his eyes over your face again. Your response had been a short, tight smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and a quick glance in his direction before your gaze returned to the TV screen. You’d been pressed up against the other end of the sofa since Steven had tried to wrap you in his arms two hours ago - over an hour later than you’d arranged to meet, and after trying to excuse yourself from your evening together before you’d even arrived.

Your whole body radiated tension, right down to the thin, pale line of your lips set against your clenched jaw.

Finally, Steven can’t take it any more.

“Is something wrong, love?” He tries for open, offhand. He knows he misses spectacularly.

“No, of course not.” you reply just a bit too fast, another quick glance and tight smile sent his way. To your credit, you try to hold his gaze and offer a reassuring version of your smile. Then your head swings back to the TV.

Ok. Something's definitely wrong here. Marc’s tone is flat - his way of trying to hide his worry.

Steven swallows hard.

“Y’sure? You’ve been awfully quiet all evening. And far away…” He attempts a playful tone, making silly grabby hand gestures in the void of space between you. They fall into his lap with a thump when you don’t even turn your body towards him, just offer him another unconvincing smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.” Steven doesn’t miss the way your hands clench and re-clench in your lap.

Yeah, no - something’s going on here. Marc again. She looks tired, look how pale she is. Jake cuts in quietly. No. She’s clingy when she’s tired. How many times has she fallen asleep on us? Marc is starting to join the worry-train that Steven has been on for a couple of hours now.

“Yeah, me too. Why don’t we call it a night?” Steven suggests, gesturing vaguely towards the bed area with his hands anxiously hidden in his sleeves. His heart stutters when your gaze drops to your clenching hands.

“Actually, Steven, I’m sorry but I think I’m going to head home tonight. I’ll stay over another night if that’s ok?” You finally look up into Steven’s wide eyes, and your apologetic smile is off.

Steven’s mind is whirring with possible responses. He’s running fast towards total panic now.

“Oh, right… uh, what’s - why’s that?” He wants to kick himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your gaze drops again, the awkward attempt at a smile vanishing.

“I - Uh - I’m really tired and I’ve gotta be up early tomorrow, and…uh…” You trail off vaguely. Your hands are almost wringing now, picking mindlessly at the dry skin on your knuckles.

Struggling to swallow, Steven lays it out as best as he can. “What’s wrong? Please, you’re scaring me.”

Your head snaps up, and your hand shoots out across the sofa - but doesn’t quite reach Steven’s. It’s retracted as soon as he notices it, giving him no chance to take comfort in your touch. “No, nothing, really. I just… I need to get myself sorted out, y’know? I promise I’ll come over another night.”

Not “tomorrow night”. She said “another night”, not “tomorrow”. Marc’s voice is suspicious, verging on defensive. She’s allowed some time to herself. Maybe something happened and she needs to get her head straight. Jake sounds almost too casual in the headspace, but inside his mind is starting to whirl.

“Is… Is it something we can help with, love?” Steven offers hopefully. But you’re already gathering your things. Your jacket had been in your lap all evening, and now you’re wrapping it around yourself and fishing your keys out of the pocket. Even Jake starts to feel concerned at the speed you’re attempting to get away.

“No, no. Honestly, I’m just gonna go to bed. I’ll speak to you later, yeah?” You’re already nearly at the door. Steven’s panic almost makes him do something drastic - block your path, grab your wrist. He barely resists, following along behind helplessly, almost tripping over his own feet in his clumsy hurry to keep up with you.

Let me talk to her. Marc demands. No, you’ll make it worse. Let her go, Steven. Tonight it would appear that Jake is the rational alter.

You pause at the door, giving Steven a quick peck on the lips. “Night.”

Then you’re gone, the door closing behind you.

… Only one kiss. Marc’s voice is quiet, even in the headspace.

You normally kissed them three times - one for each of them. It was a cute little ritual the four of you shared.

For a moment all three of them are frozen to the spot, something like shock hanging in the atmosphere around them. It breaks when Steven begins to spiral into a frantic frenzy, pacing around the room, his fingers tangling around themselves and knotting in the cuffs of his sweater so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t dislocate or break any of the digits.

“Gods, we’re losing her. She’s going to leave us. The best thing that’s ever happened to us, and I’ve driven her away. What did I do? There must have been something -“

We’re not losing her, Steven. Why do you think YOU did something, Steven? Marc and Jake cut in at the same time, their voices overlapping in Steven’s head. Marc is pacing inside the headspace and he’s reflected in the long mirror by the bed, his fingers alternately rubbing against themselves and tugging at his hair. Jake is momentarily distracted by the similarities of the other alters’ behaviour, their pacing and nervous habits almost identical. He stores it away to study at a later time.

There’s got to be something we missed. Did we forget something? It’s not her birthday for a few months. Was it something to do with work? Or an event? There must be something important we didn’t notice…

By now Steven is struggling to hold back the full scale panic that threatens to engulf him. He can feel that sickly tingling in his chest, the ringing in his ears growing to an almost unbearable cacophony. He can practically feel his bones grinding together as he moves.

“Today on the phone, when I called her at lunchtime, she barely spoke to me. She said she was busy at work, but she always made time for our chat before…”

She tried to make an excuse not to come over tonight, remember? And the way she was speaking… It’s like she didn’t want to speak to me. Marc adds, his memory replaying that incredibly brief conversation you’d had with him only a few hours before at the end of your work day.

“I mean, we have just sort of… disappeared on her a couple of times recently. But she always seemed ok after - we made it up to her and everything…”

Of them all, Jake is the most steady. In fact, he’s alarmingly still, like a sniper waiting for the perfect shot. Reflected in the glass of the fish tank, he’s staring at the sofa, the gears in his brain whirring and churning out snippets of… something. Fellas, I think there’s something else going on here, I don’t think it’s us -

- of course it’s us! Marc cuts him off. She wouldn’t let Steven touch her all night, and she couldn’t get away from us fast enough!

“- yeah, you saw how much she didn’t want to be around us!” Steven adds. “She was so far at the end of the sofa I’m surprised she didn’t just sit in the kitchen!”

Jake sighs irritably. If those two would stop with their panic, he could think clearly. There’s something… something he can’t quite grasp.

The switch is so sudden, Steven finds himself propelled into the headspace and disoriented as Marc suddenly takes front. Jake practically steadies Steven, irritated by Marc’s disregard for their agreement not to force each other to relinquish control of the body unless there’s real and present danger.

“I’m going to talk to her. We can’t let her go like this.” Marc is grabbing his jacket and keys and is out of the door before either of the others in the headspace can formulate a response.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

The look on your face when you open the door isn’t encouraging. At first there’s surprise, then a flash of irritation before it’s replaced with a false cheer.

