daydreaming

MOONKNIGHT☾

STEVEN☾

Sunday (4.2k)

-> your date night takes an unexpected turn, and Steven doesn't know what day it is

Pyjamas (1.6k)

-> getting home after a long day at work to Steven

Professor (5.2k)

-> your egyptology professor is hot

Christmas lights (1.1k)

-> christmas fluff

MARC☾

Vigilante (2.1k)

-> you finally meet the strange masked figure you’ve seen roaming the streets under the cover of darkness

LOKI

Breathe (1.2k)

-> you have a panic attack, and Loki feels it (soulmate!au)

Chaos magic (2.5k) II (2.6k)

-> wandavision but it's lokiy/n

Dreamer's Ball (1.4k)

-> there's a special occasion to celebrate on asgard

How to hold a sword (2k)

-> loki and y/n bullying each other for ten minutes

HEADCANONS

hugging loki for the first time

drunk loki

domestic/relationship situations with marc/steven pt.1 pt.2

He does not leave your side. You turn and he’s there. You need something? Drink, jacket, you name it, he’s there, ready and waiting.

There always seems to be a point of contact between you when he’s drunk. Subtle, but there nonetheless: a hand resting lightly on your arm, your waist, cupping your shoulder.

You swear you could watch him like this forever, relaxed, quick to smile and laugh, a perfect ache in your chest as you stand beside him and pretend you’re smiling at whoever it is you’re talking to and not the feeling of his cool fingers against your skin.

He’s no less regal like this, certainly no less handsome, but there’s an ease to him which you absolutely adore.

If the way Loki looks at you sober is enough to make you blush and look away, the way he looks at you when he’s drunk damn near knocks you out.

It’s all you can do to stay upright when he catches your eye (if you manage to stray that far from him, that is) across the room and then sends his gaze slowly, deliberately down and then back up your torso.

Perhaps you take revenge on his blatant eye-fucking by accidentally letting one of your straps fall a little too far down your arm when you’re stood next to him, or letting your dress ride up just the tiniest bit too far when you sit and cross your legs on a barstool.

Bonus points if you can make his breath catch, or make him clench his jaw. This usually always happens, his fingers tightening slightly against your skin if you’re anywhere within his reach.

And god help us all if he catches someone else so much as glancing at you in a way which suggests the vaguest of attraction.

This man does not have an ounce of shame in his body when it comes to proving that you’re his, pulling you against him gently but firmly and reaching down to kiss you, other people in the room be damned.

If you’re both sat when he catches someone else looking in your direction you barely have time to blink before you’re in his lap and he’s pulling you back to lean against him, arms sneaking round your waist, lips suddenly, dangerously close to your neck.

And don’t even get me started on what inevitably happens after you leave.

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‘My grip is fine,’ you tell him, turning away and repositioning your feet so that you can carry on with your training. It’s been a long day and you are not in the mood for one of his visits. You begin moving through the motions you’ve been taught, which you’ve been practicing for the better part of the afternoon, trying to quiet your mind.

Loki sighs loudly behind you, and you grit your teeth, ignoring him.

‘Look, you’re doing it wrong—’

You spin around and direct the tip of your sword at the Prince of Asgard’s throat, which he looks nothing short of delighted about. It might be the first time you’ve seen something like a semblance of a smile on his face. He raises his hands slowly along with one of his eyebrows, and the look of amusement on his face only serves to enrage you further.

‘Don’t think for a moment I won’t run you through with this blade,’ you tell him pleasantly.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it darling,’ he replies, and you scowl, dropping the sword to your side.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve been watching you,’ he says, looking over your head across the courtyard as he speaks as though he has other, more interesting places to be.

‘Yes. It’s starting to become tiresome,’ you reply, and he looks back to appraisingly like you’ve said something to please him.

‘I’m leaving. And you’re going to come with me.’

Your mouth falls slightly open and you find yourself wondering whether the man before you takes pleasure from confusing you constantly.

‘I hardly know you,’ you manage to say.

‘I am your Prince,’ he replies in a tone which very nearly makes you raise the sword back to his throat.

