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asimplearchivist · 22 hours

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𝓒𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓬 𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓷

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ khonshu forgot when he last hadn't felt pain. you make it easier to bear. pairing(s) ☽ khonshu/reader | promises kept!verse word count ☾ 1.8k a/n ☽ ⤏ my eighth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for promises kept on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ got a little feelsy with this one. khonshu being so stubborn makes promises kept a glacial slow burn, but sometimes I just want to write him soft. I caved here. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

Some days were harder than others.

Khonshu had long since grown accustomed to his present state—malnourished, most definitely, and somewhat inhibited by old wounds on top of it—but the length of time under which he’d had no choice but to suffer did not make the affair any easier with which to deal. The constant nagging ache deep in the core of his wellspring—what he could only suspect was the closest equivalent to hunger in mortals, as he didn’t quite experience the same sensations—was an ignorable, background sensation at this point. Any bit of a boon he was granted by his few remaining followers soothed the worst of that acute, piercing emptiness, but given the fact that his avatars required continual support via the maintenance of the magical integrity of his ceremonial armor, oftentimes the energy would instead be passed right along to them instead of being kept for himself.

Such was the explanation behind Khonshu’s ghastly appearance—how could he sustain his physical manifestations when the continuation of his duties sapped what little energy he had from his own shallow wellspring to start with?

He never spent very much time taking in his own visage, whether it be in reflections provided by glass or by water. Even still, however—after over two thousand years of being trapped in the unrelentingly vicious reality of scrounging around for any scraps of divine energy he could come across for the sake of alleviating the hollowness resounding within himself—he would catch himself expecting to see glimpses of his old silhouette in his periphery, but was always met with the skeletal remains of the glory long ripped from him by his fellow deities.

He tried not to dwell on it too much, and it usually never came up naturally—most of his avatars through time assumed, given their ignorance towards the culture from which he’d originated and had nurtured, that it was how he had always appeared. Languishing in the negative feelings and memories that particular line of thought always drudged back to the surface only debilitated him. Righteous anger was easier to deal with than the repressed wounds still weeping from betrayal and despair. Those feelings never went away, really, given that his ‘hunger’ was a near-constant reminder of that single life-altering event over two millennia prior, but…most of the time he was able to shove them to the back of his mind.

You certainly helped him to do so.

An inexplicable balm to his soul, Khonshu found relief and refuge in the unshakeable lee you formed against the rest of the mortal world entombing him. Your steadfast dedication and devotion fed him, little by little, just enough to ease the ache. Perhaps it was irrational to rely upon that mutual symbiosis, a feedback loop doomed to fail eventually, since he was forced to channel that energy right back into the armor to keep you from harm, but he’d be damned with assurity if he was forced to forfeit you now.

You, mercifully, didn’t comment upon the…unfettered touchiness…that he displayed when the weariness that always followed a night out executing his justice superceded his finer mental factulties.

Your bed was much too small to fit the both of you comfortably, but you’d insisted that it would work if you sat up against the headboard and he pulled his legs up onto the mattress. Your fingers were light against the sweep of his shoulder, tracing the stark line of wiry muscle that conjoined at the scapulae. You’d already explored much of his back this way, reading the topography of him with your palm. Your other hand rested upon the curve of his head, thumb rubbing small circles that metronomed your steady, slow breaths and your occasional quiet humming.

He should have felt foolish, contorted not unlike a child with his head resting on your lap. Throughout the lengthy span of his life, he’d never stooped so low to demean himself in such a manner. The rest of the Ennead would make him the laughing stock of all pantheons if they knew of his particular…weakness for you. Although the Grecians often intermingled with man, the Ennead had long since forbidden it…but he couldn’t help but wonder. If it was so wrong, why did it make him feel the way that it did?

Even still, it would not be a good thing for them to discover. He didn’t fear himself much anymore, but if anything ever happened to you or Badru…

“You okay?” you asked softly, smoothing your hand up between his shoulders to cup the nape of his neck, rousing him from the light, dozing trance into which you’d unwittingly induced him. “You went all stiff on me.”

Khonshu grumbled. I am fine.

You let out a noncommital, if skeptical, sound and shifted a little to press the heels of both your hands into the meat of his shoulders. He winced as you dug in, working some of the tension free from his physical form. “Just got you relaxed and then you went and started overthinking again,” you tutted. “What goes on in that big noggin of yours, I wonder?”

Nothing good, he mumbled.