“Hey Marc, what’re you doing here?” Your pyjama-clad body is distinctly blocking the doorway, and you're not inviting them in. Marc feels Steven’s panic rise in the headspace and it solidifies his resolve. Jake is too busy watching the tension vibrate through your body under the baggy hoodie and loose pyjama bottoms, a slight bend in your middle like you’re trying to hide something. Those gears in his head pick up speed.

“Can I - can we come in?” Marc’s hands are clenched into tight, slightly shaking fists. Your eyes flash to them before returning to his face. You seem reluctant, but Marc is practically gravitating towards the door frame.

Is she scared of us? Steven’s noticed your tense posture too, but his voice is quiet beneath the chaos whirling in Marc’s mind.

There’s a pause in which neither of you give an inch, but your eyes dart to his clenched fists again and you seem to shrink in on yourself a little more. Then - “Uh… sure.” You step aside and let them in. They’re barely over the threshold of your tiny apartment when their body jolts and Steven blurts out -

“I’m so sorry! Whatever it is I’m - we’re - so sorry. Please tell us what’s wrong so that we can fix it! I promise -“

“What?” You cut his rambling off, bewildered by not just his words, but the mental whiplash of such a rapid alter-change.

“I know you’re not okay with us right now but please, my love, we can’t lose you. Please give us a chance to fix this -“

“ - Steven - “

“ - Did something happen? Did one of us do something - “

“ - Marc - “

“ - Whatever it is, love, we didn’t mean it. We love you so much, please don’t leave us -”

“ - Steven, please, stop - “

Somehow they’ve crowded into your space and you find yourself backed against the cupboard by the door, their closeness blocking any escape opportunity you might have had and the rapid changing of who’s in charge of the body is disorienting. It’s the flash of fear that crosses your face that brings the hurricane to a halt.

For a moment, Steven’s face goes blank, his body going still in mid-movement like his brain is rebooting. Then their face floods with life again and you instantly recognise Jake staring back at you.

He’s unnervingly calm, and there’s a softness to his features. Even his hands are pointedly relaxed by his sides as he takes a deliberate step back away from you. You wonder if he saw the fear that spasmed through you at Marc’s imposing behaviour, maybe he’s trying to put you at ease.

“Honey… are you sick?” His dark eyes hold yours steadily, something swirling in their depths.

Despite the gentle tone of his voice, you’re startled for a second, heart still pounding from the onslaught they’ve just accidentally hurled at you.

You take a second to assess the man standing in front of you. You find no aggression, no threat, just concern - and is that fear? - on his face. Thoughts start to rush through your head. You’ve managed to keep this regular nightmare under wraps in your relationship so far, and although you knew it would be unavoidable eventually, do you really want to be having this discussion right now? Did you really want to drag them into this… mess? But Jake’s velvet eyes are swallowing you whole and words leave your mouth without your permission.

“Sort of.”

You sigh, giving in to the inevitable and releasing some of the tension keeping you upright. Your instincts drag your torso down, curling protectively around your middle just a little bit - despite wanting to collapse completely. Jake sees it, and suddenly sympathy passes across his face.

“Do you have everything you need? I’ll go to the store for you if you need anything. Or find a doctor, there’s got to be an out-of-hours service.”

You want to cry at the soft affection in his tone. You feel your soul latch onto Jake’s just a little more, and suddenly you crave his company - Marc and Steven’s too if they’ll have you.

“It’s fine. Right now I just need to sit down.” You admit quietly.

Jake swears at himself. He should have thought of it sooner - he’d seen how pale you’ve been and the tension in your body for the last 24 hours, of course you need to rest.

His mind is already supplying potential causes - illness, stress, depression - but he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions in case he misses something essential.

He’s already moving as these thoughts spin in his mind. One hand extends towards you but stops short of touching. He hasn’t forgotten the way you practically flinched out of your own skin when Steven tried to hug you earlier. Instead his other hand reaches blindly behind him to gently close the door and he settles for following carefully behind you as you head back into your apartment. He darts forward to snatch a fallen blanket out of your path as you carefully take a tense seat on the far end of the sofa, a worrying reflection of your positioning in their apartment a short time before.

His eyes catalogue several things in a few short seconds - blanket on the floor, wheat bag on the arm of the sofa, painkillers, chocolate and a hot drink on the table in front of you. You refused to eat with them earlier, didn’t want to be touched, seemed to flinch at sounds and movement… Something clicks in Jake’s head, and he hears Marc reach the same conclusion a second later. Steven takes a moment or two longer, but the flush of relief mixed with slight shame at his delayed understanding is potent when it arrives.

“Honey, you don’t have to stand on ceremony for us. Lay down.”

Your face drops with relief, and as you crawl unceremoniously across your sofa and curl up across two of the three seat cushions, Jake offers the blanket out towards you. After a second of hesitation, you gratefully open your arms to let him settle the blanket over your curled form.

Jake drops into a crouch in front of you as he gently pulls the blanket up to your waist, careful not to touch you. Tilting his head slightly to match your eye-line, he keeps his voice soft.

“Is it always this bad?”

A flush fires across your cheeks, and Jake hopes his face shows the completely genuine lack of awkwardness he feels.

In the headspace, Steven has paused. He’s never experienced a partner who suffers this way before, but his academic brain is already analysing it from a more abstract perspective, and it isn’t making him uncomfortable. In fact, he’s preoccupied with all the potentially useful information he’s come across.

Marc isn’t awkward either, quite the opposite. He’s had partners before, and although they’ve never had much more than mild discomfort and a few days of not wanting to be intimate, he’s aware it isn’t that easy for everyone. Jake can hear the concern in his thoughts.

As if you can read his mind, a frown forms between your brows as you ask “What’s wrong, Jake?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Marc wants to know if you’ve seen a doctor about it. He’s worried because he knows it can be a symptom of other things.” Relief and understanding wash over your features. “Yeah… They did a load of tests last year and didn’t find anything, thank God. Apparently I just get it pretty bad. I have to go back for a checkup every year just to make sure but they don’t expect anything to turn up.” Jake is nodding. “Good. I mean, not good, obviously but -”. You chuckle softly. “- It’s okay Jake, I know what you mean.” He nods again, quiet for a moment before he sighs and shakes his head. “Okay, fine… Steve wants me to tell you that he knows you’ve probably tried everything on the whole planet, but he’s happy to look up some natural remedies that people recommend.”

A look of adoration passes across your face before it twists into a playfully-irritated smirk as Jake continues. “ - I mean, I hear an extensive sex session is the best remedy -”

You snort and shake your head, swatting at his arm. He sniggers and watches as your expression falls, your jaw working like you’re trying to figure something out. Jake cocks his head to the side. “What’re you thinking, honey?”

You can’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the fraying edge of your blanket. Your voice is so soft Jake has to strain to hear you. “Are they mad at me?”

He can’t hide his surprise. “What? Why would they be mad at you?”