‘And I hardly know you,’ you repeat. You think you see his jaw twitch and hope that you’re annoying him.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asks, as if any one thing you could ask him would help to counter your confusion.  

‘Why would you have me come with you?’

‘You tell me what you think of me. No one else will, it’s refreshing,’ he tells you shortly. ‘Anything else?’

There is everything else, but he seems to take your bemused silence as a sign that you have no further questions. ‘Good. We leave tomorrow.’

‘And if I don’t want to come?’ you ask, standing a little straighter.

‘Oh, but I know you do,’ he says, taking a step towards you. ‘And if you say a word about this to anyone—’ he continues, and your hand clutches at air as your sword appears in his hand instead and he levels it at your throat, his voice dangerously low. ‘Don’t think for a moment I won’t run you through with this blade.’

There’s real threat in his eyes as he looks at you; your breath catches as the tip of your sword comes to rest gently at the hollow of your throat.

‘Well?’ he asks softly when you don’t reply, lifting the blade a fraction of an inch to lift your chin up. Your heart is pounding in your chest, you’re not entirely sure he won’t make true on his claim and it’s only this that stops you from calling him something unspeakable.

‘Fine,’ you grit out, jerking your head away. He lowers the sword looking insufferably smug, until you snatch it back from him and turn away.

‘You’ll need to learn how to hold a sword properly,’ he says from behind you.

‘I know how to hold a sword properly,’ you scowl, adjusting your grip and repositioning your feet, again.

‘If you knew how to hold a sword properly I wouldn’t be able to do this,’ he tells you, and your sword flies unceremoniously from your hand, yanked away by some invisible force. You watch it land on the ground several feet away, baffled, sure that your grip had been perfect.

‘It’s not your fault. They don’t teach combat properly here anymore. It’s all etiquette now, as though that matters when you’re in the thick of it,’ Loki continues. You’re not quite listening, still wondering how he could have possibly known about your plans to leave Asgard. He summons the sword back to his hand and moves so that he’s stood in front of you, adjusting his grip so that he’s holding it in an entirely different way to how you’d been taught.

‘This is how you hold a sword.’

He passes it back to you, and you take it, adjusting your grip to match his. It feels instantly better, you have more control over the sword already.

‘I like my way better,’ you lie, for the sake of irritating him.

‘Then you are going to die very quickly,’ Loki replies amiably. ‘Will I see you at the ball this evening?’

You almost feel dizzy from the rate at which this conversation is moving.

‘Perhaps,’ you shrug noncommittally. Loki looks vaguely amused before turning and walking away without another word, leaving you holding your sword in a way which feels both alien and secure at the same time. You give it an experimental swing and it slices through the air with a precision which you’d been seeking not ten minutes before.

…

‘You look ridiculous.’

You spin around and see Loki stood behind you, having snuck up on you again.

‘Stop being so creepy. Why can’t you just say hello like a normal person?’ you ask him. He doesn’t reply, seemingly too busy looking you up and down. You cross your arms and lean back again the cool stone wall behind you in an attempt to get him to stop looking at you.

The ballroom is packed full with nobles and royals dressed in masquerade, clad in ludicrous masks and outrageous outfits, yourself included. You look back at Loki who has mercifully directed his attention at some other poor Asgardian. He looks just as ludicrous as everyone else.

‘Like what you see?’ he asks, and your expression goes from one of thinly veiled contempt to incredulity.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were staring at me,’ he remarks, turning back to you.

‘I was just thinking about how stupid you look,’ you tell him. He smiles, which you hate. The sconce on the wall behind you holds a flame which illuminates one side of his face as he turns back to look out across the ballroom and you catch yourself before you can start admiring his side profile.

‘You didn’t tell anyone?’ he murmurs, so quietly you wonder if he’d said anything at all. You shake your head almost imperceptibly, still stood with your arms crossed. ‘Good,’ he nods, and then there is a great cheer and round of applause as a dance comes to an end.

Loki sighs. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you to dance.’

‘Why on Asgard would you ask me to dance?’ you ask him.