“I already knew that much,” you huffed. You found a particularly sore place below his scapula and his fingers knotted into the material of your t-shirt tighter as he smothered a grunt. “You’re just as bad as I am.”

You couldn’t fathom the heaviness of all that weighs on my mind, he pointed out sourly.

“Mmhmm.” You leaned forward and reached down to press at the base of his spine. His hiss was muffled by your thigh. “And you fuss at me for not keeping the armor as long as I need it,” you sighed. “Why don’t you use your abilities on yourself, too?”

Because he would bear it if it meant harm wouldn’t befall you. Because he would starve himself until he withered to dust if you had another chance to retain the breath in your lungs. Because you could bleed him dry and he would give you the knife with which to tap the celestiality that coursed through his arteries.

Heliopolitan maladies differ from that of humanity’s, he said instead.

“That seems a little counterintuitive,” you remarked, dragging up his sides to rid his ribs of their tension.

I require a greater expenditure of energy due to the nature of my body being primarily incorporeal and thus sustained only on my magic. It is much easier to heal tangible tissue. Khonshu tilted his head to peer up at your face, creased with determination and focused on the length of his back sprawling away from you. The material of your duvet was soft and warm against the bare skin of his torso, a balm against the perpetual chill that clung to his bones. The natural, thriving heat that emanated from your body certainly helped. What I consume is sufficient.

You frowned, eyes traveling over the gaunt press of his skeleton against his ashen, tawny flesh, barely hidden by the leanness of what muscle he’d retained in this form. “Somehow I doubt that.”

It was enough to sustain him and little else, but you didn’t need to know that.

You are fretting over nothing. Although that is nothing new, he jibed, hoping to redirect you.

He could sense your dubiety, but you thankfully dropped the subject. “...Do you sleep?”

Rarely. Allowing himself to slip into dormancy in his present state for any considerable length of time was a dangerous game he only dared to play when his wellspring was at its lowest tolerable level. He had also always preferred to remain vigilant in order to watch over the earth for any outstanding threats that may crop up on the misfortune-prone planet. Now that he had you and Ru under his protection, he especially resisted the urge that tugged at him at his weakest points. But I am capable of it, if that is what you mean.

“I had wondered. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your guard down.”

There were reasons for that, too, ones that he’d prefer that you never learned.

I must never set down my creed for even a moment, he said, else the world fall to shambles in my absence.

“That’s called catastrophizing, in my realm of expertise,” you pointed out gently, forfeiting your inspection of his throbbing (but less achey) back and instead scratching your fingernails feather-light over his scalp. Frissons broke out over his skin and skittered down the length of his spine. “Thinking about worst case scenarios doesn’t give you any more control over what could or will happen. Plus, I think we’ve got a sufficient number of guardians all over the world to help give you a break.”

You are aware that those merchandised puppets are not even aware of the realm in which I dwell and deal, aren’t you?

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard stories about sorcerers or something, but that’s besides the point. You need to let yourself rest occasionally. I don’t even want to imagine what several thousands of years’ worth of burnout looks like.”

You were looking directly at it, frankly. Khonshu readjusted his arms to wrap around your back, hands overlapping your waist as he buried his face into the crease of your thighs once more. I am resting.

You went silent at that, movements stilling for a long moment. Then you shifted, hunched over him, and placed a chaste, lingering kiss on the crown of his head. “Well, then I’ll leave you alone.” You returned to your position against the headboard, pillows cushioning your back, and resumed your soothing touches along his scalp, neck, and shoulders. “...If you wanted to sleep, I can stay up for you for a while. If the world starts ending, I’ll be sure to wake you up.”

It was far more tempting an offer than Khonshu could resist, given your attentiveness had coaxed that old exhaustion to the surface like the tide. He wondered if you possessed any supernatural abilities of your own, or if it was because that was the same tone his mother had always used to convince him to sleep when he was young. You wouldn’t know if there was a disturbance in the astral plane if it struck you by the back of your head, he murmured, sagging into you steadily.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you returned quietly, thumb tracing the impression of a scar along his temple. “Just let me take care of you, Khonshu.”