You shrug. Jake sighs. “We - It’s just that we were worried we’d done something wrong. Y’know, having a relationship with someone who has a life like ours isn’t easy -

You cut him off abruptly. “Your first thoughts were that one of you had done something wrong? You automatically assumed it must be your fault?”

Jake is aware of Marc’s tension in the headspace as he listens in. This wasn’t Jake’s explanation to give, but he also knows he’s the only one who can give it. “For Marc especially, he grew up always being blamed for things by his mom, punished whenever anything went wrong even if he wasn’t there. Steven got some of it too, although he doesn’t really remember it. It’s so built in it’s hard to break away from, y’know?”

He feels Marc’s shame, feels him draw back further into the headspace. Steven is tense too, a whirl of thoughts fighting for dominance as he observes both his headmates simultaneously.

A devastating look of sadness settles on your face, and Jake vows that he never wants to see it again if he can help it. Somewhere in the back of his head he knows they will see it again, not least when they finally tell you their full story. Your words interrupt Jake’s thoughts abruptly.

“I’m gonna need a quiet word with your mother.”

Jake releases a startled laugh, feeling Steven’s bafflement and Marc’s flinch in the headspace. The words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them.

“Lucky for you she’s already dead.”

What the fuck man?! Marc exclaims in the same moment as Steven squeaks Oh my God, Jake…

A stricken look crosses your face, and Jake has to take a few deep breaths - not least to try and hush his headmates while he formulates a response.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t exactly say I’m filled with grief after everything -” He cuts himself off, watching your mouth open and close a fews times soundlessly before he clarifies. “I promise we’ll tell you everything, just… not right now.”

Your mouth snaps shut as you nod jerkily, and Jake offers you what he hopes is a reassuring look before he turns his attention inwards again for a moment.

He senses his headmates are settling again, going off into their own thoughts once more. Leaving them to themselves, he turns his attention back to you and finds you watching his face carefully.

“They’re okay.”

You nod, a look of relief settling on your face. After a second’s hesitation, Jake holds his hand out carefully in front of him - inviting you to take it but not touching you without your permission. After a moment’s pause you close the short distance and lightly entwine your fingers with his. Your eyes glitter as your voice comes out in a whisper.

“I’m sorry, it just makes my skin really sore - like I’ve got a fever. And I get kind of overloaded, y’know? Noises, and how things feel, and everything takes so much energy -”

Jake’s already shaking his head, well aware of these things in himself, and particularly in Marc and Steven.

“ - You don’t need to explain honey, just tell me what you need.”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

hc that steven made the system draw different things while each other were fronting and this is how it turned out

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Pain is Contagious - Moon Knight

A/N - Self indulgent fic, not gonna lie!

AO3 available here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42039369

Female!Reader is in a relationship with the Moonboys - but she's behaving strangely. The Moonboys spin themselves into an anxious frenzy and decide they're finding out the issue regardless. Vague discussion of menstrual / period issues. Angst with a fluffy ending!

Perfunctory statement that I do not own any of the Moon Knight characters. This is unbeta'd, please excuse any strangeness! One swear word...

_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_

“- it’s really cool, innit?”

“Mmm.”

Steven can’t help the thrill of worry that runs through his veins at your response. He’s been trying to keep a smile plastered on his face all evening, but as time has worn on he’s found it more and more exhausting to battle the anxiety running riot in his mind. Something is off with you, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Something's off.  Marc observes in his ear. He’s watching from the reflection of a particularly shiny artefact on a shelf of the nearest bookcase. Jake is observing from the window.

Steven runs his eyes over your face again. Your response had been a short, tight smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and a quick glance in his direction before your gaze returned to the TV screen. You’d been pressed up against the other end of the sofa since Steven had tried to wrap you in his arms two hours ago - over an hour later than you’d arranged to meet, and after trying to excuse yourself from your evening together before you’d even arrived.

Your whole body radiated tension, right down to the thin, pale line of your lips set against your clenched jaw.

Finally, Steven can’t take it any more.

“Is something wrong, love?” He tries for open, offhand. He knows he misses spectacularly.

“No, of course not.” you reply just a bit too fast, another quick glance and tight smile sent his way. To your credit, you try to hold his gaze and offer a reassuring version of your smile. Then your head swings back to the TV.

Ok. Something's definitely wrong here. Marc’s tone is flat - his way of trying to hide his worry.

Steven swallows hard.

“Y’sure? You’ve been awfully quiet all evening. And far away…” He attempts a playful tone, making silly grabby hand gestures in the void of space between you. They fall into his lap with a thump when you don’t even turn your body towards him, just offer him another unconvincing smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.” Steven doesn’t miss the way your hands clench and re-clench in your lap.

Yeah, no - something’s going on here. Marc again. She looks tired, look how pale she is. Jake cuts in quietly. No. She’s clingy when she’s tired. How many times has she fallen asleep on us? Marc is starting to join the worry-train that Steven has been on for a couple of hours now.

“Yeah, me too. Why don’t we call it a night?” Steven suggests, gesturing vaguely towards the bed area with his hands anxiously hidden in his sleeves. His heart stutters when your gaze drops to your clenching hands.

“Actually, Steven, I’m sorry but I think I’m going to head home tonight. I’ll stay over another night if that’s ok?” You finally look up into Steven’s wide eyes, and your apologetic smile is off.

Steven’s mind is whirring with possible responses. He’s running fast towards total panic now.

“Oh, right… uh, what’s - why’s that?” He wants to kick himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your gaze drops again, the awkward attempt at a smile vanishing.

“I - Uh - I’m really tired and I’ve gotta be up early tomorrow, and…uh…” You trail off vaguely. Your hands are almost wringing now, picking mindlessly at the dry skin on your knuckles.

Struggling to swallow, Steven lays it out as best as he can. “What’s wrong? Please, you’re scaring me.”

Your head snaps up, and your hand shoots out across the sofa - but doesn’t quite reach Steven’s. It’s retracted as soon as he notices it, giving him no chance to take comfort in your touch. “No, nothing, really. I just… I need to get myself sorted out, y’know? I promise I’ll come over another night.”

Not “tomorrow night”. She said “another night”, not “tomorrow”. Marc’s voice is suspicious, verging on defensive. She’s allowed some time to herself. Maybe something happened and she needs to get her head straight. Jake sounds almost too casual in the headspace, but inside his mind is starting to whirl.

“Is… Is it something we can help with, love?” Steven offers hopefully. But you’re already gathering your things. Your jacket had been in your lap all evening, and now you’re wrapping it around yourself and fishing your keys out of the pocket. Even Jake starts to feel concerned at the speed you’re attempting to get away.

“No, no. Honestly, I’m just gonna go to bed. I’ll speak to you later, yeah?” You’re already nearly at the door. Steven’s panic almost makes him do something drastic - block your path, grab your wrist. He barely resists, following along behind helplessly, almost tripping over his own feet in his clumsy hurry to keep up with you.

