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ominoose · 29 minutes

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Marc Spector x GN!reader

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Summary: Marc and you enjoy rough sex, but when Marc asks you to try something new, it quickly goes downhill.

Warnings and Content: reverences to BDSM, Dom/sub, whipping with a belt, Marc's abusive childhood, references to self-harm in the past, mention of self-harm scars, just.... a lot of talk about self-harm. Misuse of BDSM. Breach of trust in a D/s dynamic, miscommunication. This isn't meant to be a perfect or even good D/s relationship or relationship in general. this is a relationship that is struggling right now. Don't look to fanfiction for sex and relationship advice. Marc is self-destructing, reader isn't the best at handling it but the are trying. Lots of crying lmfao. If I miss anything LMK but really this is a proceed at your own caution situation as I've at least laid out the basic themes.

Immersability: Marc can pick up reader. I think that's it? I usually write Fem!reader but there really wasn't a reason to make this fem so I put GN!reader this time. If I accidentally fem coded something lmk.

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“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Marc looked up from his food he had barely eaten. You’d made him his favorite: chicken strips and fries. Marc was a picky eater due to his sensory issues so you were happy to have simple little meals when Marc was fronting for dinner. He’d been absent for a few days, only fronting when Steven and Jake insisted. You’d been worried, after all. The last night you and Marc had together hadn’t ended well, and you wanted to talk to him.

“That’s it, I’m calling it.” You said, climbing off the back of Marc’s legs that you had been stradling and quickly pulled on your robe.

“I- what?” The panic in Marc’s voice was evident. You and Marc… liked things rough, but unlike you and Jake, it was you who was the dominant in this dynamic. You and Marc had been doing things like this for a while, clearly defined boundaries and safewords and communication had made a smooth going of things. Marc had been having a bit of a tough time lately so you had stuck to regular love-making, but tonight he had come to you with a request to try something new. He wanted you to use a belt on him.

“Something’s wrong, Marc.”

His face was still in the mattress, face down, but lift enough to speak without looking at you. “I didn’t use the safeword?” It was more a question than a statement.

“Well, I am. Red, on your behalf.” You weren’t super into the idea of using a belt on him, but you weren’t uncomfortable, and since it was something he wanted, you decided to give it a try. Pretty quickly, you didn’t think it was going to happen again but you intended on seeing it through. Marc usually whimpered and yelped during sex, but you could tell his pleasure even still… something told you this was different. This was wrong. He didn’t use his safe word, but he didn’t need to. You knew him.

“I’m fine-”

“Turn over” You instruct, and when he doesn’t you nudge him over gently. Your heart hurts at the tears in his eyes, but his boxer briefs tell you what you suspected. His erection was gone. “Marc…”

Immediately, his lip quivers, breath shaky and he sputters out apologies and you remember your job. It’s not to chastise him, not to question him. Not right now. Right now you need to take care of him.

First was reassurance. “Hey, hey baby,” You cup his face. “It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Second was always his weighted blanket. He didn’t usually sleep with it, so you kept it under the bed for any time he needed the pressure.

Third depended. If he needed anything medical or was hurt, that was next, but you didn’t think what you had done was too bad (your hesitant actions didn’t lead to anything harsh and you had been researching and reaching out to others on how to do this correctly.). Right now, Marc needed to calm down. With tears wetting his cheeks and his anxiety over thinking he ruined the scene, he needed reassurance next.

“Can I lay with you?” You ask as you tuck the blanket over him the way he likes. When he nodded, you lie down beside him. “The usual?” He nodded again, and you place yourself how you usually did. You lay on his chest, arms holding him, right leg bent over his, adding to the weight of the blanket.

“You didn’t do a thing wrong, Marc. You were perfect, this is me, okay? My choice to end it.”

You stay like that for a while before asking to check his back when his breathing was normal. He nodded again and you knew he wasn’t going to be talking the rest of the night. That was okay, you knew how to communicate without words. Marc rolls over, and you see you were correct; not much as far as wounds. You ice him and gently rub aloe vera ointment over the small welts. Once that was done, you help him in dressing in his most comfortable pj’s and resume your previous position until he fell asleep.

You woke up to Steven that morning.

“Talk about what?” Marc tried to deflect, but you cocked your head to the side and raised your eyebrows.

“The other night, Marc. We need to talk about it.”

He avoided your eyes again and mumbled. “I wasn’t the one who safworded.”

You couldn’t help but sigh. “Marc, honey, please? I wanna talk about it so I know what I did wrong-”

His eyes flicked up, his tone harsher than you were used to. “Only thing you did wrong was safeword.”

Taken aback, you feel your chest tightening with anxiety at the argument bubbling. You want to dial it back, but the implication of his words hurt. “Marc… I’m allow to use the safe word too”

Immediately he looked regretful. “No- that’s not what I meant, fuck, sorry…” You gave him a second to regain his thoughts. “I just meant you shouldn’t have done it for me.”

You soften, understanding what he meant. “Baby, you were clearly uncomfortable, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

“I was fine!” He snapped, yelling at you and you see it right away when Jake takes over. “Lo siento, amor.”

“It’s okay, Jake.” But it was clear that his shouting hurt your feelings.

“He shouldn’t yell at you like that.” Jake began eating the chicken. One thing about Jake is he’s going to take care of Marc, and that includes eating when Marc won’t.

“We’ve been… going through a little bit of a rough patch…” You conceded, admitting it to yourself for the first time. The last month with Marc had been hard. He was drifting, and you couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

“It’s not you. He loves you very much.”

“I know he does, I love him.”

“I know.” Jake stuffed his mouth full of chicken. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea to reenact his moms abuse, but he never listens to me.”

That caught your attention. “Wait, what?” You weren’t stupid. You knew his enjoyment of rough sex probably had something to do with his childhood, but Marc didn’t divulge much other than his mom physically abused him.

“Oh great, Marc’s yelling at me now, I guess he never told you his mom whipped-” Marc took the body back. “SHUT UP!” He screamed with eyes pinched shut. You sat in silence until they opened again. When he saw you looking at him with wide eyes, he spoke quietly. “Sorry, I didn’t think… I didn’t realize I was in control again…”

“It’s okay…” You whisper. “Marc… what was Jake gonna say.”

Marc sighed, closing his eyes I think you know.

You did, but you wanted him to say it.

“Marc?” Your voice was shaking and seemed so distant from you as you slowly realized what happened, what he had done. What he had made you do.

“She whipped me with a belt.” Marc’s face was deadset, the look he gave when he was trying so hard not to show emotion, but the heavy rise and fall of his chest always gave it away.