He was trying his best, truly. It was certainly difficult to protest such a precious gift offered with no malicious intents underlying its tender promises.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #moonknightevents #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fluff #khonshu #reader insert #khonshu/reader #khonshu x reader #khonshu/you #khonshu x you #khonshu fanfiction #khonshu fluff

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asimplearchivist · 23 hours

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Having even slightly popular mutuals is so cool. The king has bestowed upon me a like. Perhaps even a reblog

#*gazing up at you with the creature eyes🥺*#luh you guys #humor

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asimplearchivist · 1 day

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You’re mighty welcome! Thank you for reading!😊

𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓮

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you really quoting our therapist right now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#fisara’s answers #ao3: constellations

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asimplearchivist · 1 day

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Haunted every day by the fact that there isn’t enough time in a lifetime to read every book & learn every language & travel every city & take up every hobby & dig into every subject & be 78 different occupations at once. How will a girl like me ever deal

#I periodically grieve all the music I won’t be able to listen to #text #things to remember

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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𝓗𝓲𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ marc takes you for a quiet walk in the woods. pairing(s) ☽ marc spector/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 0.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my seventh entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ marc's always end up so short. :( I need to fix that, I feel like I'm not doing him due justice. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

“Why in the hell did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you made the mistake of telling me you wanted to work on improving your stamina.”

“I thought you’d take the hint that I wanted to go on cutesie little evening walks with you around the block to watch the sunset and get ice cream occasionally,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d decide to drive me out into the middle of nowhere to drag me down some random animal trail.”

Marc turned to watch you brace your hands on your knees and lean over to catch your breath (not for the first time in the last half hour, and most definitely not for the last).

“We’re almost to the halfway mark,” he told you, pursing his lips to prevent his smirk from slipping free. The perspiration dotting your hairline was always a good look on you, but you were panting a bit hard. He stepped back over to you and curled a hand around your elbow to guide you over to sit on a nearby stone. “We can take five. Don’t want you passing out on me.”

“Ha-ha,” you responded flatly, swiping the hem of your sleeve across your forehead and leaning into his side. “Like it would be any issue for you to carry me back to the car.”

Marc coughed to disguise a snicker. “It wouldn’t be, but it might look a little suspicious if the rangers caught me.”

That option was out of the question, really, because as soon as they’d run a background check on him…the situation would go from bad to worse. You knew that—and you also knew that he knew that. He could spare a few minutes, and it wasn’t as if the scenery was that bad. The ancient English wood loomed overhead, a cool, dense fog concealing all but a ten yard radius around the pair of you—perhaps the only reprieve against the mild, humid air. There was not another soul to be found save for the songbirds darting overhead and the critters scurrying about the dense underbrush bordering the path.

Marc sat next to you and draped an arm over your shoulders, his eyes habitually traveling over the horizon. You rested your temple on his shoulder, your heavy breath pluming in the dewy humidity. Your hand snuck over his leg to intertwine your fingers with his, the pad of your thumb stroking over the knuckles of his. He glanced down at the sweep of your lashes against the apples of your cheeks, but when he returned his attention to the forest, he went as still as a statue.

“Hey,” he murmured, gently nudging your side, “look.”

“What?” you breathed, raising your head and squinting in the direction he was looking. “...Oh.”

A stag stood not a stone’s throw away through the underbrush, grazing on a patch of clover spilling over the drooping ferns. His tawny hide and velvety antlers blended flawlessly with the wide, hunkered trunks looming over the lot of you. His ears and tail twitched as he nosed and rummaged for the sweetest blooms.

Marc felt more than heard you suck in a breath when a doe wandered onto the scene as well, nearly silent as her dark eyes surveyed the surroundings. He gazed down at you out of his periphery, watching the delight and awe bloom over your face. You both watched the animals get their fill in complete silence and listened to their soft snorts as well as the rustle of their hooves in the grass.

It had been a while since Marc had spent any time out in nature. The last few years of his life had been packed full of stress and next to zero free time; all things considered, he could no longer find it in him to blame himself. He was in a difficult situation, and while he most definitely could have handled things better, it had all seemingly turned out all right in the end. (...Huh. Maybe Steven’s insistence on going to therapy was paying off, after all.) It was blissfully quiet out here, marooned in the middle of nowhere with civilization miles away. It almost reminded him of his brief time in the Field of Reeds, and though it didn’t feel as…ethereal, it was still stunning.

A couple of minutes later, the stag and the doe moved on, disappearing into the brush. You released a breath and stood, peering around the edge of the treeline in an attempt to catch one last glimpse of them. Marc eased to his feet and stepped into the direction of the path you both needed to go.

“They were beautiful, weren’t they?” you murmured, turning back to him with eyes glittering with wonder.

