#Wendy Spector

[traveller-of-the-knight]

[guruan]

The Mind Electric - Moon Knight Animatic

Read the card at the start for warnings!

I don't know why but I suddenly had the urge to draw something for this...

I wanted to grab even more verses, but it was too much for now 😂

If I ever go back to this, I'd like to reduce some loops and add some more things...

I had some ideas for some verses that I had to ignore because it didn't follow the flow of the previous scene. Like the Dr. Harrow scene, funnily enough haha Know that's the fav one of some friends

Brief creative process note, I really wanted to show a parallel between Wendy's pose and Marc's (as Moon Knight) pose.

Either way, he ends up falling down to his knees cos he can't bear it anymore.

At the end, it's Steven who wakes up, and finds comfort on thinking it's all a dream. And Marc's brief comfort, its not to be there to be thinking about it.

There's a little mess of timeline, but... you know... hahaha

You can also find this in my Youtube channel ❤

This was shared 1 week earlier for patrons, consider joining for early access to future stuff ❤ and other exclusive posts 😊

[o-kaythislooksbad]

ailesswhumptober day 5: overstimulation / migraines / "i can't take this anymore"

chapter 5 / 7 of the memory of you marks everything i do | not rated, chose not to warn

marc stares at the bathtub, making no move towards it. downstairs, people are yelling, arguing about anything and everything related to roro's burial and shiva. his body didn't even go to the hospital; marc had pulled him out of the cave and screamed his little lungs out until their dad came running. by the time an ambulance was called, there was nothing the medics could to do help. they zipped roro up into a large plastic sleeping bag in the backyard and put a thick blanket around marc's shoulders, and that was it. 

someone from the shul showed up to sit with roro's body, saying something about it being her job to stay until the rabbi could arrive. she offered marc a hug and a lollipop, like she's done this a bunch of times before, and marc nodded and said 'yes, please,' because imma pushed him away and abba was too busy trying to calm her down and everybody forgot about marc.

the nice lady didn't mind that marc's clothes were still wet. she didn't mind that he was crying, even though he's a big kid and he's not the one who got hurt and it's his fault roro's gone. she excused herself to wait somewhere else, in her car, probably, when the rabbi arrived to sort out the details of where roro's gonna go to get cleaned up before they can bury him.

and now marc's still wet and crying, sat on the muddy lawn and the sun's shining like the sky never rained. imma and abba are fighting in front of the neighbors and the new rabbi; marc doesn't remember his name or what the older rabbi's name was, but that doesn't matter. his voice pipes up whenever abba or imma stop to take a breath, reminding them that randall led a great life and wouldn't want his parents to fight over him. for once, abba agrees with imma in saying 'no,' but imma's on her own when she says it wasn't an accident. 

"he did this on purpose and you know it!"

"darling, please. we're all hurting, but let's not say things we'll regret."

imma laughs, but it's not her regular laugh, light and bubbly and comforting. "seriously, elias? you think i'll regret being honest with you?"

the rabbi clears his throat awkwardly, tilting his head towards marc. abba starts to walk towards him, but then imma pulls his arm back because "don't you dare walk away from me" and "we've got actual problems to focus on" and marc wishes the nice lady would come back to give him another hug.

they're fighting about who should be allowed in the shiva house, wherever that is - marc's still not sure what shiva is, exactly - and abba says he would welcome roro's friends from the neighborhood and hebrew school.

imma doesn't want any kids in the house or around her.

including marc.

and now they've sent him inside to bathe - "it doesn't matter if you shower or take a bath, you need to clean up! make yourself presentable!" - but he hasn't been able to do anything other than close the door behind him. he's still dressed in his clothes from earlier, still clutching a torn piece of roro's t-shirt in his right hand, still replaying the scene over and over again. it's been only an hour, maybe two, since the medic shook her head and put her equipment away. marc is still shivering in his rain-soaked shirt and flooded socks, still shaking from the cold and the shock. 

"i want to die i want to die i want to die," marc chants through chattering teeth, believing every single syllable. he looks up from his legs, across the room to his mirror, but he's not there. no one is there. or maybe someone is, but there's no way to know.

a dark cloth covers the mirror in marc's room. similar cloths cover mirrors throughout the house, along with picture frames; there's nowhere to see any of roro's features anymore. 

the thought draws something dark and angry out of marc, pulling him to his feet to tear the cloth away from the mirror. his reflection stares back, a blank face resting on hunched shoulders. no smile, no dimples; the only thing it shares with randall is the boy's flannel pajamas. 

the person in the mirror scares him. he readjusts the cloth, walks in circles for a moment, and then steven is sat at his desk with some colored pencils, driving the sharp points deep into his paper.

and now someone nudges marc's shoulder, holding out an open siddur to him, and marc's starchy white shirt itches his arms. he does his best to stay still as the man explains that "even though you're too young to count as part of the minyan, you should say this for your brother," and marc wishes that abba and uncle yitz never taught him how to read hebrew. 

"okay," marc whispers, taking the siddur. "thank you." 

he stares at the page, at the words he can sound out but not define, but those aren't the words he hears in his head when he tries to read.

"you know," uncle yitz would casually say as he circled around marc, "the only good jew is a dead jew. however," he would add, raising a fist closed around a knife, "jews like you are a close second."

with the blade pointing at the ceiling, displaying the chain that once held a chandelier but marc knows is used for other games, uncle yitz would talk about marc being up there, one day, "if you and your kind can survive the next few years." 