You stand up suddenly. “Marc…” stepping backwards as Marc stands with you, you try to get distance from him, disgust with yourself permeating your bones.

“Marc…”

“Baby, it’s not what you think-” He held out his hand to calm you but your body began to curl in on itself, horrified as you wrap your arms around your waist.

“Were you using me to self harm?”

Horror washed over his face. “No! No that’s not it!”

“But you were! You were using me to hurt yourself, to punish yourself! That’s sick, Marc! Sick!” You couldn’t believe he’d made you an accomplice in his battle against himself.

“It’s not like that, I swear!”

“Making me into your mother, Marc? How could you use me like that?” The tears were welling in your eyes, hurt and self-loathing swelling your thoughts.

“Baby…” Marc looked like he was about to cry himself. “It’s not- it’s not that big a deal…” Marc always tried to down play, to refuse help, to refuse to admit when something he’d done hurt you. Not because he didn’t think he was wrong. Marc always thought he was in the wrong. No, it was because he didn’t think he was worth crying over.

“YES IT IS!” In a fit of frustration, you reach for the kitchen knife. Marc didn’t jump, didn’t startle. He knew whatever you were doing, you wouldn’t hurt him. You give him the handle and hold out your wrist. “Cut me.”

He looked as confused as he was horrified. “Wha-”

“Cut me!” A litany of scars riddles your wrist, he knew what asking him to add to it meant.

“No!” Marc set the knife down far away from you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him in concern. “Baby, why would I do that?” He kissed the scars., speaking softly now as you cried freely. “C’mon, your scaring me… are you having urges to hurt yourself again?”

Classic Marc, always more worried about you. “N-o,” You stammer, crying hard as Marc pulls you into a hug. “That’s the point! You’-d-d-d never help me hurt myself, why would you ask me to hurt you like that?” You are crying, legs shaking and you don’t feel you can keep standing.

Marc sinks to the floor with you, holding you close and crying with you. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” He held you in his arms for a while until you started to calm down. When you were no longer shaking, Marc lifted you up, carrying you to your bedroom.

First, he reassured you. “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby girl. It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

Next was the weighted blanket. It was a gift from you to the boys, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t sleep under it sometimes.

“Can I lay with you?” He asked, and when you nodded, too tired to speak, he crawled under the blanket with you. “The usual?” You consented, and Marc wrapped you up tight in his arms, leg draped over yours in extra comfort.

Lastly, he whispered more assurances in your ear.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“Rest, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Everything is going to be alright.”

And you knew it would be. It always would be between you four. Marc just needed help, and he needed to let you help.

Rough sex was out for now. If you couldn’t trust him to use the safe word, you wouldn’t be putting him or yourself in that position. Slowly, Marc opened up and let you, Steven and Jake in, and slowly things got better. It took time, to be sure, and a lot of work on both your parts to repair the trust that was broken, but you loved Marc and Marc loved you.

In the end, Marc was right. Everything was okay.

***************

angsty marc overwhelmingly won my poll. yall like to see a pretty boy cry, huh?

@moonknightly this is the fic i was brainstorming months ago that hurt you so bad lol

@whatthefishh @missdictatorme @ahookedheroespureheart @eyelessfaces @campingwiththecharmings @runa-falls @fandxmslxt69 @k-ra @ivystoryweaver @steven-grants-world @littlenosoul @mikaelak @stevenandmarcslove @pikapuff-316 @del-ightfulling @faretheeoscar @boysddontcry

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ominoose · 35 minutes

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love when a new person tags me in things like this, we're chums now no take backs

Not: @noodlelooodle @winniethewife @summonthesoups

Picrew

Thank you for the tag @transmurderbug @blue-disco-lights! Here's the link to the Picrew.

Tagging: @energievie, @vintagelacerosette, @creepkinginc, @iansw0rld, @guinguin1984, @francesroserecs, @callivich, @gillyp, @dqbbiegallaqher, @nyhmeriah, @octarineblues, @my-secret-shame, @doshiart, @bet-on-the-birds, @jrooc, @meloftheweebs, @depizan, @scurvgirl, @burnt-scone

#(I held back from elf ears but I couldn't hold back from fairy wings)#I AM living in pixie hollow #Tag game

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ominoose · 4 hours

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SUMMON THE SUIT!!!

Plus close ups.

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ominoose · 16 hours

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8- lucien & claire, anselm & birdie

Summary: You learn more about Anselm's past as the mysterious, Lucien. (~4.6k)

Contents: 🔥 18+ nsfw, gun violence/murder, dry humping, oral sex talk

a/n: thank you to the (❤️ not) anon who gave me the push I needed to finally write this. It will help if you've seen "Ticky Tacky," but if you know the general gist, then you should be just fine!

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“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear,” Anselm says as you move to exit the car behind him. “It’s only a small errand.”

A stop at a donut shop you’ve never heard of, a few towns away.

He hasn’t said what his business here is, but you know it certainly isn’t pastries.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you trying to hide something from me?”

Anselm stands outside of the car, but bends down to talk to you. “Yes.”

One of his eyebrows is slightly raised and you know he’d prefer if you dropped it. But that’s not really your style.

“And how’s that going for you?” You ask.

His beard twitches. “Not well, apparently.”

You hear the jingle of a bell behind Anselm and see a young guy walk out of the bakery toward the car.

“Lucien,” the man says. “I have your donuts and your knives.”

Anselm’s face is stone still.

“Lucien?” You ask.

Anselm takes off his glasses and tosses them aside on the seat.

He stands and turns. “Hey, how’s it going?” He hugs the man. “Thanks again.”

You’re struck dumb. You’ve never heard Anselm talk like this in all the time you’ve been together. So… American… so… accent-less.

You see the man hand off a black bakery box on top of a metal suitcase. He notices you in the car and waves. He has a baby face and a white apron smeared with dough and frosting.

“I’m Gabriel,” the man says. “You must be the new wife, and the new boss. Congratulations. Sorry I couldn’t come to the wedding. I’m real happy for you and Lucien, though. I thought he’d had sworn off love, but I guess that whole thing with your cheating ex was, what, 8 or 9 years ago now?”

“Yeah, more actually,” Anselm says, sans accent, scratching his beard.

You nod, shocked silent.

Gabriel smiles. “I was only 10 when we started working together. I still remember the first gun I ever acquired on your behalf. You’d never killed anyone before.”

Anselm nods. “I guess in hindsight everything worked out for the better. My Birdie here, she’s the greatest. Blows everyone else out of the water. Anyway, we have to get going. I’ll call if I need you.”

“What the hell?” You mutter to yourself.

Gabriel shakes Anselm’s hand in both of his. “Good to see you old friend. I could never thank you enough for giving me the shop to run arms out of.”