‘Forget it. I doubt you even know how,’ he says.

‘As if that’s going to work on me,’ you scoff, unmoving.

‘I bet you’re awful at it, the way you were moving earlier out in the courtyard—’

Before he can finish you’ve set off, making a beeline for a bored looking girl in a mask resting against the north wall of the ballroom. ‘Care to dance?’ you ask when you reach her, and she hesitates for a second before taking your hand.

‘I don’t really dance,’ she says as you lead her on to the dancefloor.

‘Me neither,’ you reply, making an extreme effort not to look at Loki as the jaunty music starts up once again. It’s been so long you’ve forgotten that you actually quite enjoy dancing, and by the time the song ends and the ballroom erupts into a cheer both you and the girl you’re dancing with are smiling.

Before you can remove yourself from the dancefloor or wipe the smile from your face the girl has been replaced with Loki, who looks far too self-satisfied for your liking.

‘So you can enjoy yourself,’ he says, and you make an effort not to scowl at him.

‘I suppose so.’

The music starts up again, but this time it’s considerably slower. You see your own panic reflected in Loki’s eyes behind his mask for a second, but then it’s gone and he’s reached out to pull you towards him. You’re halfway to protesting when your chest meets his and his hand comes to rest on your waist and quite abruptly you’ve forgotten what it was you were going to protest against.

‘Were you going to say something?’ he asks, fitting his hand which isn’t on your waist over one of your hands; your other hand lifts automatically to his shoulder. Were you?

‘No,’ you say, passionately hating how much taller than you he is. He starts to move and you follow his lead, wondering how you can avoid acknowledging the fact that he’s a very good dancer.

‘Ask me more questions about leaving,’ he mutters into the space just above your ear.

‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to talk about it.’

‘Obviously you can talk about it to me,’ he says, and you think you can detect a hint of an eye roll in his voice. It nearly makes you smile. ‘I know you have more questions.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘That I was planning to leave.’

He’s silent for a moment before replying, which makes you wonder if he really had known about your plan to leave after all.

‘I know a lost soul when I see one. You don’t belong here, just the same as me.’

‘You’re the Prince of this place, as you seem to so love reminding everyone. What possible reason could you have for wanting to leave?’

‘If you’re really asking me that question then you’re even stupider than you seem,’ he replies shortly. You don’t reply, moving to the music and the shuffle and chatter of a hundred other people around you in silence.

‘Ask me something else,’ he says eventually.

‘Can I trust you?’

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his mask.

‘Can I trust you?’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘My answer depends upon yours.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then I don’t know either.’

For some reason this makes you smile. ‘Okay.’

‘That’s it? You don’t want to know where we’re going?’

‘I bet you don’t know yet.’

Loki scoffs. ‘Of course I know where we’re going.’

‘Fine,’ you say, watching him as he looks away over the top of your head again. ‘I trust you.’

If you hadn’t been inches away from him you might have missed the small, sharp inhale, the brief flash of something in his eyes at your words. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ you say, waiting for him to meet your gaze. When he finally does, he looks almost uneasy.

‘Don’t get familiar,’ he says, and you’re not sure whether he’s talking to himself or you.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,’ you reply.

Loki looks away, biting the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from smiling. He’s sure he’s chosen well.

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The steps of the dance require that you step away from him in order for him to be able to spin you beneath his arm, so it’s a few seconds before you are back in his arms and able to reply.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ he murmurs, and you smile, looking away. The ballroom of Asgard’s palace is dripping with even more splendour than usual this evening; it almost aches to look at it. Even the Asgardian people look expensive, and you still can’t help but feel like an imposter at the centre of all this grandeur, despite the fact that you know you look as though you fit right in.

You’re in the process of drawing your face back into a contented, relaxed expression which you know Loki will see right through when Sif and Fandral pass by you on the dancefloor. You make eye contact for only a second; Fandral winks and Sif pulls a face and then they’re gone, but suddenly the smile on your face comes naturally again.

