thursdaywritings

[thursdaywritings]

A brief moment of rationality from the bird place.

[thursdaywritings]

Acts of Service

pairing: moon system x reader, marc x reader centered

summary: You learn Steven and Jake’s love languages quickly, Marc’s takes a little longer to realize but it doesn’t surprise you.

cw: not many, a brief non-explicit mention of sex, Marc getting anxious about your relationship

wc: 1199

a/n: Happy new year! This is not beta read, my first time writing for the moon boys and also my first time posting and sharing a fic in probably like 5+ years. Please let me know if I’ve missed any warnings, and let me know what you think! I tried keeping the reader as inclusive as I could, but please let me know if I slipped up with anything.

—

When you first started seeing the system, they all showed affection in similar ways. Holding hands, chaste kisses, flowers at the start of dates and walking you home at the end of them. They each had their own ways of going about it, but at the start all 3 of them were stereotypical in their affection.

Now, months later, you could easily tell each of the boy’s love languages.

Steven fluttered between quality time and words of affirmation. He was a romantic at heart, so in reality, he would do anything you asked of him, really. But you could tell he was happiest just being near you, telling you how much he loved you, and hearing the words in return.

Date night with Steven would be art galleries, museum tours, site seeing, or just walking around the markets hand in hand. Cafe’s and bookshops for rainy days, which there were plenty of in London, filled weekends with him where you could just sit in each other’s company and read besides one another.

Jake was the master of physical touch. You think it’s because he didn’t have as much time fronting as the other two, and his only physical touch with humans up until the three started getting along was when he took over the body in emergencies like in Cairo. When Jake was fronting, his hands were always on you.

Jake always had his arm on you when in public. Around your shoulder, or on your waist, he didn’t have a preference as long as he had you in his arm in some way. You liked to compare him to a livestock dog. Not like sheepdogs who herded them, but like a pyrenees that would fight a wolf off a lamb.

He was also the most handsy in the bedroom.

Marc took the longest to pinpoint his love language. Mostly due to the fact that he was the last to open up to a relationship with you.

You had met Steven first, dated Steven first, and then met Jake and Marc along the way. The relationship with Jake blossomed easily, but Marc still had walls he had built standing steady, that he wasn’t ready to break down yet. For a while even, you weren’t sure he liked you. After anxieties about it were aired out, Marc reassured you he did like you, he was “just shit at showing it” as he had put it. He hadn’t wanted to get close, mess things up with you and risk everything Steven and Jake had with you. That was the turning point for you and Marc’s relationship.

You thought it was behind you, until you noticed Marc’s odd behavior one day.

“Marc, baby, are you alright?” You asked him, leaning against the kitchen counter as he washed dishes.

“Hm?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, nodding as he kept his attention mostly on the pan he was scrubbing. “Yea, fine, why’d you ask?”

“Because you’ve been scrubbing that pan for about 10 minutes now. I think it’s clean.” You smiled softly, as his brow scrunched when he realized.

“Fine… yeah. I just… you know I love you?” He finished his sentence more like a question.

“Of course I know. I love you too.” You moved closer to him, putting a hand on his cheek to look him in the eyes. “What brought this about?”

“I don’t… I don’t say it enough. When we met you weren’t even sure I liked you, and now I don’t even say I love you as often as Jake or Steven do. So I just…” Marc lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand to his hair, pushing his curls out of his face as he steps away from you. You give him his space, you know when he needs it. To work out emotions without feeling suffocated or closed in.

“Just thought maybe you weren’t sure again.”

Marc avoids looking directly at your face as you look at his. You understand him, more than you probably know, which scares Marc. Not in a bad way, but scares him in a way he can’t believe there was someone out there who could.

Which is why what you say shouldn’t surprise him, but it does anyway.

“You don’t have to say it in the same way Steven or Jake do for me to know.” You start softly. “You have a different way of showing it, than they do.”

Marc’s eyebrows furrow, even more than the wrinkled brow he usually has.

He can only describe the look on your face that you give him as adoring, as you continue.

“The days that you front, you’re always up before me. Whether you’re an early riser or you never really fell asleep that night - you know exactly how to make my coffee in the morning and I always wake up to a cup made the way I like sitting on the counter waiting for me.

“I also know that it isn’t Jake who had my car’s oil changed, or the tires rotated a couple weeks ago.”

Marc shrugs at that one, mumbles something that you think is “That’s not a big deal.”

As you tell him all this, you can’t believe it took you this long to realize that Marc’s love language was acts of service. Because of course it was. Marc, the giver. Marc, who always felt he needed to prove his worth and make up for sins of his past, by any means necessary. Your Marc, who did so much for you without expecting a ‘thank you’ because that was how he showed he cared.

You kept going with more examples.

“Last week I forgot my umbrella and my lunch in the apartment and you came all the way to my job to drop them off for me.” You wrap your arms around Marc’s waist at this, resting your head against him in a hug.

“Or, when it’s cold, you always turn my heated blanket on the bed while I’m doing my night time routine, so that the bed is nice and warm by the time I climb in. And when -“ You could keep going, listing the things you notice Marc does for you, but he stops you with flushed cheeks.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I do a lot for you.” He chuckles, rolling his eyes playfully as he wraps his arms around you to return the hug. “I like taking care of you.”

“You take care of me because you love me.”

Marc nods, kissing your forehead. “Yeah, I do. I’m just sorry I don’t say it more.”

“I don’t need you to. It’s nice to hear, but I still know it. You show me every day.” You smile, leaning in to give him a kiss, which Marc gratefully returns.

“And I’ll continue to show you every day, until you get tired of me.”

“I’d never get tired of you, baby. You, Jake and Steven are all stuck with me.”

Marc laughs. “Stuck with you? Making it sound like that’s a bad thing. Honey, I think you’re the one ‘stuck’ with the three of us.”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[thursdaywritings]

moon boys headcanons

where they like to kiss you—besides the lips

note: not my best work, but i thought it was a cutesie idea—

steven

your forehead

of course, he’d adore kissing your lips, but forehead kisses are his specialty. 

he’ll return home from work, he’ll pull you into his arms, and peck your forehead sweetly.

“ ‘ello darling, you alright? how was the day?”

laying in bed together, the moment you fall asleep, he’ll kiss your forehead once again.

“sleep well luv.”

and once in the morning, he’d roll over to face you, give you a quick peck on the forehead before asking how you slept, what you dreamt about, etc.

this man is just an absolute sweetheart and that’s all she wrote.

marc

your hands

he’s a sucker for your hands

the two of you will just be laying on the couch together, hands intertwined when he’ll lift your hand to his lips, gently pressing a kiss against them. marc isn’t the best with conveying how he feels so it’s just a cute way for him to show affection towards you. 

this usually also happens after long conversations, whether it’s settling a dispute or talking about the future. 

he’ll reach forward, taking your hand in his, giving it a squeeze before raising it to his lips, kissing it softly, usually followed by, “i’m lucky to have you,” i love you,” or “i don’t deserve you” 

it’s a special way for him to show he cares. 

jake

your neck

yes. your neck.

jake lockley is an absolute flirt, and he will use any chance he gets to have his hands on you. 

you’ll be cooking dinner at the stove, and jake will come up from behind, snake his arms around your waist. 

“cariño,” he’ll greet before peppering soft kisses along your neck. 

nothing too needy, just soft loving pecks. 

it happens all the time. he’ll find any excuse to leave gentle kisses on your neck. 

[thursdaywritings]

You take care of the Moon boys when they are sick <3

Warning/triggers: mild angst, fluff, fluff, fluff (just a lot of it <3), no use of Y/N, google translated Spanish

A/N: I had so much fun writing this ;)

Steven

You wake up to the sound of Steven coughing. He's in the kitchen making coffee for the both of you, as always. You walk up to him, hugging him from behind and trailing kisses down his neck.

'Good morning, hon,' you whisper, 'Good morning, love.' Steven feels hot, well, he is hot (duh) but right now he feels heated up.

Your brows furrow as you move beside him, 'Are you okay?' You ask but Steven abruptly pulls away from you and sneezes, covering his face with his elbow. 'Do you have a fever?' You ask again, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. 'No, I am fine,' he says shaking his big hands that were partly covered by the long sleeves of his t-shirt in front of his face. He coughs again.

'No you are not.' You say, taking the coffee cups from his hands. 'Love, you don't - 'Steven.' You don't give him the chance to finish, 'get in bed. You should rest, no work for you today.'

'I'll bring you coffee and cookies and meds you are sick, you need rest.' You tell him, already working on the coffee. 'Alright...' Steven says before kissing you on the cheek and making his way to the bed.

You walk up to Steven with a tray of coffee, the cookies he liked the best, and his meds. He sits up in bed, 'Love, you didn't have to -' 'Of course, I had to,' you say, sitting next to him in bed.

You two spend the rest of the day cuddled up in bed, binge-watching your favorite TV shows and movies.

Your head is placed on Steven's shoulder, kissing his neck and jaw. Steven was touch starved, you knew it and you'd made it your mission to give him all the touch he'd ever missed having.

'Don't you have work, darling?' Steven asks. You grin, 'I'm calling in sick,' you tell him as your lips meet his. Steven looks into your eyes, 'if you keep going on, you will have to call in sick,' he says. You kiss him anyway. 'That doesn't sound so bad to me,' you whisper, his nose brushing against yours.

By the evening, Steven has taken a good five hours of sleep while you completed some work. He feels much better when he wakes up and walks up to you. 'Let's get out of here,' he says, placing his chin on your head. You turn to him, taking your glasses off, 'you sure? Do you feel better?' You ask. Steven smiles at you, 'tons. Thanks to you,' he says, kissing your head.

You both grab your jackets and walk out of the apartment. You spend your time strolling in a park, eating burritos, and drinking hot chocolate.

It's a nice day but being with Steven makes it perfect. Everything feels perfect when you are with him. He's undoubtedly the best thing that ever happened to you.

You love him so much, you could burst from the feeling alone.

By the time you reach Steven's apartment, you have sneezed three times (you know because Steven was counting) and Steven's getting worried.

'I told you, love' he says when you are standing in front of the apartment door, 'you are going to catch a fever staying close to me. Look at you now,' he sounds concerned. But you chuckle, throwing your arms around his neck, 'it's fine,' you tell him, 'it means more cuddles and hot chocolates after all, doesn't it?'

Steven's concerned for you but you look so cute smiling like this that he can't help but smile with you. 'Maybe,' he says, pulling you closer by the waist.

Marc

You wake up with Marc sleeping next to you. He's cuddled up with you, his head resting on your chest. It's weird because usually Marc's up and about before you are. Reading the newspaper or grocery shopping or simply going on a walk. But today he was here and you liked it.

You push your fingers through Marc's hair and kiss his head. He feels warm. Marc always feels warm when he wakes up but today he is burning up.

'Marc,' you whisper, close to his ear - not wanting to wake him up. 'Mhm-hmm', he replies, nodding into your chest. 'Are you okay?' You ask. He looks up at you, his brown eyes looking like pools of honey in the sunlight streaming through the window. 'I'm fine.' He replies gruffly. His face is red. Awfully red.

'Are you sick?' You ask again, placing your palm on his cheek, 'you're burning up,' you mutter. 'No. I said I'm fine,' his voice is rougher than usual. He is absolutely sick.

Marc tries to move away from you but you wrap your arms around him before he can, he grumbles but ends up cuddling with you anyway.

Your sweet, grumpy boyfriend, oh, how you loved him.

Both of you stay like that for some time. But eventually, you have to get up and go about the day.

Marc wants to go to work. You tell him he can't but he wouldn't listen to you.

'Babe, you're sick.' 'No, I'm not.'

'I checked your temperature, honey, you need rest. And medicines.' Marc makes a face at you. 'I told you -' 'Marc,' your voice is much more stern now. 'Please, Marc, babe, it's one day. Stay in bed, yeah?' This time he doesn't argue.

You know Marc's stubborn but you won't let his stubbornness get into the way of his health.

You put his favorite soup for cooking and go out to get some medicines for him. Thankfully, he stays in bed.

When you come back home, Marc's fast asleep. You watch him like that. Sleeping so peacefully, like a child.

You know why Marc's the way he is. He didn't have a... great childhood. Well, let's be honest, he had an awful, traumatizing one, and for a long time, he has taken care of himself all alone.

You can understand why it's hard for him to ask for help or even accept help and love when it's given to him. It's hard for him to let people in, to let himself be taken care of.

But Marc is your boyfriend which means that somewhere, somehow you did something right and he let you in. And just like that, you will let him know that it's okay to let you care for him. That it's okay to be vulnerable in front of you, that he doesn't have to hide anything.

You make some coffee for yourself and get in bed with Marc. You are sitting up, reading a book and his head is in your lap, your fingers moving through his curls.

You drop the book after some time just to admire the person in front of you. He was so beautiful it made your heart flutter. You could look at him forever.

When Marc wakes up after a few hours he's still grumpy and tired.

'Just take the medicines, love,' you insist. Marc shrugs, 'Don't need them. I feel fine.' 'Marc-' 'You don't have to worry about me,' he cuts you off.

Tears gather at the corner of your eyes. You don't mean to cry but it happens anyway. You are not irritated, you are not tired of Marc. You could never tire of him. But you are scared. You are scared that he won't let you help him and it'll get worse. It's just a fever but you can't help but want it to go away and Marc to feel better.

Marc's expression softens when he notices the tears in your eyes. He closes his eyes for a moment and sighs, 'I'm sorry,' he says, 'didn't mean to sound like that,' he takes the medicines from your hand.

After that Marc doesn't fight it. He lets you give him a massage, eats what you cook for him without a word, and by the time he takes a hot shower he is feeling very much better and his fever's gone.

It had been... a day. For Marc and for you. He has been quiet and angry the whole day but at night, finally, he smiles at you, wrapping his arms around you.

'Thank you,' he whispers into your hair. You are sitting in his lap, 'you don't have to thank me, Marc,' you say taking his face in your hands. Marc sighs, 'I know I can be... difficult. I just-' 'No you're not,' you interrupt him, 'not to me... ever,' you say.

Marc smiles, 'I love you,' he whispers before planting a kiss on your lips. You want to reply and tell him you love him too but he's kissing you with everything and you don't want to break the spell.

Jake

You come home to find Jake in the kitchen. He's cooking pasta, you can tell by the smell. Or maybe he's just heating up the pasta you made this morning.

You practically run across the house to get to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, hugging him by the side. 'Hello, babe', you say. But your smile drops the moment you see him. His eyes aren't set and sharp as they usually are, instead they are tired and he looks a bit lousy.

You are confused if it's Steven who's fronting but you know it's Jake when he says, 'Hola, cariño,' he smiles at you.

You push yourself between the kitchen counter and Jake, taking his face in your hands.

'You look tired,' you say. He coughs a little before replying, 'goddamn fever. But don't you worry about it, princesa.'

'You should rest, Jake, what are you doing?' You say, taking his hands in yours. 'Apparently, Khonshu's freaky armor can't protect you from diseases -' he sneezes and curses under his breath.

Okay, Jake hates being sick. He doesn't like it. It makes him feel weak and really soft and pathetic for some reason.

You take off his hat and ruffle his curls with your fingers, saying, 'How about you take some rest and I'll get the food? Get in bed, hm?' Jake smirks, snaking his hands around your waist, 'You really do want me in your bed don't you, mi vida?' You roll your eyes at his comment but a blush creeps up your neck. 'Did I forget the part where I said you need to rest?' You say, a smile tugging on your lips. He frowns.

'I don't need rest. What I need is a good fu- 'Jake' you stop him mid-sentence, glaring. 'What?' He shrugs and walks into the bedroom.

You sigh. Your breath going at a rapid speed. Jake really is good at getting to you. He makes you want to kiss him all the time. But, despite everything, Jake always puts things off, neglecting his needs. Like, right now. He won't admit that he is sick. He wouldn't let you look after him but you have to.

You care for him. Deeply. And you have to make sure that he's okay.

You walk into the bedroom with the pasta plate in your hands. Jake's on the bed. He's removed his shirt, and his bare skin glistens in the dim light.

Your breath catches in your throat.

'How do you feel? You ask Jake, sitting by him on the bed.

He mumbles something and wraps his arms around your waist, his head in your lap.

'I am tired, cariño,' he finally admits after a few moments of silence. You smile, 'I know,' you say, raking your fingers through his soft curls, 'It's alright,' you tell him. He lets out a weary sigh and snuggles closer to you. Your back rests against the wall.

Jake doesn't really spend a lot of time with you. He is barely ever fronting. He isn't much of a talker either, he expresses his feelings with his actions more than his words.

It has been some... work, trying to understand Jake. He's like a puzzle you can't solve, but you want him to know you're trying. Because you love him and he deserves everything.

Your eyes fall on Jake's broad shoulders and their slight movement as he breathes. You move your hands to touch his neck. His skin is still hot despite taking the medicines.

You massage his back in slow, brisk movements. For a moment you think he might fight it but he doesn't say anything,

'Feels good?' You ask. He nods in reply.

Jake is different when it comes to the three of them. Unlike Marc and Steven, he's never had a... life. He's always inside, barely ever fronting. He thinks of himself as only a protector of the system. That he's someone Marc needs when things get worse. You don't want him to think of himself like that.

You want Jake to know that he's just as deserving of love as any of them, that he's more than just a protector. He's more than just the worst parts of Marc turned into a person.

He's soft and loving, and the most amazing person you know.