Let me talk to her. Marc demands. No, you’ll make it worse. Let her go, Steven. Tonight it would appear that Jake is the rational alter.

You pause at the door, giving Steven a quick peck on the lips. “Night.”

Then you’re gone, the door closing behind you.

… Only one kiss. Marc’s voice is quiet, even in the headspace.

You normally kissed them three times - one for each of them. It was a cute little ritual the four of you shared.

For a moment all three of them are frozen to the spot, something like shock hanging in the atmosphere around them. It breaks when Steven begins to spiral into a frantic frenzy, pacing around the room, his fingers tangling around themselves and knotting in the cuffs of his sweater so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t dislocate or break any of the digits.

“Gods, we’re losing her. She’s going to leave us. The best thing that’s ever happened to us, and I’ve driven her away. What did I do? There must have been something -“

We’re not losing her, Steven. Why do you think YOU did something, Steven? Marc and Jake cut in at the same time, their voices overlapping in Steven’s head. Marc is pacing inside the headspace and he’s reflected in the long mirror by the bed, his fingers alternately rubbing against themselves and tugging at his hair. Jake is momentarily distracted by the similarities of the other alters’ behaviour, their pacing and nervous habits almost identical. He stores it away to study at a later time.

There’s got to be something we missed. Did we forget something? It’s not her birthday for a few months. Was it something to do with work? Or an event? There must be something important we didn’t notice…

By now Steven is struggling to hold back the full scale panic that threatens to engulf him. He can feel that sickly tingling in his chest, the ringing in his ears growing to an almost unbearable cacophony. He can practically feel his bones grinding together as he moves.

“Today on the phone, when I called her at lunchtime, she barely spoke to me. She said she was busy at work, but she always made time for our chat before…”

She tried to make an excuse not to come over tonight, remember? And the way she was speaking… It’s like she didn’t want to speak to me. Marc adds, his memory replaying that incredibly brief conversation you’d had with him only a few hours before at the end of your work day.

“I mean, we have just sort of… disappeared on her a couple of times recently. But she always seemed ok after - we made it up to her and everything…”

Of them all, Jake is the most steady. In fact, he’s alarmingly still, like a sniper waiting for the perfect shot. Reflected in the glass of the fish tank, he’s staring at the sofa, the gears in his brain whirring and churning out snippets of… something. Fellas, I think there’s something else going on here, I don’t think it’s us -

- of course it’s us! Marc cuts him off. She wouldn’t let Steven touch her all night, and she couldn’t get away from us fast enough!

“- yeah, you saw how much she didn’t want to be around us!” Steven adds. “She was so far at the end of the sofa I’m surprised she didn’t just sit in the kitchen!”

Jake sighs irritably. If those two would stop with their panic, he could think clearly. There’s something… something he can’t quite grasp.

The switch is so sudden, Steven finds himself propelled into the headspace and disoriented as Marc suddenly takes front. Jake practically steadies Steven, irritated by Marc’s disregard for their agreement not to force each other to relinquish control of the body unless there’s real and present danger.

“I’m going to talk to her. We can’t let her go like this.” Marc is grabbing his jacket and keys and is out of the door before either of the others in the headspace can formulate a response.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*

The look on your face when you open the door isn’t encouraging. At first there’s surprise, then a flash of irritation before it’s replaced with a false cheer.

“Hey Marc, what’re you doing here?” Your pyjama-clad body is distinctly blocking the doorway, and you're not inviting them in. Marc feels Steven’s panic rise in the headspace and it solidifies his resolve. Jake is too busy watching the tension vibrate through your body under the baggy hoodie and loose pyjama bottoms, a slight bend in your middle like you’re trying to hide something. Those gears in his head pick up speed.

“Can I - can we come in?” Marc’s hands are clenched into tight, slightly shaking fists. Your eyes flash to them before returning to his face. You seem reluctant, but Marc is practically gravitating towards the door frame.

Is she scared of us? Steven’s noticed your tense posture too, but his voice is quiet beneath the chaos whirling in Marc’s mind.

There’s a pause in which neither of you give an inch, but your eyes dart to his clenched fists again and you seem to shrink in on yourself a little more. Then - “Uh… sure.” You step aside and let them in. They’re barely over the threshold of your tiny apartment when their body jolts and Steven blurts out -

“I’m so sorry! Whatever it is I’m - we’re - so sorry. Please tell us what’s wrong so that we can fix it! I promise -“

“What?” You cut his rambling off, bewildered by not just his words, but the mental whiplash of such a rapid alter-change.

“I know you’re not okay with us right now but please, my love, we can’t lose you. Please give us a chance to fix this -“

“ - Steven - “

“ - Did something happen? Did one of us do something - “

“ - Marc - “

“ - Whatever it is, love, we didn’t mean it. We love you so much, please don’t leave us -”

“ - Steven, please, stop - “

Somehow they’ve crowded into your space and you find yourself backed against the cupboard by the door, their closeness blocking any escape opportunity you might have had and the rapid changing of who’s in charge of the body is disorienting. It’s the flash of fear that crosses your face that brings the hurricane to a halt.

For a moment, Steven’s face goes blank, his body going still in mid-movement like his brain is rebooting. Then their face floods with life again and you instantly recognise Jake staring back at you.

He’s unnervingly calm, and there’s a softness to his features. Even his hands are pointedly relaxed by his sides as he takes a deliberate step back away from you. You wonder if he saw the fear that spasmed through you at Marc’s imposing behaviour, maybe he’s trying to put you at ease.

“Honey… are you sick?” His dark eyes hold yours steadily, something swirling in their depths.

Despite the gentle tone of his voice, you’re startled for a second, heart still pounding from the onslaught they’ve just accidentally hurled at you.

You take a second to assess the man standing in front of you. You find no aggression, no threat, just concern - and is that fear? - on his face. Thoughts start to rush through your head. You’ve managed to keep this regular nightmare under wraps in your relationship so far, and although you knew it would be unavoidable eventually, do you really want to be having this discussion right now? Did you really want to drag them into this… mess? But Jake’s velvet eyes are swallowing you whole and words leave your mouth without your permission.

“Sort of.”

You sigh, giving in to the inevitable and releasing some of the tension keeping you upright. Your instincts drag your torso down, curling protectively around your middle just a little bit - despite wanting to collapse completely. Jake sees it, and suddenly sympathy passes across his face.

“Do you have everything you need? I’ll go to the store for you if you need anything. Or find a doctor, there’s got to be an out-of-hours service.”

You want to cry at the soft affection in his tone. You feel your soul latch onto Jake’s just a little more, and suddenly you crave his company - Marc and Steven’s too if they’ll have you.

“It’s fine. Right now I just need to sit down.” You admit quietly.

Jake swears at himself. He should have thought of it sooner - he’d seen how pale you’ve been and the tension in your body for the last 24 hours, of course you need to rest.