Loki is watching you, you can feel his gaze on you like something physical and so look back at him. His expression is unguarded, relaxed. Content. After such a long time of seeing an absolute lack of anything from his expression and behind his eyes, it’s a wonderful sight that is becoming less and less rare. You still remind yourself to enjoy it, though.

His fingers gently press your side where his hand rests on your waist, and you realise he’s expecting a response. ‘Honestly, I can’t,’ you tell him truthfully.

‘Your mind is moving too fast even for me this evening.’

‘Are you telling me you can’t keep up?’ you tease, and amusement flashes across his features, a brightness behind his eyes and an upward tilt at the corner of his lips.

‘With you? Never.’

You’re right up against each other, but somehow it isn’t nearly close enough as he smiles down at you and runs a thumb over your fingers which are enclosed in his leading hand. As you turn with him on the ballroom floor you catch a glimpse of Odin and Frigga sat together on their thrones at the head of the room. Odin’s gaze extends somewhere across the room; you don’t need to look to know he’s watching Thor, but Frigga’s eyes rest much closer to you, on her youngest son. As you look to her, her eyes flick to your face instead, her expression kind and serene.

‘Your mother is watching us,’ you mutter, smiling before looking away as you turn yet again.

‘She always is,’ Loki replies, and you can hear the matching smile in his voice without having to look at him. The song draws to an end and you’re forced to step back from him, dipping into a curtsey as everyone breaks into polite applause.

‘Another?’ you suggest, but Loki shakes his head and draws you away from the dancing.

‘I’m tired. Maybe later,’ he tells you, plucking two glasses from a passing waiter with flutes on a tray and handing one to you, turning to watch as the next song begins and the dancing starts again. You search the room for Valkyrie and eventually spot her hovering next to her bride, clad in a light blue suit and looking nothing short of radiant despite the scowl on her face.

‘Hold on,’ you say to Loki, and start making your way slowly across the ballroom towards her.

‘Don’t leave me,’ Loki hisses, catching hold of your arm as you start moving away. Valkyrie sees you making your way towards her and immediately moves to meet you half way, grasping your other arm as she reaches you.

‘This is tedious,’ she tells you desperately before you’ve even had chance to speak.

‘You’re not having fun?’ you ask, realising as the words leave your mouth that it had been a stupid question. The look on Valkyrie’s face confirms this.

‘Loki, I need your help,’ she says, and Loki freezes, halfway through a gulp of his drink, still absentmindedly holding on to your arm. He swallows, lowering his glass slowly, almost suspiciously. ‘It’s my wedding day,’ Valkyrie adds, almost threateningly.

‘What do you need?’ Loki asks, passing you his half empty glass. Valkyrie throws her hands up in despair. ‘I don’t know. Some excitement. Chaos. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?’

At the mention of chaos something subtle ignites behind Loki’s eyes, and he shifts almost imperceptibly by your side. ‘I am,’ he replies, and then vanishes, his hand sliding from your arm.

‘Do you have any idea what destruction you might have just caused?’ you ask Valkyrie, who at least looks a lot happier now.

‘Yes,’ she grins, grabbing the glasses from your hands and pulling you on to the dancefloor where the music is now a lot livelier. You dance, and drink, and then dance some more, all the while wondering where Loki had disappeared to and what he might be up to, hoping that it’s nothing too dramatic.

At some point Odin and Frigga leave, and the music becomes livelier still and the lights seem to dim as it grows dark outside. The room is a lot louder all of a sudden, and you realise that you might be drunk as you twirl ever faster around the room with your friends. When yet another song ends and you stand catching your breath you catch sight of Loki stood across the room, leaning against the tall stone wall and looking ridiculously, effortlessly attractive, his gaze fixed on you.

You start making your way towards him, but you barely get three steps before Thor materialises in front of you and pulls you in the opposite direction in order for you to dance with him. Then there’s Fandral, and Valkyrie (‘this is more like it’) again, and friends and strangers until it all becomes one big loud, happy blur.

The next thing you know you’re back in Loki’s arms at the side of the ballroom which opens out to the gardens, your back against his chest and his hands cupping a glass of something in front of you.