Jake moves, sitting up in bed beside you making you stop abruptly.

'You don't have to go driving tonight, you know?' You say, sitting in front of him. Partly on the bed, partly on his lap, the inside of your knees draped around his thighs.

'Yo se,' he replies with a sigh, 'but I still have to go be the fist of vengeance.' You frown at his comment, 'You deserve a day off I think.' It makes him chuckle.

'Give me your arm,' you whisper, taking his arm in your hands. You thought a good massage would make him feel better.

But, apparently, this isn't what he wants. Jake wraps his palm around your wrist and pulls you to him. Your hands resting on his chest and your faces inches apart and then, he plants a kiss on your lips.

Somehow you trying to give Jake a massage turns into a hot make-out session. Not that you had any complaints. If this was what he needed then you'd give it to him.

Afterwards, you two lay on the bed, your head resting on Jake's shoulder. He's playing with your hair.

He isn't feverish anymore but his skin is still warm.

'How do you feel?' You ask him now, 'Maravilloso, mi amor.' He says and you chuckle as he kisses your jaw.

You might not know everything about Jake but you know that you love him. So much. And that's really all that matters.

[thursdaywritings]

Man in the Mirror

Kinktober Day 19: Voyeurism

Tags: Marc Spector x Reader x Steven Grant, afab!fem!reader, consensual voyeurism, unprotected piv (pls wrap it in real life omg), dirty talk, slight degradation, Steven watches Marc fuck you through a mirror idk what to tell you (w/c: 1K)

A/N: Back with the boys because I love them and I cannot help myself okay!!! And this is consensual, even though Steven doesn't exactly know it at the beginning, he just thinks he's being a perv. But in my fics, everyone is a perv alright! (this month I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings!)

Steven knows it’s wrong, God, it’s fucking wrong, but it’s like he can’t stop himself.

There’s something about the way Marc fucks you, the way you scrabble at the bedsheets when the shoves you into a lewd arch, his hand pressing into your back. The way you moan for it, heaving breaths into your lungs. It’s the way Marc talks to you through it, talking to you like you’re the filthy one, like you’re the one who’s desperate for it, even though Steven knows it’s both of you.

“God damn, baby,” Marc snarls, fucking into you hard enough that tears are starting to leak down your cheeks. “You’re fucking sucking me in, sweetheart. Feels good, huh? Getting fucked like you need?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” you gasp through the moans he forces out of your mouth with every thrust. “It’s so fucking good, Marc, you’re so fucking deep.”

Steven should stop, right now. Go hide in the headspace, go to sleep and let you both have some privacy. Fuck, he's as naked as Marc is right now, he should feel exposed, have some god damn decency. But it’s like he’s stuck in place, staring in through the mirror as Marc rips you apart in ways he’s never dreamed to. It’s fucking addicting to watch the way your eyes roll back, the way your ass smacks back against Marc every time he shoves himself in, in, in. He reaches down to his bare cock and squeezes, unable to help it.

You’d only put this mirror up a week ago, and he hadn't even thought about the positioning of it. It’s placed on the wall right across from the foot of your bed, and fuck, he can see everything. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about this view when he had helped you set it straight, Marc coming into view in the reflection and smirking at Steven like he knew something he didn’t. Steven had brushed it off.

He shouldn’t have fucking brushed it off.

Because he’s sure, almost fucking positive, that Marc had somehow known. He’d known that Steven would watch, just like this, how Marc takes care of their girl. How he destroys you in ways that Steven can’t even think up on his own. It’s a special kind of torture, seeing you like this and not feeling it, not feeling you.

Marc’s thrusts are brutal, violent like the man himself. He treats you with so much care normally, Steven has seen it, but this isn’t gentle in the least. And you love it, crying out and drooling onto your sheets as Marc rips you to pieces, pulling you back onto his cock with thick fingers digging hard into your hips. He’s not sure how long he’s been watching intently, unable to tear his gaze away, when he sees Marc’s head snap up.

Looking right fucking at him.

Steven should go, disappear from the consciousness entirely, but it’s like he’s glued to the spot, his gaze locked with Marc’s. Marc’s thrusts don’t stutter, don’t stop, and you’re blissfully unaware as Marc watches Steven watch you.

Until Marc grins like the bastard he is, and leans down to mutter, just loud enough for Steven to hear, “Guess who’s here, gorgeous?”

“Wh-what?” you gasp through Marc’s unrelenting thrusts.

“He’s watching, baby,” Marc smiles, glancing up at Steven. “Just like you wanted.”

You wanted- you wanted? Steven’s breath catches in his throat, he’s pretty sure his heart stops fucking beating. 

“Steven,” you moan like it’s been punched out of you. “Steven’s here.”

“He’s watchin’ in that mirror you put up, sweetheart,” Marc says, “Watching me fuck you.” Steven is flushed beet-red, he knows it, but still, he watches. “Look at him, baby,” Marc growls, “Fucking look at him.”

Marc reaches up and curls a fist into your hair, tugging your head up to look straight into the mirror, straight at Steven. And God, you’re beautiful, tears falling down your face, your lips plump from the way you’ve been biting at them. You can’t see him, Steven knows that, but you look anyway, like you really can.

“She wanted this,” Marc snarls, and you clench your eyes shut, like you want to hide from Steven’s gaze. “She put that mirror up, hoping you’d watch like this. Wanted me to watch you both too, Steven.” You whine, and Marc’s thrusts seem to get even harder. “Our baby’s a little slut, just wants someone to watch her get fucked, isn’t that right, honey?”

“Your-” you gasp, staring into the mirror, like you’re talking to Steven, too. “Your slut, fuck, just yours.”

Marc fucking growls, his hips driving his cock into you. Steven can hear the way your pussy squishes around him, so wet you’re dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your body is covered in sweat, glinting in the light, practically glowing.

“Gonna let him fuck you after this, baby?” Marc grits, “Fucking whore for this cock, can’t get enough.” You slur a stream of yesyesyesyes as Marc reaches beneath you to start rubbing furiously at your clit, and you tremble beneath him.

“C’mon, gorgeous, cum for me.” Marc glances up at Steven. “Cum for both of us.”

Your eyes go wide, your mouth gaping open around a silent scream as you gush down Marc’s cock, body shaking as Marc fucks you through it, letting out a strangled groan of his own. Steven is hard as a fucking rock, straining against his stomach, begging for your touch. He watches as Marc thrusts deep and stills, his eyelids fluttering as he pumps you full of his cum.

You slump into the sheets, and Marc slides out of you, leaning down to kiss down your spine, muttering little praises of “such a good girl,” and “took it so well, looked so pretty,” into your skin. You roll onto your back, tugging Marc down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Marc smiles against your mouth, and Steven feels that familiar pull to the front.

He shuts his eyes, and when he blinks them open again, you’re smiling up at him, reaching up to brush a reverent hand across his jaw.

“Enjoyed the show?” you whisper, and Steven can’t help the way he grins, the way his heart flutters.

“More than you know, darling,” he mutters, and leans to lick into your mouth. “Got to give Marc a show now, yeah?”

[thursdaywritings]

Chain 'round my neck

A/N: ...can you still tell taylor swift is my entire personality this year? Whatever. Title comes from the song "Call it what you want" from Taylor Swift.

@flufftober - Day 23 Trinket

Pairing: Steven Grant x reader

Word count: 820

Flufftober masterlist

He was going to hate you. Steven was going to get home any minute now, and he was going to hate you. You had been looking for the necklace for what felt like hours now, everything you had in your handbag now scattered on the bed, your boxes of earrings emptied out the same way, yet the very same necklace Steven gave you for your birthday, with your initial beautifully carved in gold, was nowhere to be found. 

Did someone ripped it on the bus? Did you take it off at work and don’t remember? Damn it, you didn’t even had a good excuse for it and you could already hear the clink of Steven’s keys outside the door. “I’m home!” He called, with his usual chirpy tone and a smile in his voice.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, going through your scattered belonging one last time before facing him. 

“I have a surprise for you, love!” The excitement in his voice only twisted your stomach more, guilt eating your insides.

“Steven, honey, before you say anything-”

“Is everything alright, love?” Steven found you sitting by the edge of your bed, the place you landed after giving up with your search. He joind your side, backpack still across his body, finding your hand and looking for your eyes.

“No, it’s not alright.” You took a deap breath, bracing yourself and looking for the strength you needed. “I lost the necklace you gave me.” Your eyes were filled with tears when you looked up at him, and even though you expected him to get mad, you still squeezed his hand; it was natural by now, looking for his reassurance any time you were upset.

“Oh. Honey you didn’t-” Steven tried to stop you, but you kept going about it anyway.

“No, no, I did. I lost it, and I don’t remember how or when, I don’t even remember if I wore it this morning now and I feel like shit because I love it so much and-” 

“I have it.” He spoke a bit louder, only so you could hear him above your nervous rant.

“What?” You asked after a beat. “You have it?”

Searching in his bag, Steven pulled out a little red velvet bag and placed it on your hand, leaning to see your reaction only to find you confused.

“I took it this morning because I needed to get it fixed for this.” He signaled the bag with his head, waiting for you to move and open it, not realizing how confused you were until he looked at you and saw your furrowed eyebrows. Steven chuckled, kissing your cheek sweetly, making you turn to look at him with tear-filled eyes. “Here, let me.”

With delicate fingers Steven took the small bag and untied the cords, opening it and pulling your necklace out of it. Extending it over your hand, you felt your heart swelling when, right next to your golden initial, you saw a golden moon - a crescent moon, pointing to the right just as the moon in their suits did.

“Seven… this is…” You were speechless, looking at the moon in your hand not knowing what to say.

“I saw it at an antique shop, the one we like by the museum. I saw it last week when I went for a book and it made me think of you, and how beautiful it would look on you. I needed the chain to get that little loop on top just right, I’m sorry, I should have-” He stopped when your hand reached his cheek, cupping it before meeting his lips in the middle.

“It’s beautiful.” You beamed, kissing him again and feeling him smile too. “Thank you,” You whispered, not trusting your own voice after going through so many emotions only to land in the love you had for him.

He swiftly took it from your hand, softly turning your shoulder to guide you to face away from him so he could place the necklace were it belong around your neck. When you faced him again you were both smiling like a goofs, the reflection of the sunset outside casting over your room making the charm shine. 

“Now we’re all matching.” Steven said with a grin, his eyes locked with yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close for an embrace that made the remains of the worry and anxiety you felt before fade away, leaving nothing but the endless love you felt for each other.

“I’m sorry I freaked out.” You whispered, now feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He chuckled and held you tighter, his voice soft and affectionate. “You know I love a good treasure hunt.”

Maybe you necklace was never lost, yet still, you had found once again how truly lucky you were to have Steven in your life, making every moment as enchanting as a crescent moon on a starry night.

🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂🌙🍂

Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

[thursdaywritings]

Steven Grant- Farm Day

Summary/Note: Hi! I would love to to show Steven Grant the animals on a dairy farm. So this is that blurb. It is a simplified fanfic perfect nice version of a farm so don’t @ me to argue about it

Contents: animals, talking to a vegan about where non-vegan food (milk and eggs) comes from (~800 words)

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

“Cow.” Steven points to the dairy cow that has wandered over toward the two of you. 

You nod. “You’ve said that about fifteen times now, Steven.”

“Worth repeating though, innit?” He watches the peaceful cows grazing in the pasture, the brown Jersey cows and darker brown and white Gurnseys, the black and white Holsteins. He hasn’t been able to pick a favorite. 

You’ve been leaning on the fence with him for about twenty minutes while he studies them.

Big, brown cow eyes looking at big, brown cow eyes.

“Didn’t think I’d like the country,” he says to you. “But it’s not as quiet as I thought it’d be. The smell leaves a bit to be desired. Proper rank.”

You smile. “As different as you, Marc, and Jake are, the one thing you have in common is that you are all city boys.”

“Right you are, love,” Steven leans over and kisses you on the cheek.

“But you were the only one brave enough to risk stepping in cow shit with me,” you hug him.

“Oh Gods, Marc wouldn’t even discuss it,” Steven says, wrapping his arms around you. “But Jake does want to see the baby animals. Got any of those ‘round here?”

“Of course. Kittens, little ducklings, calves, all kinds of adorable babies.”

You pull him away from the fence, knowing he’d stand there all day if you let him. He holds your hand as you walk back toward the barn.

“You want to go collect some eggs with me?” You squeeze his hand.

His face goes from content to horrified. “What? Like out of the backside of a chicken?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to reach in there and pull them out. The hens lay them and-“

“Oh love, no, you can’t do that. Those poor little baby chickens. You can’t eat them.” He turns his big eyes to you.

“They’re not fertilized. They’re not baby chickens. They’re just… eggs.”

His face scrunches up. “That’s better, yeah, but aren’t they still warm? Like, from the chicken’s butt?”

You laugh loudly. “If that’s how you want to think of it.”

“I don’t wanna think about it at all,” Steven shudders. “Best let the chickens alone for now.”

“If you say so, Steven. We can have tofu scramble instead.”

You walk together into the front room of the barn, where the milk is stored. It’s clean and washed down, the stainless steel equipment and sinks almost laboratory-like. Steven pauses and looks at his reflection in the metal of the gigantic tank used to hold the milk. He makes another scrunched up face.

“Not doing that, Marc,” he says.

“What?” You ask.

Steven looks like he might gag. “Marc wants to see inside the tank thingie, where the milk is. Gods, he wants to drink it. Asking a bloody vegan to do that. No, you can’t have the body if that’s what you’re going to do with it.” Steven shuts his mouth tightly. 

“If Marc wants a drink, then he can get his ass out here and do some of the actual work. It’s not fair he gets to reap the rewards and you have to be the one to scrape crap off of your shoes.”

Steven panics and twists his body to look at his feet.

“I didn’t mean literally, hun,” you say to him. “Come on, let’s go pet the calves.”

He smiles in relief and you head further inside, to where the animals are. There are a few small calves near the front, still clean and new to the world. Their curious faces perk up when they see you. Steven’s eyes go wide and he bends over slightly as he zips toward them.

“Love,” he says, “how on earth did you ever leave this place?”

He reaches down to pet their heads, the calves twist to try to nibble at his fingers, nudging him with their big, wet noses.

You rub Steven’s back with your hand. “It was difficult,” you say, “but frankly I knew I wanted to move to the city, something different. And in a town this small, it was impossible to find someone to date. I’m either related to him or my sister has already dated him. Not a lot of options.”

He turns his gaze back to you, a warm and loving look that you could absolutely never leave behind. 

“I can’t say I’d ever give up my books for a tractor, but this is the nicest day I’ve had in ages,” Steven says.

“You would be more of the gentleman farmer-type,” you say. “Like in an Austen novel.”

“Oh, I could get into that. Taking you for a walk with you through the fields, stealing kisses under trees. Sounds like something we could do after lunch.”

“That sounds perfect.”

He smiles, thinking about it. He scratches the calves idly behind their ears as he looks at you.

“Love?” He says. “I think I’ve stepped in shit.”

“You have.”

[thursdaywritings]

What would you say are the MC trio, Moon Boys, and Miguel’s biggest kinks/fantasies/positions/etc?

Feel free just to rapid-fire list them since this is a handful of characters, to just pic a specific group, or totally ignore this altogether if it’s too much!

I’m just particularly curious about all of them, what their preferences are individually (especially like, for example, what Boa/Santi prefer vs Boa/Frankie, or Steven/Reader vs Marc/Reader, or…Miguel/Nena vs Miguel/Cielito👀). Like, does Santi find it a little easier to be vulnerable with just Boa? Do Steven and Marc ever lovingly bully Reader by tag-teaming? (I don’t know where I saw it but the phrase, “I can gangbang you all by myself,” said by Marc has lived rent-free in my head for d a y s.)

Thank you so much if you do decide to indulge in answering this ask, and if you don’t! Your writing makes me so happy and I hope to be as good as you one day! :)

OOOH I LOVE THIS ASK!!! Sorry this has taken me ages to get through.

Homecoming Dynamics

I think you're absolutely right nonny. Santi does find it easier to be emotionally vulnerable with Boa. Partly it's because of their longstanding friendship since childhood and how Boa has known the more vulnerable and personal parts of Santiago where he doesn't need to be tough. It's hard to stay tough in front of the woman who watched you get tricked by an older kid to trade Charizard for a Magikarp for a Pokemon trade, or the first time you got broken up with and ended up crying at a Mcdonalds booth.

However I think in bed it's actually the opposite? Santiago finds it a lot easier to relinquish control with Frankie. Because Frankie "takes" it from him, Santiago loves how Frankie gets stern and orders him to listen to him/obey. In a way that makes Santiago switch off his brain as he doesn't have to think and he lets Frankie be in control and for him that is such an easy act and a relief all at once. Whereas with Boa (she purposefully) asks him to surrender control which is an active choice on his part that brings up all sorts of emotional vulnerabilities that messes with his head.

Red Flags dynamic

OOOOOOOOOOOF ok ok that quote! it's from an Oscar Isaac zoom theater he did with Marissa Tomei and I AM OBSESSED WITH IT! I think applied to the Red Flags dynamics, those words, that sentence would come out of Jake's mouth. I can just seeeeeeeeeeeee it.

I think Marc for all his need for control and how he likes to be stern with reader, he also really really spoils her. He's also immensely private and possessive with his private (and regular) time with her and balks at the idea of switching/tag-teaming in that way.