“Please, you were always a natural. And the donuts are even better with you in charge. Stop by the house sometime. We’ll talk,” Anselm says.

“Definitely, definitely. I haven’t seen this one, and you burned your old one down. I’ll bring you a grenade launcher as a belated wedding present.” Gabriel smiles, waves to you again. “You two have a great day.”

“See you around,” Anselm says.

He gets back in the car, setting aside the case of knives and flipping open the box of donuts to offer you one.

You hand him his glasses.

“I have four hundred questions,” you say.

“My dear-“

“Oh, your accent’s back,” you say, reaching in for a glazed donut. “Well, there’s one question answered.”

Anselm rests his yellow lenses back on his face. “It was all a long time ago. I was very different as a young man.”

You bite into the donut, momentarily distracted. “Holy shit this donut’s good. That guy’s been making donuts since he was 10?”

Anselm shakes his head, closing the box and setting it aside. “No, I gave him the bakery to run when he was 18. He was working for me long before then, though. He’s a very distant relative.”

“Of course he is.” You lick your fingers after inhaling the rest of the donut. “And this woman? Who was she?”

Anselm fights a smile, his beard shifting with glee. “Jealous?”

“Of someone dumb enough to cheat on you? No. Not jealous of a dead woman.”

The car starts moving. Anselm’s gaze flicks away from yours.

“She’s not exactly dead,” he says.

The rest of the donut tastes like sand in your mouth. There might be ringing in your ears. There’s no reason you can think of for him not to have shot her in the cheating, lying face. Except for one…

Anselm holds up a hand. “Birdie, please let me explain. There’s no reason for you to be upset.”

You huff, trying to act casual. “Why would I be upset that you didn’t kill someone? That would be stupid. I’m not. Upset or stupid. I’m not either of those things.” You realize you’re rambling and shut your mouth. You look out the window.

Anselm sets his hand on your leg and you move it out of his grasp.

He chuckles quietly. “I’ve never seen you jealous. It’s given me an erection like you wouldn’t believe.” He clears his throat. “No matter. Just listen.”

You fold your arms, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

Anselm rubs his hand over one of your shoulders. “I’ve never told you this, but for a time in my youth, I tried to ‘go straight,’ so to speak. I only owned legal businesses. Had no ties to organized crime. I spoke with an American accent to blend in more. And,” he hesitates, “I was going to ask a woman to marry me.”

You bite your bottom lip so hard it hurts. But it’s better than the pang you feel in your heart.

“Her name is Claire. From an old east-coast family. Shallow, selfish, but very much the kind of wife someone in my position should have,” Anselm says quietly.

You feel tears well up in your eyes. Snot’s going to start coming out of your nose any second, but you don’t want to sniffle and let Anselm know you’re crying.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Anselm offer you a handkerchief. You snatch it out of his hand.

“Oh, my love, I’m sorry,” he says. His brace squeaks as he scoots closer to you.

You blow your nose loudly and turn back toward him. “We don’t have secrets, Anselm. Not from each other. What the fuck?”

He looks upset with himself. “That part of my life is like a dream, or a movie. It doesn’t feel real most of the time. Except, for these.”

Anselm raises his hand to touch the scars on his face and ear, down his neck. The air catches in your throat, like your pounding heart is keeping you from breathing.

“You’ve never really asked,” Anselm says with a small smile. “The fact that it’s never mattered to you is something I treasure deeply. It was selfish of me to treasure that feeling over telling you the truth.

“Claire cheated on me. Said she was in Paris, but really, she’d only traveled across town to see Nikolai, my cousin and my best friend. They’d been carrying on behind my back for some time.”

Your hand automatically finds Anselm’s. “Fucking jerks.”

Anselm smiles. “I agree.” He squeezes your hand back. “Gabriel had been more of an assistant, but his father was in charge of the family armory here in the states. I asked him to procure me a gun so that I could kill Nikolai.”

“The first person you ever killed was your best friend?” Despite how hurt you are, you still feel a wave of emotion for Anselm. He doesn’t make friends easily. Then again, maybe this story is why. Also, why he considers his useless cousins so disposable.

“No, actually, I shot him, but he lived,” Anselm says. “Gabriel finished the job.”

You tilt your head, doing some quick math. “Wouldn’t he have been like, a child? Um…”

“Anyway,” Anselm continues, “Claire was, understandably upset that I’d attempted to kill her lover. She stormed off as if she had the moral high ground. It didn’t occur to me to kill her. Now, I wouldn’t hesitate. But at the time, I was more concerned with my failure.”

“Your failure? None of that was your fault.”

“It was, my dear,” Anselm say with a sad look. “I didn’t truly love her. I hated that life, hated abiding by the law.”

You put your arm around him, your anger forgotten. “You were doing what you thought was right.”

“Yes, but I created quite a mess for myself. So, I had to create an even bigger one to get out of it. I set Lucien Vogelweide’s life on fire. Nikolai's body, the house, all up in flames. And unfortunately, myself as well. I saw it as penance for not being true to who I was.

“When I got out of the hospital, Lucien had been declared dead. I decided to shut that part of my life away. Except for Gabriel. He's the only one who believes Lucien to be alive and thriving. Although, he's probably figured out the truth by now. But he was born discreet and logical. He can keep a secret, that one.”

You lean back in the seat. “Whenever I think you can’t possibly get any weirder.”

Anselm laughs. “I do test your limits. In every way. Am I forgiven, Birdie?”

You look at him suspiciously. “Give me a kiss and I’ll think about it.”

Anselm leans forward and gathers you in his arms, pressing his open mouth against yours hungrily. You hold onto the lapels of his jacket.

“You taste like a donut,” Anselm says. “You know, I’ve always thought the glaze to be rather like cum. Visually speaking.”

“Obviously.”

Anselm kisses you again.

You pull back after a few seconds. “Now all I can think about is you coming on my face.”

“I was thinking the reverse, but a moving vehicle is no place to 69.” Anselm kisses your neck. “And I don’t deserve your beautiful mouth on me after I’ve behaved so poorly.”

You pull him closer, and down over you as you lay back on the seat. Anselm’s brace squeaks as he bends his knee, using it as leverage to rock his hips against yours. He nips his teeth along your jaw, drags his beard along your skin.

You wrap your legs around his thighs, pushing against him, the cloth of your underwear and pants just enough friction to catch your clit. Anselm’s so hard it’s like rubbing yourself on solid rock.

“Let me,” Anselm tries to squeeze his hand between your bodies, but you pull him flush against you.

“No, stay like this,” you say, “harder.”

Anselm’s glasses drop slightly as he looks down at you. His gaze is intense, drinking in the way your lips part, the wrinkle in your brow, how your breath comes out in little pants.