‘What’s this? Shots?’ you ask hopefully, trying to remember how you came to be in this position. You can barely hear your own voice over the sound of the music and the voices of everyone packed on the dancefloor. You doubt Asgard’s palace has ever seen such a party. Loki’s chest shakes with laughter behind you. ‘No, water,’ he says in your ear.

‘Boring,’ you mouth, but drink some anyway before wriggling in his embrace until you’ve turned to face him. He’s got that mischievous glint in his eye and is looking at you in a way which makes you slightly weak in the knees. ‘What did you do?’ you ask him, and he just leans down to kiss you which you know means something you wouldn’t approve of so I’m going to distract you and find that you’re absolutely okay with it.

‘No further questions,’ you mumble as he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours in a rare, rare show of public affection and smiling faintly.

‘You look… devastatingly beautiful tonight. More so than usual,’ he tells you in a voice low, and despite the fact you’ve heard these words and many more like them cross his lips before, they still make you blush and look towards the floor, a smile creeping across your lips. Usually you’ve got an answer for everything, but tonight when you feel so beautifully delirious and the warm air is soaked with something that feels a little bit like magic you feel content to give in to a quiet, happy, ‘thank you.’

As you turn again and Loki pulls you back against him, catching your breath in the high-ceilinged ballroom and looking around at the scenes which you know are going to be immortalised as treasured memories even by morning, you’re still not quite convinced you haven’t died and reached some form of heaven.

Tag list💌: @tess-joel-me @later-gators12 @sammi-doll483 @unofficialxmarvelfreak @mischief2sarawr

Finally, finally you’re inside, slamming the door shut behind you as though it has personally wronged you. The apartment is warm and filled with a soft glow from the Christmas lights which you’d spent the previous weekend putting up together, alongside your dubiously decorated Christmas tree. Something delicious smelling is coming from the kitchen alongside Christmas music, and it’s only when Steven appears around the corner with a smudge of something white in his hair that you realise how tightly wound you are.

It's all you can do to keep tears from filling your eyes as he smiles and moves towards you wearing that stupid apron which he likes so much. ‘Hi,’ you smile, dropping your bag from your shoulder to the floor.

‘Hi love. I was worried about you,’ Steven says, holding out his arms. You go to him instantly, but then frown when he draws back with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Jesus, you’re freezin’. Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you call? Marc was ready to go out lookin’ for you.’

He draws you against him as he speaks, encasing your hands in his and bringing them to his chest.

‘The bus was cancelled, then my phone died. And the traffic was bad because of the snow,’ you reel off, still shivering despite the warmth of the apartment.

‘Well, you’re here now,’ he says, brushing his lips over your knuckles. ‘You okay?’

You nod, blinking hard so that he doesn’t think you’re upset. ‘Just glad to be home.’

He smiles at that, and the love that you have for him which rises in your chest is such a physical sensation that you feel your shoulders drop and your jaw relax, your lips parting slightly. Steven’s gaze darts down to your mouth as this happens, and then bends to press his lips against yours.

You hum happily, smiling into the kiss before he pulls away and straightens up. ‘Go and get warm before we both get frostbite,’ he tells you, waving you away towards the bedroom as he turns back to the kitchen.

Discarding your coat and shoes by the door you do as he says, changing into the warmest, comfiest clothes you own (well… Steven owns) and putting your phone on charge before joining him in the kitchen.

‘I thought we could watch a film tonight?’ he suggests as you hop up onto the countertop next to where he’s preparing dinner.

‘Sure. How was work?’ you ask, and he pulls a face.

‘Fine.’

‘No luck with Donna?’

‘Nope,’ he sighs. ‘One day she’ll see that I’m talkin’ sense. But ‘til then…’ he trails off and shrugs as if to say what can I do?

‘She’ll be sorry when you get her job,’ you tell him matter-of-factly, and he smiles across at you ruefully. He’s all smiles and softness where Marc is smirks and hard edges, not that you love either of them any less for it. But sometimes when Marc smiles all you can see is light sparkling off of the cutting edge of a knife. With Steven it’s like the glow of Christmas lights through the window when you get home at the end of a long day.