“Yeah.” He swallowed and, when you returned to his side to start walking once more, he traced the tip of his pinky along the blade of your hand. You peeked up at him, quirking a brow, but said nothing as you slipped your hand into his. He squeezed it gently, and he was grateful that you understood him without having to force out the words that tended—much to his chagrin—to die in the pit of his throat.

“Thank you for bringing me out here,” you told him. “I’d like to do it again. Maybe we can bring a picnic next time.”

“Sounds good.” He bumped his shoulder into yours. “We could get that fancy cheese you like.”

Your eyes brightened at the mere mention. “I could make some fruit salad, too.”

Marc’s lips tightened and tapered into a soft grin. “Whatever you want, baby.”

#fisara's codices #moonknightevents #fanfiction #reader insert #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fluff #marc spector #marc spector/reader #marc spector/you #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector fluff

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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#mental health #humor #but not really #been in this cycle for months and months

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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― Ovid, Metamorphoses

#text #quotes

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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if u pay attention there are themes and motifs on my blog

#yep and it’s crippling loneliness :)#humor

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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feeling called out today

credit: _ADWills

#oops #writing #humor

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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Alright, to ao3's soon to be arriving Wattpad Refugees, a basic guide to general user culture:

1.) Unlike Wattpads vote system that let's you like each chapter, the ao3 equivalent kudos only allows one per work. Everyone is generally quietly annoyed about this. To engage with each chapter, you're heavily encouraged to comment. Trust me, it makes people's day.

2.) Ao3 has no algorithm. By default it's latest updated work first. You can find things to your taste through searches, filters and tags.

3.) 'No archive warnings apply' and 'user has chosen not to use archive warnings' mean two very different things. No archives warnings means the work is free from any content that could require a warning tag (character death, graphic depictions of violence, non-con, etc). User has chosen not to use archive warnings means it could contain any of the warning content, be it hasn't been explicitly tagged. Treat it like an allergen. No archive warnings apply is allergen free. User has chosen not to use archive warnings, may contain traces or whole chunks of the allergen. If you're likely to have a bad reaction, maybe don't take the risk.

4.) Speaking of warnings, ao3 has very few restrictions on the type of work that's allowed. Whatever your personal thoughts or feelings on that are, thats how the site is. You're likely to run across some dark subject matters and a lot of people are uncomfortable with reading that. You're well within your rights not like these works and have your opinion on whether they should be allowed, but harassing the authors of such works (or any works) is more likely to come back on you than them. Ao3 operates on a strong policy of 'don't like, don't read'. Use the tagging system to your full advantage to only engage with the kind of works you want to see.

We look forward to welcoming you all and seeing the fantastic works you create. Happy writing!

#archive of our own #ao3 #things to remember

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asimplearchivist · 2 days

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𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ there was no possible way that you could have romantic feelings for steven. right? pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 4.1k a/n ☽ ⤏ my sixth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ trying to resist the urge to tell myself this is repetitive. had to cut it off there or else it would’ve been way too long. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

You’re going to give us an ulcer if you keep this up—and I, for one, do not want to have to chug that wretched pink shit for the next few weeks.

“Hush,” Steven muttered, glancing towards the window next to him to level his host with a dark glare, but he was distracted by the skewed angle of the lapel lying haphazardly across his clavicle. He frowned in concentration as he readjusted it and smoothed it back down to rights with a clammy, trembling palm. “You’re not helpin’.”

Marc’s brow was furrowed, arms folded tightly over his chest, appearing rather dour to be mirroring the pressed, brightly patterned shirt and light slacks he’d talked Steven into wearing—Marc’s canvas jacket suited the look as well as the stormy weather, although Steven’s insistence on wearing his favorite dress shoes was the one concession that the alter was unwilling to sacrifice.

Marc had argued with him for nearly ten minutes not to wear the suit coat for just a quick bite before returning to the flat, and Steven had only relented once he’d realized that you’d still be wearing your casual clothes since he was picking you up from work. He knew that you liked to dress up, too, if he made the effort to do so, and that you grew a little self-conscious if you looked ‘frumpy’ (although, in his opinion, you never looked anything short of stunning—even with dust smudged on your cheek from the shop’s prolific collection of old books, espresso splattered all across your sleeves, or ink smeared on your hands after your long days spent working and studying), so he’d sooner invest in your comfort than to preen at your expense.