His mind is already supplying potential causes - illness, stress, depression - but he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions in case he misses something essential.

He’s already moving as these thoughts spin in his mind. One hand extends towards you but stops short of touching. He hasn’t forgotten the way you practically flinched out of your own skin when Steven tried to hug you earlier. Instead his other hand reaches blindly behind him to gently close the door and he settles for following carefully behind you as you head back into your apartment. He darts forward to snatch a fallen blanket out of your path as you carefully take a tense seat on the far end of the sofa, a worrying reflection of your positioning in their apartment a short time before.

His eyes catalogue several things in a few short seconds - blanket on the floor, wheat bag on the arm of the sofa, painkillers, chocolate and a hot drink on the table in front of you. You refused to eat with them earlier, didn’t want to be touched, seemed to flinch at sounds and movement… Something clicks in Jake’s head, and he hears Marc reach the same conclusion a second later. Steven takes a moment or two longer, but the flush of relief mixed with slight shame at his delayed understanding is potent when it arrives.

“Honey, you don’t have to stand on ceremony for us. Lay down.”

Your face drops with relief, and as you crawl unceremoniously across your sofa and curl up across two of the three seat cushions, Jake offers the blanket out towards you. After a second of hesitation, you gratefully open your arms to let him settle the blanket over your curled form.

Jake drops into a crouch in front of you as he gently pulls the blanket up to your waist, careful not to touch you. Tilting his head slightly to match your eye-line, he keeps his voice soft.

“Is it always this bad?”

A flush fires across your cheeks, and Jake hopes his face shows the completely genuine lack of awkwardness he feels.

In the headspace, Steven has paused. He’s never experienced a partner who suffers this way before, but his academic brain is already analysing it from a more abstract perspective, and it isn’t making him uncomfortable. In fact, he’s preoccupied with all the potentially useful information he’s come across.

Marc isn’t awkward either, quite the opposite. He’s had partners before, and although they’ve never had much more than mild discomfort and a few days of not wanting to be intimate, he’s aware it isn’t that easy for everyone. Jake can hear the concern in his thoughts.

As if you can read his mind, a frown forms between your brows as you ask “What’s wrong, Jake?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Marc wants to know if you’ve seen a doctor about it. He’s worried because he knows it can be a symptom of other things.” Relief and understanding wash over your features. “Yeah… They did a load of tests last year and didn’t find anything, thank God. Apparently I just get it pretty bad. I have to go back for a checkup every year just to make sure but they don’t expect anything to turn up.” Jake is nodding. “Good. I mean, not good, obviously but -”. You chuckle softly. “- It’s okay Jake, I know what you mean.” He nods again, quiet for a moment before he sighs and shakes his head. “Okay, fine… Steve wants me to tell you that he knows you’ve probably tried everything on the whole planet, but he’s happy to look up some natural remedies that people recommend.”

A look of adoration passes across your face before it twists into a playfully-irritated smirk as Jake continues. “ - I mean, I hear an extensive sex session is the best remedy -”

You snort and shake your head, swatting at his arm. He sniggers and watches as your expression falls, your jaw working like you’re trying to figure something out. Jake cocks his head to the side. “What’re you thinking, honey?”

You can’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the fraying edge of your blanket. Your voice is so soft Jake has to strain to hear you. “Are they mad at me?”

He can’t hide his surprise. “What? Why would they be mad at you?”

You shrug. Jake sighs. “We - It’s just that we were worried we’d done something wrong. Y’know, having a relationship with someone who has a life like ours isn’t easy -

You cut him off abruptly. “Your first thoughts were that one of you had done something wrong? You automatically assumed it must be your fault?”

Jake is aware of Marc’s tension in the headspace as he listens in. This wasn’t Jake’s explanation to give, but he also knows he’s the only one who can give it. “For Marc especially, he grew up always being blamed for things by his mom, punished whenever anything went wrong even if he wasn’t there. Steven got some of it too, although he doesn’t really remember it. It’s so built in it’s hard to break away from, y’know?”

He feels Marc’s shame, feels him draw back further into the headspace. Steven is tense too, a whirl of thoughts fighting for dominance as he observes both his headmates simultaneously.

A devastating look of sadness settles on your face, and Jake vows that he never wants to see it again if he can help it. Somewhere in the back of his head he knows they will see it again, not least when they finally tell you their full story. Your words interrupt Jake’s thoughts abruptly.

“I’m gonna need a quiet word with your mother.”

Jake releases a startled laugh, feeling Steven’s bafflement and Marc’s flinch in the headspace. The words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them.

“Lucky for you she’s already dead.”

What the fuck man?! Marc exclaims in the same moment as Steven squeaks Oh my God, Jake…

A stricken look crosses your face, and Jake has to take a few deep breaths - not least to try and hush his headmates while he formulates a response.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t exactly say I’m filled with grief after everything -” He cuts himself off, watching your mouth open and close a fews times soundlessly before he clarifies. “I promise we’ll tell you everything, just… not right now.”

Your mouth snaps shut as you nod jerkily, and Jake offers you what he hopes is a reassuring look before he turns his attention inwards again for a moment.

He senses his headmates are settling again, going off into their own thoughts once more. Leaving them to themselves, he turns his attention back to you and finds you watching his face carefully.

“They’re okay.”

You nod, a look of relief settling on your face. After a second’s hesitation, Jake holds his hand out carefully in front of him - inviting you to take it but not touching you without your permission. After a moment’s pause you close the short distance and lightly entwine your fingers with his. Your eyes glitter as your voice comes out in a whisper.

“I’m sorry, it just makes my skin really sore - like I’ve got a fever. And I get kind of overloaded, y’know? Noises, and how things feel, and everything takes so much energy -”

Jake’s already shaking his head, well aware of these things in himself, and particularly in Marc and Steven.

“ - You don’t need to explain honey, just tell me what you need.”

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Of Brothers and Blood - Triple Frontier

A/N - This one came to me in one huge braindump! As usual, it's not bet'd so please excuse any weirdness! - Available on AO3 HERE

Trigger warnings just in case (all very mild, I promise!): mentions of - drug usage, blood, sort of suicidal thoughts?, vague injury detail, grief.

Triple Frontier - Benny Whump, Frankie Whump, bit of Santi Whump. Lots of emotional whumpage, little bit of physical whumpage (Benny).

Set early on in their time together as a team. No romantic pairings!

I have no actual experience of drug use, and don't know anyone who does either, so please excuse if it's a bit unrealistic (if that's possible???)!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Summary: Benny gets frustrated at the dynamics of the team and makes a poor decision. the aftermath leads to an outpouring of honesty and emotional baggage from Santi and Frankie.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The evening had been going well. The four of them were holed up in their accommodation for the night, and were trying to plan for the next day. They’d been on a few missions together, but this was their first long assignment that had a real potential for one of them to not come home. Santi had sought out the Miller brothers to join his “off the books” team as soon as they’d both retired from active duty a couple of years ago. He’d heard plenty of good things about them, come across them on active duty twice, and his best friend Frankie knew the older of the brothers, Will, reasonably well from various encounters in the military. 