‘What?’ he asks, and you realise you’re staring at him.

‘Nothing. Come here,’ you say and he obliges immediately, moving to fit into the space between your legs and wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his head on your chest. You put your arms around his shoulders, pushing your fingers up through the ends of his hair at the base of his neck and smiling when you hear him groan.

‘How was your day?’ he asks, the vibration of his voice in his chest resounding against your torso.  

‘Same old. Infinitely better now that I’m home,’ you tell him, and holds you tighter for a second, pressing a kiss to your jaw before untangling himself from you and turning back to the food.

‘Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving,’ he says, and you realise that you are too. You move into the dimly lit living space and settle on the sofas, you already starting to eat as Steven flicks through films on the TV.

‘What’re we watching?’

‘Your favourite,’ he replies, bringing up Night at the Museum on the screen and pressing play.

‘This is your favourite,’ you protest, smiling. He shakes his head as though he’s utterly convinced that he’s right.

‘You said it was yours too.’

‘One of my favourites,’ you correct him, too caught up with eating to get into a proper argument about it. When you’re both done you pause the film while he takes the dishes away and makes some tea (peppermint and green), before returning with chocolates as well.

‘This is my idea of a Friday night,’ he says happily, settling back on to the sofa with you. Moving to lean against him you pull a blanket over the two of you as he presses play, shifting so that his arm is around you.

You’re so warm and content under the blanket in your cosy apartment that you don’t even tell Steven to be quiet when he starts complaining about historical accuracies like he always does, feeding him chocolates instead to shut him up.

If he knows what you’re doing, he doesn’t mention it.

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masterlist ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You suggest reorganising the bookshelves. This takes weeks. Steven is so meticulous about where his books go, even though it looks like a mess to anyone else, he can find the book he’s looking for in seconds when he needs to. You have your bookshelf, but your books have started spilling over, which is fine as long as they’re in the right section.

Honestly I could write an essay about this. Steven sat cross legged on the floor surrounded by books, stacking them into piles and trying to work out how best to organise them, brow furrowed. You giving up trying to help after a while, realising he has his own, very complicated system. Rearranging the plants and fairy lights around everything when it’s finally done. Smiling whenever he looks at it for the next few days.

Both of the boys like to rant when they’re worked up about something, but the topics on which they tend to get so upset about vary drastically. If Steven is upset about a new display at the museum, or Donna getting his name wrong yet again, Marc will be angry about something going wrong on a mission, stomping and swearing around the flat injured and covered in blood.

Similarly, you have to learn that they can’t be calmed down in the same way. Steven can usually be placated pretty easily by a cup of tea or a shoulder massage, whereas with Marc you have to let him burn out by himself. When he finally collapses into a chair and goes silent, then you can move in and start patching him up best you can, dropping kisses onto his skin at regular intervals until he’s fully relaxed.

Baths. Steven doesn’t usually have a bath, and if he does you’re in there with him. Marc, on the other hand, would live in the bath if you let him. He’ll soak until the water’s cold and all the bubbles are gone, half asleep with a contented half smile on his face. He’d never admit it, but he loves coming home to a bubble bath.

Sometimes when you wake up you find Marc asleep on the sofa, not wanting to have woken you up when he got in from a mission the night before. Despite your protests he continues to do this if he knows you have to be up early the next morning, even though you’d rather be tired and know that he’s come home safe that night.

Similarly to the laundry, you can tell who’s been shopping while you’ve been at work by the contents of the cupboards and fridge and how they’ve been organised. Steven will have a meal plan on the wall and all of the (mostly fresh) ingredients neatly stowed away. Marc will have filled the freezer up, and maybe bought some fruit and veg, if you’re lucky.

Steven one hundred percent gets distracted and dances with you in the kitchen when you cook together. Enough said.