…Not that he was trying to preen or anything. You just made him feel like the biggest catch this side of the Thames, for once in his life—and while he would never willingly admit it, Steven liked the idea of showing off a bit for you. His nerves and insecurities still got the best of him every now and again, but most of the time your adoring gaze and easy smiles served an invaluable salve for his fretful tendencies.

He liked to look nice for you—liked the way you’d give him that lingering once-over out of the corner of your eye like you didn’t think he’d notice it. Depending on the colors he wore, he could elicit varying intensities of a reaction; the studious side of him was fascinated with how soft shades of blue kept your gaze trained on the contrast of the collar and his neck, whereas deeper jewel tones of crimson and juniper drew your stare further up to his unkempt curls and eyes. Trim slacks and khakis caused lingering glances towards his legs and posterior, if he happened to have his back turned to you. If he took off his coat, you’d peek at the silhouettes of his arms and shoulders under the pressed cotton. If his sleeves ever happened to be rolled up, you blatantly and openly gawked at the muscles flexing in his forearms and the articulation of tendons in his hands—that flustered him more than anything else.

You weren’t shy about telling him that you found him attractive, either. Although he was still growing accustomed to your consistent sprinkling of compliments—each as sincere, as meaningful, and as thoughtful as the last—he appreciated your earnesty beyond any thanks he could express with simple words. He stood taller in your presence, didn’t stoop or hunch to make himself appear smaller; he didn’t stutter as much, and he spoke with confidence and ease even when launching into his infamous tangents and drawing skeptical glances from strangers; he even found it getting easier, over time, to flirt with you in return, learning that you grew flustered when he gave you half-lidded looks or shivered when he lowered his voice into a murmur near your ear (although he wouldn’t have noticed the subtle, subconscious changes in his behavior had Marc not remarked upon them).

He felt comfortable with you—attractive and valuable and wanted without deceit nor facetiousness—something he had never before experienced beyond his connection to Marc. To others, he was an overenthusiastic nuisance, or a negligible commodity at best, but to you he was important. You cared for him, wanted him to be happy, and never expected anything in return, save his honest companionship.

…But the boundaries for that had started to blur, hadn’t they? Ever since he and Marc had returned from Cairo, you and Steven had grown closer than ever before. With you given just short of full disclosure about his situation (although this was not for lack of faith in your reasonability, since Steven himself hadn’t been aware of all the details until relatively recently—and they would cross the bridge about telling you about their suited vigilante days when it became relevant, although he hoped it never would be), he no longer felt the urge to keep up appearances. He no longer had to fret about hiding the more cornering traits of his supposed sleeping disorder from you, since the true nature of his midnight meanderings had been discovered. He had no more secrets save those that no longer occupied his life at present, no more worries, because you saw and knew and understood most everything that encapsulated him.

That, inevitably, led to a rather blatant and ardent infatuation on his part, seeded by his initial attraction and long-standing friendship with you and germinated by your steadfastness and dedication even after their…episode—one extremely difficult to restrict, and one for which Marc had been teasing him relentlessly now that he had met you, too.

You really ought to tell her, you know, said the devil about whom he thought.

“Yeah, right,” Steven scoffed, tilting his head forward to scrutinize and pick at the layers of unruly curls parted along the side of his scalp with his fingers—they never did sit quite right, even when he made the effort to comb them while they were wet. Marc had wanted to plaster them back with gel to avoid the hassle altogether, but Steven had resolutely set his foot down—you adored their curls and Steven despised the sensation of the pomade on his scalp, so he would not stand to see Marc glue them down like he always did when he had the steering wheel. “Sure, I’d love to put myself out there to be rejected again. You know how bloody well that went the last time I had a date.”

That was my fault. Marc owned up to it, at least. But it won’t happen again.

“You don’t know that,” Steven told him, hushed and tense. “I could just…she’s said we’re mates, yeah? But she could think we’re just mates.”

The way she looks at you? Yeah, totally platonic, Marc remarked, rolling his eyes. You’re her ‘bestest friend in the whole wide world’ and she just so happens to want to climb you like a tree when you ramble about regicide in Ancient Egypt of all things.

Steven’s face prickled with heat as he glared at his host. “How would you know, huh?”

Marc tipped his head forward and raised a knowing brow. The bastard had the gall to smirk at him.