However Steven/Jake... I think those two menaces would be all up for it. Steven because by the time he's THAT gone, there's no composure left in him. If Jake is with her and goads him and lets him take over Steven absolutely 100000% would JUMP at the chance. If anything the difficulty with tag-teaming is for Jake to convince Steven to give back control of the body.

[thursdaywritings]

A warmup. Something about Oscar Isaac is just so MMM

[thursdaywritings]

Based on a request by @mintellaine: Moon Boys married prompts #6&7: being able to predict the other's moves & predict the other's words

Content: f!reader, action, violence, fluff, kissing, mentions of food

Word Count: 805

Moon Knight's cape swished valiantly behind him as his muscular thigh thrusted outward in a punishing kick. The foul-smelling, ghastly supernatural creature yelped, its phantom bones crunching as it careened toward you.

"Drop!"

"Yep!"

Your body had already instinctively reacted. Sprinting forward, you dropped to your knees, skidding under the creature. Raising your arm, you dragged your curved dagger through its hairy abdomen.

Your enemy's ear-piercing shriek momentarily disoriented you, propelling you into a stumble, rather than you flipping to your feet with your usual grace.

Before even your shoulder could graze the bruising asphalt, a white gauze-wrapped arm slid underneath you, absorbing your fall. Tucking you in tightly to the solid safety of his chest, the two of you hit the rooftop with an "umph."

Heavy breaths pushed past your lips as you came down from your adrenaline rush, cocooned carefully inside your husband's white cape. His glowing, moonbeam eyes narrowed into slits as he inspected you for injury.

"Give me a second?" You panted, grateful for his protective embrace.

"Yeah, I can do that," he answered, his mask disappearing.

"Hi," you breathlessly whispered, smiling at his handsome face.

"Hey," he casually returned, admiration etched into his cute smirk. "That was a hell of a move."

"Thanks, I - "

" - learned from the best," he grinned.

Pulling you to your feet, Marc grasped your arms to steady you.

Suddenly, white gauze melted away as a shining, three-piece deliciously tight suit appeared.

"Darling, you were amazing," Steven bragged...but before he could compliment your attire, which he was always prone to do, even mid-fight, his warm brown eyes widened in panic.

You were already ducking as the word left his mouth. Scrambling away from this newest threat, you heard the crunch of bone.

White, gloved fists brutally connected with the jaw of yet another vile creature. Where were these things coming from?

Rolling out of the way, you scurried around behind the beast, mindful of the roof's edge. But before you could attack with your daggers, it lunged backward, knocking you dangerously close to your doom.

Steven, whose white mask was in place now, leapt into the air brandishing his signature heavy batons. "Get away from her, you!"

Having gained the creature's attention, it turned and attacked him with a screeching howl. Steven became a flurry of moonlit precision, striking blow after kick after thud with his batons. This gave you time to attack from the back. With a cry of fury, you lunged forward with all your might, sinking two daggers into the creature's gangly back.

It screeched - its ghastly body arching in agony as Steven tipped his sassy chin in a final salute. "That's m'wife, mate."

Then the creature was ash.

You stood across from your husband - a dagger in each hand, hair a wild mess, chest heaving, hoping that was your final fight tonight.

"Wow...look at you," Steven marveled, his mask disappearing once more.

"I probably look as crazy as that thing...before it disintegrated," you laughed, tucking your daggers away.

"Not possible," he chuckled. "But let me guess: you're bloody starving." You always were after a good fight.

With a cute shrug, your nose crinkled in delight, "You read my mind."

"Dumplings?" He proposed, knowing how much you loved them.

"Mmm, the way to my heart," you murmured, yanking his tie and pulling his lips to yours.

The adrenaline of a fight always brought some spice to your marriage, and your knees gave out a little as Steven's tongue ran along the seam of your lips. Opening your mouth to him, you felt the beautiful proof of his life - his hot, panting breath, mingling with the slightly salty tinge of sweat from his exertion.

He was safe. And all yours.

Strong arms swept you up into a possessive embrace. Marc. His tongue licked in hotly into your mouth, tangling with yours, as the fullness of his lips caressed your own deliciously.

"Do we have to get vegan dumplings?" He pouted, nibbling your lips one at a time.

"Babe, you know that place on the corner always adds pork dumplings to Steven's vegan order."

With one final kiss, his mask and hood cloaked his face once more.

"Ready?" Marc proposed, nodding down to the street below.

"Do you even have to ask?" You teased, wrapping your arms around his neck trustingly. The moon was full tonight, so its Knight would glide across the sky with ease.

With you tucked closely to his side, Marc leaped into the night sky. The thrill of flying...or falling gracefully overwhelmed you, making you giggle childishly in delight.

"This is my favorite way to travel!" You called over the whoosh of air around you.

"Thanks, but - "

" - don't tell Jake, I know," you finished his sentence, knowing how much Jake liked to drive you around (and drive you wild).

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[thursdaywritings]

literally incredible

Steven Grant oblivious roommate headcanons pt. 6

previous

SGORH masterlist

Part 6: You help Steven Grant of the Gift Shop with inventory

Steven doesn’t fall asleep the rest of the night after the ankle-restraint-discovery incident. But you do, in his bed.

You don't mean to. Steven tells you a little about his sleeping disorder.

It honestly doesn't sound quite like a sleeping disorder

The sound of his voice is so sweet and so soft it lulls you right to sleep

Steven can't sleep with you in his bed. He simply stares at your lovely face

He falls asleep on your shoulder on the bus

Donna is fed up with all the work he’s missed. She puts him on inventory again.

It’s closing time and you feel sad to be going home without Steven. You don’t always work the same shifts or days, but you hate that he has to stay here late again.

You decide to help him. The look on his face when you bound up to the gift shop counter at closing time is priceless.

“How’s my favorite gift shoppist?” You grin. “Want some help?”

He stammers, he protests, but finally, his already hunched shoulders somehow drop even further, in relief. “That would be lovely, actually.”

You're complete dorks the rest of the night. You keep pretending to "scan" Steven and follow it with the silliest comments.

"One Egyptology genius." Beep. He grins.

"One comfiest shoulder ever," he counters. Beep.

"One best roommate ever." Beep.

"One best coworker ever," he replies earnestly. "Not even getting paid right now."

"I don't mind," you shrug, smiling gently. "Sweetest guy in the world." Beep.

He nudges your shoulder. "You really think so?"

You nudge him right back. "'Course I do."

Dark eyebrows arch inquisitively. He doesn't know how to believe you.

The two of you return to your task for several quiet moments. Since you've known him, Steven has filled every silence, and, unlike your co-workers, you realize now that you love it.

But he's quiet now, shuffling through and scanning some last minute trinkets.

Finally, he turns back to you. "One best friend ever." Beep. "Maybe the only one I've ever had."

You melt. How can that possibly be true?

You finish inventory and Steven shuts down the shop. The museum is dark now - a little eery, honestly.

As you head toward the exit, his head cocks curiously as he stops and looks around.

He suddenly wanders back the way you came, into the heart of the darkened museum. He calls out, "Here, boy," as if if he hears a dog?

"I could have sworn I heard..." he murmurs, looking this way and that.

Suddenly, Steven stops short, eyes going wide as his lips part with shallow breaths. "D-did you hear that?"

You've heard nothing. But his eyes look past you, suddenly wild with terror, and before you can ask him what's wrong, he's jerking you by the arm and shoving you into a crouching position behind a tall pillar.

"Oh god, oh god," he pants, pulling you against his body even as he panics.

"Steven, what's wrong? What is it?" You don't understand.

He squeezes you. "Don't make a sound," he whispers. "It's out there."

He's shaking. And you don't know what could have scared him so.

Drawing in a ragged breath, he squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment, as if gathering his courage. "I won't let anything happen to you."

tbc...

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[thursdaywritings]

Steven Grant oblivious roommate headcanons Pt. 2

Read part 1 SGORH masterlist

Part 2: Adjusting to life in Steven's cluttered, vegan, insomniac existence.

At first, you put your best foot forward, since you're pretty sure Steven isn't charging you the correct amount of rent

You always do the dishes and pick up around the flat. (Steven is a bit of a hoarder- clean, but clutter-y)

Every day you have off work just kills him: he comes home to find you in an oversized t-shirt, hanging down to mid-thigh, making it look like you're not wearing shorts underneath.

A little sheen of sweat shines on your forehead and neck

"You don't have to do all this, honestly, love. Let me help."

He calls you "love" now - you think it's cute. You and he get along so well.

"Steven, I would be homeless without you, I don't mind."

You guys make a chore chart for the fridge that really helps.

Your laptop is often on the kitchen counter, open to vegan recipes

You have sweetly attempted and failed several meals

"Let's go shopping together next time. I'll show you all the best deals."

He finally works up the courage to reach for your hand one evening. Your cheek is covered in corn flour - you're an adorable mess. His heart is about to burst with gratitude (and desire)

"This is your home. You don't have to prove that you deserve to be here."

You absolutely melt. Proving yourself is something you've always felt you had to do, since you were a kid.

"Steven, you're an absolute angel." You throw your arms around him.

He can't breathe. You're so lovely, kind and sweet. The last thing he wants to do is open his mouth and mess up your friendship

He also can't have you thinking he asked you to live with him out of some creepy ulterior motive.

No, he will have to keep his feelings to himself.

You start to realize Steven isn't sleeping. You see and hear him up at all hours reading and solving puzzles.

One night you creep out of your "bedroom" space to check on him and discover him nose deep in a book, adorable reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose.

It takes him a minute, but when he notices you there, he jumps, profusely apologizing for waking you up.

"You didn't, it's okay," you insist, asking if it's okay to come and sit near him.

His heart rate triples as you draw near.

You smile warmly. "I like your glasses." A blush creeps up his neck. You don't see it.

Then you offer to make him some calming tea and he knows he's a goner.

tbc.....

Coming up: Steven can't sleep. He can't remember asking Dylan out on a date. Why do you feel weird about it? After all, you have a date too.

muahahahaha

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[thursdaywritings]

been so incredibly busy the last like. month & a half but i am back !!! need to catch up on everything omg

[thursdaywritings]

With You part 15

<-prev next-> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist

Summary: Recovery is a lifelong, active choice. You are Marc deal with a rough night a little differently this time.

Pairings: Marc Spector x gn!reader (Steven Grant x gn!reader, Jake Lockley x gn!reader) No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: angst, fluff (more under the cut)

Warnings: DON'T worry - it's not as dramatic as the warnings sound, I promise: cursing, struggles with alcoholism/addiction, references to past abuse, trauma and violence, not beta'd

PREVIOUSLY, on "With You"...

"You know, when I was a kid...I never had anyone to look out for me. Not once. Not even my dad, but now..." His jaw twitched as he fought through his emotions, "Now I have three of you."

Summer had turned to fall and the crisp, damp air made you long for the comfort of home. True, your flat was ancient and drafty, but your husband was there, waiting for you with some warm soup and likely an evening of cozy cuddles.

At least, that's what Steven had texted you about earlier.

As you turned the key in the deadbolt and pushed the old, heavy door open, your eyes widened, attempting to adjust to the darkness within. With only the entry way lamp left on for you, it was difficult to gauge who was home, or what they were doing.

"Babe?" You called out, leaving your bag and shoes in their normal spot before clicking the door closed and turning the lock. The flooring creaked as you shuffled toward your room to change out of your scrubs, but you stopped, hearing Marc's voice from the darkened kitchen.

"In here."

He was dressed in Steven's jumper, the worn navy faded to a dull cobalt - sleeves that normally draped down to Steven's knuckles pushed haphazardly halfway up to his elbows. Hands clenching the counter's edge, he stared out the kitchen window at the pale moon.

The breadth of his shoulders expanded with a loud, sorrowful breath.

Approaching him slowly, you noticed a bottle of vodka on the countertop to his right.

Shit.

Also - vodka? Since when? Marc drank whiskey, or he used to drink beer, back before he realized he really was not among the ranks of those who could drink socially.

"Marc," you softly called, making sure he knew you were behind him, attempting to inch closer. "Hey."

His grip on the counter's edge caused his knuckles to strain, and in better lighting, you thought they would probably be turning white.

Your chest heaved with relief as one hand released the countertop and carefully extended behind his back, toward you.

That was all the invitation you needed to surge forward, grasping his fingers and taking them with you around his soft stomach. You wrapped yourself around him from behind, squeezing as you pressed your cheek against the solid heat of his back.

"Tell me you're not hurt," you brokenly whispered, knowing that his recent alcoholic endeavors had all centered around Khonshu scaring and harming him.

"I'm okay," he mumbled after a tense silence. "It's okay. I just bought it. I didn't...I didn't drink it. I didn't..."

"Good, baby," you murmured, squeezing him tighter. "That's good."

Needing to feel more of you, he yanked on your forearm, pulling you around, meeting you halfway until he could wrap you close to his thundering heart.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his palms spreading, pressing you into the mold of his body - one hand pushing at your lower back while the other slid up to cradle your neck. His grip was desperate, yet his fingertips brushed tenderly as if you were a delicate thing he could destroy.

He swallowed down a wave of nausea at the thought of disappointing you again. And again, and again. To a certain degree, he wasn’t entirely sure what had happened or how he got to be in this dark kitchen with a bottle of vodka beside him.

You were uncharacteristically silent so his troubled mind began to fill in terrible stories about what you must be thinking, and how he might have done permanent damage.

"Are you angry with me?" He asked, moving along the nonexistent conversation. He needed to know this like he needed air in his lungs. It was a familiar cycle to him - failing and awaiting the heavy ax of punishment – from his mother, from the military, from other mercenaries and killers, from Khonshu.

"Please...say something."

"I’m not angry," you softly returned, easing back to peer up into his dark, troubled eyes. "And it’s not because I don’t care, or don’t expect things from you." You referenced a previous argument, making sure he knew that your lack of reaction was, indeed, not a lack of investment.

Tracing your fingertips over the angle of his jaw your eyes danced over his features, as if checking to be certain that he was unharmed. "To be honest, I...I’m actually scared."

Mark’s heart sank, guilt twisting his insides for making you uncomfortable in any way, and especially for scaring you.

Then you explained.

"When I first walked in, I was so afraid someone hurt you – are you sure you’re okay?"

With a heavy sigh, his forehead dropped to touch yours. "No, it’s not like that – I’m not physically hurt."

Daring to meet your eyes again his grip on you tightened as if he were afraid you might quite literally slip through his fingers.

"I can’t explain why I bought it, really. But...I can try."

He seemed hopeless to make any sense of how he got here, or what was going on inside him.

"Okay, baby," you soothed, tracing the fullness of his bottom lip with your thumb. "Can we talk about it?"

He eagerly nodded, the slightest swell of accomplishment blooming in his chest as he started to realize how close he'd come to having a drink...but didn't.

The two of you settled onto the old sofa after you changed into an oversized cardigan and joggers, and ordered takeaway on your phone, since there was clearly no soup, despite Steven's previous offer.

Marc nestled into one end of the couch and had sweetly asked to hold you. So you draped yourself across his lap, your legs extending down the length of the sofa while your arms encircled his neck.

"I'm glad I didn't drink," he admitted out loud, which...was huge for Marc.

"You should be," you lovingly encouraged, smiling at him tenderly.

"You're so good to me," he uttered, gazing at you adoringly. "I would understand, you know - if you were upset at me, for wasting money and...just..."

"Is that what you think it is? A waste of money?" You asked him frankly.

His thick eyebrows knitted as he contemplated your meaning.

"Would it not be more wasteful if the bottle were empty?" You went on. "I think you would feel a lot worse. And that would be a waste."

"Yeah, I guess so," he slowly nodded.

"So - tell me what you were thinking when you walked into the store...or when you were standing outside the window, thinking about going in. What happened?"

So Marc confessed.

Jake had been busy at night lately, so they were tired. One of Steven's classes got cancelled so he dragged himself into bed for an afternoon nap, intending to make soup and spend the evening with you.

But it was Marc who awakened abruptly from a nightmare: a torment including broken bottles, torn flesh and punishing blows.

You fucking knew it. It always came back to that stupid god.

"I was dreaming about her," Marc explained, to your slight surprise, "about something I'd forgotten, until the night I was attacked."

Then you realized this specific misery was not from the night Khonshu abandoned him in the middle of a brutal attack. He was remembering something older.

"She...sometimes she would sing while she cooked," he confessed, reminding you of the rare, tender moment Jake had shared with her - that she cooked while singing in Spanish, and that sometimes Jake helped her. He had almost seemed like he felt guilty for holding a fond memory of her after what she'd done.

Marc was apparently recounting the flip side of that memory.

He went on to explain that he didn't remember much about it, but he must have been helping her cook (or perhaps, in this case, it was Jake). What he did recall, however, was that he dropped a glass skillet lid by accident. His mom had asked him to stir the food contained within, and when Marc reached for the lid's handle, its heat burned his palm, causing him to drop it to the floor, where it shattered.

He had jumped back, profusely apologizing, but it was too late. Wendy was halfway into a bottle of something or other. She picked it up and said, "Oh, are we breaking things today?"

Then she broke the bottle on the counter's edge and brandished it as a weapon against her only remaining child.

Marc's details thereafter were vague, but they included a cut on his arm, curses in Spanish (no wonder he didn't speak it anymore), and a trip upstairs that ended in belt whelps, sobbing and another lonely night spent afraid and starving.

"When those men attacked me that night, I...it's like I could instantly remember her face and her voice and just...I think Jake told you he took the body while I was staring at my reflection in the window of a liquor store. Or...right after I started walking away."