He teases your nipple through your shirt. Twisting lightly as he cants his hips and you gasp, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you strain yourself toward him. The friction of his hard cock rubbing against you just right. The exact way you need to come.

You try to form words. Tell him not to stop. But it comes out a babbling mess. Anselm knows what you need, though, and keeps going. He buries his face in your neck and kisses you, shuddering.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, mouthing at your neck, “I can’t- oh God, Birdie, you have to stop. If you rub your hot cunt on me a second longer, I- I-“

Anselm tenses. You keep your hips thrusting hard against his, moaning in his ear as you come down from your orgasm. You feel Anselm’s cock twitch, wetness that’s probably both of you, against your pants.

You squeeze your arms around him, encouraging him to lay his weight on you. It’s comforting for you, and for him. Your breathing syncs up, and you play your fingers through his curly hair.

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager,” Anselm says.

“What? Dry hump in a car or come in your pants?”

“The car part. You know very well you’ve been the cause of many a ruined pair of pants.” He back away, kissing you quickly before retreating back to his side of the seat.

You smile, righting your clothes. “We should ask for a bulk discount at the dry cleaners. Or a punch card or something.”

You untuck your shirt, but it’s not long enough to cover the wet patch. Anselm doesn’t even bother. He lets his jacket fall open, the dark circle on his black pants on full display.

“A punch card?” He asks, face screwed up in confusion.

You reach out to smooth his curls back in place. “A customer loyalty card. Like, buy five gallons of milk get a tub of ice cream. Or, for you, it’s more like buy ten cases of ammo, get a pallet of bleach free.”

You rake your fingers through his beard.

“Thank you,” he says.

He holds your hands to keep you from fussing anymore. You know he feels your nervous energy, back again now that you remember what he’d told you about his past.

“I want you to know something very important,” Anselm says. He runs his thumb over your wedding ring. “I hadn’t thought about that woman for years, before you came into my life even. But her presence did linger. I thought I’d never marry. Probably never love anyone enough to share my life with them. Not many would accept me as I am. You were such a beautiful surprise. Continue to be so.”

“I love you, Anselm,” you say with a smile.

“I love you too,” he says, with great feeling.

He pulls you toward him so you can recline against his shoulder.

“Do you think I would’ve liked Lucien?” You ask.

“My dear Birdie, if you think you’re able to twirl me around your little finger, Lucien would have turned to dust in your presence. An absolute puppy on his hands and knees for a Goddess like yourself.”

You snuggle your hand under his jacket. “I’m glad our timing was right. Meeting now, I mean. I’ve never liked a push over. Or a cheater.”

*****

The next time you’re in the car, you’re in the passenger seat in front. Godzilla is driving you to your meeting.

Although, ‘meeting’ is probably the wrong word when the other party has no idea you’re coming.

Godzilla’s hands are slightly fidgety on the wheel. As loyal as he is to you, you’d asked him to straight-up lie if Anselm asked where you were going. You weren't sure he could do it, but it was good to know he was willing to try. But not really because he'd run outside and sat in the car until you were ready, to avoid talking to anyone.

You’d put on a black dress, slinky but conservative. A white trench coat. You’d thought about a colorful scarf and big sunglasses, but this isn’t about drama.

It’s about curiosity, and doing the right thing.

Godzilla had Claire’s address in less than thirty minutes after you’d come home from the donut shop. You were proud that you’d waited even a whole day before going to see her.

Anselm knows none of this.

Claire’s house is a large one-story in a nice neighborhood. She’d been married and divorced twice already. Cheated on both husbands.

She lives off her family’s money. Is on the board of a couple of her family’s companies, but as far as you can tell, she’s still the selfish, entitled jerk that had cheated on Anselm.

You slip on your black, leather gloves.

“Stay in the car, Godzilla.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt. “Ma’am, please let me go with you.”

You look at him. “If she tries anything, it’s a good excuse for me to fuck up her nose job. Stay here.”

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks back into the seat.

Claire answers the doorbell with a smile. As if she knows you. Probably because you have on expensive clothes and fancy perfume. Snob.

“I’m sorry, are you here about that charity thing? I promise it was a big misunderstanding,” she says, inviting you inside. “I’ll write you another check. It’ll clear this time.”

She laughs, high-pitched and fake. Annoying.

You smile, looking around her house, letting her lead you toward a sitting room that gets warm, morning light.

“Can I have my housekeeper make tea? I was just in Paris and brought back some lovely macarons.” She waves her hand vaguely at her housekeeper, who leaves quickly.

“You know, I’ve never been,” you say, sitting in a comfortable wingback chair across from Claire, on the sofa. “My husband hates Paris.”

She looks at you like you’re insane. “Who hates Paris? It’s cultured. The best shopping in the world. It’s so romantic, you must go.”

You nod. “Maybe soon. He has bad memories that I’m hoping to heal. His ex-girlfriend cheated on him.”

Claire’s face is all fake sympathy.

Your smile sharpens. “Said she was in Paris. She wasn’t. His cousin slash best friend was actually in her.”

Claire’s face freezes.

“I think you know my husband. Anselm Vogelweide.”

Her mouth parts in silent shock.

“Lucien is one of his middle names. The one you called him,” you say.

She stumbles over her words, but manages to gather a shred of composure. “Wow, Lucien, that was a long time ago. I hope he’s well. I mean, I thought he was dead. But I guess he's alive. That's good? Right?”

She laughs nervously.

You think of the pain this woman has caused your Anselm. How she’d taken advantage of him at a time when he was, perhaps, a little lost. Still finding his place in the world.

That, despite everything working out in the end, Anselm had hurt so badly that he’d burned his entire life to ash, almost killing himself in the process.

That’s the part you can't forgive.

This woman had almost killed Anselm.

You unbutton your trench coat and take out your gun from the inside pocket.

Claire gasps.

“Stay right where you are,” you say, pointing it at her. “You have no idea how lucky you are, Claire. You’ve been living on borrowed time. My Anselm, the Anselm that’s true to himself, would do exactly what I’m about to do. I think he’s a little ashamed actually, that he didn’t kill you when he had the chance.”

You enjoy her panicked look. How she’d like to bolt, but knows you have the upper hand.

“He killed Nikolai,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with Lucien. Anselm. Whoever the fuck he is. He’s a manic. Fucking murderer.”

She yells the last word at you, flinging it like some kind of rock, wrapped in morals and laws, straight at your face.

You don’t bat an eye, your gun steady on her. “The thing about your righteous anger, Claire, is that it only works if you and I see the world in the exact same way. If we share the same set of morals. We don’t. I think you’re a total piece of shit. Therefore, nothing you say matters to me.”