Steven scowled. He could point out how utterly insufferable his host had acted around Layla, awkward and ignorant like a teenager as far as reading her as he had been, but he wouldn’t stoop so low…for now. (As long as he didn’t continue to take the piss out of him, that is.) “Oh, Mister ‘I’ve-Been-Married-A-Grand-Total-of-Once’ is suddenly an expert on the art of interpretin’ female attraction! I’m sure you’ve just got the entire situation nailed down like a psychoanalysis, yeah?”

Give me ten minutes to let me direct the conversation and I can tell you all of her—

“No! No, thank you,” Steven blurted, dragging a hand over his eyes and nose to clasp over his mouth. If his face had grown any hotter in the handful of awkwardly silent seconds that followed that particular statement, Steven was certain that it would have been capable of spontaneous combustion. He floundered for a moment, mouth opening and shutting in search of a response, while Marc started chuckling, but he was saved by the bell, so to speak.

“Hey, darlin’!” you chirped through the doorway as it cracked open and you slipped out of the coffee shop. “I didn’t realize you were here at first, but Amy saw you in the window. You could’ve texted me, you know—I hate that you stood out here in the cold.”

“Oh, I haven’t been here long,” Steven assured you, turning to offer to take your purse. You allowed him to hold it while you shrugged on your coat and wrapped the scarf he’d recently gifted you around your neck. “Where would you like to eat tonight, love?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me try my hand at something new tonight,” you started, then hesitated. “If that’s, uh, okay. I’d have to run into the store to grab some groceries, so if you’d rather wait for another night we can. I completely understand if it’s too late for that.”

And refuse your feats of culinary masterpieces? He thought bloody not. “That would be wonderful, as long as you’re not too terribly knackered to stand over the stove,” Steven said brightly. “I can help.”

Your smile was dazzling even under the unflattering whine of the fluorescent street lamp. “Thank you. I think you’ll like this one.”

“As if I’ve ever disliked anythin’ you’ve cooked for me,” he scoffed in disbelief.

“Okay, sure, but I think you’ll really like this one,” you amended, slinging your purse over your shoulder and grabbing his arm to tug him towards the bus stop. “Come on.”

The ride was filled with idle chatter about each other’s days. Steven was still adjusting to working during the day shifts after his reemployment as a tour guide at the museum, and he somewhat missed sitting with you while you closed up the coffee shop already—but it had given him the opportunity to tidy up the flat and to clean up before returning to the block to fetch you. You’d been tasked with reorganizing the used classical and poetry section, so you’d spent the better part of your day elbow-deep in dusty old books. (Steven was having a very difficult time resisting the urge to snuff the biblichor lingering on your scalp—there was nothing better than the combination of your signature perfume and books to him.) An older man had walked up on you to ask you a question and it had startled you—you’d barely stopped a whole row from toppling down on you since you’d been standing on a stepstool at the time. He’d apologized profusely, but you said that the image of you teetering on that rickety old hunk of metal was probably the funniest thing you’d pictured yourself doing in a long time.

“But you’re not hurt, right?” Steven pressed, brow furrowed.

“No, I’m good,” you answered, nudging him in the side with your elbow. “I’ve got a thick skull—you ought to know that by now, darlin’.”

The stop in the general store was, true to your word, a quick one. He recognized some of the ingredients, but he had no idea how you were going to combine them all into something undeniably delicious. By the time you both got to his flat, you were cutting up and he was laughing a bit louder than what was appropriate close to midnight.

“Here, I’ll get started,” you told him as you unloaded the sacks on the kitchen counter, “why don’t you go pick something to put on for background noise?”

“Sure thing, love,” he responded, turning to do just that. When he came back, you were in the middle of warming oil in a saucepan while dicing some vegetables. “What can I do?”

“I’d kill for some of that lemonade we made the other day if you have any left over,” you commented. “But you could help me get this chopped up. I’ll need the emulsifier. It’s just a simple soup I thought was interesting—I haven’t used sundried tomatoes before. It reminds me of a pasta sauce I’ve seen before, but this is more like a tomato soup than anything.”

“Sounds divine,” Steven told you, stooping over into the fridge to pull out the pitcher in question. He’d left enough for two more servings. “Will you want a grilled cheese?”

“No, I’m okay.” You bumped your hip into his as thanks when he set a glass within your reach, the ice clinking against the glass. “I’m kind of beat, honestly, so if I can get this down before I pass out, I’ll be lucky.”

“I washed your spare clothes if you’d like to go shower while I watch the pot,” he offered. “They’re on top of the dresser.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” you admitted. “Can you dice these tomatoes?”