By now, tears had spilled down your cheeks, as they did any time he shared another piece of his past with you.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I...I didn't remember it that clearly until I woke up today."

His sweet, brown eyes were wide and pleading with you to understand. After all this time, he still felt he was the one who had done something wrong.

Smoothing your thumb over his cheek, you granted him a tender smile. "There's nothing to apologize for. You never have to be sorry for opening up to me."

He nodded quickly, his voice high pitched, almost like a child's. "I know, but - I made you cry. I always think I've told you everything bad and it's over with, you know? That there won't ever be any more of my shit to say. But then, there's always more. I'm sorry."

"Marc," you gasped, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "That's why I'm here, baby. I'm here to listen - for whatever you need. You haven't done anything wrong. This was done to you."

The familiar wrinkle formed between his dark eyebrows as he nodded, seriously listening to what you had to say. "You're right," he admitted. "It's a lot of shit to remember - my life, I mean. But still...I shouldn't have bought that alcohol."

His bottom lip turned down in a bit of an adorable frowny pout. "I made a therapy appointment, and...I thought about what she might say, you know, about taking ownership. And that's the thing I can control, right?"

You nodded encouragingly, hoping he would continue - your heart swelling with pride over how far he'd come. You could approve or disapprove of his alcohol purchase, but what mattered was what Marc himself thought of his choice.

"So...I shouldn't have bought it. It wasn't productive," he continued sincerely. "And...it was wasteful. But I didn't drink it. So...that's something."

You kissed the pad of your thumb before pressing it to the wrinkle between his eyes. "That's my guy. Proud of you."

That move always dissolved his contemplative frown into what could almost be considered a shy smile.

"I still probably need some 'stress relief' though." He winked as the sound of your laughter filled the flat.

The next day, you walked Marc to a meeting to get his six month sobriety chip. The two of you decided to celebrate with a night out. You couldn't be more proud of him for getting back on track, and not breaking his sobriety since he'd learned about Jake and Khonshu.

The two of you returned home and decided to cuddle up on the rooftop, before the fall weather started getting too chilly.

"This is nice," you murmured, laying your head on Marc's shoulder. You were seated on a couple thick quilts with a smaller one wrapped around you both.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Thanks for going out with me tonight."

"Of course, baby, I'm so proud of you."

He gave you that sexy little smirk of his - pretty much the closest he ever came to a full smile. Reaching for your hand, he slid his fingers through yours. "I love you, you know. More than anything."

You melted as his heated gaze lured you in. "I love you too. More than anything."

He peered into your eyes for a few seconds longer, and you thought he might kiss you, but he cleared his throat instead.

"I need to talk to you about something, okay?" His dark eyebrows shifted - he looked a little nervous. "Just...hear me out. It's important."

Squeezing his hand, you nodded. "Anything, Marc."

It took a moment for him to continue, Releasing your hand, he stared straight ahead. You knew him well enough to realize he needed a minute - and that this must be significant to him.

"I'm going to talk to Khonshu," he finally announced, with difficultly. "I need to talk to him - to settle some things."

You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. This was Marc, after all. He thought deeply and carefully about everything and he didn't just blurt things out.

Steven liked to think about everything out loud. Your evenings were often filled with not only a comical and detailed retelling of the day's antics, but he would actually sort through his feelings verbally. It was easy to know where you stood with Steven at all times, but it was, occasionally, a trifle exhausting - though not unwelcome.

If this were Jake, you would already be challenging him, arguing passionately about how this was a bad idea. Jake had no problem arguing right back until he convinced you.

But this was Marc. So you waited, and you listened.

"I can't...I just can't sit in the back seat of my life anymore," he began to explain, after a long exhale. Another silence followed - almost uncomfortably long. You finally realized he was gazing at your profile.

"I'm happy with you," he softly admitted. "Being married to you. You know that, don't you?"

Granting him a sweet smile, you nodded. "I do. But I'm always glad to hear it."

His attention shifted back to the darkened sky. He always tended to feel a little more comfortable communicating without direct eye contact.

"I like the life we have here. I'm good with Steven doing the things he does, and even Jake. It took some time, but...it works now, I think." He chuckled at himself. "Maybe I was an ass before, about Jake. But - I know he loves you."

Linking your arm through his, you laid your head on his shoulder and just let him talk.

"He does love you," Marc repeated softly. "And Steven does. And I do. I am happy."

"Me too," you quickly assured him.

Another silence. A breeze swirled around you, automatically drawing you closer to his warmth.

"But this thing with Khonshu - I can't stay out of it. He's in our lives because of me. I have to deal with him."

Treading as carefully as you could manage, you chanced a question. "What do you mean, deal with him? Didn't Jake make a deal to protect you?"

"That's not what I'm talking about," he quickly defended, stiffening. "And I didn't ask Jake to do that."

Okay, back to waiting on him to explain.

"Even though I'm six months sober, this is the main thing I can't really break through. I feel like I can't really have control of my life until I settle whatever this is with him."

He was on a roll now, so you didn't want to stop him, despite your concerns over his safety.

"I talked to them, you know - Steven and Jake."

"And what did they say?" You softly asked, soothingly stroking his arm with your fingertips.

So he explained that Jake hoped their current setup could work out. Jake would take care of Moon Knight and keep Marc safely out of it. Somewhat conversely, Steven understood Marc's need to confront, or at least consult Khonshu. Steven knew what it felt like to be left out of the loop in his own life.

"So what I want to know is - what do you think?"

Even though you'd been biting your tongue, holding back your opinion, now that he'd given you the floor, you found yourself a little stumped. Instead of playing games, however, you decided to be direct, as usual.

"I'm conflicted, honestly," you softly returned. "I respect your choice and I support you. I understand why you think you need to talk to him. But I'm scared he'll hurt you - physically or mentally. Or both. And I don't want that.

"But if it's as bad as you're saying, then you can't live like this. You're right, you have to settle it. You have to decide if you are Moon Knight."

"I am," he answered resolutely. "I am Moon Knight."

Coming up: The conclusion to "With You"

@stormydaysxx @laaundromat @kindlover @flyestvenustrap @spxctorsslxt @deezisnotreal @stevenknightmarc @imonmykneessir @marvelouslovely-barnes @evilbubu @usualsworld @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra @this--is--music @i-still-dont-like-your-face @cicithemess2000  @avengersinitiative2012 @lockleywife @poppyflower-22 @thursdaywritings @scoliobean peregrine-nation local-mr-frog @bitchotine @ren-ni @valkyrie05x @randomhoex @tsukkie-daisuke @thebestrouge @mintellaine @lasttoknowv @spideyman-peter @ohantonia @emily-roberts @halleest @mypurplewinee @thexsanctuaryx @animechick555 @seninjakitey @minigirl87

[thursdaywritings]

Hi! It's me again, here's my request, I really hope you understand what I mean 💖

So I was thinking about something a bit angsty like they were in a relationship but break up for whatever reason you think about (but they still love each other), so one time Steven see a friend of the reader and he ask them about her, and the friend tells him that the reader it's not doing so great, and the reader see Donna (I don't know, but I just could think about her), and Donna tells her how bad Steven is doing and basically tells her that he loves her and they should come back together so he starts working properly again because he's not doing his job like before they broke up. So she goes to his apartment and doesn't find him (same for him who goes to her place and doesn't find her), but on the way home they find each other in the middle of the rain, and you can end it however you want, but with them together 💖

hii honey!! ugh I love this!! I had fun writing this but I must say, the ending is slight rushed, I do apologise. but thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌 also I just now realised I forgot to mention about steven talking to readers friend, but that happens like the same time reader is talking to donna, sorry

time apart

Steven Grant x f reader

wc || 1003

・₊✧ masterlist + taglist

You and Steven had decided to split two weeks ago now. There was no anger, no animosity, no bitterness- just a purely mutual break which made it near-impossible to process. There were only a tiny collection of reasons behind the breakup- and in hindsight, all of them felt inconsequential and minuscule now.

You never fell out of love with Steven, so when you see segments of him in every direction you look, you can't help but feel your heart break just that bit more. No one ever really talks about how difficult it is to food shop after a breakup, how you seem to find everything that reminds you of them. How you'd see a packet of chocolates on the shelf -the ones your ex-lover favours- and how it would make you want to sob in the middle of the aisle, clutching the bag to your chest. Or how you'd see their favourite soup sitting in the reduced section, even how you had to resist the habit to fill the basket with their favourite snacks. Breaking routine was difficult, and it was not something you enjoyed.

Before finishing your quick shop for dinner items, you make your way over to the freezers, deciding to treat yourself to some ice cream until you spot someone familiar. You wanted to turn around, but they had already spotted you. 

"Donna," you say with a fake smile, faux niceties as you walk closer. You weren't a fan of her, and you hated how mean she was to Steven, how she'd always pick on him.

"Hey, you," she wryly smiles- she forgot your name, but that didn't bother you. "I heard, sorry," she adds, an uncomfortable expression on her face.

"Yeah—"

She cuts you off. "While I have you here, I need to speak with you— it's about Steven... he's so miserable, and it's affecting his work— god, he's been such a mope lately, and it's bumming everyone out. Always gabbing on about how much he loves and misses you, blah blah nonsense," she trails off, avoiding your gaze as she looks at the pints of ice cream in front. "Look, you guys need to patch things up. I don't care what you do, just— god, Steven, he's getting on my nerves,"

"Yep, okay, thanks. Bye now, Donna," you force a smile, instantly turning on your heel to avoid her. You couldn't stand her, but what she said about Steven played over and over in your mind. It hurt your heart to know he was also struggling, but for your own selfish reasons, it made you feel slightly better, as if it was confirmation that he still cared. 

After picking up some additional items, scanning and paying, you leave the shop, stepping out into the overcast with the canvas bag slung over your shoulder. You had an idea, maybe not your best one, but still, it was an idea. You wanted to see Steven. You told yourself the reason was to check up on him and see how he was doing, see if he was okay. After all, he is still your friend- well, that's what you said to make yourself feel better. And besides, it was en route home.

You get to Steven's flat building and buzz his intercom, waiting somewhat impatiently for him to answer- but he doesn't. The absence of the whiz-like noise hurts your ears, and you feel silly and foolish for acting on your impulses, yet you hang around an extra couple minutes for good measure- thinking too wishfully before you finally decide to write it off.

The overcast turns a few shades darker before eventually raining, so you seek refuge under a nearby bus stop shelter until the heavy shower subsides. Over the road, you hear a familiar voice apologising to some other pedestrian. Your gaze follows the direction of the sound, and you're met once again with Steven- your Steven, who was standing soaking wet with a bouquet of limp flowers in hand. 

"Steven?" you earnestly smile, rushing over to his side of the road without a second thought.

He whispers your name, speaking as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes. "Oh my god— how—" he softly chuckles, looking over your sweet face, watching the rain droplets sit over your skin. "I— um," he lightly sighs, shaking his head like he was clearing a thought. "How are you? How you been?"

"Yeah, alright," you nod as you brush wet strands of hair behind your ear. "Just uh— missed you," you sadly smile, looking into his downhearted dark brown eyes. "Quite a lot," you quietly add.

"I've missed you," he smiles, his features softening. "These are for you," he says, extending the flowers to you. "I went over to yours," he pauses. "I went over to see you and give you these— sorry they look battered," he chuckles.

"You went to see me? I just went to see you," you grin. "But you also weren't in," softly laugh, playfully nudging his arm. 

His gaze lowers to the floor, and a wide smile spreads across his lips. "We’re gonna catch a cold out here, want to come over mine— it's closer than it is to yours," he offers, speaking sweetly.

"If you don't mind," you smile, cutely shrugging your shoulders.

"No, of course not," he grins, lacing his hand into yours as he leads you across the street. "We can get some dinner? Only if you want to— I don't want to push you or anything," he stutters, his eyes darting over your face.

"I would love that." you smile, squeezing into his hand.

For the rest of the evening, you enjoyed your time together just like old times. You both showered and changed into pyjamas before cooking dinner using the ingredients you bought earlier. As you ate, you caught up, sharing stories of your time apart, reminiscing on the old and talking hopefully of the new. You wanted to give things another go, and luckily for you, Steven did too. 

— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —

taglist: @thewinterv @bubblezuku @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @queerponcho @selfryed @ugh09876554444

[thursdaywritings]

the fall

13.9k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. so much smut. so much angst. dont ask me why this is so fucking long cause i dont know either. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel, fingering, oral (f receiving), face sitting, unprotected p in v, car sex, uhh, maybe more but that feels exhaustive

a/n: y'all thank you so much for the love on this series. i love that people love dbf!joel as much as i do. you have been so beyond welcoming and getting to interact with y'all as i write this is so ridiculously fun. your comments and replies and asks are hysterical. and insightful. your reading comp skills are a thousand times better than mine because you're picking up on things i didn't even know i was writing LMFAO. i love being able to share with you all and i really appreciate you letting me have fun with this. lots n lots of love. to everyone. 🤍 requests incorporated: face sitting, car sex, date night (part 2), maybe something else im forgetting.

this is part 9 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8

masterlist here. kofi here, if you feel like leaving a tip!

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.”  He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth.  You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants.  “Sit down,” he growls. 

Of course Hayes is her fucking nephew. 

Of course he is. 

You’ve never had, like, the best luck in the world. Not when it comes to guys, at least. Seems like you draw the short straw pretty often. Like, say, falling for your dad’s best friend — and not the toned, tanned, age-appropriate boy whose footsteps you can hear in the hallway. 

This is your fault, you think. This is your mess. There are plenty of attainable, nice, non-asshole guys out there who aren’t even tangentially connected to your father. Zero relation. Couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. But — no. Just your luck you’d fall for Joel. Just your luck you’d sleep with Hayes. And just your luck they’re about to be in the same room, at the same time, after you’ve ghosted one and fallen head over heels for the other. 

Laurie can sense the change in tone. She puts her mojito down on the desk, next to Joel’s drafting papers, and you have to kick the urge to run over and grab it. Just — down that shit, before Hayes can even make it to the office. Whatever gets you drunk fast. 

You settle for standing stiffly in place. You swallow your spit and she frowns. 

“You okay, honey?” she asks. “You look pale.” 

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Not the humorous kind, but the — I‘m fucked, can you believe this shit? — kind. 

She stares at you. Joel, too. He looks completely useless, standing there beside the desk. He’s got his drafting pencil clutched in his hand. The lead point digs into his thumb. 

The door creaks open. All three of you turn to watch Hayes walk in. There’s a plastic Walgreens bag in his hand, hooked around his little finger, swinging aimlessly when he steps into the room. He’s wearing the same shoes he’d worn when you’d dragged him to your room. White vans. Slip-ons. 

Your head swims. 

“Hey, Laurie,” he says. 

He doesn’t see you right away. You’re in the corner, a ways from the desk, standing stock-still in his peripheral. You’ve got this hindbrain, idiotic notion that if you stay completely, totally still, maybe he won’t see you. 

“I got the stuff you wanted,” he says. You’d forgotten how smooth his voice is. How polished and pitched, compared to Joel’s. “They didn’t have those Vitamin C tabs, but—”

You’re not looking at him. But you can tell — from the sudden, stifling silence — that he’s clocked you. You and Joel. 

The AC kicks on, full-blast. His Walgreens bag starts to wave. The plastic crinkles and the sound makes you flinch. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Hayes!” Laurie laughs, awkwardly. “Good lord. That how you greet people?” 

He’s staring at you. Full-on. You can feel his eyes, burning a brand where yours drop. You drag your gaze from the floor and your cheeks blaze. 

“I’m sorry,” Hayes says. He sounds like he’s short-circuiting. He sputters a little — turns from you, to Joel, to Laurie, then back to you again. “Sorry. What — sorry. What the fuck?” 

“Hayes.” Laurie tuts. Her brows pull. “Knock it off.” 

He ignores her. His gaze narrows. The shock is wearing off, you think. You can see something angrier making its way in. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks you. He points at Joel. “What is he doing here?“ 

Laurie answers for you. Which is good, since you’ve got nothing. 

“He’s a contractor,” she says. She sounds miffed. “He’s helping me with the Austin house. What — what is this? You know each other, or something?” 

“Yeah,” Hayes bites. “Or something.” 

His gaze shifts. He looks at Joel and Joel holds his stare. 

More silence. The tip of Joel’s pencil shoves deeper into his thumb. You hear the lead snap, bouncing off onto the carpet, and you swallow. Your throat runs dry. 

Hayes sniffs. 

“Can I talk to you?” he blurts. 

He turns away from Joel. Looks you dead in the eyes. 

“In private,” he adds. 

Laurie frowns. “Hayes—”

“It’s fine,” you say, quickly. You don’t look at Joel. “It’s fine.” 

Hayes nods. He shoves the door back open and holds it for you — ever the gentleman, even still. Even when you sidle past him and feel him bristle. 

You catch a glimpse of Joel right before the door shuts. You can’t quite read the look on his face. 

“It’s through here,” Hayes clips. 

He leads you back down the hallway, to the kitchen you’d passed on your way in. You stare at his back and try to train down your blush. You think up ten thousand excuses, in the thirty-second walk to the kitchen — I wasn’t ghosting you, really, I’ve just…had my phone off? Been busy with work? Didn’t want to seem desperate? — but you’re a terrible liar. And the truth is you have been ghosting him. You’ve been ghosting the hell out of him. 