"what d'you mean?" marc had asked one time, and his uncle must've been in a good mood 'cause he didn't even slap marc for talking back. 

uncle yitz explained, with the practiced patience befitting a shul rabbi, that the cabal has big plans in motion. he'd said things about realism and money and marc had no idea what it meant or who 'his kind' were or why these plans would make it hard for them to live. his uncle must've seen the confusion on his face, 'cause he got frustrated and started yelling about breaking minds and genes, about creating slaves and hurting them 'til their blood tasted like defeat.

everyone says 'amen' after the chazzan, the sound of their united voice startling marc away from his memories. at least ten voices overlap in a familiar rhythm, echoing around marc, and he doesn't mean to but he drops the siddur so he can cover his ears.

wrong move, marc. 

it hits the ground and mostly everyone turns at the sound. multiple sets of eyes land on marc and he knows at least two are friendly, 'cause one is his abba's and one is the chazzan's, and chazzan gavriel isn't like uncle yitz, but marc has no idea about the other men in his house. some are yitz's friends, they have to be, 'cause even chazzan gavriel and his abba were friends with yitz, and a coldness runs down marc's spine. he shivers as the thought pops into his head: what if abba was one of those friends? what if he was there, in the basement, when marc begged to be saved by him?

easy, marc. i need you to take a deep breath for me.

he doesn't know if it's his own voice or an imaginary friend talking to him. he can't make himself care about what the answer is, 'cause he hasn't talked to an imaginary friend since the games with uncle yitz. he hasn't even thought about them or him since forever, doesn't even know if what he's hearing and seeing is from his memory or a terrible imagination, but the voice is right.

marc needs to breathe, so he does. he doesn't dare close his eyes or lower his hands, in case something bad happens. he just takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and repeats until his heart no longer feels like a rabbit trying to jump out of his chest.

and now marc is at the cave, alone. except he's not alone, 'cause there's another set of footprints on the dusty path beside him, and soon he sees abba walking out of the cave.

"there's nothing there, marc," he says a bit sadly. 

marc's brow furrows as he tries to figure out what abba is talking about. what would be in the cave, anyway?

abba sighs. "i see him sometimes, too. out here and around the house."

"who?"

"your brother."

marc must've seen something like a ghost of randall, and abba went to check, like he used to do for monsters under the bed before marc learned that monsters don't bother with beds.

"sorry," marc apologizes, 'cause this is all his fault. 

abba sighs again, and in the fading sunlight, he looks much older than he did only two years ago. "no, son. you have nothing to be sorry for."

"but -"

"you're only a child, marc. i've told you before, and i'll keep telling you, no matter what your mother says - you're a child, and it was an accident. you didn't do anything wrong, and i'm so sorry if i've made you feel that you have."

he spaces out for a bit, lost in thought. imma doesn't always agree with abba, doesn't always treat marc the way he does, but that doesn't mean abba has said this before. marc doesn't remember hearing this at all. 

"can i ask you something, son?"

"just did," he grumbles, but there's no malice behind it. 

"you're right. you don't need to answer me, or even have an answer, but…" abba trails off. he clears his throat, then tries again. "right now, are you marc?"

who else would i be? dies in his throat. sometimes, he has conversations in his head with imaginary friends, but sometimes it's like he's the imaginary friend. 

"no matter what, you are still my son. i need you to know that, okay?"

"but not hers," leaves the boy's lips before he even knows what he's saying. "she never wanted me, anyway, and you know it. she proves it at least once a week and you just let it happen," he says, gaining confidence with each word. he raises his chin and stares up into the man's eyes. "it happens to marc's body, yes, but he doesn't need to know how he got his scars. you, however," he takes a step closer to the man, "you've been there when it's happened, and done nothing to stop it. so, please, look me in the eyes and tell me that i'm your son. tell me that you care for me as much as you care for marc." he sets his jaw, and through gritted teeth, begs for the first time in his life.

"tell me i'm real."

his teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly, and his eyes begin to fill with warm tears, but he doesn't look away. he's already let down too much of his guard for someone who will only use the words against him. 

and now marc is somewhere in a desert, the heat and humidity unbearable. images of the ten plagues pops into his head, along with a sneering old man brandishing a razor. someone shouts for him to get down, and his body slams into the sand before something explodes a few meters away.

[wortsandall]

Steven Grant-mother edition

here I go again. had more thoughts prev

steven thinks of his mother as nice. fond memories. but what he says and how he acts are two very different things. there's a cognitive dissonance there.

even in the fake memories he remembers, his mother can't possible be the mom he talks about. he keeps her at arms length on those calls-lies and tell hers what he thinks she wants to hear. that's not a healthy relationship at all

even through the illusion-real elements of his mother factor in. he's trying not to upset her, making himself smaller. is it for his or her benefit to steven? and I think it's for her benefit because he sees her as a kind mother who loved him so much. so I can only imagine that in his head, not telling her the bad things about his life spares her from having to feel bad for him

when in reality it's for his benefit. the less his mother knows the better. that's a boundary that he's keeping and he doesn't even realize it. he's still acting like his mother isn't a good mom while telling himself and others that she is one. he's doing one thing and claiming it's another while not even knowing why or the real reason behind it. just going through the motions, unquestioning.

because if he even thought about it a little, holes start to be poked in the story. and that's bad. he's not supposed to know, he's supposed to believe that they had a healthy nice childhood. because marc needed a reprieve and steven could give him that. so without even knowing it he just continues along, doing his part for the system unconsciously. only it's not perfect and deep down he knows there's something not right and it involves his mother. just not exactly how.

steven grant may think his mother loved him, but he has no idea what an actual relationship like that would entail. he has the idea of it, the objective knowledge, but when it comes to actually acting like it we get what we saw in the show. hanging up postcards but only talking to his mother through voicemails-she never seems to actually pick up the phone. or one sided conversations with the most basic small talk questions. he's making it up as he goes and it's so clear upon rewatch.

drawing on that for my au, steven will tackle the fact that even the fake mom he knew wasn't a good mom. that he'd didn't know what that could possibly look like in reality as he, and the system, and had never experienced it. and now they never will.

the lies we tell ourselves au masterpost

[thedevilsoftruth]

Marc Spector and how he spends Mother's Day

Alone. On the rooftop of his house, wine in his hand as he watches the sun go down. In Marlenes favorite suit of his, playing her favorite songs.