It, perhaps, should have been a little worrisome how easily he fell into such a domestic routine with you. Even if Marc suspected you had feelings for him that weren’t strictly platonic, Steven wondered whether your natural exuberance was causing him to misread your behavior. But it was in the moments that you intentionally brushed against him when such contact could’ve been avoided, displaying your comfort so loudly without saying a word, that he dared to let that little flicker of hope breathe itself to life. You seemed committed to keeping some form of contact with him at all times, your hands touching his arms or sides as you orbited him like his own personal little moon. You only spoke in that low, inexplicably soothing tone.

Steven watched the pan while you retreated to the bathroom. You reemerged with damp, shiny hair and dewy, softly-scented skin, and it was even harder for him not to catch a whiff as you floated around him grabbing cutlery and bowls and napkins like you had the layout of his flat memorized. You even put the kettle on without him even having to ask, setting out a mug and a teabag for him to fix how he preferred it.

After blitzing the vegetables together and adding a bit of coconut cream to smooth it out, your dish was completed and smelled utterly divine topped with fresh basil. You both ended up settled shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in front of the television, slurping spoonfuls and idly commenting on the film he’d chosen. It was cozy and calm and exactly what he needed after having a class of rowdy six-graders that had seemed interested in anything but what he’d had to say during their field trip for which he’d been tasked to provide a tour that morning (he should have suspected something was remiss when the teacher’s name had popped up on the itinerary and all the other guides had—quite brightly and appraisingly—suggested he take it; it was a marvel to him, really, that the school could miss the fact that she had utilized the opportunity to be paid to scroll on her phone while he was forced to wrangle the feral children supposedly under her care).

That was exactly the tale he regaled when you asked him, midway through the movie during a lull in the plot, if anything interesting had happened to him that day. You looked rightly disgruntled on his behalf, huffing that he was far too nice to tolerate that sort of negligence and that you would have set her in her place had you been there. He’d gently, if amusedly, informed you that it had somewhat worked out in the end—with no small (nor well-hidden) amount of satisfaction, he told you that his obligation to supervise them all had ended upon delivering the troop to the gift shop at the end of the tour…where Donna had been stuck on shift yet again (since so few people applied for the position due to its low wages combined with the high turnover rate as a result of her nasty behavior and poor management style…but Steven wasn’t normally one to gloat over such things; you, however, had been utterly delighted to hear it).

“At least that bitch got some of what she deserves,” you said, tipping your chin up and glaring down the end of your nose at the screen. “I hope she regrets every last negative word she said to you now that she has to pick up all the shit she dumped on you.”

“It doesn’t matter in the long run, love,” he reminded you, although his chuckle was difficult to smother. It did give him some satisfaction to see it, else he’d have been made a liar to suggest otherwise…but just a little bit. “I don’t answer to her anymore.”

“Good, or else I might’ve felt the need to cut a bitch,” you grumbled.

Steven jumped slightly as Marc’s low, huffing laugh caught him off guard. He glanced over at one of the mirrors he’d mounted on the available space of a nearby bookshelf, and his host’s moody, brooding eyes were twinkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. He didn’t say a word, as he tended to give the front a wide berth when Steven was having personal time with you, but the weight of his presence was a reassuring one. His host lifted his brows and glanced pointedly in your direction, tipping his head towards you for emphasis.

Steven cast him a dark glare. Marc had been teasing him for a week now about finally making a move in the most cliché and inane manner possible, but Steven was resolute that it was not ideal. He respected you highly and didn’t want to give you a poor experience that might smother any chances he had of winning over your good graces. Your ex had been the pushy sort, and he wanted to be anything but. It was simply unfortunate that his and Marc’s individual approaches to romance were vastly contrary.

“Let’s not add ‘murder’ to your long, impressive list of accomplishments, yeah?” Steven proposed mildly, watching you glance up at him with a smirk and glittering eyes of your own.

“Fine,” you sighed, resting your temple briefly on his shoulder. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he nodded. “Wouldn’t be very good if you wind up in prison defending somebody like me.”

“You ought to know by now that there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for you, Steven,” you responded, rolling your eyes, but there was something couched in your tone that piqued his attention.

He blinked, then glanced towards the mirror again, but Marc was gone. So much for his bloody help regarding women.

“You do know that, right?” you prompted a little quieter, and when he looked over, you were gazing up at him through your lashes out of your periphery.