Sometimes you’ll catch Steven before he rushes out the door, ever late, for work to fix his tie or his hair. This isn’t necessarily because it looks bad, you’re just after one more kiss before he leaves. If he’s caught on, he doesn’t say. If you’re fixing Marc’s hair or clothes before he rushes out the door it’s most likely because he’d lost track of time with you in bed that morning. You’ve been late countless times for similar reasons.

‘Laughter is infectious,’ sure, but Steven’s laugh is actually infectious. If he’s laughing, you’re laughing, it doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at or where you are. Similarly, Marc laughs so little that when he does you find yourself smiling regardless, relishing in the sound, trying to memorise it.

Steven is annoyingly good at presents, and you struggle to match the thoughtfulness of his gifts. Marc has a strict no present policy, which you happily disregard during every holiday, knowing that he’ll complain and then smile secretly afterwards, when he thinks you can’t see.

You try to eat breakfast and brush your teeth with whoever it is you wake up to every morning, schedules allowing. It puts you in a good mood in the mornings, and prepares you for the rest of the day. If you get frustrated at work you think about breakfast, or how you get to go home to such a loving environment that night. It usually makes you feel better.

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Steven loves to cook, and the only thing he loves more than cooking is cooking together with you. At least once a week he’ll bring home a new recipe for you to make together, which more often than not ends up being absolutely delicious.

You bring your Wii (‘What’s this?’), which turns out to be a huge hit with Marc, who becomes quickly obsessed with Mario Kart, and even more obsessed with winning at Mario Kart. You learn soon enough to let him win, lest he sulk for the rest of the day.

‘It’s fine. I’m not a sore loser.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes.’

Steven always hovers around you when you paint your nails, and you can’t help but notice. One day you ask if he wants you to paint his nails, and he jumps at the chance. At first he just has every other nail, but eventually he wants all of them painted.

‘You’re welcome to use these any time you want.’ ‘No, I like it when you do them.’

In the evenings you sit in bed together and read in companionable silence, the lights down low and usually with the sound of the rain soft against the windows, Marc’s hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets or Steven’s fingers caressing your hair. It’s your favourite time of the day.

If it’s Steven you wake up to, there will always be coffee within five minutes of you both opening your eyes, without you having to move from the bed. If it’s Marc, there’s usually a (good-natured) argument about who has to go and put the coffee on. You always win.

Regardless of who it is you wake up to, you’re never left wanting in terms of cuddles. They both love nothing more than to keep you in bed for as long as they can in the mornings, something which you’re not opposed to.

Laundry is a controversial topic in the flat. Steven will happily do it. Marc abhors it. You can tell who’s fronting that day when you get home from work just by looking to see if the laundry has been done.

There’s an event at the museum and Steven takes you as his plus one; he takes you shopping to buy you a new outfit for the event. When you come out the changing room in a floor length red dress, his jaw practically hits the floor. He’s eager to get you back to the flat after that particular shopping trip.

Steven might be the more… chaotic, of the two, but he’s got a good memory and is careful with his tasks. Marc, on the other hand… it’s not unusual for him to have to run back into the flat three times or more of a morning before he finally leaves.

‘Love you, bye.’ ‘Forgot my bag, love you, bye.’ ‘It’s cold, coat, love you, bye.’ ‘Keys…’ and so on.

Steven leaves notes for you around the house, which you collect. Sometimes they’re reminders: Don’t forget to feed next door’s cat. See you later x. Sometimes they’re shopping lists, or sometimes they’re just plain sweet. I miss you. I hope you had a good day at work. I can’t wait to see you.

Marc likes to take charge when it comes to anything manual, like fixing things. He’d rather die than call someone in to fix the washing machine.

‘I can do it. Yes I know what I’m doing.’

Last time you’d had to wait until he was away with work before calling in a guy to fix it, remarking when Marc returned that he must have fixed it before he left. If Marc suspects anything, he doesn’t let on.

Changing the bedding is always an ordeal, and you rope in Steven to help you every time, knowing Marc has an innate hatred of anything to do with laundry. It takes two of you to get the slightly small bedsheet on, and although you teach Steven the trick you know to get the duvet cover over the duvet over and over again, he can never quite get the hang of it.

part two is up! find it here

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