Ben knew very little of the older men at the time, however, having not paid them much attention the few times their paths had crossed. They were enough years ahead of him in active service that he assumed he’d never see them again once they retired anyway. Then he’d been invited onto their team and the prospect of some real assignments made him sign on faster than he’d joined the military in the first place. Several reasonably minor missions on, however, and Benny was getting impatient. He was starting to feel like they were babysitting him rather than working with him as an equal. 

 A disagreement had started regarding the timing and entry points of the planned hit the next day. Santi and Frankie were on one side, arguing for the slow-and-silent infiltration technique, Ben was on the other arguing that this would give the bastards inside too much chance to escape. Will was silently assessing everything and keeping his thoughts firmly to himself, much to Ben’s irritation. As far as he was concerned he didn’t know enough about the latino men, and Will should have been backing him up as his brother - sibling loyalty demanded it. 

Ben had ended up furious that Frankie backed Santi without question every time, like he didn't even think for himself and just obeyed. It made Ben worse when they started telling him why they were right and he was wrong. You gotta reign in that impulsive thing, Benny, it’s gonna get you killed. He’d thrown some nasty shit at them, accusing Frankie of being spineless, of being Santi’s little lapdog, and it only infuriated him more that they both just stood there silently and watched him rant with matching expressions of irritated impatience. Eventually he turned on his own brother, who only made things worse by trying to calm the situation instead of supporting him. It had well-and-truly fanned the flames. 

Benny had blown up at them, stalked out, found himself in a bar. A few drinks in and he’s talking - ranting - to some random English expat who’s propping up the bar next to him. The man has a solution - a baggie of blow, and Ben hasn’t touched the stuff for a couple of years but he remembers how it feels and suddenly he can’t think about anything else. They disappear to the toilets and find themselves a credit card, a rolled up bank note, and a nice flat, dry surface. 

Next thing he knows he’s back in the main bar. The world is spinning wildly around him, he can taste the colours of the lights flashing across the floor, and the half-naked women around him keep growing extra arms and heads. He feels warmth under his nose and his hand comes away crimson, the droplets drifting upwards, against gravity, and they start to form a river across the ceiling. His head is full of fluid, his lungs working out of time with each other, his legs impaled on spikes from the soles of his feet to his hip bones, unmoving. The only things that don't hurt in any way, he realises, are his arms. They’re noodles - numb and wiggling around bonelessly beside him, extending out onto the dancefloor like octopus tentacles as the other patrons dodge around them.

Suddenly there’s a cage around him - no, there’s arms around him; someone tall, blond haired, embracing him. The face swims into focus. Will. Then there’s another blurry face, at a height taller than him, dark eyes floating in an olive-toned face, chocolate curls messily decorating his head, a patchy moustache and beard making the face look older than it really is. Frankie’s face morphs through several emotions - annoyance, disappointment, sadness, fear. The next thing he knows Ben’s being carried and as the temperature changes from the stifling heat of indoors to the vaguely-cool crispness of outside, blackness sweeps him away. 

The first time he wakes it’s chaos. He panics, struggling against the arms holding him. They quickly relinquish their grip and those same dark eyes come into focus. Firm hands wrap around his face, and Frankie is trying to soothe him, to explain what’s happening, to ask him to please stay with us this time, I know it’s hard, but try and focus on us.

Ben feels an irrational burst of anger, hurls everything he can at the man in a garbled mess - Get the fuck off me - shouldn’t you be in bed with Santi? - Bet you’re not allowed to have fun - you’re jealous I’m young and free and you’re old and hung up -

Surprisingly Frankie doesn’t flinch away. Nor does he return the anger. Instead Ben has just a moment to register the desperate sadness, the hint of something else behind those dark eyes before he falls into a black hole once more.

When he wakes again, his head is pounding and his whole body tingles unpleasantly. He’s been laid on his side, and recognises the ”recovery position” he’s been put in on the soft-yet-firm surface. A bed, his brain supplies. The lingering smell of vomit explains why he’s woken in this position. 

A hand holding a water bottle suddenly appears in front of his face. Ben blinks painfully up at the owner - blond hair glitters in the dappled sunlight entering through the window behind him. 

Will. Ben closes his eyes, humiliation and defiance warring inside him. He drags himself to sitting with his back against the headboard. It takes all the energy he has and his head swirls violently. When he’s finally able to look up again, Will has seated himself at the foot of the bed, still holding out the water bottle. Ben takes it, cracks it open, takes a swig to clear the cotton-wool-and-sand feeling in his mouth. He tries to ignore the rolling sickness in his stomach. 

“Was it worth it?” Will's voice is quiet but steady, his crystal blue eyes locked in an unwavering gaze. Ben finds he has nothing to say. Will pierces his younger brother with a glare. 

“Was it worth risking your life? All our lives?”

Ben snorts at that, irrational anger and humiliation flaring inside him. “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. I had a bit of something to take the edge off -“

Will's explosion is as shocking as it is unusual. The older Miller only lets his anger out in such a way when he’s been pulled so tight that he feels like he’s going to tear in two. It’s rare that anything pushes him this far. It both takes Benny by surprise, and adds fuel to the fire.

“There was blood pouring from your nose! You had a fucking seizure in the car on the way back! You’re fucking lucky that Santi’s instincts were right - that Frankie recognised what was wrong with you-“

Ben couldn’t stop it, he exploded in response.

“Oh fucking Santi and Frankie again! Jesus, Will, you’re fucking obsessed with these assholes!”

Before Will can respond, a different voice enters the fray. It’s quiet, controlled, deep. “We’ll take that as a “thank you” for using our experience to stop you ending up in hospital last night.”

Santi is leaning against the doorframe, slightly inside the room. Just behind him and leaning against the other side of the doorframe is Frankie. They both have their arms folded across their chests. 

Ben can’t help the scathing tone of his voice.

“Right - I should be eternally grateful for your over-reactions. ”

He feels shaky, like he’s been stretched too thin and the elastic has given out. If he lets himself admit it, he’s humiliated, ashamed. He’d heard about these guys before he met them, was desperate to prove himself to them once they asked him to join them, especially being so much younger. It’s all making him even more of an asshole than usual.

Frankie’s voice is somehow piercing, despite how soft it is when he speaks.

“I know it’s frustrating that you don’t know much about us, but it’s for a reason. The things we’ve seen and done, the shit we’ve been through - it’s no good us walking around with it strapped to our chests like a deadweight. So we use it to make sure we keep you safe. But you only ever have to ask, we’ll tell you anything you actually wanted to know.”

Ben huffs out a breath, his attitude beginning to waver in the face of their unshakeable calm and his steadily growing humiliation at his total car-crash of a coping mechanism. Will is watching him, that big-brother stop-being-a-prick look on his face. 