With the thought of his daughter he didn't even know.

He wondered if Marlene had thought of him too.

He thinks about Wendy and remembers how he failed all the important people in his life. He didn't know his daughter. The mother of his daughter hated him, and his mother was ashamed of him.

He thought about it every Mother's Day since Marlene left.

He thought about what would have happened if Khonshu had just left him alone. He could have been at peace and happy. Instead, he was still repaying his debt to his father.

But at the end of the day, he was never going to have what he wanted. He would never be satisfied.

----------

You all better give your mama's a good Mother's Day. It's hard being a mom. Moms do a lot to keep families striving, especially if they are single mother's. Happy Mother's Day, ya'll. Stay strong, you sexy, gorgeous people.

[moonymelly]

-Hello!!-

I am a young artist called Moon Mel, aka moonymelly aka Mel…whatever you wanna call me. 🤭

I’ve been around on Tumblr for a little while and I’ve loved everything I’ve seen so far. :D When I joined I was part of The Onceler fandom, and I’m sorry to inform that I’m not really…as obsessed with it anymore…😬

(PLS IM SO SORRY ONCELER MOOTIES…*sobs*)

Note: Hypertixations change all the time…I draw what I love, K?

As of recently, something happened in me that just urged me to revisit my first ever hyper fixation:

- M O O N K N I G H T -

Yep, my Moon knight phase is totally back and stronger than ever. During my unwanted and unexpected hiatus, Moon Knight had seriously changed my art for the better, and I am so excited to share it with you all, and to hopefully make friends because of it along the way!!

When I love something, I really love that something. Actually, Moon Knight is what even got me into drawing in the first place!! 2022 me was inspired by the fan art I would see online, and that’s how my fandom and art journey started.

(EDIT: LITERALLY HOW COULD I FORGET, OSCAR ISAAC!! I LOVE LOVE LOVE HIM…SO YEAH)

Like I said, I am SO excited for this fresh start and to share my art with you all. I’ll probably post random stuff alongside my art, too!! ;D

So, friends, that is my re-introduction and hopefully the start of something fresh and exciting.

I am MoonMel. >:)

Out!!

[trickster-jpeg]

Can’t You See That You’re Lost Without Me?

Summary: Snippet from the system's childhood. They were around seven years old when their mum left them on the side of the road one day. The whole thing must’ve only lasted with them chasing after the car for no longer than a few minutes, but it still stuck with them.

Warnings: I mean just major warning for child. The whole thing is triggered by them having a meltdown because they're overstimulated, so obviously Wendy's not gonna react with compassion or sympathy.

Word Count: 1123 It's On AO3 -> Here

They were around seven years old when their mum left them on the side of the road one day. The whole thing must’ve only lasted with them chasing after the car for no longer than a few minutes, but it still stuck with them.

They couldn’t remember the circumstances properly, the best that they could work out was that they’d been walking around shopping with their mum all day. From what they can remember, they didn’t think the day had even been that bad in all honesty. Their mum had even bought them a small stuffed teddy from a garden centre. A soft grey elephant that they’d fallen in love with upon sight.

They didn’t remember anything else until they were seated in the car, utterly exhausted as well as both hungry and thirsty. This combined with their legs aching after having done so much movement without break was really the perfect recipe for overstimulation and a meltdown. Neither of which was a fun experience to say the least. So when their mother said that they were going to stop off at and walk around another shop, the lump that had been growing in their throat suddenly swelled further.

Their sandpaper mouth and the hunger-pained knot in their stomach became apparent as they tried to soothe it by swallowing what little saliva they had in their mouth. A wave of frustration washed over them as they were suddenly aware of how drained they had become from the day’s events. Burning tears welled up in their eyes as they failed to verbalise their needs, not knowing how to formulate the words to tell their mother that they physically couldn’t will themself to use up anymore of the energy they didn’t have. Too exasperated to think properly, they kicked their feet out at the dashboard, their shoe colliding against it with a heavy clatter. In irritation, they violently shook their head in an attempt to convey what they were trying to tell her.

“NO!”

It was such a stupid thing to be pushed over the edge by, so ordinary. They knew now that they couldn’t help it, that meltdowns and overstimulation were just things they had to be careful of and at worst all they could do was try to minimise the damage. But at the time, they hadn’t known any better. Didn’t have the reassurance or the vocabulary to explain their behaviour. They had simply just been labelled a problem and told that they had to grow up. To learn how to act their age.

They couldn’t remember how it suddenly got worse. How it reached the point it did. All they knew was that it suddenly jumped to their mother pulling over on the side of the road and shouting at them to get out. They could remember the fear that coursed through them as they continued to kick the dash, desperately trying to get their words out to apologise and explain. But they couldn’t.

She reached over to harshly unbuckle their seatbelt. She angrily grabbed the handle and all but threw the door open, all while ordering them to get out of the car. Their breathing was heavy as the tears streamed from their eyes, their throat closing even tighter the more they made attempts at spitting their excuses out for her to hear. Not that she would’ve listened. She just kept shouting.

And then suddenly they were outside of the car. They couldn’t tell whether they’d voluntarily exited the vehicle with the terror of their mother’s fury acting as a catalyst, or whether she’d done something to push them out. All they knew is that the next moment in the sequence of events was that they were watching her reach over the now empty passenger seat and slam the door shut. All they knew was that they had been stood on the roadside as they watched in horror as the car began to speed away from them.

It took a moment for their brain to send the signals to their legs because they remember the shock as they tried to process what was happening at that moment in time. The disbelief as they stood on the patchy, dying grass and blinked the tears out of their eyes. Full body tremors rippling throughout their body like a beacon as the dirt kicked up on the road from where the car had been stationary not moments ago. Then they were clutching their new elephant friend in their hand desperate to not leave it behind and running after the vehicle as fast as their short legs could take them.