So you’re silent. You make it to the kitchen and he sits at the island, digging his elbows down into the marble. He gestures toward a free stool and you follow his hand. 

“You wanna sit?” 

“Uh—” you blink, “—no. Thanks. This is fine.” 

This being the awkward, statuesque pose you’ve taken up by Laurie’s sink. About as far from Hayes as you can get without turning tail and sprinting back down the hall. 

 You’re expecting him to say something. He dragged you in here, after all. Out of the office. Away from Joel. 

But he’s quiet. He just…looks at you. Meadow-green eyes and an angled frown. 

So you talk. Because the silence is fucking unbearable. 

“So,” you say. “She’s your, um…” 

“Aunt.” 

“Yeah. Right.” You nod. Gnaw at your lip. “Kind of a fucked up coincidence.” 

You hope, maybe, that he’ll take it in stride. Light up the kitchen with that megawatt smile. 

But he doesn’t smile. If anything his frown gets deeper. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Kind of fucked up.” 

“So when you said you were going out of town for the weekend…” you gesture weakly to the kitchen. “You meant, like…here.” 

He looks at you. Cocks his head. His hair’s grown out, in the week or so since you’ve seen him. You think it looks better like this. Makes him look more like a man. 

“So you did get my texts,” he says. 

Fuck. 

“I just read them, like, today,” you say, which is not technically a lie. Sure, you’ve been watching the notifications flood in all week with a lingering, existential sense of doom — but you hadn’t actually opened them until today. Until five minutes ago, when he was already crunching up the drive. 

He shakes his head. His jaw goes tight, like he’s chewing on a word. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “With him? Like, what — what is this?” 

“It’s — fuck. It’s Joel’s thing. He’s — he’s building a house for your aunt, or something. I’m just along for the weekend. It’s a — it’s like a favor, for my dad. He was supposed to be here instead of me. Fuck, I obviously — I didn’t know she was your aunt, otherwise I never would have tagged along. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Hayes repeats. He sounds hollow. He looks bitter. His eyes scrunch up when you mention Joel’s name. “Makes it kinda hard to ghost me when you’re standing in my kitchen.” 

You don’t love the tone. You’ve been waiting since your first date — which had been, like, just a little too perfect — for something uglier to rear its head. A scrap of Southern-money, Stanford-bred entitlement, maybe. And there it is. Right there. My kitchen. 

Your aunt’s kitchen, you want to bite. But this is still a job, and you’re still here for Joel, and you’re on thin ice as is. So you keep your mouth shut. 

“Sorry,” you say, awkwardly. “I should’ve…said something.” 

Which is not entirely untrue. You should have cut him loose the second you’d landed back in Joel’s bed. But you just…hadn’t. You’d watched his texts come in, and let them fester unopened on your phone. You let the notifications pile up. Maybe because, in some ironic twist of fate, you didn’t want the confrontation. Or maybe some part of you liked the safety net. Liked the fact he’d still be there, on the hook, if Joel ran away again. 

So you mean it, when you tell him sorry. At least some part of you does. 

His shoulders relax. His tone softens. That ugly look goes out of his eyes — that one that surfaced when you first mentioned Joel — and you start to think maybe it was never even there. 

“Look,” he says, “if you didn’t wanna see me again, that’s fine, I just —” he huffs, “I would’ve appreciated, like, a heads up, maybe? Or just — a sign of life? So I know you didn’t fall off the face of the earth?” 

“Yeah,” you say, blankly. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t — I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.” 

He’s quiet. You both are. He taps his fingers on the marble and works his tongue over his teeth. 

“It’s okay,” he says, after a beat. “I just — I thought we had a good time. And I don’t usually, uh…” 

He looks at the counter. His cheeks turn pink. 

God, they’re so different. He and Joel. You have no idea how you landed somewhere between the two of them. One can’t make eye contact when he talks about sex. The other won’t fuck you without it. 

Hayes looks back up. He’s struggling. 

“I’m just trying to say — it was good. For me, at least. All of it. Not just the…you know. Not that that wasn’t good. It was fucking — it was amazing. But the rest of it, too. The dates. You. All of it.” 

He shrugs. His eyes are wide. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “It was nice, that’s all. I thought we clicked.” 

“We did,” you say. “We had fun.” 

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth. You leave out the part where you click a whole lot better with the contractor in his aunt’s office. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. You mean it a little less this time. “I just — things changed.” 

“Okay, but — in a day?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You changed your mind in a day?” He laughs now — like, chuckles, and it makes your skin prickle. “I mean, it just seems — we have these great dates, and then we have great — sorry — great sex, and then, like, you ghost me? You change your mind that fast?” 

Fuck. Off. 

You flip up your hands.

“It’s not — it wasn’t that serious, Hayes! We went on two dates. Two. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —  I should have said something. But it happens. It fucking — it happens all the time.” 

You get the sense, from the look on his face, that it doesn’t happen all the time to him. Handsome, whip-smart, rich as sin. White sneakers and a pearl-white smile. He doesn’t get ghosted. 

“It happens?” His voice is strained. He wants to snap at you, you can tell. You almost wish he would. “So you — what? You sleep with a lot of guys, never call them back?” 

“What?” You push yourself off the sink. Your skin flushes pink, then red. “Is that what I just said? Jesus. What the fuck?” 

“Sorry.” He rakes his hands through his hair. Shakes his head. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m not trying to — I just — I liked you. I still like you. I thought maybe I did something, or…” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you clip. There’s still some heat to your voice. Some edge. You’re not sure it sounds convincing. 

But he nods. Swallows. He looks a little kicked-puppy like this, sitting on a stool with his sneakers dangling. His eyes meet yours and you wish they were brown. 

“Guess this looks pretty dumb now, then,” he says. He lifts his wrist off the counter and your heart sinks. 

He’s still got that tacky five-dollar bracelet wrapped up on his wrist. The one you’d found together, at a thrift store in downtown Austin, when neither of you wanted your date to end. He’d gotten you a matching necklace. And you’d taken it off, the very next day, on your way back from Joel’s house. It was the last piece of Hayes that had lingered on you after Joel had fucked out the rest. 

“You took yours off,” he says. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I…” 

“No, don’t,” he says. He waves you off. “I’m sorry. That’s — it was just a stupid thing.” 

He unclasps the bracelet. It sloughs off his wrist and clatters to the marble. The little turquoise pendant glares up at you. 

“No,” you say. “It wasn’t stupid. It’s…” 

You trail off. You touch your hand to your neck where the necklace had been, almost like an afterthought. 

His eyes follow your hand. He tracks your fingers where they land and splay at your collar. 

And then he frowns again. Deeper. Darker. 

“What is that?” he asks. His voice is soft. 

You stare at him. Your hand stills under your throat. 

“On your neck,” he says, when you’re too quiet. “What is that on your neck?” 

It doesn’t click right away. What he’s talking about. Your fingers drift up your throat, rising with his stare, and that’s when you feel them. The red, raised marks on the side of your neck, hallway hidden by your hair. A handprint much bigger than Hayes’s. 

“What the fuck.” He stands up. Pushes the stool back. “Who — what the fuck?” 

You bring your whole hand up to the side of your neck. You press your palm into the shape of Joel’s and try to hide the mark when Hayes steps closer. 

His eyes are on fire. He’s got a weird look to him, like he doesn’t quite know whether to be angry or confused or concerned or something all in between. He gets uncomfortably close and you shrink against the sink. 

“Move your hand,” he says. “Let me see.”

“Stop it. Step back.” 

“Move your hand,” he says. He’s trying to peer under, over, around your palm. Trying to see where Joel’s fingertips stretch out across your throat. He’s really close now, close enough to touch you, and he lifts a hand to try and pry yours away. 

You yelp. Your hand jumps from your throat and you bat him away. 

“Hayes, stop,” you bite. “Don’t — fucking touch me.” 

He drops his hand immediately. Takes half a step back. You’re both panting. The mark on your neck is on full display. 

“It’s nothing,” you say. You swallow thickly. Stare him down, while you both catch your breath. “It’s fucking nothing.” 

But it’s not nothing. You can both see that it’s not nothing. 

“It’s probably — it’s probably from you,” you say. “From the other night.” 

“I didn’t do that to you,” Hayes says. His voice is cold. Distant. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

He’s breathing hard. His eyes are dark. 

“Who?” he asks. 

“No one,” you say. And then — “it’s none of your business.” 

He huffs. 

“Fine,” he says. “When, then? Cause — fuck. You were with me, like, just a few days ago. And you say you’ve been here, with your dad’s fucking — friend all weekend, so —”

Stop, you think. Fucking stop. 

But it’s too late. He gets it. That Stanford education at work. 

You watch his brow furrow, and you can physically see him connect the dots. The weekend trip. The fresh marks on your throat. The clinging cologne that sticks to your skin. 

“Holy shit,” he says. 

Your heart seizes. There are two options here, really — deny, deny, deny, — or scorched-earth it. You try for the first. 

“Hayes,” you say, “it’s not—”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t even say it.” 

There’s a pause. You swallow. 

“I didn’t say anything,” you say, quietly. 

Hayes shakes his head and then shakes it again. His hair tousles, like a waterlogged dog. 

“You fucked him,” he says, and it’s not a question. He says it like he’s convincing himself. “You — him?” 

You’re quiet. There’s not much to say. 

“Fuck me,” Hayes mutters. “Jesus.” 

He shoves his hands to his hair. Holds them there. “What the fuck,” he mumbles, half to himself. 

“Hayes—”

“No, I mean — what the fuck? Seriously! There’s — he’s — he’s, like, a thousand years old! What the hell are you doing?” 

“What the hell am I doing?” Anger roils at the pit of your stomach, hot and thick. “Why is that your fucking business? What are you, my dad?” 

“You’d probably like that, right?” 

“Oh, fuck off. What the fuck? Are you — are you serious?” 

“He’s — isn’t he your dad’s friend? Your fuc—your neighbor?” He stares at you, wide-eyed. “Jesus Christ. Is that why you haven’t texted me?” 

“Oh my god,” he says, when you don’t respond. “Is that why you were wearing his fucking shirt? The morning after we—?”

So he does remember that. You were hoping it might have slipped his mind. The same way you’d slipped into bed with him, beside him, wrapped up in another man’s shirt. 

You’d let him touch you, in the middle of the night. Put his hands under a shirt with Miller Contracting splashed in print across the back. It was fucking filthy then, and it’s filthier now. Now that he puts it together. 

“Is that why he threatened to hurt me?” Hayes asks. “Told me he’d break my jaw?” 

You’re silent. He takes that as a yes, because it is one. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Fuck. So I was — what? Like a — a game, for the two of you? Or—” 

“It wasn’t a game,” you bite. “It’s — fuck. It wasn’t a game. Just leave it alone.” 

“Leave it alone? He’s as old as my dad. You’re — look at your fucking neck. He’s —”

“He’s what?” Your pulse hammers. “He’s — what?” 

Hayes is quiet. You should be relieved, really, but the silence is worse. The way his eyes squint, like he’s working through a jigsaw. 

He takes a few steps back and you welcome the space. Your legs feel weak. Your head is swimming. You fold your hands on the lip of the counter and the marble stings your skin. 

He’s pacing. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. You wonder how long you’ve been out here. You wonder if Joel will start to worry. If he’ll burst out of the office, and thud down that hallway in his heavy work boots, and find you in the kitchen with your fists on the counter. 

You think about those guys at the bar last night. How they’d spoken to you. How Joel had…taken care of it. And then you think about Hayes — what Joel would do to him, if he could hear him right now — and the thought is weirdly comforting. It probably shouldn’t be. 

Hayes’s voice rises. You lift your head. 

“Are you okay?” he’s saying. You get the sense from his tone that he’s already asked. 

You blink. 

“Am I okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says. He’s breathless. His fists bunch at his sides. All tense, corded muscle. “Like — are you — is he making you do this? Is this, like — is he —?” 

You stare at him. You’re not actually convinced you’ve heard him correctly. It’s that insane of a question. But you clock the look on his face — totally, completely sincere — and then you’re fucking furious. 

“What?” 

“I can help you,” Hayes says, and you almost punch him in the face. “Seriously. Like, if this is — if he’s —” 

“What the fuck,” you breathe. 

Silence. Your fist balls on the marble. And then he opens his fucking mouth again, and you snap. 

“I just—”

“Jesus, Hayes!” Your palm comes down flat on the counter. The slap makes him flinch. “What the fuck is wrong with you? No. No. He’s — no. Of course he’s not.” 

“Of course? What do you mean, of course? You’ve got a—” his voice lowers. Wavers. “You’ve got a fucking handprint on your throat,” he says. “It’s sick.” 

“It’s not sick.” 

“No, ‘cause you don’t see it,” Hayes says, and he sounds so fucking condescending you want to scream. “Cause you’re — you can’t see it. You’re too — I’m sorry, but he’s clearly taking advant—” 

“I asked him to,” you bite. 

That…shuts him up. He stops pacing. You put a hand to your throat and trace the shadow of Joel’s fingers. 

“I wanted it,” you say. “I fucking asked him to.” 

He’s quiet. He looks at your hand. At the ghost of Joel’s. 

“You didn’t ask me to do that,” he says, softly. 

“No,” you say. “I didn’t.” 

He doesn’t say anything. Not to that. You push yourself off the counter. 

“Are we done here?” you ask, at the exact same time he decides to open his mouth again, and ask — 

“—are you in love with him?” 

You freeze. Full stop. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Is this, like…” he shakes his head. “I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck is going on here. Like, you think you’re in love with him, ‘cause he tells you what you wanna hear? Makes you feel special? Cause this is — this is textbook. This is Psych 101. This is —”

“Fuck off,” you snarl. 

You shove past him. Like — shove. Your shoulder clips his and he grunts. He reaches for you before you can pass and snakes a hand around your wrist. 

“Hey,” he says. “I care about you. I’m just trying to help—”

“Get your hand off me,” you say. 

His grip slackens. You rip your hand out of his. He tries to say something else — calls your name, when you stumble past him — but you’re already halfway down the hallway. You’re making a beeline for the office — for Joel — and when you get to the door your fingers tremble. You wrench the handle with your heart stuck in your throat. 

The door shoves open and spits you inside. You stand there panting, feet planted on carpet, and the look on your face must be downright desperate because Joel’s already on his way to you. 

He stops abruptly a few feet from where you stand. Like he’s just remembered Laurie’s there, behind him, watching you both with a frown. You wish she would fucking go. You wish everyone would just — go. You wish Joel would touch you. 

“Hey,” he says, softly, “are you…?” 

Hayes is on your heels. You can hear his slip-on sneakers squeaking down the hall. You look up at Joel and shake your head. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Joel, I’m sorry.” 

He frowns. His brows knit. His fingers flex at his sides, inches from yours, and you know it’s taking everything in him not to reach out and touch you. 

“Hey,” he repeats. Low. Slow. “Hey. What —?” 

The door rocks back open. Hayes’s squeaky footsteps hover at the threshold. You can hear his breath at your back, short and shallow. It pulls when he sees Joel. 

Joel’s gaze lifts. He looks past you, at Hayes, and the muscle in his jaw flinches. He doesn’t know what happened — he wasn’t in that kitchen — but the look on your face is enough. He looks about ready to strangle someone, client be damned. 

The silence stretches. Laurie clears her throat. 

“Okay,” she says, in that two-mojitos-deep twang, “look, I’m not sure what’s happening—”

Hayes interrupts her. He shoves his index finger at Joel. 

“This is who you want to hire?” he asks, and it’s so petulant, so boyish that it makes your head spin. 

Laurie laughs awkwardly. 

“He’s supposed to be the best,” she says. 

“Is he? Is he the best?” 

There’s a monumental silence. Hayes’s accusatory finger shifts: from Joel — to you. 

“Let’s ask her,” he says. “She’d know.” 

Your head snaps up. You open your mouth to fire back — are you fucking serious right now? — but Joel beats you to the punch. 

“That’s enough,” he snarls. “That’s fuckin’ enough.” 

You wince. So much for polite, yes ma’am Joel, who’d turned down Laurie’s offer of a drink at the door. This is the Joel from the bar last night. The Joel with a knife in his hand and a spark in his eyes. 

“Hayes.” Laurie again. Sterner, now. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on here? How do you know each other?” 

“Oh, well. That’s a funny story,” Hayes bites. His voice says it’s not very funny at all. 

He’s glaring at Joel. You thought they were the same height, that first night you met Hayes. But three feet apart, staring each other down — Joel looks a hell of a lot bigger. And a hell of a lot meaner. 

“He wants to break my jaw,” Hayes says, with a crooked, angry smile. “Right?” 

Joel huffs. 

“I’m sorry?” Laurie says. “What?” 

Poor Laurie. You almost feel bad for her. Just wanted to build her damn house. 

“Joel?” she says. “Is that — is that true?” 

Joel is silent. He takes a breath, and the exhale is ragged. He’s pissed. 

“Or maybe he’d rather choke me out,” Hayes says. His nose is all scrunched up, again. “That’s your thing, isn’t it?” 

The blood goes out of your face. You feel sick. 

“We’re done here,” Joel says. 

And then he is touching you. He’s got his hand on the small of your back, big and warm and safe, and you’re vaguely aware of him herding you toward the door. 

Laurie says something. She sounds confused. Maybe a little angry. 

Joel ignores her. He leaves everything on the desk — his pencils, his blueprints, his papers. He leaves everything except for you. 

Hayes scurries to stand in the doorframe. His stupid sneakers squeal on hardwood. 