Tears well up in her eyes. Her words are shaky. “You’re just like him. Both of you. Crazy.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling. You pause for a moment. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

Claire’s eyes somehow get even bigger.

“Anselm does all the killing. He’s a gentleman like that. But he’s been helping me practice at the range in the basement. Usually we use pictures of fascists for targets. Are you a fascist, Claire?”

Her breath exhales in jerky puffs. “No, you crazy bitch. I’m not a fucking fascist.”

“Okay, no need to get angry.” You bring up the gun and look down the sight at her. Then you turn it. One side, then the other. “Anselm gave me this. See all these decorations? A little something for every person he shot with it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

You run your fingers over the smooth metal, down the grip. The beautiful bird that Anselm believes you to be.

“I love Anselm Vogelweide,” you say to Claire, your smile fading. “Beyond love, actually. Beyond reason.”

Claire holds up her hands, palms out. “It was like, a billion years ago. He’s moved on. Get over it. You don’t need to do this.”

You cock the gun and hold it back up, level with her lying, cheating face. “You have no idea the things that man has done for me. To keep me safe and happy. And I’m sure he’d agree, that I don’t need to do this. But I want to. You hurt him.”

Her face, still terrified, clouds with anger. “I hope you both rot in hell. I hope you’re both miserable. I hope you never get a happy ever after. You don’t deserve one.”

You tilt your head slightly, lining up the sight of your gun with her forehead. “Oh Claire. You really are a fucking idiot. This is the happily ever after.”

You pull the trigger. Once. Twice. A third time, just to be sure.

Godzilla bursts in the front door, seconds later, having heard the gunshots. He’s gobsmacked at seeing you, holding a gun and standing over a dead body slouched on the couch.

The housekeeper, who hated Claire with the burning fire of a thousand suns, is easily paid off. She even packs up the macarons for you to take home.

*****

You feel lighter than air as you walk in the front door. You want to hug everyone. You give all the bodyguards a macaron and a big smile.

If this is what Anselm feels whenever he shoots someone, you’re starting to understand the appeal.

You practically glide into Anselm’s office. He stands, face lighting up.

His suit jacket is off, slung over his chair. Two of his bodyguards are near the window, a table set up to clean the guns in the office. They nod to you.

“Someone had a good morning,” Anselm says. “You were away for a whole five hours without a word.”

“I’m sorry. A meeting I forgot to put on the calendar. Macaron?”

You walk around his desk and sit on on it, holding out the box.

Anselm, still smiling, looks at you like you’re a puzzle, all jumbled up for him to piece together.

“Birdie?” He says slowly.

You dig around in the box for one of the salted caramel ones. You pop it, whole, into your mouth and chew, relishing the crispy outside and creamy filling.

Anselm leans down and inhales the skin of your neck. He holds your arm, runs the tip of his nose down your shoulder and upper arm. Kisses your elbow.

He moves so fast to kiss your mouth that you drop the box of cookies on his desk. His lips are hard on yours, his teeth dig into your bottom lip. He breaks away with a deep breath.

“You smell like gunpowder,” he says, his face still pressed against yours.

“Like you said, I had a good morning.” You kiss him again, smiling.

You push him back, far enough so you can feed him a macaron from the box. Vanilla. You smell it as he bites down. An ironic flavor choice for Anselm, given he’s anything but.

“I did it,” you say. “You know how nervous I was about my first time. But it turns out, I just needed to find the right person.”

Anselm’s dark eyes are delighted, sparkly behind his yellow lenses.

You hug him, Anselm squeezing you back.

“I already had someone call the crew to get the jet ready. I feel like celebrating,” you say. “We’re going to Paris.”

Anselm doesn’t look nearly as excited anymore. “My dear, I would do anything for you. I’m surprised, though, that you’d want to celebrate in a city that I hate so much. So many bad memories.”

You cross your legs, pick the box of macarons back up. You shake it so the cookies rattle around and hold it out to the bodyguards.

“And what if,” you say, handing off the box to the biggest, hairiest one.

“Share,” you tell him. He nods.

“What if,” you continue talking to Anselm, “I told you that your bad memories were in the past? And that we could make new ones. Just you and me. That whatever happened between you and Paris is dead. Very. Dead.”

Anselm is rarely speechless. He always has something funny or cutting, observant or naughty.

Now, though, his face looks almost… it’s kind of like Andre the robot during a maintenance cycle. Anselm’s face is neutral, a thin facade of a smile, but his brain is out to lunch somewhere.

It occurs to you that maybe, Anselm didn’t want Claire dead. Maybe he wasn’t as uncaring about the whole thing as he’d said.

You’re sure he doesn’t still love her, but what if he does? A sliver of himself still loves Claire.

He’s entitled, of course. You’ve never demanded he hand over his entire heart and soul over to you. But still. You thought he had. That he was completely yours.

Anselm and Birdie.

Was there still a part of Anselm, though, that thought about Lucien and Claire?

A cold pit of dread forms in your stomach. You lay your hand over it, almost nauseated. It’s your left hand. You stare down at your wedding ring.

Then, you feel Anselm kiss the top of your head. His hands are gentle on your arms.

His voice sounds thick, almost tearful. “You are a wonder, my dear. Never ceasing to amaze me.”

He pulls you closer, so you rest against his chest and he can lay his cheek on your head. “You’re not mad?” You ask.

Anselm laughs, pulling away to look at you. To your relief, he looks ecstatic. Still surprised, but he’s all smiles.

“Angry? I could never be angry at you,” he says. “No. I’m honored that you would do such a thing for me. The depths of my love for you, deeper and deeper.”

You bite your lip, face feeling warm. “I thought-“ You cut yourself off, not wanting to say it out loud.

Anselm tips your chin up so you look at him. “I don’t care about her. I didn’t even feel enough to find her and kill her myself. But the thought of you, jealous and hell bent on defending my honor? Well, my dear, I hope you’ve been doing your yoga exercises because I’m going to have you bent in every possible direction for a week and a half.”

Your anxiety melts away. Replaced by pure happiness, and that excitement you get between your legs when you feel Anselm’s gigantic erection. He’s pressed up against the side of your thigh. Turned on by the violence and your demonstration of love.

“I should shower and pack,” you say. “We can leave in an hour.”

“No, I need to get my hands on you now, while you still smell like this. Gunpowder and hot metal.” Anselm gently rocks himself against your leg. “You killed someone for me. I must bury my face in your delicious cunt for at least an hour to say thank you. And I bought one of those little vibrating things that basically attaches to your body. You're going to make my desk so wet, I'm going to smell you in it for the rest of my life."