They know that they had screamed after her, begging for her to stop driving away from them. Breaths catching in their chest as they pushed themselves even further past the physical exertion they had been suffering as they wailed for her to come back. Their legs erupted with searing pain as their muscles consumed energy reserves they didn’t have. They howled with dread as they begged for her to stop and listen to their apologies. That they’d do whatever she wanted if only she’d let them back into the car.

They remember she stopped eventually. It must’ve felt longer in the moment as a child, because looking back on it she probably hadn’t driven that far away from them. She’d pulled up onto the side of the road again and as they sprinted to the door, they could still feel the way she’d stared at them as though she was looking into their very soul. Her piercing and uncaring gaze judging every fibre of them. They felt sick as they remembered the apologies that spilled from their lips like a tsunami. The trepidation as they felt the pressure to convince her to let them back into the car. To not leave them to find their way back home on their own.

Eventually, she muttered under her breath begrudgingly before reaching over and just barely popping the door open. They could still see the way they’d lunged to tug at the door, their body all but diving into the car seat as they thanked her for her patience. As they felt the relief at how ‘kind’ she had been letting them back into the vehicle and for putting up with their awful behaviour.

They didn’t remember anything else from that day. They didn’t try to. Why would they when they didn’t even want to know anymore about it? They just wanted to collect what they could to eventually try and bury it in the earth next to their mother and never visit the cemetery full of similar events that they had created. They didn’t bother marking its grave. It didn’t deserve the recognition of a headstone.

[little-cereal-draws]

Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.

He needed to get out.

Marc ran up the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom. He locked it and pressed his whole body weight against it, chest heaving with labored breath like he was running.

No one was physically after him at the moment but that didn’t mean he was safe. He had gotten back from the library after school and quietly shut the door in hopes not to draw the attention of the monster that lived in his house. It was a futile effort.

--

Marc runs away.

[raurquiz]

#Happymothersday #pepperpots #meredithquill #gotgvol2 #frigga #mariarambeau #spiderman #auntmay #wandamaximoff #mariastark #maggielang #hopevandyne #JanetvanDyne #shangchi #yingli #laurabarton #ramonda #nakia #eleanorbishop #MuneebaKhan #melinavosokooff #wendyspector

[pokimoko]

in another world - Moon Knight fic

Written by pokimoko and beta read by @tiptapricot

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 11K

Fandom: Moon Knight (2022), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Marc Spector & Wendy Spector, Steven Grant & Marc Spector, Elias Spector & Marc Spector

Characters: Marc Spector, Wendy Spector, Elias Spector, Steven Grant (Marvel)

Tags: Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Child Abuse, Character Study, Angst, Pre-Season/Series 01, Childhood Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Extended Metaphors, Emotional Hurt, unreality, Child Marc Spector, Child Steven Grant, Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Steven Grant Needs a Hug (Marvel), Marc Spector-centric, Parent-Child Relationship, Headspace, Distorted Reality, Inspired by Coraline

Summary: Marc discovers a door that leads him back to his real life, where his mother loves him and his father doesn't pretend. But the world he left behind won't let him go quite so easily.

[tiptapricot]

MKcember day 21: Judgement and/or Negative Space

(Warning for content/themes/implications of parental abuse and neglect featured in the show)

———

Wendy is alone. Ever alone.

Bitter air blows over bottle mouths, filling an empty kitchen, and she watches as the drapes flinch when she stands to get another. They want to strangle her, she knows. They’ve tried to for years. Nasty things. She’s made sure to keep her distance, where their bare threads can’t touch her.

There are other traps laying in wait, though. She feels barbs sting at her ankles as she crosses the living room, and looks down to find toys quickly pulled out of the way. Something watches from the stairwell. The portraits stand solemnly.

It aches to live in an empty home. She often wishes she had someone to help her on the hard days, on the days she can’t get out of bed, but no one comes. No one cares. She finds homework strewn over the table. Shoes lined up in the hall. Feet shuffle behind a bedroom door and quiet themselves when she opens it. They are waiting. Taunting.

The house is full of nothing.

There is a paper cut out boy who sits on the couch next to her sometimes. She makes him. She needs him. He is flimsy up close, and crumples if she touches him, but he is a reminder all the same, an outline to trace of what used to be. A space where the light stands still.

What a cruel imitation.

She scribbles him out and waits to start again.

———

Check out the prompt list here!

[friezagirl]

Well, I've talked a lot with someone who thinks Steven Grant is a recreation of Marc's brother. Trying to get him to understand my point of view, I don't know whether he understood it or not. But I'm against his idea, Steven is a completely new person and he's just himself, not someone else's replacement, both because it wouldn't be fair to Steven and because I very much doubt he could be. I explain why. Steven was created from Marc's mind, in the series it is noted that he is inspired by the character of a film that gave him courage, that reassured him, therefore not his brother, otherwise he would have been called Roro, or in any case with a similar name or that, vaguely, it remembered, and not Steven. Regardless, the mind creates an extension of a personality. As children, the personality has not yet been fully created, it is not finished, it is in its infancy, its cycle ends in the first years of adolescence; but as children, the personality is formed through the knowledge and relationships that one has in childhood, which in itself is very problematic for Marc due to his family situation. Thus, his mind tries to compensate for this lack of stability and also for all the excessive pain, thus creating Steven. However, not having much knowledge in psychology, I will discuss this through my hypotheses. Steven, even though he's scared, faces it, just as reported on the poster in the room, this is because Marc, having no one, and being a scared child; he needed a figure who would protect him, who would give him security and who would be kind. His brain captured it, it perceived this need, and that's why Steven was born, the brain created him, yes, but then the rest took shape by itself, Steven built himself as a person in himself like anyone in this world. It's only as children grow up and into their teens that they begin to flesh out their own being and who they are and who they identify with, but that doesn't change the fact that Steven wasn't born to be a replacement for Roro, but a friend and a protector who would help Marc breathe and find a few moments of peace thanks to his presence. In addition, it would seem strange to me that Marc's brain creates a person inspired by the cause of his trauma, namely Roro; it would be more normal for him to distance himself from it, and in fact he clung to the fictitious and fearless and reckless figure of a protagonist of a film that Marc loved very much and that he adored playing. It gave him security to be that doctor Grant, he played at being one when his childhood was simpler, so it is normal that, since he was so attached to it and at a time when everything was happier, the brain took that name to give it to the person he created later, giving Marc physical support and psychological that he lacked. I'm not saying that Roro was the trauma, I'm saying that it was in any case the cause, that Marc's brain identified it as the reason why it all started, therefore the first and fundamental cause of pain, and consequently, the brain, the he would push away, keeping him away from Marc to protect him and protect itself. Thus, Steven cannot be replacement for Roro but a different person, born, alive and self-aware, like anyone else, bonded to Marc only for his duty to protect him.