“Why don’t you trust us?”

Santi’s question is both a massive curveball, and hits the nail right on the head. Ben’s mouth flaps open and closed for a moment as he tries to choose which reason to hurl at the man first, then Santi tilts his head back, his mouth opening in a wide, knowing smile.

“Not us. Me. You don’t trust me.”

Ben doesn’t miss the way Frankie straightens up from leaning against the doorway. Will’s head drops to his chest. Ben suddenly feels exposed. It was easier when he could pin it to the pair of them, but he doesn’t have any real beef with Frankie, not really. His mouth is running before he’s actually formulated a reply.

“Can you blame me? You seem like the type to put a bullet in your best friend if it means you get the job done.” But Ben can hear his own voice doesn’t have any real power behind it. He’s vulnerable now, with all three other men firmly against him. He feels like a child being cornered for his lunch money by the bigger boys. 

Santi is slowly shaking his head, his expression genuine and somehow sad. He intercepts Frankie’s attempt to argue on his behalf, a slight gesture of his hand making the taller man close his mouth with huff and a shake of the head.

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I can promise you that as much as I’ll push the boundaries to get a job done, I’d give my life for my friends. And I count you among them, regardless of how you feel about me.”

Silence reigns for a long time. Ben occupies himself with slowly working his way through the bottle of water in his hands. His fight-or-flight has kicked in - no, his pride is hurting. It doesn’t feel good for so many reasons.

Eventually Frankie moves into the room to lean against the windowsill, his backside resting against it but his legs out straight in front of him, supporting his weight.

“How’re you feeling? That shit will be out of your system by now but there will be after effects. I don’t know whether you took too much or just a bad batch, but you’re going to be riding it out for a couple more hours yet.”

Ben’s eyebrows draw together suspiciously. He hadn’t heard anything about the man being a doctor or anything. His mouth runs before his brain fully comprehends his thoughts. “How do you know about this shit then? Were you a coke head or something?”

Will growls at him, but Frankie’s gaze is startlingly steady when he immediately answers. 

“Yeah.”

Ben isn’t prepared for the shock of such an answer. Will cocks his head to the side, studying the latino man. 

Frankies mouth twists, his intense gaze darting to Will for just a second, before returning to Ben. “I promised we’d be honest if you asked. You know earlier you said your brother was being dramatic about you nearly dying? He wasn’t being dramatic. That was a close call, man.”

Ben finds himself shaken, he’s back in defence mode - or maybe he never left it - and his interest is piqued. “Yeah? Had some of them yourself?”

Frankie nods slowly. “Yeah, I’ve had a few narrow escapes - out in the field and due to my own stupidity in my downtime. A couple of dances with the reaper, too.”

Benny gave one last attempt to save face, already knowing it would probably backfire on him. “I guess good ol’ Pope’s the one who ‘pulled you up by your bootstraps and set you back on the right path’, right?”

Frankie is so damn casual when he speaks, his words land like a time-delay bomb.

“I guess you could say that. But I bet you’ve never held your dying brother in your arms.”

Will has sat back now, leaning on his hands, his gaze one of serious intrigue. Having enrolled in the armed forces as soon as he legally could, he’d seen enough comrades holding their friend’s lives in their hands - literally. These sorts of stories were sacred to him - a bond between one person who kept a comrades soul in their body and the person they saved was deemed to be something incredible. Unbreakable.

Blissfully, Ben had finally fallen silent. Maybe the shock of such a blunt call-out was exactly what the younger man needed. The older Miller could only hope that his brother gained some humility and understood that all things considered he’d had an easy time in service, and not everyone got off so lightly. 

The two latino men shared a long moment, their gazes locked on each other and seemingly a whole silent conversation passing between them. Pope gave the tiniest raise of an eyebrow, Frankie the most minute tilt of his head, and each took a long, deep breath as their gazes parted. Neither looked at the men on the bed as Frankie speaks.

“Santi’s saved my ass more times than I can count. But he’s saved my life twice.” Frankie shifts slightly, readjusting his half-sitting-half-standing stance against the windowsill. His hands grip the edge of the shelf, fingers wrapping firmly around the curve of it. The sun glows around the edges of his body like an ethereal cape.

“The first time was during a skirmish in Bahrain. Some asshole got a lucky hit in under my tac-vest. Damn near gutted me like a fish. Santi took him out and sat holding my guts in until medivac got there.”

He glances at Santi, who at some point has moved into the room and is now propping up the wall next to the door with arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankle. His gaze is steady, something deep behind it. 

Frankie nods to himself. “The second time was back in the US. I had a lot going on in my mind, I wasn’t coping very well. Actually I wasn’t coping at all. I got started on coke, trying to block out all the shit in my head. I didn’t realise how fast things were getting out of control until -“ his throat suddenly runs dry. He roughly clears it, shaking his head slightly. His hands practically crushing the window ledge. “- until one day it stopped working. I couldn’t make it all go away anymore, even for a little while. So I just went all out, I just wanted it all to stop and I didn’t care how -“ He catches Santi’s gaze, and this time his throat fully fails him. He looks to the ground, struggling to breathe, speaking no longer an option. He glances up at Santi again, still in the same position, but now his impossibly dark eyes are full of something else - a war of pain, sympathy, support, and that soldier mentality. It hits Frankie like he’s been gutted again, and as his gaze remains glued to his closest friends’, he finds he can’t continue. 

Ben and Will find themselves staring opened-mouthed, their gazes dancing between the other two men. Their attention locks onto Santi as he takes a steady breath and takes over the narrative.

“When I found Frankie, he was barely conscious. I called an ambulance, tried to help him hold on. He had a seizure in my arms. The convulsions were violent but it didn’t last long, and when it ended I was sure he was gone. There was blood coming out of his nose, his mouth, and he -“ it was Santi’s turn to lose the power of speech. He shakes his head vigorously, an annoyed frown passes across his face at the betrayal of his voice. He roughly clears his throat. His gaze is still locked on Frankies, two pairs of dark brown orbs unwavering for a long moment. Eventually Frankie drops his gaze to the floor. There’s something like shame in his expression. “When it ended he’d stopped breathing. I did CPR - I don’t know how long for. All I knew was that there was no way he was getting away from me if I could help it.” 

Santi shifts, unfolding his arms and sliding his hands into his pockets. He still doesn’t take his eyes away from Frankie, who’s so tense he seems like he’ll shatter if anyone touches him. 