Steven relaxed as that familiar warm, fuzzy feeling unfurling within his chest like the blooming of a flower in the morning. “I do,” he returned softly. “And I hope you know that sentiment is mutual.”

You stared at him, then, head turning little by little until your full, beseeching gaze was fixed on him. His heart pounded raucously against his ribs as he became acutely aware of your hand slipping over to squeeze his knee gently—he was shocked you couldn’t hear it, because it was loud enough he very nearly didn’t hear your next words. “…Can I kiss you?”

He swallowed roughly, a reflexive action that caused him to jump. His hand, shaky and clammy, settled over yours, his fingers slotting alongside your own. He licked his lips, sucked in a breath that rattled in his lungs, and managed a jerky nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Please?”

Your free hand cupped his chin, fingertips tracing along his jawline with undeserved reverence before settling his cheek into the cradle of your palm, and he stooped slightly to save your neck as you lifted your chin to meet him halfway. He blinked, startled, as your lips—soft and smooth—chastely met the corner of his mouth. The split-second confused thought of you missing was promptly erased when you tilted your head and repeated the motion to the opposite side, lingering just a tad bit longer there.

Oh. Oh.

He clamped his eyelids shut.

The featherdown flutter of your doe-like lashes tickling the arch of his cheek as you kissed him proper, gentle and slow and tender, skyrocketed his pulse. He wondered idly, somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, if he was in any danger of having cardiac arrest at this rate. Heat flooded his face like wildfire, sweat springing up along his hairline as he reached out to touch you, too.

His trembling fingers made contact with the side of your neck, first, and to his inexplicable delight and relief he could feel your heartbeat racing alongside your throat, too. He curled his hand around your nape, thumb stroking the tender skin beneath the shell of your ear as an indescribable, high-pitched whine escaped you. He cracked an eye open to watch your expression cringe with embarrassment, but you made up for it by sliding your fingers into his curls to tug his head into a deeper angle. A gutted, broken groan bubbled out of the pit of his chest before he could stop it.

You began to litter his lips with quick, light pecks, and never before had Steven quite felt cherished. You pulled back just a hair’s breadth to catch your breath. “You have…no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I can hazard a guess,” he mumbled, pulling you back in, “‘cause you’re in the same boat as I am.”

You let out a needy, desperate little noise that lanced down his spine. Steven Grant had never considered himself a selfish person by any stretch of the imagination, but he was quite certain at that moment that if he didn’t hear it again immediately he would die.

Oxygen became a hazy concept, but even the most ardent and devoted of adorators required it. When you broke away to suck in a lungful, Steven dared to look at you. You were dazed, eyes hazy and lips puffy, but the way you glowed in the dim lighting was like nothing he’d ever envisioned in all his studies of art. And you were staring at him as though he had hung each and every last individual star in the sky.

“I was so scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you murmured, “but I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“I never wanted to assume,” he added quietly. “I was fine with being mates, but I always wondered…I didn’t want to pressure you, after…I just wanted you to feel comfortable if…”

“I know,” you interrupted him mercifully, leaning back in. “I know. Thank you for being patient.”

“There were so many times I wanted to tell you,” he mumbled into your mouth, too enchanted to shut off his stream of consciousness, “but it never felt right, and I didn’t want to lose my only friend—my best friend—yet it was absolute torture not knowing—”

“I didn’t know if I could bear to make myself vulnerable to be hurt again,” you returned, shifting to kiss along his cheek, “and I had to work myself up to take the risk. You’re all I’ve got left anymore. Maybe I’m selfish to want more than what we have, but God, Steven, I want you so bad, I can hardly stand it.”

The lump in the pit of his throat nearly choked him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, arms coiling around you and holding you tightly against his chest. “I do, too,” he breathed. “Like I need air.”

You returned the hug with a ferocity he hadn’t felt from you before. You were shaking, too, and it soothed him to know that the nerves were mutual, as well. For being very transparent people by nature, the both of you had managed a miracle of hiding your feelings from each other for so long.

“I need you to know that I can only do it if you’re all in,” you said, muffled by the material of his shirt. “My heart can’t take it otherwise.”

“You have all of me and more, poppet,” he told you, smothering his face into your scalp. “I swear to you I’ll do better than anyone else has or could. I’ll earn it, I promise. I can be worthy of you. I’ll sooner hurt myself than ever dream of hurting you.”

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