His hands part your legs, already working your dress up around your thighs.

You shift your body toward the edge of his desk, Anselm already kissing his way down your body, pushing aside your underwear to touch your hot, sensitive skin.

“Whatever you want, Anselm.”

“You,” he says, sliding his body back up to kiss you on the lips. “I only ever want you.”

Paris will be wonderful. You just know it. The city of love. The perfect place to spend part of your happily ever after.

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ominoose · 17 hours

Text

Sweatpants Season

summary: Steven‘s been thirst trapping you. It wasn’t intentional.

pairings: Steven Grant x GN!Reader, implied Marc Spector x GN!Reader, implied Jake Lockley x GN!Reader

rating: T, maybe. Not smut itself but, like, gateway sexiness? I’d read it at work but I’m my own boss, so. Maybe don’t do that.

warnings: domestic fluff, established relationship, discussion of sexual attractiveness.

word count: just under 1K

author’s note: Written for the Moon Knight Spring Bingo @moonknight-events — this is entry #3 for the Sweater Weather square! (Thanks to the mods @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch for kindly allowing me to stretch this prompt to sweatpants.)

dividers by @firefly-graphics

“A little healthy objectification is good for a relationship,” Steven pronounces, waving toward you from his side of the sofa. Wine makes him philosophical, and you’re both a few glasses into the evening by now. “Your partner ought to know how attractive you find them.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re only saying that because I caught you perving on me when I took my sweater off and my undershirt got stuck with it.”

“I don’t deny it,” he says with the cheekiest grin. “But you’re even worse, love. I saw the look you gave me the other night when I put my reading glasses on, and there was nothing family-friendly about it.”

“Can’t help it,” you mutter. “It’s unfair how hot you are in those.”

“I think you might be a bit biased there.” He laughs. “I don’t exactly wear them just to turn you on.”

“Sometimes, I think you do.” You stretch your legs out, swinging them over his lap and getting comfortable. “You’re a menace, ever since I told you I liked them. And these pants, my God — you really are just trying to drive me insane, aren’t you?”

“Sorry?” Steven’s brow furrows and he tilts his head at you.

“Really?” You gesture at his legs where they rest under yours, smirking. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about?”

He shakes his head, bewildered. “I really don’t.”

“Steven, you’re walking around here in the functional equivalent of lingerie. Grey sweatpants are hot.”

“Are you having me on?” His face has gone from confused to suspicious; in fairness, if you had been, it wouldn’t have been the first time. Steven is gullible in that way peculiar to the brilliant; anything can seem perfectly plausible, when your mind is already filled with an abundance of equally unlikely facts.

“I am not. This is a legitimate thing!” You’re trying not to laugh. You really are — you don’t want to make the poor man feel bad about himself, but it’s impossible not to let a few giggles slip out. “I bet you Marc or Jake knows about it.”

Steven frowns. “Shut it, you lot,” he says to the reflection in the TV, his face a dull red. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Absolutely no one thinks sweatpants are sexy.”

“Grey sweatpants,” you add helpfully. “The other ones aren’t nearly as good.”

Steven looks at you: your dancing eyes and your lips pressed together to contain your laughter and your shaking shoulders. “All three of you are taking the piss,” he grumbles. “What’ve I done to deserve this? Nothing, is what.”

You fish your phone out of your pocket and hand it to Steven, leaning close. “Google it. Grey sweatpants meme. I swear we’re not making this up.”

“Grey… sweatpants… meme,” he mutters under his breath as he pokes at the screen, and you crane your neck to see what he’s finding.

You watch a parade of emotions cross his face while he scrolls. “Ooh, click on that one!” you chirp, pointing at the link entitled Grey Sweat Pant Memes for Ladies who Buy Their Man Loungewear Every Fall.

He does, and his eyebrows are doing extremely athletic things as he’s confronted with the indisputable truth; you aren’t, in fact, making this up. He’s talking to himself, but you can’t hear most of it, and not for the first time you wish you could hear Marc and Jake’s side of the conversation too. “What is this world,” he laments clearly, once, and you’re gone.

“Oh God — I’m so sorry — it’s just — “ you wheeze, leaning against him. “How did you not know — the year of Our Lord 2023 and I know you can use the Internet — “

“All this time, I’ve been making you all hot and bothered and I didn’t know a thing about it.” He chuckles and shakes his head ruefully; the man is clearly having a minor existential crisis. “I really didn’t, yeah? I just thought… I need a pair, they’re on sale… I nearly got the blue pair, they were the same price — it’s just what I had my hand on…” His voice trails off but you can feel him twitch occasionally, aftershocks of his own laughter. “They were really soft!” he adds, and his tone is so piteous that the laughter explodes out of you again.

“Steven. My love.” You wipe your streaming eyes and grin at him. “You don’t have to justify the sweatpants.”

He wraps an arm around you and squeezes, resting his hot cheek against your head. “Every time I wear them now you’re going to look at me like that, and I’m going to know what you’re thinking, and…”

“Exactly the same things I was looking and thinking before,” you finish, still giggling. “The only difference is, now you know about it.”

Steven shakes his head. “A few things are beginning to make more sense now,” he admits, still flustered, and he starts to chuckle again. “I’ve caught you looking, a few times, but I had no idea what you were up to… suppose I should be grateful you find me so irresistible.”

“I really do,” you sigh, and lean in to kiss him. “Enough that I’m willing to overlook your abysmal knowledge of pop culture.”

“I don’t tease you when you get your pharaohs mixed up, do I?” he protests, wounded. “We’ve all got our things.”

“More of them in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” you quote. “And if they’d had sweatpants back then, Shakespeare would have made dick jokes about them. I guarantee you.”

“You’re probably right,” he sighs. “Well, I won’t be quite so quick to doubt you, next time. You could tell me you like it when I forget to shave for a few days and I’ll just say ‘of course, darling.’”

You don’t say anything. The look on your face does it for you.

“Oh, come on. Really?”

Dedicated to my husband, with whom I had a very similar conversation recently. Poor man.

In case you’re wondering, this is the meme that made him say “what is this world?!”

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ominoose · 21 hours

Text

oh, my dreams

(part 1: it’s never quite as it seems)

summary: Your name’s put you in some strange situations before, but this one might win the prize.

pairings: Steven Grant x fem-presenting!Reader**

rating: general audiences

warnings: strangers to…?, administrative fuckups, descriptions of anxiety/anxiety attacks. **I wrote this with a masculine-named AFAB reader in mind, for reasons I’ll explain below, but it could also be read as a transfem reader being deadnamed, so please read with caution if that’s a sensitive issue for you.

word count: 2650

author’s note: Written for the Moon Knight Spring Bingo @moonknight-events — this is entry #5 for “One Bed.” And thanks to @silvernight-m for the encouragement to finish this. 😘

Happy reading! ❤️

dividers by @firefly-graphics

You tap your keycard against the lock, half your mind on the lecture you’d just attended and the other half laser-focused on turning your brain off and some trash TV on. It’s the best way you’ve found to decompress, after a day of the sheer chaotic overwhelm that is more usually known as the academic conference.