“Frankie was on life support for three days. The doctors were sure he wasn’t coming back - they told me that I was registered as his next of kin, and that I should start getting his affairs in order. Before, I’d had no doubt whatsoever that he’d survive anything. But this time… it was the first time I’d ever felt like maybe he didn’t want to. I was swinging between telling him to get his ass back to me, and telling him it was okay if he -“ for the first time, Santi’s voice broke with the weight of his emotions. The Millers had never seen it happen before - Santi had a hard exterior, he had to as team leader, but they all realised that he felt everything incredibly deeply. He took everything as a personal failure, and his emotions were powerful. His eyes were a maelstrom, and it seemed to magnetically draw Frankies gaze back up to meet Santi’s. There were tears glittering in the taller man’s eyes, his face a mask of poorly concealed pain and guilt. 

Santi’s voice was quiet when he eventually spoke again.

“I kept telling him it was okay if he wanted to go. If he really couldn’t take any more. I couldn’t bear seeing him the way he was before it happened, watching him suffer and not knowing what the fuck to do to help him. I knew he was struggling, but I …” he trailed off. After a few moments, he took a sharp breath in through his nose, straightening his back. His gaze, still locked with Frankies, had softened. 

“He was in hospital for ten days in total. When he got out I’d already been right through his apartment, made sure it was safe, was clean for him in every way I could. Gradually things became less of a knife edge and more like walking a pathway on a cliff-face. I hope that pathway keeps getting wider.”

They all lapse into silence. If Ben and Will feel like they’ve been flayed raw, they can’t imagine how it feels for the other two men. Frankie’s eyes are red rimmed, although no tears have fallen. There’s something so intense in the gaze between him and Santi that the Millers feel like they can’t look away and yet have to. 

Frankie's voice is raw, practically a whisper when he breaks the silence, Spanish flowing from him like it’s being physically ripped from his soul.

“I’m so sorry, brother. I should never have put you through it, I was selfish -“ he doesn’t get to finish. Santi talks over him in the same tongue.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t go there. I would give my life for you. I - I didn’t do enough to help you. I knew you were falling, and I didn’t try hard enough to catch you -“

“No, man, you’re the only reason I’m still here, not just ‘cause you saved my life but because at times you’ve been the only thing worth living for.”

Santi finds himself grasping for a response that expresses everything he needs it to. As usual, he finds that he doesn’t need to say or do anything - that unbreakable connection that binds him and Frankie together does it all for him, their souls communicating directly. 

The silence that hangs in the air isn’t tense, but it’s loaded with emotions. Will and Ben may not know what’s just been said, but they certainly understand it. The brothers find their eyes darting between the two older men like a tennis match, Frankie and Santi locked into each other’s orbit with a million unspoken things passing between them. Will vaguely considers that the connection he has to his real-blood-brother isn’t as strong as the bond these two brothers-not-by-blood have, and wonders if it’s anything to do with choice - these men chose to adopt each other, they weren’t born to it. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s fate that brought them together. 

The moment is broken by Ben being typical Ben.

“… Do you two want us to give you the room, or…?”

The twin smirks that erupt onto the Latino men’s faces make Will grin at the floor. 

“Fuck you Benny Boy.” Frankie playfully jousts, his gaze finally breaking away from Santi. 

“Hell no, I don’t want to make this a threesome. I know I wouldn’t get fair attention between you two.”

“You always have to make it weird, man.” Santi gripes, no weight behind it as his smirk broadens into a rare true smile and he shakes his head. 

And just like that, the - somewhat inappropriate - jibing banter breaks the atmosphere of the room, heavy emotions scattering like mist and leaving their deposits on everyone and everything. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Spanish Translation for those who want it (Google Translate, apologies in advance!)- 

Frankie's voice is raw, practically a whisper when he breaks the silence, Spanish flowing from him like it’s being physically ripped from his soul

“Lo siento mucho, hermano. Nunca debí hacerte pasar por esto, fui egoísta -“ he doesn’t get to finish. Santi talks over him.

“No. No hagas eso. No vayas allí. Yo daría mi vida por ti. Yo... no hice lo suficiente para ayudarte. Sabía que te estabas cayendo, y no me esforcé lo suficiente para atraparte -“

“No, hombre, eres la única razón por la que sigo aquí, no solo porque me salvaste la vida, sino porque a veces has sido lo único por lo que valía la pena vivir.”

Santi finds himself grasping for a response that expresses everything he needs it to. As usual, he finds that he doesn’t need to say or do anything - that unbreakable connection that binds him and Frankie together does it all for him, their souls communicating directly.

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THATS HOLY DON’T CENSOR YOUR TAGS!!!! People need the filters to pick up the actual words so they can avoid stuff the don’t want to see! Thanks you!

Oh good god it's gotten worse

Okay, so I just saw a tiktok saying "hey, ao3 is not tiktok. Do not censor words, especially in the tags." I stg people are losing brain cells. The tiktoker then proceeded to show an example of the tag they saw which was:

"s..cidal ideation"

I don't know who needs to, once again, hear this, but you are stopping the tagging system, and filtration system from working.

People censor words on platforms like tiktok to stop the algorithm from picking up their video and automatically taking it down or restricting it.

A tagging system works so that other people can easily filter the content they do and don't want to see. So if some had "suicidal ideation" in their filtered tags so that they won't see things containing that subject matter, by censoring the word suicidal, you have now stopped the tagging/filtration system from working and now the individual is going to see content that they had made sure to filter out.

Please stop censoring words and/or phrases. Especially in tags. You are literally stopping the system from working and doing its job. Ao3 (and Tumblr) is not tiktok. The tags are there for a reason. Don't censor them.

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Aww thank you so much! And I’m sorry for causing you sadness (or not, I guess)!

Drabble Time…

Whoops, it’s been a Hot Minute Decade since I posted.

Here, have some Moonboys finding out F!Reader is pregnant to make up for it!

Leap of Faith - The Moon Boys have three very different reactions to finding out F!Reader is carrying their child. Available on AO3 Here!

Female! Reader, Pregnant! Reader. Angsty Fluff with a Happy Ending. 

Unbeta’d, please excuse any strangeness! 

+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+

You anxiously adjust the two mirrors you’ve set up on the desk near the bed, take a deep breath, and finally take the plunge.

“Hey Steven, have you got a minute?”

Steven’s head appears around a bookcase. “Of course, my love, what is it?”

You smile at his adorable image - a book in each hand, glasses perched half way down his nose, green jumper (slightly too big of course) softening his edges. 

“Can you come here?” You pat the bed beside you, and see a split second of worry warring with expectation pass across his face. He takes a few steps towards you.

Keep reading

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

HEAR ME OUT. Jake’s song to make love to (not f*ck, make love) is Bed of Roses by Bon Jovi.

That man is suave and he absolutely worships his partner in every way possible. He takes his sweet time, and rushes nothing.

No-one can change my mind.

[you-heard-what-i-meant]

Blessed Be, fellow fic writers!

I call upon the fan fic writing gods to bless you with the perseverance to finish one of your unfinished drafts. 

May your fingers dance along the letters upon your device with ease, may the devil of distraction stay far from you, and may your work not need much editing.

I pass this blessing upon every fan fic writer out there.