Perhaps, unconsciously, Marc had also begun to hate Roro, given everything that happened to him. He would make sense, he certainly didn't feel it consciously, he was drowning in guilt, but somewhere inside, he must have started to hate him. He was just a child, he felt daily fear of staying at home, he was distressed in those walls, and he suffered. And feelings like pain, loneliness and anger can easily turn into hatred. Quoting a great sage, Yoda: "Fear leads to anger, anger to hate; hate leads to suffering." That could be what happened to Marc, either with Roro unconsciously, or with his mother knowingly. He hated them for the pain they had caused him, but he also loved them for what they meant to him, and he grieved for what had happened to them both, a fault that was not his and that broke him. And these feelings were very strong, destructive enough that he could not allow Marc's mind to create a copy of a brother who tormented him every day at the hands of his mother. So, Steven is not Roro's replacement and he never was, he was and always has been the anchor created to drive away that vortex of cold dark. A bit like the rainbow after the rain, he was born for the sole and simple sense of existing and of being a warm and reassuring light.

But not necessarily unconsciously, maybe the more Marc suffered the more he harbored anger that he segregated inside with force, and then he hated himself but he also hated Roro and his mother, and this feeling then led him to hate himself more, to suffer more, to blame himself with greater frenzy. Then there was Steven who put a stop to everything though, certainly Jake too. Unconsciously or not, he must have hated him. At least a little, just enough not to go crazy. He was constantly nagged, and he was just a kid, all that guilt was too big a burden to carry on his own, and Steven didn't carry a piece of it even though it lightened it anyway, but Marc was the one who kept it all, always, everyday. So Marc had to take a minute to point his finger at Roro, at least for a second to feel better. Only this must have only worsened his mental state, broken him again. Maybe that's how Jake was born.

In the comics it's already more different, Roro doesn't die as a child, but Marc still creates Steven, who is always kind and good. There the discourse is already more complicated or perhaps similar, Marc always creates Steven as a response to trauma, to create a shield, and therefore distance himself, from the horrible events he experienced with his "uncle". Then, of course, everyone can think as he wants, for me it is clear that Steven is only Steven, a person apart from Marc and Roro. However, perhaps people with DID, or psychologists, would explain it better than me.

[o-kaythislooksbad]

ailesswhumptober day 4: painful transformation / non-consensual body modifications / "you're a monster"

chapter 4 / 7 of the memory of you marks everything i do | not rated, chose not to warn

sirens blare as flashing red and white lights up the stretch of road. there's a ringing in his ears and a sharp pain forming in the center of his forehead, like the time he got hit by a fly ball during practice. it spreads across his face, clouding it, blurring the ground in front of him. 

"abba! mama!" baby roro cries. his voice, so small and shrill and scared, breaks marc out of his own head. 

or it would, if he could just turn around. his body is stuck in place; he can't feel his limbs. he can't even open his mouth to comfort his brother. 

helpless, marc sits through the pain. it's not his own, it rarely ever is, but this time is different because it's roro's, and roro doesn't deserve it. 

"you're a monster," uncle yitz would tell him, holding his cheeks and forcing marc to meet his eyes. "you understand? you must know who you are, what you are, or else this is a waste of my time. i'm trying to teach you about knowing your place, but you must be open to learning." 

marc would nod, giving the man permission to pick up his tools. this is marc's value, his reason for existing, and he's worthless if he can't do that. feeling worthless hurts almost as much as the cold blades pressing into his skin.

that worthless feeling is barely more than a paper-cut compared to what he feels right now.

"m'ac! i hurt!"

he closes his eyes, and the next time they open, everything is different. quiet. marc stares at the ceiling, vaguely aware of a rough blanket laying over his body, of beige curtains surrounding him. 

"you're a monster," she hisses, sending marc back to early mornings and late afternoons trapped in the basement. 

"you awake!" randall squirms in his mother's arms until she lets him go, dropping him onto the hospital cot. "lookit, we match." he points to his bandaged forehead and arm, then babbles on about everything he sees, until wendy picks him up again and deposits him on the floor, effectively silencing him. 

wendy's eyes flash with something steven can't recognize, but whatever it is, it's somehow loud enough to mostly cover up the sound of squeaking shoes entering the room. 

"and how's my brave patient doing this morning, hmm?" an elderly voice accompanies the squeaking steps. it takes steven a few moments to process the question - he's still uncertain as to why he's in a medical facility, why the little boy is injured as well, and why their mother's eyes look murderous.

it's the realization of that being the thing in wendy's eyes that causes steven to flinch away from the nurse. 