“You don’t have to go with him,” he says. 

Your face burns. Hayes reaches out; tries to graze your wrist again. You flinch. 

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss. 

Joel’s hand tightens on your back. 

“It’s not right,” Hayes says. “He’s — guys like him, they’re not —”

“You don’t know a fucking thing about guys like him,” you say. 

You can’t be in this house for one more second. You rip yourself away — from Hayes and from Joel — and hightail it down the hallway. Back through the kitchen, back through the foyer, past Hayes’s spare white sneakers tucked in the entryway. 

Out the front door. Down the steps. Onto the gravel drive and up into Joel’s truck. 

It’s unlocked. You climb into the passenger seat and slam the door shut. 

And then — finally — you let yourself cry. You put your feet up on his seat. You rest your heels on the edge and bury your face in your knees. Your hands curl on the leather cushion. 

You take heaving, panicked breaths and stare at the floor between your legs. You don’t look up when Joel storms out the front door, a few minutes after you, and jogs to the truck with his keys in his hand. 

He doesn’t get in the driver’s seat. He comes around the truck instead, to the passenger side, and tugs open your door. 

He doesn’t touch you. He just stands there, boots planted in gravel, until you lift your head from your knees and look at him. 

“Hey,” he breathes. 

He looks shattered. You wonder if it’s because of you or the job. 

The job you just fucked. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

His face slackens. He looks heartbroken, now. 

“Oh, baby girl,” he murmurs. 

He leans in. He puts a broad hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest, into the soft, worn cotton of his flannel, and you breathe in his scent. His heart beats under your cheek. Slow and safe and steady. 

“‘M sorry,” you mumble. Your voice is muffled in his shirt. 

He holds you closer. Tighter. 

“It ain’t your fault,” he murmurs. 

But it feels like it is. It feels like it is. And you could swear he feels stiff, when he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he tucks you back into your seat, and walks around the driver’s side, and pulls out of the driveway with a tight look on his face. 

You watch the house blur in the rearview. The wheels stop crunching, and the gravel runs to road, and the added silence makes your chest hurt. 

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You lean your temple on the window and stare at the street. He turns onto a highway and you watch the double-yellow lines streak by in silence. 

You don’t know what he’s thinking. If he’s giving you space, or if he’s seething at the wheel. He’s impossible to read and you can’t think straight. You feel like shit. So — naturally — you assume the worst. 

That it’s your fault, even though he says it’s not. That he hates you, even though he held you hard enough to steal breath. That he’ll run away again. 

He flicks his blinker on and the sound startles you. He pulls off the freeway and stops at a red. 

“I didn’t tell him,” you say. It just — comes out. It seems important that he know. “Hayes. I didn’t say anything. He — he saw my —”

You gesture weakly to your neck. Joel tracks your hand in your peripheral. 

The light turns green. He doesn’t go. 

“I didn’t tell him,” you repeat. You need him to know. You tried to keep it a secret. 

He’s quiet. The car behind you honks. 

“Go,” you say, dully.  

He goes. He makes a right, back in the general direction of the hotel, and you take his silence for anger. You take his white knuckles on the wheel for pissed, not protective. 

“Can you say something?” you beg. “Please?” 

He swallows thickly. You look up at him, briefly, and he’s got the same expression scrawled across his face that he’d had that night, at your dad’s house, after he’d fucked you senseless in the kitchen. When he’d told you that he couldn’t do this. When he’d left you in the dark. 

You can handle Hayes. You can handle the embarrassment of — whatever the hell that last hour was. But Joel running away, for the second time in as many weeks — that you can’t take. That is too much. 

So you run first. Or you try to. 

He turns onto a busy street, lined with shops and signs and moms pushing strollers — and you yank at the car door. It doesn’t give. The stupid fucking auto-lock. 

Joel glances over at you. His brows knit. 

“Let me out,” you say. 

He blinks. You tug the handle again. 

“Fuck,” you swear. Your cheeks are hot. Your breath hitches, and you don’t want to cry again — not when you’ve just fucking stopped — but you can feel it coming. Rising up in your throat. “Can you just — let me out?” 

He says something. He sounds a little surprised, a little concerned — but you’re not listening. You’re pulling on the car door and your breaths are coming fast and thin. The truck is still moving, and Joel’s voice is slightly raised, and you think he’s telling you to stop but you can’t hear him right. 

“Let me out,” you repeat. There are tears on your face. 

You’re a little surprised that he listens to you. He slows down. Pulls over on the curb, alongside a packed sidewalk — and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt before he can speak. 

“Just—” He reaches halfway over the center console and then stops. Freezes, like he can’t quite tell if he should touch you. 

You push at the door and this time it gives. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much — Hayes’s words in the kitchen, and his hand on your wrist, and this feeling you can’t shake, now, that Joel is gonna run. It’s too much. You need — you need some fucking air. 

You jump out of his truck and your feet hit pavement. You make it ten feet down the sidewalk, sucking in dry, Texas air — before you hear his car door slam. Before you hear his heavy footfalls as he runs to catch up. And then his hands are on you — big, rough, familiar — grabbing you, turning you, wrapping you up in his arms. 

“Woah — hey.” He clutches you to his heart and you ball your fist in his flannel, push at his chest, but there’s no strength to it. You want him to hold you. 

And he does. Right there in the middle of the side, in broad daylight, with his truck parked haphazard on the curb. His keys dangle from a finger, locked somewhere behind your head. 

It takes you a minute to register what he’s saying. Over and over and mumbled in your hair. 

“It’s okay,” he’s breathing. “I gotcha. S’okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” you say. You sound fucking miserable, with your voice in his shirt. You don’t even recognize the sound. “You’re gonna run.” 

There’s a pause. His hands loosen and he pushes you back, just far enough to search your face. 

“Run?” he says. “Who’s runnin’?” 

“You,” you whine. “It’s a fucking — it’s a mess, with Hayes, and the job, and I —” 

His brow furrows. The corner of his lip crinkles up. 

“I ain’t runnin’ nowhere,” he says, softly. “You’re the one runnin’. Damn near jumped out the truck.” 

“Yeah, cause you — you looked so angry, I thought —”

“Angry?” His whole face softens. He shakes his head. “I ain’t angry, angel. Not at you.” 

Your lip trembles. You’re not sure what to say. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs. He pulls you in again and you go willingly, burying your face in his sleeve. It’s a far cry from the way he’d held you this morning, with a hand around your throat and his cock nestled inside you. This almost feels closer. 

“‘M right here,” he’s saying, again and again in the crown of your head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him. Your breathing evens and then stills. He’s not running. He’s not going anywhere. He’s right here, holding you, with his hands on your body and his mouth in your hair. He’s right here. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, for the millionth time today. “I don’t — Hayes, he fucking — the stuff he said. He got in my head.” 

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask you to. 

Instead he just says — c’mon, — in that intoxicating drawl, and slips an arm around your shoulder. He starts to walk and drags you close, into his side, unwilling to let you stray even when he’s on the move. You stumble to keep up. It’s an awkward angle and you’re too close to walk comfortably, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to. 

He leaves the truck half-cocked on the curb and ducks into the nearest store he finds. A little coffee shop, with all-white seating and a lavender sign. String lights strung out across the ceiling. Decorated cookies in the glass display. Your vibe. Not quite Joel’s. But he leads you in all the same. 

He parks you at an empty table and orders for you. Coffee in a to-go cup and one of those stupid cookies, with black and white frosted wings and an orange-frosted beak. A penguin. It’s such a dumb, sweet gesture that it almost makes you smile. You almost feel better. 

He doesn’t say much — never been too good at saying much — but he seems determined to make you smile. To convince you that this — none of this — was your fault. 

He digs a spare, stubby drafting pencil from the pocket of his jeans. He leans over the table and grabs your coffee, still half-full, and you protest weakly when he drags it to his side. 

He tips the cup and scribbles something with the pencil. You nibble on the edge of your stupid penguin cookie while you wait for him to pass it back. 

He slides the cup back across the table. You squint at his addition, and it makes you smile. An actual smile. Then it makes you laugh. You swipe dried tears from your cheeks and hold the cup up to the light. 

“What the hell is that?” you say.

He looks mock-wounded. He tucks the pencil away and nods to the cup. 

“S’you,” he says. “Y’know. Tried to capture the — the snarky look, ’n everythin’.” 

You stare down at his drawing. It’s like the world’s worst stick figure, with your name scrawled in pencil underneath. 

“It’s terrible,” you tell him. 

“Nah, it’s — it’s abstract,” he says. “Y’ain’t lookin’ at it right. Here—” he takes the cup back, hoists it up, and you laugh harder, “—see?” 

“Oh, yeah. No. Much better.” 

He smiles. His eyes sparkle. He’s trying so fucking hard to make you happy — the way he knows how, with anything but his words — that it makes your heart hurt. You were sprinting down the sidewalk fifteen minutes ago. Now you have to bite your tongue to keep from letting slip you love him. 

He hands your cup back. You reach out to take it and your fingers brush his. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. For this mess. For almost running. For assuming you would. 

“Stop apologizin’,” he says. 

“I was supposed to help you this weekend,” you say. “You were supposed to get that job. And I feel like — I feel like I ruined it.” 

“You didn’t—” he lowers his voice, “—you didn’t ruin anythin’.” 

“Yeah, but — I kinda did? I mean — I only slept with Hayes cause I was pissed at you, and then I never called him back, and now he fucking hates you, and he thinks you’re — he thinks you’re crazy, and his stupid rich aunt is gonna —”

You’re breathing hard, again. He stops you. 

“Stop,” he says. He reaches across the table. Closes your hands up in his. “Stop.” 

“Don’t care ‘bout the job,” he says. 

“Yes you do,” you mumble. “We drove all the way out here.” 

“Care ‘bout you,” he says. He leans back in his seat. Rakes his hands through his hair. “Fuck. I don’t — I care ‘bout you.” 

You’re quiet. You swallow a sip of coffee. 

“And if I…if I did cost you the job?” 

“You didn’t,” he says. A beat passes. He looks at you and sighs. “But you’re worth a whole lot more ’n a job.” 

There’s a long, delicate silence. You take another sip and set the cup down on the table. 

You sniff. Nod. 

“That’s really corny,” you say, finally. 

He pauses. Blinks. And then he laughs, and you do too, and the tension clinging to your shoulders diffuses. He told you it was okay — that everything was okay — and maybe it is. Maybe it will be. 

“Fuck you,” he says, with that crooked half smile. “Was tryin’ t’be nice.” 

“Don’t,” you say. “It’s weird.” 

He shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. 

“Someone’s feelin’ better,” he says. But you can tell he’s relieved. 

You hum. 

“C’mon, then,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.” He motions toward the fairy lights. The happy, purple paintings on the wall. “Place kinda creeps me out.” 

“I’m not finished,” you say, and he shoots you a look. He gives you hell, but he likes when you talk back. He likes the attitude. Likes it a whole lot more than muffled tears in his flannel.

“’S a to-go cup,” he drawls. 

He stands up. Swipes your coffee, so you’re forced to follow him. He hands it over when you’re back on the sidewalk and you wrap your palm around his scribbled, shitty drawing. You trace his pencil strokes with your finger and swallow back I love you for the second time today. 

You climb back into his truck and shove your coffee to the cupholder. He pulls off of the curb with a groan and you watch him while he drives. 

“Where are we going?” you ask. “Back to the hotel?” 

He shrugs. 

“Up t’you,” he says. “Finished earlier ’n I expected.” 

You swallow back a pang of guilt. 

“No real reason to stick around,” he says. “Could just drive on back to Austin. Make it back by dinner.” 

He looks quickly at you, and you try to read his face. Is that what he wants? Cut the trip short? 

“Or,” he drawls, and your pulse spikes, “we could—”

“Yeah,” you say. You don’t need to hear the rest. “That one.” 

He grins. Laughs. “Y’didn’t even hear the pitch,” he says. 

“Don’t care,” you say. “Long as we stay here.” 

He’s smiling at you, but you think there’s something in his stare. A twinge. You’d stay here forever, if it meant more time alone with him. You wonder if he feels the same. 

“Alright,” he says, softly. “That’s that, then.” 

You lean back against his leather seat. You ride in comfortable silence for a few minutes, down quiet, sleepy roads and residential streets — and his scribbled stick figure gazes up at you from the cupholder. Your heart swells. You twist the lid aimlessly and shift in his seat, squirming against the all-too-sudden tug between your legs. 

Maybe it’s just your pulse on a comedown, now that Hayes seems more like a memory and less like a threat. Maybe it’s the way Joel wrapped you up in his arms on the sidewalk and refused to let you go. Maybe it’s the shitty little sketch that winks up at you now, where his hands said what he couldn’t. 

It’s something. Something makes you desperate for his touch, right now, now that the shock of the world’s worst morning has diluted. 

He turns down an empty street. The sun blazes across the dashboard. 

“What d’you wanna do?” he asks. His drawl is sweet, syrupy. It melts on your skin like sunlight. “Could go back t’the hotel. Could go to the riverwalk. Used t’go there with Sarah, in the summers. They got a boat tour, s’posed to be —”

“Pull over,” you say. 

He looks over at you. Frowns. 

“What?” 

“Pull. Over.” 

“Why?” he asks, and you could swear he sounds distressed. “We just went over this. I ain’t chasin’ you again—”

“Joel,” you say, and something about the way you say his name makes him pause, “pull over.” 

He gets it. It clicks. He pulls the fuck over. 

Your seatbelt is off before he’s in park. You’re scrabbling at your pants and he’s doing the same, whipping off his belt, untucking his flannel, shoving down his zipper with rough, heavy hands. 

He leans down and tugs his seat back as far as it’ll go. Makes space for you between his chest and the wheel, when you climb over the console and straddle his lap. 

You need him so badly you can’t see straight. You can’t even wait to get back to the room, with the bed and the shower and the couch that he’s paid for. You’re like teenagers. Except you never did this as a teenager, because you were never this fucking desperate.  

He lifts his hips. Shoves his jeans and his boxers down in a rushed, messy motion. He’s got his cock out already, by the time you climb across to straddle him. Not wasting any time. He looks as desperate as you feel. 

Your knees punch the seat on either side of his lap. Your panties drag along the head of his cock and you wonder when you got this wet — at the coffee shop? Before that? When he stopped you on the sidewalk and held you in his hands? 

He has the same thought. The tip of his cock slides over soaked cotton and he groans. 

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. “Shoulda said somethin’. So fuckin’ wet f’me.” 

“Please,” you tell him. Your breath skates along his neck. Trickles down to his collar. “Joel. Please. I need—”

His thumb grazes your clit. He bears down gently and you gasp. 

“Tell me,” he says. He sounds urgent. Rough. He strokes you over soaked, scrappy fabric and something white-hot swirls at the pit of your stomach. 

“Need to feel you,” you say. It tumbles out broken, like you’re begging, and you think maybe you are. You just want him close. You just want him here. 

“Fuck,” he groans. He tips his head back. His hair is plastered on his forehead, where it’s been pressed against your collar. His eyes are glassy, wild. He looks like a mess already, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

You think he needs it worse than you do. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything, cause he’s reaching to yank your panties aside and you can’t fucking think straight. You rut uselessly in his lap and he holds you still, one hand on your waist and the other fumbling at cotton. His finger catches the edge of your panties and you whine something close to his name. 

You’re making a mess in his lap. Leaking onto his thighs, his seat. Your nails scrape his scalp and he mumbles something by your throat. 

“Hold—ngh. Hold still,” he says. He’d usually demand it. But this time he just sounds desperate: desperate for you to listen, so he can fuck you faster. Maybe it’s your urgency he’s feeding off of. Or maybe the morning was just as bad for him as it was for you — or worse, if that’s even possible — and he’s not in the mood to issue any orders. 

He drags you down against his lap and his cock slides through your slick. He gives a shallow thrust up and nudges your swollen clit. 

“N-need it this bad?” he pants. His voice is strained. There’s sweat on his brow. The setting, your urgency — it’s fucking with his head. It’s making his cock twitch, and his stomach pull, and you watch through hooded eyes as he swallows back a moan. “In the fu—fuckin’ car, baby girl? Right on the f—fuckin’ street?” 

He shoves your panties further aside. His knuckle strokes up your seam and heat curls your skin. 

“F-fuckin’ filthy,” he breathes. “F—ah.” 

You can’t wait any longer. You’re impatient. He told you he was right here, when he held you on that sidewalk, and you want to believe him. You want him to prove it. You want him right here, right now, closer than close. 

You sink onto his cock before he can guide you, grinding your hips down into his lap. His head flies back against the seat. His thighs tense. Whatever mumbled, half-formed thought was on his tongue gets swallowed up in a moan. 

He lets you take the reins. For a little while, at least. You ride him as best you can in the limited space his truck allows. Your head brushes the ceiling and your knees leave divots in his seat. The glass fogs, and the air goes thick, and the little evergreen car freshener that dangles off his mirror can’t do much to mask the smell of sex. 

You can tell he’s not gonna last long. You could tell before you buried yourself on his cock, and you can certainly tell now. His nails dig into your waist, lighting up your skin, and your breath punches somewhere by his head. 

“Fuck, baby, slow,” he growls. “I ain’t—ain’t gonna last.” 

“It’s — fuck, it’s fine,” you mumble, and it is, it’s fine, you want him to mark you up and spill inside you and you don’t fucking care about anything else. “Joel, I don’t care, just—” 

Your head rolls back. His cock throbs inside you and your hips stutter on his lap. 