Opening the door, you vaguely register someone else’s presence; it’s always irritating, the university’s insistence on saving money by forcing the grad students to share hotel rooms, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Dues must be paid, and someday, you’ll have tenure and you’ll never have to share a room again. But when you emerge from that pleasant daydream, you realize that something’s gone very wrong.

There’s a man in your room, lounging on the bed, tilting his head at you. “Hello,” he says, rather tentatively. “I — I think you might have got the wrong room.”

“Oh God — “ You fumble for the tiny envelope your keycard had come in, and can’t find it. “I’m so sorry — you must be right, let me just… but I swear it said 303, it’s got to be here somewhere…” After what feels like a year, you manage to unearth it, and it’s right there in black and white. You glance back to the still-open door, and those numbers haven’t changed either. Belatedly, it dawns on you: it’s happened again.

“Oh, shit,” you wail, dropping your bag on the floor. “Shit shit shit.”

“Are you all right?” He gets up and pads over to you, peering curiously at your stricken face. He’s British, clearly, from the accent; tousle-haired and dark-eyed and cute in the gentle, nerdy sort of way you like. Far too cute to be tainted by the swirling vortex of bullshit that always seems to follow you around.

“Fuck.” You scrub at your forehead, trying to ease the sudden headache that’s developed, and laugh bitterly. “It’s not personal, I promise — I don’t even know you…”

“Well, I’m Steven. With a V. Steven Grant.” He smiles at you, radiating a careful sort of friendliness, as though you’re a stray dog of uncertain temperament. “So now you know me a little bit, yeah? D’you want to come in and see if we can sort this out?”

You’re too flustered to object, and you step into the room and flop down into the desk chair, because your legs don’t seem to want to hold you up anymore. “Okay. It’s okay,” you repeat softly, trying to calm yourself. “He seems nice. He’s probably not a serial killer...”

“I’m definitely not a serial killer, if that helps.” His eyes are kind, concerned, and you feel oddly safe with him, despite your embarrassment at realizing you’d just said that out loud. “I’m just Steven, perpetually exhausted student. So what’s happened here? Is it something I can help with?”

“It’s my stupid name,” you growl. It happens all the time, no matter what you do to prevent it, and every time it does, it feels like sandpaper on your skin. You’ve put your pronouns in your email signature, you’ve written Ms. before your name, and none of it ever matters because people don’t fucking read. “They see it on the registration forms and just assume I’m a guy, and then something like this always goes wrong.”

“They did tell me I’d have a roommate,” he thinks out loud. “I saw your name on the list and I thought you were this bloke I know from my college, so I didn’t think anything of it…” He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, facing you, and that’s when it hits you.

The bed.

The single, solitary, admittedly large and very comfortable looking, but still only, bed.

“There’s only one bed,” you sigh. “Of fucking course there’s only one bed.” Tipping your head back, you study the ceiling as though it has an answer for you.

“Well, that’s it then,” Steven says. “We’ll have to talk to the organizers — I’m absolutely sure it wouldn’t be a problem for them to move one of us to another room. I’ll go with you and talk with them, if you like.”

“I can’t,” you interrupt. You feel it rising, that itchy, frantic, skin-too-tight feeling, the certain knowledge that when one more thing goes wrong you won’t be able to hold the screaming in. You’re frantically trying to gather up the cracking pieces of your carefully constructed shell, and the tigers in the tall grass will be upon you before you know it. “I can’t, because then I have to admit they’ve put me in the wrong room, and they’ll have to shuffle everyone around and it’ll make a big fuss and I’ll have Pain In The Ass stamped on my forehead when I go to network and I’ll never find a PhD advisor and — “

I don’t need you anymore, you’ve tried to tell it so many times. There aren’t any tigers here — you don’t need to protect me like this. But it doesn’t work that way, and you know it. It’s a bit like a wild animal itself, the anxiety, the way you’ve tried your best to tame it with meds and therapy and other, less doctor-sanctioned remedies, and sometimes it feels like you’re finally learning how to be friends.

And then it turns on you again, vicious claws and teeth sinking deep, and you remember you haven’t learned anything at all.

“I just can’t,” you whisper.

Steven’s hand lands on your shoulder, and you flinch; you hadn’t noticed him getting up to approach you again. “Breathe, love,” he says gently. “Just — take a minute, yeah?” You try, but your brain and heart and lungs don’t want to get with the program, and he sees the panic in every line of you. He half-sits down on the table, never taking his hand off your shoulder, and the other hand finds yours and curls around it comfortingly. “The only good thing about having anxiety attacks,” he says quietly, “is that you know what to do when someone else is having one.”

He breathes, deep and slow, leading by example, and gradually your heart settles into a slower rhythm as though his own is pacing it. His hands are big, and warm, and they ground you, bringing you back to yourself. Tigers in the area, the anxiety whispers, fading, but not here, not right now.

“The way I see it, we’ve got two options,” he says softly, letting go of you and ticking them off on his fingers. “Option one, we go and talk to the organizers and let them sort things out.” You shake your head quickly; he must see the panic rising again, because he switches tracks immediately. “Option two, we, er — don’t do that, and just leave things as they are.”

Your eyes fly wide. You’d been half-ready to just leave, throw your opportunities away and run back to the airport with your tail between your legs, but... “You mean…”

“This isn’t some kind of a — a come-on, or anything!” he assures you quickly, brows furrowed. “I don’t want to be the conference creeper, you know? But it is rather late, and if you’re really sure you don’t want to talk to anyone about it, I don’t mind at all if you stay.”

“Even though there’s only one bed? Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shrugs. “It’s only two nights — I think we can manage to be grown-ups about it for that long, yeah?”

The faceless Many, the Here Be Dragons on the map, versus the gentle sweet-faced One, familiar only by a technicality: it’s an easy choice, after all. It’s probably not your smartest, and even as you make it, your rational brain is pressing you to reconsider. But the anxiety, for once, is silent.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

You stay, and it’s — well, it’s nice. He’s nice.

He’s nothing but cheerful all evening, going out of his way to help you feel more comfortable with him and with this whole clusterfuck of a situation. And he’s funny, with a sassy wit that offers a glimpse of the brain below the messy curls. (You have a momentary thought of gratitude for the opportunity to see Steven Grant with bedhead tomorrow morning. It’s going to be epic.)