"not so brave after all," wendy sneers, guiding randall through the curtains to exit the room. hot tears prickle at the corners of steven's eyes, and he hurries to push them away with his palms before they can fall. 

the nurse tuts and shakes her head. "it's okay to cry, honey," she tells steven. "you had a very eventful day, yesterday, and slept right on through the night." she picks up a clipboard from the bedside table and flips through the papers.

steven watches the nurse mutter as she reads the file - her name's dotty, according to her polka-dotted name plate - and tries to remember yesterday. randall was excited about something, and somehow steven's precious crayons had been broken. perhaps they were running down the stairs? it would explain randall's bandages. but why is he allowed to move around while steven is in bed?

it takes a few tries for his mouth to move and for him to ask, "what happened?"

nurse dotty uses words like concussion and cranium and trachea, pointing to steven's head and his throat. she explains that their car swerved off the road and into a tree, and that he was tussled around, bumping into the seat a few too many times. 

steven frowns. if everyone was in the car, why can they move and he can't? why has he seen randall and wendy, but not elias? when he talks, it feels like his throat is full of volcanic rocks, but he manages to ask, "dad?"

"his arm is in a brace, but your father is fine, honey. he's visiting your friend, the driver."

the IV isn't the only thing chilling his veins. steven's blood runs cold; his teeth chatter as he shivers, and his vision blurs. 

"honey, i hate to ask this of you right now, but we really need to put the report together." nurse dotty wears a sad smile as she holds out a set of polaroids, but jake is busy burrowing down into the blankets. he tries to curl up on his side, but dotty tuts and reaches out to stop him. "your arm has to be straightened out for the medicine to work."

jake grumbles. "fine," he says, stretching his legs and arms all the way out. "happy?"

dotty sighs. "no," she replies, her smile dropping, and the honesty startles jake. "seeing little ones in the hospital doesn't make me happy."

"i'm not little."

"my apologies. can you help me out, please, and take a look at the photos?" dotty genuinely seems to be sorry, and jake is built for helping, so he nods and holds out his hands.

the pictures don't make any sense. he expected to see marc's recent injuries or what the car looked like after it crashed, but the bruises and scars he sees are faint, even on the glossy papers.

"how'm i supposed to help?" jake asks, already knowing the answer. but knowing and hearing it from someone else, someone outside, are two very different things, and he needs to see where dotty expects marc to be. 

"those are pictures of your torso and your thighs," the nurse says. "you were hurt for quite some time before you arrived here yesterday."

so? jake wants to retort. hurt? you think that's hurt? that's any given tuesday, dotty. sometimes early sunday, sometimes late friday, if he's got time. what do you want from me? he wonders. what do i need to say for marc that keeps us with the baby?

jake may be built for this, but he's still a kid, built from a kid's view of what a teenager or adult looks like. as much as he desperately wants his foundation to be brick and mortar, he's only alphabet blocks and modeling clay. 

for the first time in his long life, jake doesn't know what to say. or, rather, he knows what marc is meant to say and how he's meant to say it, but that answer will bring nothing but pain, actual, real life, tangible pain to everyone around him. everyone around randall and their parents, their neighbors and teachers and peers, and there's no way on earth jake is going to let that happen.

for the hundredth time in his short life, jake knows what he has to do. 

play the part of the eldest son, the obedient son. play the part of the older brother, eager to help but whose patience is easily tested by the younger brother. lie through his teeth, but remain calm, remain steady, even when - no, especially when - they question his statements. 

"i'm here because the car crashed," jake says. "and you're here to treat me because of it. you're doing your job; please let me do mine."

dotty stares at him for a few seconds, but jake holds his ground and stares right back. he'll take the IV out of his arm if he has to, march right through the curtains and scoop randall into his arms, leave the hospital with nothing but determination. it turns out he doesn't have to, because the nurse's mouth sets in to a tight line and she nods at him with a look of understanding in her eyes. 

"i'll let your doctor know that you're responding well to the medication, and we'll see about letting you go home tomorrow."

jake's shoulders slump, relieving tension that he hadn't realized was being held there. "thank you." 

dotty takes something out of her pocket. "my nephew and niece," she says, showing him a picture of identical dimpled smiles on sunken cheeks. "i took them in a few months ago."

"congratulations?" jake tries. he's usually better at following conversations, especially with adults, but he's not usually concussed. 

"thank you." dotty chuckles, tucking the picture back into her pocket. "i want you to know you're not the only one with this sort of pain, honey. it might be months or years, and one day you'll be far away from here and it will still hurt, but you don't need to be alone."

"i'm not alone," jake instantly replies. 

the nurse doesn't patronize him, doesn't try to 'correct' him or press for any more information, and jake is more grateful to her than any adult he's ever met. 

"i'll let you get your rest now," she says, pulling the curtain behind her. she calmly explains to randall that his brother is sleeping, firmly tells wendy to leave him alone, and jake's heart is so full it might just burst out of his chest. 

it's funny, jake muses, finally alone in the small section of the ward, that the nurse is the first person who has seen him for who he is. she's the first person he introduced himself to, albeit without a name outside of his head, but she'll likely be the last as well.

[the-trickster-exe]

Like Crying Out In An Empty Room, With No One There Except The Moon. || Whumptober: Day 3

Fandom/Characters: Moon Knight. Steven Grant, Layla El-Faouly, Wendy Spector

Summary: Steven is usually the one to help calm the others down when they get nightmares, so when he suddenly starts to get them he hides it and pulls away. Turns out he can only hide them for so long before their technically-still-wife, Layla, witnesses the aftermath first hand.

Warnings: Child abuse (Verbal & Emotional/Psychological), Death Threats (Wendy making threats to/makes a show of pretending to crash the car they’re both in).

Word Count: 3838

A/N: Jake and Marc have suffered so far, it’s only fitting that it’s now Steven’s turn. I am so sorry-

AO3:

One thing that wasn’t a common occurrence for Steven was nightmares. Sure, he’d had his fair share of waking up in a cold sweat after the classic fear-fests that were: continuously falling only to wake up just as you hit the ground, being chased by some unknown creature, watching as his teeth fell out into the sink. The usual. But they’d never been like this. Not in a long time.