“It’s fine,” you repeat, “please, just fucking—please.” 

He hisses through his teeth. His hands slide to the top of your ass and he squeezes. You mumble his name and your body goes slack, folding into his, content to let him take over if it means you can stay nestled in the crook of his shoulder. 

He gets a good grip on your ass and thrusts up into you. It’s a deeper, sharper angle than the one you’d managed, bouncing on his lap — and it makes you yelp. You bite down on his shoulder and get a mouthful of flannel. 

He likes that. You can tell. He rumbles deep at the back of his throat and his cock stumbles into you. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. He thrusts up into you and drags you down at the same time, hitting something deep inside you. It’s cramped in here, and your knees ache, and his thrusts are frantic, like he’s clawing at the edge — but it’s fucking — good. It’s right. 

Heat pulls across your skin. Dances low at the base of your stomach. Your hand shoots from his hair and slams against his window, grasping at glass. You’re this fucking close, and then — 

Joel cums. Hard. No warning, no break in the frantic way he’s fucking you. His cock pulses inside you, mid-thrust, and his breath snags in his throat. His grip on you goes tight, so tight it’s almost painful — and then he slackens. All of him. Slumps back against the seat with his cock still speared inside you. 

“Shit,” he’s mumbling. He blinks, hard. He looks as surprised as you. “I don’t—” 

You kiss him. It’s messy. Tongue and teeth and shallow breaths that you swallow with your own. But it shuts him up. His hands rake up your ribcage and you clench around him, squeezing his half-hard cock. He groans. He breaks the kiss and pants. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, angel, s’too — too — fuck. Too much.” 

You smile softly. Nip at his jaw. You slide off of his cock and his groan sends a pang between your legs. A not-so-subtle reminder that you didn’t quite cum. 

Joel can read your mind. He looks up at you, while you straddle his lap. Pushes a strand of damp hair back from your forehead. 

“M’sorry,” he says, a little sheepish. 

“For…” 

“For cummin’ like a teenager,” he says. “I don’t — you fuckin’ — you do somethin’ to me.”

He swallows. You smile softly.  

“Mm. A good something?” 

He huffs. You drop your head to kiss his neck and he strokes his hands up your back. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “A good somethin’.” 

You hum into his neck. His hands still. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t even — did you…?” 

You pull back. Search his face. 

“Yeah,” you lie, after half a second. You’re not sure why you lie. He’d take care of the ache between your legs in two seconds flat, if you told him to. But you just — you want him to feel good. He’s had enough disappointment for one day, you figure. “Yes.” 

He looks at you funny. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. But he doesn’t push it. You lean to kiss him again and he cups your face in his hands. 

He leans down to pull the seat forward with you still straddling his lap. Your back hits the steering wheel and the horn blares. 

You jump at the sound. 

“Fuck,” you mumble.

He laughs. 

“Go on,” he says, helping you clamber back to your seat. “‘Fore the neighbors come out.” 

He drags his jeans back up while you settle in your seat. Re-does his zipper and his buttons. He leaves his belt on the floor, coiled somewhere by the brake pedal, and he doesn’t bother tucking his flannel back in. He rakes a hand through his hair and it still comes out tousled. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, with a glance in the mirror. “You made a fuckin’ mess.” 

You shake your head. Roll your eyes. But he does look wrecked, thanks to you, and you’re smiling when he puts the truck in drive. You pull your pants back on and push the ache between your legs out of your head and tell yourself it’s fine — you don’t have to cum every time. You can let him be the mess, once in a while. 

He looks over at you, nestled in his seat. He leaves one hand on the wheel and drapes the other on your thigh. Squeezes, gently. 

“Good?” he murmurs. 

Kind of a loaded question. You don’t know if he’s asking about the frantic, heady car sex, or the hot fucking mess that came before it, or just — all of it, in general. 

“Yeah,” you say, quietly. You put your hand over his. Trace the fading bruises on his knuckles. “Good.” 

— 

The second half of the day is significantly better than the first. You almost forget about Laurie and her stupid white-sneaker, white-knight nephew. 

Joel takes you back to the hotel to change, because it’s muggy as hell and all your clothes smell like sex — and you pick out a sundress that makes him swear. He puts on the same t-shirt you’d stolen from him this morning, and you’re willing to bet it’s cause it still smells like you. And then he rakes a comb through his hair, and when he looks a little less wrecked and a lot more presentable he takes you back out. 

He suggests the riverwalk and you couldn’t care less, so you ditch the truck and walk the three blocks there. It’s hot out, and humid, but he holds your hand the whole way there. So it’s worth it, you think. You’d walk six more blocks and be a whole lot hotter if it meant you could keep him this close. 

And — when you get there — you have to admit he was kind of right. It is cool. There’s live music playing everywhere you look. People with guitars, and mariachis, and keyboards on colorful carpets. Open-air restaurants sprawled on the water’s edge. Packed boats drifting by on black water. 

He’s two for two on date locations. You tell him as much while you walk. 

He smiles. You think he looks proud of himself. 

“You really never been here?” he asks. He lets your hand go. Drapes his arm around your shoulder, instead. 

You shrug. “Maybe on a school trip or something,” you say. “But, like, way back. Nothing I remember.” 

He grunts. He leans into you; kisses the crown of your head, and your heart sparks. 

“Show ya around, then,” he drawls. “Make sure you remember this time.” 

You don’t think that’ll be a problem. Every second of the last two days is burned like a brand on the inside of your brain. The way he tastes, the way he smells, the sound of his voice when you kiss him awake. 

You press closer into his chest. “Don’t think I’ll forget,” you say, softly. 

—

You walk until the sun sets. He even convinces you to get on one of those stupid tourist boats that drags a lazy route up the river. 

“I look like a tourist,” you whine, when he drags you onboard. 

“You are a tourist.” He takes his phone from his pocket and points the camera at you. You scowl. Mostly to hide the smile that’s creeping up your throat. 

“Smile,” he says. 

You try to scowl deeper and you crack. He snaps a picture when you laugh — a couple, you think, of you against the river in that flowy little dress — and smiles half to himself when he swipes back through them. 

The boat starts down the river, slow. It’s kind of nice, actually. It’s cooler on the water, and the lights from nearby restaurants make the surface shimmer. You push yourself off the railing and hold your hand out for his phone. 

“Lemme see,” you say. “The pictures.” 

He swipes his phone open and shows you. You cup a hand to the screen and squint. 

“You need to work on your skills,” you say. “My eyes are closed in half of these.” 

He grunts. 

You go to hit delete on the worst ones and he practically rips his phone away. Tucks it back in his pocket. 

“What?” you say. “I’m just — lemme get rid of the bad ones.” 

He looks at you. Frowns. 

“Ain’t any bad ones,” he says, and he sounds so sincere it makes your heart hurt. “Not ‘a you.” 

Your cheeks heat. You shake your head. 

“Fuck off,” you mumble.

He gives you a crooked smile. He puts his chest to your back and loops his arms up around you. You wrap your hands around the steel rail, watching the water, and his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. His stubble grazes the curve of your jaw. 

“I mean it,” he says, after a minute. You can see his reflection when you stare down at the water. Interspersed with twinkling lights. “Y’look — you’re beautiful.” 

You thought it was enough he called you pretty, way back on the Fourth of July. This is something else entirely. This is soft and warm and almost shy, whispered gently over water. 

You turn halfway in his arms. When you catch him in a kiss he murmurs low against your lips. 

“Joel,” you say. 

“Yeah, angel.” 

You look at him. Swallow. If you did work up a nerve, you’ve already lost it. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. 

He’s quiet. His fingers stroke back your hair. 

“S’okay, baby,” he says. “I know.” 

— 

He takes you to dinner, too. 

After the boat. When the sun is gone, and the air is cool, and your skin is flushed pink from his touch. You pick a random place — the first one you see, with a chalkboard menu set out by the river — and take a table outside. 

He gets a whiskey and you get a cocktail. One of those fun fruity ones, with the little pink umbrella floating on top. He teases you, mercilessly, until you shove the straw into his mouth and tell him to try. And then he shuts up. 

“See?” you say. More than a little smug. “It’s good, huh? Better than your stupid whiskey.” 

He frowns. Takes an unhappy sip of his own drink. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

You laugh. 

The rest of dinner is comfortable. Easy. He talks about Sarah and he asks about school. He asks a lot of questions — like, a lot, as far as Joel goes — and you think he just likes to hear you talk. He’s got a quiet, happy smile scrawled across his face when he listens to you. Like a cat in the sun. 

And then — of course — his phone rings, just as you’re finishing up. He sets his fork down on his plate and stares at the screen. 

“Your dad,” he says, flatly. He shows you the phone and you frown. Shrug. 

He picks up. Pulls the phone back to his ear. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

You put your own fork down. Watch his face, while he talks to your dad. He doesn’t give much away — the occasional sniff; a short nod of his head, a tap of two fingers on the white tablecloth. You’re not sure why your pulse is pounding. 

“Yeah,” he says, again. “Sure. It was fine.” 

There’s a long silence. Joel scratches at his stubble.

“Dunno,” he says. “’S a big job. Said she’d get back t’me.” 

You look at the ground. Your face heats. Joel says something else — a few more things, noncommittal and stereotypically short — and hangs up. He stares at you across the table. 

“What’d he want?” you ask, dully. 

“Checkin’ in,” he says. “Wants t’know ‘bout the job.” 

“Mm.” You push some food around. “What are you gonna tell him? When we get home?” 

“Dunno.” He blinks. “I’ll think ‘a somethin’.” 

You nod. 

“Hey,” he says, softly. “S’okay.” 

“Yeah,” you say. You nod again. Lift your gaze, to look at him. “Yeah.” 

Your own phone buzzes. You glance down at your lap and Hayes’s name lights up the screen. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

“That kid again?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “Fuck. I’m just — I’m just gonna block him.” 

Joel nods. You swipe your phone open and navigate to Hayes’s contact. You block his number and then delete his whole text thread — just like that, without even reading whatever shit he’s just sent. 

“There,” you say. You put your phone down on the table, face-down. Lean back in your seat, and swirl your pink umbrella. “Should’ve done that a week ago.” 

Joel hums. He takes a sip of whiskey and watches you across the table. 

“What’d he say?” he asks, quietly. “Today. At the house. When you — ‘fore you came back in the office.” 

“Hayes?” 

Joel nods. 

“Oh,” you say. You swallow. “I mean — nothing. It was just — he was being a dick.” 

“But it bothered you,” he says. 

“Not — I mean, yeah, but not —” you fumble, “—it doesn’t matter.” 

“Matters ‘f it bothered you.” 

You’re quiet. Joel is, too. Hayes’s voice rings in your ears. 

It’s sick. 

“He…” you poke the pink umbrella in your drink with your pinky.  “I don’t know. He said you were…” 

Your waitress crops up at your table like a gopher. She re-fills your water, then Joel’s, and there’s a pregnant, suffocating silence. You smile politely and wait til she goes. 

You reach for the water. Your fingers tremble on the glass.

“He said a bunch of shit,” you say, quietly. “That it was — sick, what we’re doing. That you’re — that you don’t actually lo—I mean, that you’re not—that it’s not real. That this isn’t real.” 

Joel is silent. You shake your head. 

“It’s just bullshit,” you say. “He’s — it’s just bullshit.” 

He blinks. Settles back against his seat. Your eyes drag up to his, and there’s something pleading in your stare. 

“It is bullshit, right?” you ask. “I mean, this is — it’s real, right?” 

He swallows. You watch his breath catch in his throat. 

“It’s real,” he says, softly. “You’re—”

His jaw flickers. You watch him wrestle with the words. 

“It’s real,” he repeats. “It’s a fuckin’ — it’s a mess,” he huffs, and he almost smiles, “but, yeah. Fuck. It’s real. Ain’t nothin’ as real ’s this.” 

You take a breath. Laugh, lightly. His fingers touch yours, splayed out across the table, and your skin sparks at the contact. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Kind of a day, huh?” 

He shrugs. 

“Rough start.” He smiles. “Think we saved it, though.” 

You grin. Bury your nose back in your drink. The check comes and he pays, with the same worn, weathered wallet he’s had since the dawn of time — and then he stands and takes your hand. He leaves a crumpled tip on the tablecloth and you take the long way back to the hotel — up the bank and along the river, so he can watch your face under the moon and your reflection in black water. And so he can drag you close, and kiss you, and tell you you’re beautiful again and again and again when the stars paint you both silver. 

—

You do eventually make it back to the hotel. Eventually. 

You don’t want the night to end, so you pretend you’re not tired, but the truth is you’re exhausted. It’s been a fucking day. You kick your shoes off, and your dress, and you tug another one of Joel’s shirts over your head. And then you take one look at the fluffed-up duvet, and the thousand pillows stacked like ski hills — and you curl up on the sheets like a kitten. 

Joel’s right behind you. He climbs up beside you in just a pair of black boxers and the mattress dips under his weight. You stretch out and move closer, wriggling into his chest. He strokes thick fingers through your hair and you feel him hum. 

He reaches for the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV on. That stupid hotel information channel blares quietly. Color swims across the duvet. 

“Mm,” he mumbles. “What d’you wanna watch?” 

“Don’t care,” you yawn. You turn your face out of his chest, a little, to squint at the TV. “Haven’t watched cable TV since I was, like, five.” 

You can feel his eyes roll. You smile into his skin. He draws you closer to his side and flips aimlessly through channels. 

He pauses on one. American Pickers. You can’t even see the screen, the way you’re buried in his side, but you’ve spent enough time with your dad to know this shit when you hear it. 

“No,” you say, sharply, when you feel Joel perk up. “No. Absolutely not.” 

“Thought you didn’t care,” he says. 

“Yeah, well.” 

“You ain’t even watchin’,” he complains. 

“No.” 

He grumbles. Keeps surfing. 

“Storage Wars,” he says. 

“No.” 

“Ooh,” he says — like an actual, genuine ooh — “Pawn Stars.” 

“Oh my god,” you groan. You turn further into his chest. “I’m going to sleep.” 

“Alright,” he says. “Jesus. Fine. Here.” He clicks at the remote. “Here’s fuckin’ — don’t know what the hell this is.” 

You lift your head. Sigh in relief. You snatch the remote from his hand and crank the volume. 

“Fuck yeah,” you say. “Say Yes to the Dress.” 

“Oh, Christ,” he mumbles. But he doesn’t put up a fight. If you weren’t pressed so tightly against him right now you’re pretty sure you’d see him smile. 

You watch for a while, too tired to talk but too stubborn to sleep. You draw lazy circles on Joel’s stomach with the tip of your finger, dipping occasionally to skim the waistband of his boxers. He tenses up when you do that. Every time, like a reflex. His skin prickles and his breath pulls, and then you drag your hand back and he relaxes. 

He strokes aimlessly at your hair. His heart beats hard and strong under your cheek. He makes an inane comment every few minutes, directed at the screen, and you stifle your laugh in his chest. The bride on-screen tries something on — some cream, fishtailed monstrosity — and you feel Joel shake his head. She tries on another and he grumbles. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Poor lady. Got no goddamn taste.” 

You giggle. Your nose scrunches in his skin. His arm tightens, clutching you closer, and he buries a kiss at the crown of your head. 

“Mm,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ funny?” 

“You,” you say. “You’re cute.” 

“I’m cute?” 

“Yeah.” You drag a finger down his chest. You pause at the hem of his boxers and he stiffens almost instantly. “You’re cute.” 

He twitches, almost imperceptibly. Your hand drifts lower, just a little bit lower, and he sucks in a breath. His cock swells against fabric. 

He stops your hand when you reach for his lap. Wraps your wrist up in that soft-steel grip. 

“’N you’re a liar,” he says, softly. 

Your brows furrow. 

“I’m a—” 

“Liar,” he echoes. He cocks his head. Rolls his tongue across his teeth. “’N not a very good one, either.” 

You blink. You’re about to ask him what he means when he pins your trapped hand to the mattress and rolls on top of you. The TV drones somewhere behind him. 

He gathers up your other hand and pins them both above your head. He’s so fucking big, all of him. Just one of his palms folds easily over both of your wrists. You squirm a little, yelping his name, and he ignores you. His shirt rides up your hips when you wriggle in the sheets. 

“Joel,” you mumble. You’re not so sleepy anymore. 

He spreads your legs with his knee. His free hand slips between your thighs. You’re not wearing any underwear — just his shirt, and nothing else — and the realization makes him swear. He swipes his thumb up your slit, gathering slick, and his eyes go dark when he feels how fucking wet you are. How wet you’ve been all day, since you almost — almost — came in his car. 

“Asked you ‘f you came, in the car today, ’n you said yes.” He rolls his thumb over your clit and your hips buck into his hand. “But that ain’t true, is it?” 

You say something incoherent. He presses down with his thumb, lighting up a thousand nerves, and you bite so hard on your lip you taste blood. 

“No,” you squeak. 

“No,” he echoes. “Poor baby. You’re fuckin’ soaked.” The pressure on your clit lets up, and he cups your cunt with his warm hand. Your hips roll. You grind into the heel of his palm, desperate for friction, and he gives you fucking nothing. 

“Why didn’t you let me take care ‘a you?” he whispers. 

“It’s—” you squirm. He holds his hand stubbornly still, buried between your thighs, letting your slick soak his fingers. 

“Just wanted — wanted you to feel good,” you say. And it’s true. You just wanted to be close. You just wanted him. 