“I’m at Cambridge,” he tells you at one point. “About halfway through my PhD in Egyptology. On the linguistics end, mainly, not digging up tombs and things. But I have been on a dig or two.”

“Wow, Ancient Egypt. That’s like — the gateway drug. The thing that makes kids want to be archaeologists in the first place, and here you are doing it.” You smile at him, and he flushes.

“I suppose you’re right — always had a thing about it, as long as I can remember. Probably watched too many old movies as a kid.” He grins back at you, and it’s endearing as hell, warm and a little shy but somehow cheeky, too. “How about you? What’s your field?”

“I’m on the tech side. Mapping, satellite photography, ground-penetrating radar, all the fancy-ass things that tell you folks where to dig.”

“Oh, that’s fascinating!” he exclaims. “I could never — I’m hopeless with technology. Utter disaster.”

“Most of you are,” you retort before you can think better of it. “That’s why you have us.”

He laughs for the first time, and you immediately want to make him do it again. “That’s why we have you,” he acknowledges with a tilt of his head.

You’ve always been prone to crushes. They tend to creep up on you, more subtle than the anxiety, but no less consuming. The first tendrils always wind delicately around your ankles, and by the time you’ve registered their presence you’re already bound up to the knees. No no no no no, you tell yourself, you cannot do this right now. This is Not Allowed. This whole thing is more than weird enough already, without bringing his kindness and his intelligence and his big brown eyes into it.

Oh, no.

It’s already too late, isn’t it? the anxiety taunts.

Sure fuckin’ is, the crush responds.

You shove it down, ruthlessly, burying it as deep as you can. You keep it light, trading fieldwork tales, always the preferred currency at these things but more important than ever now. I’m for real, they say, trustworthy and honest and normal about things. I’m safe to talk to.

Steven ventures out for snacks to give you a chance to get ready for bed in privacy (god, how is he so nice), and when he comes back he nibbles on dark chocolate while he regales you with stories of Egypt. “Most people don’t know this,” he says, “but Cairo’s literally right up next to the pyramids. There’s a bloody Pizza Hut across the street.”

You stare, skeptical. “No. No way. That can’t be true.”

“Have a look at your maps,” he insists, pointing at you with the chocolate bar. “It’s absolutely true. Fastest way to spot the Egyptologist in the room is to show ‘em a movie where someone visits the pyramids and gets ‘lost in the desert.’”

You trade a few more stories, and then you can’t put it off any longer; your commitments tomorrow make a reasonable bedtime imperative. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you stand up and stretch. “I’m just gonna — “ you say awkwardly, gesturing toward the bathroom, and disappear to brush your teeth again (since he’d given you half the chocolate).

When you come out again, he’s rummaging for his own toothbrush, which means you have at least two minutes alone to decide how you want to navigate the inherent absurdity of getting into bed with a stranger. Don’t make it weird, the anxiety cautions. “By the way, do you have any, uh — bad habits I should know about?”

He looks up, startled. “Pardon?”

“I mean, like — do you hog the covers? Or snore?” You shrug as though it’s a perfectly normal question to ask someone you met a couple hours ago, and try to ignore the heat rising in your face.

“My, er, brothers — Marc and Jake — they say I talk in my sleep, sometimes. So I’m sorry in advance if I say anything bonkers.” Steven laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Still don’t know if I really do, or if they’re just having me on.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” I promise. “And if — if I can’t sleep, I’ll try not to keep you up.”

He smiles at that. “Likewise.”

And once he’s brushed his teeth, there’s really no putting it off any longer, and it doesn’t end up being as weird as you’d thought. Just two people climbing into opposite sides of a bed and settling down for the night, nothing weird about that at all. It feels rude to turn your back, somehow, so you curl on your side, facing him, and he clicks off the light and does the same.

You’ve tried to talk yourself out of it, but the apology spills out anyway. “I’m sorry — this is probably the last thing you needed tonight…” Your voice is small in the quiet room. “But — but thank you. For helping me.”

“No, no, it’s no trouble at all! This is good!” Steven protests. “I mean, not that you’ve got anxiety, but this — whole thing.” He waves his hand in a vague circle around the room. “It’s a good distraction. Means I’m not getting in my own head about my lecture tomorrow.”

Okay. That makes a certain amount of sense, and you begin to feel slightly better. “Do these conferences bother you too?”

He pauses for a moment. “Maybe… not quite in the same way as you? I don’t mind talking to people one-on-one and that, but presenting to a crowd always gives me a few fits, beforehand.”

“Do you — “ You swallow hard before continuing; it’s going to sound silly, maybe, but he’s looking at you so gently and like he understands, and you blurt it out. “Do you want to know a trick I have? It might help, if you want it…”

“Yeah?” He’s waiting as calmly as if you’re having this discussion over coffee, in broad daylight, not inches from each other in bed in a darkened hotel room, and it emboldens you.

“If I’m nervous about meeting someone, or — or giving a talk, or whatever, sometimes it helps me to, um — get there first.”

“Get there first,” he repeats, considering.

“Yeah. Get there first. Then it’s like — they’re coming into your territory, and you’re in charge.”

“That’s quite clever, actually.” He begins to smile, a broad grin creeping up like sunrise, and nods happily. “‘Get there first.’ I’ll remember that.”

A tiny glow of satisfaction burns in your chest, and you lie in silence together for a time. It’s a comfortable one, strangely intimate; you could talk, if you wanted, but for once you don’t feel like you need to. It’s enough just to be here, next to him, somehow knowing it’s enough for him, too.

It’s just — nice.

And then he stretches and turns, and for half a second your brain shorts out. “G’night,” he says, his voice already blurred with sleep. “Sweet dreams.” And he’s out like a light before you can even return the wish.

Even as your eyelids grow heavy, you’re convinced you’ll never sleep; how could you, when you’re literally in bed with a complete stranger, kind as he is? But the soft rise and fall of his breath is better than your white-noise machine, and the last thing you remember seeing before drifting off is his strong profile, silhouetted by the moonlight seeping through the space where the curtains don’t quite meet.

If you dream, you don’t remember it.

But it’s the first time you’ve ever been to one of these things and slept through the night.

part 2 coming soon…

@juneknight @spacecowboyhotch

author’s note, again: I got the idea for this fic from something that did, actually, happen to me as a teenager. Only in my case it was a summer music camp, not a conference, and my mother threw an unholy fit and made them change my room immediately.

(Sorry, Andrew. I guess we’ll never know what could have been.)

If your own name doesn’t match your gender presentation, for whatever reason, please know that I am fist-bumping you in solidarity and I love you.

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