As a child he’d just assumed that they were just normal nightmares for kids to have; his mum screaming at him, his dad ignoring it like it wasn’t happening right in front of him. Just a classic childhood fear of rejection. That was until everything went to shit and he started bleeding into Marc’s life, and vice versa. Then Jake came along to spice things up just a little bit further and suddenly the weakened amnesia barriers meant other things started to seep through the cracks of the walls separating them all. Like the trauma that had caused their disorder in the first place, for example.

In the context of nightmares, Steven was the one who often ended up waking up into the tail end of them. He never really knew the content of them, just the feeling of Marc’s panic and fear as the man retreated into the headspace to recuperate. Hell, he’d even unknowingly stepped in for Jake a few times, dealt with the man’s insistence that he could handle it perfectly fine on his own and didn’t need any help. Though he’d loathe to admit it, he was reluctantly thankful towards the Brit for giving him a break and taking care of them in a way that he struggled.

It’s not like they could control when it happens, so when it did it was pretty easy for Steven to slip into the familiar role of comforting and self-soothing. He’d usually put on a nice little documentary and just ramble to himself out loud to remind them that they’re not alone in this fight.

Which was probably why it became such a shit show when Steven was the one to start having the nightmares. Something that became even worse when he realised that his other headmates were completely unaware of it.

For ages he’d been trying to take more responsibility in the system. He knew that Marc and Jake wanted to try and ‘protect him’ or look after him, despite knowing he could take care of himself. He understood the logic, he’d known the least and like Marc had said in that moment of emotion when they’d died (temporarily): That was the whole point of him. And that’s what it boiled down to, which pissed him off to no end sometimes. So he saw this new occurrence as just that, taking more responsibility in the system. Marc and Jake already had enough to deal with, having a couple nightmares was the least of his worries. Or that’s what he told himself at the start.

He didn’t want to be obvious with his avoidance, didn’t want to clue anyone in on his growing isolation. He honestly didn’t even realise it until Layla questioned him on if something was wrong, asked why he seemed like he was distant as of late. Sure he’d sent her less messages and hardly spoken to anyone that wasn’t the system or their technically-still-wife, sure he’d been less willing to meet up with her or do the stuff he usually enjoyed. So what if he suddenly started to lose the spark he carried when talking about his special interests, or was less likely to engage with system related business?

It didn’t matter that he’d been struggling to get the body into bed for sleep more and more as of late. He was sure Jake and Marc were actually glad that he’d started to pull back from complaining about their late night escapades, or whatever they got up to when he wasn’t out and about. It didn’t matter, because he was doing fine. He was functional and no one would ever find out what was going on. They’d never know about the panic attacks or the late-night breakdowns or the times where he’d had to make a mad sprint to the bathroom or kitchen sink to avoid heaving up stomach acid onto the bed after being startled awake. They’d be none the wiser to it because he was Steven, and Steven was the one alter in the system that was least affected by their CPTSD symptoms. He was the normal one, and he was doing just fine.

Layla had been out of the country for some time, barely having time to call or text between her escapades with antiquities dealing. It was understandable and Steven was almost glad that she wouldn’t be distracted from any possible dangers just because she tried to send them a quick text. But she was finally back and staying over at their flat to catch up on some much needed rest and grab her bearings, spending a week readjusting to the change in timezone. And Steven was glad, truly he was. As much as he’d been withdrawing, he did miss her dearly and was thrilled that she’d be around for a bit longer. His main concern was now that she was living with them, albeit temporarily, there was a very real possibility that his little nightmare issue would be discovered.

So far, they’d made it through most of the week smooth sailing, Layla and his headmates none the wiser. It was almost like she was some kind of nightmare protection warding charm, her presence automatically causing them to retreat somewhat. Either that or he was still very much having nightmares, he just didn’t remember them. Which would probably explain the heaviness in his chest and the pit in his stomach every time he woke up. He’d been trying to put off sleeping for as long as possible. Worst comes to worst he could simply use his neurodivergence to his advantage and excuse his behaviour as fixating on a particularly interesting piece of text surrounding egyptology. It’s not like he didn’t know plenty of sources to quote and play off as only having recently learned them.

They’d hit the five day mark of cohabiting before Steven’s facade came crashing down. It was late in the evening when Layla suggested watching something on the tele, wanting to just relax and wind down for the night with the Brit. Not thinking anything out of the ordinary, he readily agreed. Why wouldn’t he? He loved spending time with her. They spent a few minutes channel surfing before they flicked onto ‘The Mummy’. Instantly their interest peaked, a shared delight in poking fun at the inaccuracies of their shared field of interest.

They spent their time exchanging comments, briefly making a competition out of who could notice the mistakes first, and after a while it faded into simply watching the film settled into a comfortable silence. A newly bought and extremely soft blanket lay spread across the pair as they leaned against one another, enjoying the others company and warmth. The TV hummed ever so slightly, not something many people would be able to pick up on, but Steven simply allowed it to fade into the background underneath the audio of the film. Subconsciously, he leaned further into Layla’s side, his head feeling rather heavy as he gently rested it onto her shoulder. He heard her quietly huff an amused yet affectionate laugh at the action but paid it no mind, too busy relaxing into the safety her presence provided them. The safety it provided him. He felt the blanket move upwards over him just a bit higher as his eyes fluttered shut, unaware he was even falling asleep.

He was in the car, his mum sat in the driver's seat, coming back from a shopping trip or something. Just the two of them spending some time out together, like every other regular parent and child. They were driving back to the house, just sitting in regular silence. He didn’t know why he knew all of this, or how. He just did. Quietly, he watched the scenery change as they drove down the familiar roads. It was an odd time of the day, barely any cars on the road. But that was fine because it just meant they’d be home quicker and avoid all the traffic.