He’s not having that, though. Of course he’s not having that. 

“Don’t feel good ‘less you cum,” he says, softly. 

You’re quiet. His black eyes search yours. 

“S’okay, angel,” he murmurs. He drags two fingers through your folds and crooks them at your entrance. “Let’s fix it, yeah?” 

Your hips jerk. You wriggle uselessly, rutting into his palm. Your trapped wrists whine under his hand. 

He fucks you slow with his fingers. Excruciatingly slow. You can feel his pulse, when his wrist flexes between your thighs. He splits you open on his knuckles and you welcome the stretch. 

Your nails dig into your palms. You’d scratch him, if you could touch him. But you have to use your words — beg him over and over to go faster, deeper — and he doesn’t fucking listen. He likes watching you squirm. Maybe this is what you get for lying. 

“C’mon,” you whimper, “Joel, please—”

He goes even slower, if that’s possible. His fingers curl deep inside you and he pumps a lazy, languid rhythm.  

“Fuuuck,” you groan. You push up against his hand; try to fuck yourself on his fingers, but you’re pretty much pinned. The hand on your wrists makes sure of that. 

“Please,” you repeat. “No more lying. Won’t do it again, I swear to g—god, Joel, fuck, — please—” 

He drags his fingers out of you. You throw your head back and try not to curse him out. 

But then he’s letting your wrists go, and rolling off of you, and shuffling down the sheets to sprawl out on his back. 

You blink. Rub at your wrists. He pats his chest — come here — and you climb into his lap a little uncertainly. His cock strains against his boxers. It nudges your ass when you straddle him, prodding you through cotton, and he bites back a groan. Butterflies swarm your core. 

“C’mere,” he says. Pats his chest again. 

You hesitate. You’re not really sure what he wants. You shuffle forward a little, off of his lap and away from his cock, and hover over his stomach. He huffs. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Come here.” 

He grabs your hips. Not — rough, but a long way from gentle. He drags you higher, over his stomach and the flat plane of his chest, maneuvering your hips until they’re dripping over his mouth. 

You suck in a breath. Your legs tremble. You’re trying not to drop your whole weight to his face. But the grip he’s got on your thighs, pulling you down — says that’s exactly what he wants. 

“Sit down,” he growls. 

“I don’t —” You hesitate. The ache between your legs burns, and his mouth is inches from your cunt, and you want to sink down onto his tongue so fucking badly but you’ve never actually done this before. Not — not like this. 

“I’ve never...”

“Sit down,” he repeats. His drawl goes straight to your core. “’N make yourself cum.” 

Your breath sharpens. Stills. He parts his mouth — licks his lips, like he’s starving — and the gesture is so obscene it almost makes you moan. 

You can’t think straight. The throb between your legs is borderline painful. So — fuck it. You sink down, onto his mouth, and — 

“Holy fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—” 

He’s busy. His tongue is buried in your folds, licking up your sea, and his nose bumps your clit. The contact makes your hips roll, almost involuntarily. You grind against his face and he rewards you with a low, hungry sound at the back of his throat. 

He drags his mouth away for a split second. 

“Do that again,” he says. 

You hesitate. He doesn’t. He puts his hands on the backs of your thighs and rocks your hips forward, against his lips and his tongue and his nose, setting a rhythm that makes you tremble. When you’re sure he’s not gonna suffocate, or — when you kind of stop caring whether he does — he takes his hands away and you do it yourself. You put your palms out on the headboard and roll your hips into his mouth. 

And when you start to stumble a little, and the heat in your core pulls so tight you almost snap, he helps you. He dips the tip of his tongue into your cunt. Lets you ride him like that, with his soaked tongue licking deeper. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “F—feels so f-fucking good, Joel, fuck, I’m gonna—” 

He hums his approval, with his tongue still buried in your cunt. You cum across his face and he fucks you through it, lapping you up with soaked lips and dark eyes. It’s filthy — it’s filthy — and when you open your eyes long enough to look at him he’s completely fucked. His cock is straining at his boxers, somewhere underneath you, and you’re sure it must be downright painful at this point but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or he just doesn’t care. 

You start to lift your hips off his face and he tugs you back down. You yelp. 

“One more,” he says. 

He wraps his teeth around your swollen clit. Applies gentle, gentle pressure. Enough to rip his name from your throat. 

“I—fuck,” you pant. “I can’t.” 

“Yes you can,” he murmurs. “Y’owe me, angel. One for this afternoon—” he licks a stripe up your seam, and you writhe, “—’n one for tonight.” 

Your head tips. You brace shaky hands back on the headboard. 

This time he does the heavy lifting. He pays exclusive attention to your clit until you’re squirming, and chanting his name, and it’s this close to being too fucking much. He pulls you right to the edge and holds you in place with his hands on your hips. When his tongue slides inside you again, dipping warm and wet and wicked into your cunt — your second orgasm hits you so hard you see white. 

He doesn’t wait for you to come down. He flips you over right as you fall apart and drags his boxers down. His cock slides inside you and you’re so fucking soaked he bottoms out in a single thrust. You whine his name, somewhere between your own shaking, shallow breaths. He manages a few frantic thrusts, but he’s already dripping pre-cum, and he’s impossibly hard, and your muscles are choking his cock. The end of your orgasm drags out his own and he spills inside you with a moan. He kisses you, hard, and you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His cock throbs inside you. You squeeze around him and he groans into your neck.

You’re vaguely aware that the TV is still on, blaring somewhere in the background. Say Yes to the Dress is long over. Chip and Joanna Gaines are demolishing a lake house on screen. 

He kisses you again. Slips out of you with a shallow breath. He rolls over onto his back, panting softly, and you nuzzle into his side. 

A few quiet moments pass. You put a palm to his chest and watch his breathing even out. He strokes a pattern up your back and you melt into his touch. 

“Um,” you say. “That was…” 

His fingers still over your spine. 

“Next time,” he murmurs, “tell me the fuckin’ truth.” 

You shift. You lay your chin on his chest and stare up at him. 

“Or what?” you say. “You’re gonna do that again? Cause if that’s the punishment…” 

He shakes his head. You tip forward to kiss him and his stubble rakes your jaw. 

“Impossible,” he mutters. 

“Shut up.” You smile into his mouth. You sink back against his chest, and you’re so fucking tired, all of a sudden. Your bones are heavy. You drape your leg over his and try to shuffle even closer. “You love it,” you slur. 

There’s a pause. Your brain jolts awake, and you think maybe you might have said too much. The wrong thing. You love it. You love me. 

But then his hand is on your back, again. Stroking lazy, aimless patterns. And his voice is honey in your hair. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”  

—

You drive back to Austin in the morning. 

Joel buys you a coffee on the way back, and lets you listen to your music, and this time he sings along. Reluctantly, at first. But you wear him down, the way you usually do. You crank the volume on some shitty pop song until the windows on his truck start to tremble. You watch his scowl twitch to something like a smile. 

You make record time getting home. You kind of wish there was traffic. Like, the bumper-to-bumper kind that drags a ninety-minute drive into an all-day affair. The kind that would normally make you want to rip your hair out. But you fucking wish for it, now, because then you wouldn’t have to leave him so soon. 

You wonder if he feels the same. He’s almost impossible to read, and it’s not like he’s keen on sharing. Getting him to express an emotion is like pulling out a tooth. 

But he’d been quiet, this morning. Quieter than usual. He’d held you tighter than ever, when you’d woken up in his arms. Kissed your lips, and your neck, and your shoulder. You’d pretty much had to shove him off you, when you’d finally decided it was time to shower. And even then he’d followed you, into the bathroom and into the water, watching you with puppy-dog eyes and a sad little scowl. You’d let him shampoo your hair with silent fingers and wrap you up afterwards, in a towel and then in his arms. 

So, yeah. He might not say it, and you don’t press it, but — you think he’s bummed. You think he’ll miss you. 

You’re almost done with your coffee when he gets off the freeway. He pulls onto your street and you shove it in the cupholder, next to his scribbled cup from yesterday. You’d never thrown it out. His stupid drawing still stares up at you. 

Your heart tightens. He pulls into your driveway, behind your dad’s car, and puts the truck in park. 

He squints at his watch. Frowns. 

“He’s home early,” he says, with a nod to your dad’s car. 

You shrug. 

“Maybe he called in?” 

“Your dad?” Joel scoffs. “That’d be a first.” 

You shrug again. You’re kind of preoccupied, trying to say goodbye to Joel. You don’t really give a shit if your dad called in or not. But for whatever reason Joel seems intrigued. 

“I’ll check on him,” you say. “I’m sure he’s fine.” 

“Yeah,” Joel says. He sounds weird, you think. Strained. “Sure.” 

He tears his gaze back to you. His eyes soften. 

“I had fun,” you say, softly. “This weekend.” 

“Yeah,” he echoes. “Me too, angel.” 

You swallow. Your hand folds on the handle, but you don’t open the door. It’s like you can’t quite bring yourself to leave. To get out of his car. 

“Go on,” Joel says. He smiles. Nods again to your dad’s car. “Sure he missed ya.” 

“I’ll call,” he says, when you still don’t move. “Promise. Just — gimme a few hours t’get settled.” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Okay.” 

He watches you. He takes half a breath, like he wants to say something else, but he just — doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry again,” you say, quietly. “About the job.” 

He shakes his head. 

“Stop,” he says. 

“I’m just—” 

“Stop.” His eyes dart to the windshield, like he’s checking for the all-clear — and then he leans over the console. Kisses you, with his broad hand on your cheek. You mumble into his mouth and sink into his touch. 

He pulls back. Blinks. The taste of him settles on your tongue. 

“Fuck the job,” he says. 

You chew at your lip. Your pulse pounds at your throat. 

“Yeah,” you say, after a beat. “Fuck the job.” 

Your hand wraps around the handle and this time you do get out. You hop to the ground and squint at the sun, slinging your bag across your shoulder, shoving your phone to your back pocket. You weave between Joel’s truck and your dad’s car and make your way up the drive. Up your front porch steps. You turn around on your threshold and Joel’s already pulling out, reversing down your driveway, lifting two lazy fingers off the wheel in a subtle wave goodbye. And then he’s just — gone. He’s back across the street, pulling into his own drive, and you seal yourself inside before you can chase him. 

— 

Your dad isn’t in the living room. Which is weird, since that’s, like, the only room he lives in. Almost as weird as his car in the driveway at 11 am on a Monday. 

You drop your duffel in the entryway. Peer into the living room and back down the hall. 

“Dad?” you call. 

Nothing. You frown. He usually greets you at the door like a Spaniel. 

“Hello? Dad?” You duck into the kitchen. No dad, but there is a stack of plates in the sink. An empty Hamburger Helper package left out on the counter. So a sign of life, at least. 

“Hellooooo,” you singsong. You grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it up at the sink. You push the kitchen door back open. Wander out into the dining room. “I’m ho—” 

There he is. Sitting at the dining table. Elbows on the wood. 

“Jesus,” you say, a little startled. “You scared me. Did you not hear me calling you? I just got home, like, two seconds ago.” 

He doesn’t respond. Your brows furrow. You take in the whole scene — the slumped shoulders, the bags under his eyes. The four glass bottles of beer beside his hand, all empty, and the rest of the case on the floor by his feet. At least two more empties, from what you can see. 

You can smell it on his breath. On his clothes. In the stale, heavy air. 

He’s hammered. 

“Dad,” you say, a little uncertain. “What—”

“Where’s Joel?” 

“Um.” You set your glass down. Your breath crawls up your throat. “He went home.” 

He nods. He picks up the bottle closest to him and swirls the dregs. When he looks up his eyes are dark. 

“How was the trip?” he asks, quietly. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, it was — good. Are you—”

“How was the hotel?” he interrupts. “Room good?” 

He already asked you that. Yesterday. When he insisted on speaking on the phone. But you chalk it up to a full case of beer. 

“Um, yeah,” you say. “It was good.” 

“Good view, right?” he slurs. “The one I booked? S’posed to be a garden view.” 

You nod, slowly. 

“Yeah,” you say, again. “Good view.” 

He slams his bottle down. A crack snakes up the neck. 

“Why the fuck,” he asks, and you flinch at his voice, “—are you lyin’ t’me?” 

Your heart stutters in your chest. The blood runs from your skin. 

“What?” 

“Sit down,” he slurs. He points to an empty chair. 

You swallow. Feel it stick. 

“You’re drunk,” you say, cooly. Or at least — you hope it’s cool. You try to keep your voice even. “And I’m tired, actually, so—”

“Sit your ass down,” he snarls. 

You sit down. 

“Dad,” you say. 

He shakes his head. Takes a deep, unsteady breath. 

“You wanna go first?” he asks. “Or should I?” 

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[thursdaywritings]

Saw You Standing There

-Marc Spector Imagine

Based on this ask from @apollo-enthusiast

“needing the other's presence, even if they're each doing their own thing, but they have to be with each other" or "feeling like they're missing a limb when they're alone" from the marriage prompts, for either of the moon boys x gender neutral reader

Content: fluff, social drinking, Marc Spector x gn!reader, not beta'd

Word Count: 888

"And that is why you made partner and not Dylan," your favorite co-worker reminded you, bumping your shoulder.

The two of you casually sipped your champagne, conspiratorially tucked away, dressed to the nines, and completely ignoring the fact that this little workplace event was at least partially in your honor.

Having sacrificed huge chunks of your personal life to make partner at your law firm, you exhaled slowly, feeling as if you finally might be able to relax, especially since you'd beaten out the most annoying woman of all time - who thought she was God's own actual gift to law.

Despite your chumming around and gossiping with your work bestie, your leg fidgeted anxiously. You may be great with depositions and you could typically argue your way out of a paper bag - professionally. But personally, you were typically pretty serene, and even a tad socially anxious.

Surrounded by congratulatory wishes and years-long acquaintances did nothing to fill the hole inside your chest. Even a ballroom full of half-drunk partygoers reveling in the tunes of an actually decent DJ felt empty somehow.

Then you saw him.

Dressed in a dark suit, inky curls smoothed away from the handsome contours of his face, hands stuffed into his perfectly fitting pants pockets. His warm, brown gaze scanned the room, making you bloom to life when he saw you.

With a half smile and an almost cocky nod of his head, he winked, letting you know that he knew - you were, if nothing else, relieved to see him.

Your bestie was still rattling on about various office gossips, but the sounds around you faded away.

"Uh-huh," you absently nodded, mindlessly setting your empty champagne glass on the nearest tray. "Sorry, I'll be back - my husband is here."

You started working your way toward Marc, your skin prickling with heat as you anticipated the solid warmth of his body - the woodsy aroma of his aftershave. The temptation to pluck loose one of his perfectly gelled curls. Even the warmth of his breath on your ear as he would inevitably greet you... 'Hey, baby,' rumbling deep in his chest.

But you had just made partner and there were congratulations to be given, elbows to be rubbed..."schmoozing" as your Jewish husband called it. So you did your duty a little longer, moving inch by agonizing inch toward your goal.

Marc was sucked into several conversations, having learned, over the years, how to listen with feigned interest, flash his charming smile and then excusing himself, leaving an impression, even when he was dismissive - all for your sake.

He was doing that now, nodding politely at the prettiest, curviest attorney on staff. Not really his type, unbeknownst to her. "Good to see you - I'm just going to congratulate my partner," you heard him tell her.

Your heart fluttered in anticipation at the sound of his voice - he was so nearby, but still just out of reach.

"I have incredible plans for us," your senior partner went on, rambling for almost ten minutes, and clearly having enjoyed quite a few glasses of champagne. He was someone you could not wriggle away from, but then, you were saved.

"Ahh, Marc!" The man thundered in his perfectly authoritative courtroom voice. Cheeks tinged with merriment, he clapped your husband on the back. The much smaller man flinched, brandishing a grimacing smile, turning on the charm for your benefit.

"Mr. Avery, it's a pleasure," he greeted, though his eyes never left yours.

"I was just telling your lovely partner how..." Mr. Avery pulled Marc into an awkward side hug, proceeding to bore him with future plans for the firm.

Marc's gaze stayed with you, smirking as you mouthed, 'I'm so sorry' while trying not to giggle.

"Mmm, yeah, absolutely," Marc halfheartedly agreed with your senior partner, sending you a playful death glare in the process.

'Thank you', you silently added. 'I love you.'

'No you don't!' he teased back, nodding his head to the side as if begging you to get him out of there.

"Uh, Mr. Avery," you finally interrupted, reaching for your husbands arm. Even through a couple layers of clothing, the feel of him electrified your fingers. "Would it be all right if steal my husband for a dance?"

Glancing back and forth between the two of you, the older man guffawed. "Of course! Go, you two, go - show us how it's done!"

Giggling like teenagers, you grabbed Marc's hand, dragging him away as fast as possible. You had no intention of dancing - Marc knew this - so he swiped a couple of glasses of champagne as the two of you found the nearest length of wall to huddle up against.

"You're not going to make me dance after that, are you?" He joked, chugging his champagne like a shot.

"No," you breathed, intoxicated utterly by the solid warmth of him - the masculine smell of him. Setting your glass of champagne down, you yanked on the lapels of his jacket and crushed your mouth to his.

"Mmm," he mumbled against your mouth, disposing of his own glass so he could wrap his strong arms all the way around you.

"Hey baby," he murmured, just like you knew he would, rubbing his nose gently against your cheek once you pulled away.

"Hi," you whispered adoringly. "I'm so glad you're here."

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