He didn’t know when the atmosphere changed, the hostility that suddenly spread throughout the vehicle. It was an instant change and all of a sudden Steven became incredibly aware of the enclosed close proximity that they were both sat in. He manually pushed down the tension that he felt creeping up his limbs, not wanting to appear as though anything was wrong between the two of them. Deciding to feign ignorance to whatever events would unfold in the very near future.

It started with his mum muttering under her breath. An incoherent jumble of words that strung together to form an even more intelligible set of sentences. It was as her tone began to grow more hostile and dangerous that he suddenly became extremely aware of every single one of his fuck ups throughout the day. Accidentally pushing the shopping trolley into the back of her when she’d stopped suddenly in the aisle, the thing too heavy for his arms to pull and stop it in time. Walking down the pavement behind her and stepping on the heels of her shoes, not realising how close she’d actually been. He did that thing she hated, staring down and watching his feet when he walked. All those little things and more as his brain started to gradually build up the panic and release the steady stream of adrenaline that was screaming for him to get away. But he couldn’t.

The words became more coherent, her voice climbing in volume as she ranted faster and faster, her words cutting deep into his brain and bouncing around in the space. His eyes flickering to her tightening grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening at the force. Somehow the scenery had started to speed up, the trees now blurring more and more as the arrow on dashboard pointed to steadily increasing numbers. His mum was fucking furious and he only had himself to blame. As tense as he was, he still tried to not react, not wanting to be even more trouble and start winding her up further with crocodile tears. And he was doing a good job of it.

Until she started to swerve the car.

Instantly, the words started to tear from his throat in a strangle panic, rasping slightly as he faintly noted he hadn’t had anything to drink since the early morning. Apologies spilled from his lips, a silent and desperate plea for her to stop. For her to slow down, to focus on the road, to calm down, to stop shouting at him. To stop saying all of those things she was saying that were chipping away at pieces of his heart like verbal pickaxes.

“WHAT’S STOPPING ME FROM CRASHING THIS FUCKING CAR RIGHT NOW? I BET YOU’D FUCKING LOVE FOR THAT TO HAPPEN. FOR ME TO DIE HERE AND NOW. FOR THIS TO ALL END BECAUSE YOU CLEARLY THINK I’M SUCH AN AWFUL MOTHER, ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”

He watched as his mum let go of the steering wheel for a moment, the car instantly drifting straight towards the ditch on the side of the road, before jerking away and being set back on course. Tears poured from his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath, thrown headfirst into a panic attack at the imminent threat on his life as well as his mother’s. He tried to gasp out a response, an apology begging for her to stop. To understand how sorry he was. To try and convince her how much he loved her and cared about her. But his throat was too tight and his mum was just too loud, not even giving a moment's pause between her shouts.

“AFTER EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE FOR YOU, THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME? AFTER EVERYTHING YOU DID TO THIS FAMILY. YOU’RE LUCKY THAT I’M EVEN WILLING TO BE SEEN WITH YOU IN PUBLIC OR TAKE YOU OUT. FUCKING EMBARRASSMENT.”

His hands were clasped around the seat belt, his legs trying to draw upwards to his chest in an attempt to curl up and protect himself from what he believed could be the very real threat of serious injury. His eyes frantically scanned the road ahead to look for another car, a part of his mind telling him that his mum would get in trouble if anyone saw the way she was driving. His body swayed from side to side in the seat as the tires screeched on the road, the vehicle weaving manically under the control of his mum. Chest burning as he tried to catch his breath, he tried to scrunch his eyes shut in fear as if being unable to see what was happening would somehow protect him. His mum continued to speak, her tone slightly lower but still just as threatening. Still just as damaging.

“You’ve always got to be such a spoiled brat and ruin my day. I bet you fucking LOVE seeing me like this- So pleased at seeing me suffer and struggle. I bet that’s how you felt when you fucking killed hi-”

In an instant, Steven was gasping awake and propelling himself away from the warm body next to him. He blindly tumbled back off of the seat and crashed down to the floor, shuffling backwards on the hardwood floor until his back collided with something inanimate and solid. Still scrunching his eyes shut hard, he continued to rattle out pleas, heartbreakingly desperate attempts asking his mum to stop the car. Reassurance that he still loved her so much, that she didn’t need to do this and that he was so incredibly sorry for the things he’d done. Promises that he’d be better, that he’d be a good son for her, that he’d make it up to her.

He felt a hand brush over his shoulder, the touch light but unexpected enough and so fearfully unwelcome that a whimper escaped his mouth as he forcefully flinched backwards away from it. The hem of his soft and slightly oversized sweater was balled in his hands, fingers tightly clutched around the material and clinging to it like a lifeline. Teardrops streamed down his face harshly as he continued to try and minimise the noises he made as he sobbed, trying not to make her even more angry at the dramatic display.

Distantly, he hears the sound of something gently shuffling, moving back and forth before stopping across from him. The noise grows closer and approaches, instinctually causing him to try and curl up even more and make himself smaller. To his side, he suddenly hears something light hitting the floor and landing right next to his figure, something else gently being placed on his other side. The weirdly soft material that brushed against his leg was so distracting it almost snapped him out of his blubbering stupor. It felt nice though. Different. Almost reassuring.

Prying the fingers of one of his hands away from his sweater, he shakily darted his hand out to grab the thing, pulling it close to him in an instant. He felt it unfold on top of his legs slightly as he moved it, the type of pressure making him feel secure instead of terrified. His other hand gingerly and curiously shot out to grab the other thing resting against his other side, fingers wrapping around it and hugging it into his chest to cradle it. It was a vaguely familiar feeling as he shifted fearfully to hide himself under the soft material.

His breathing still heaved painfully as he fought to keep the jerking rising-falling movement of his shoulders as small as possible so as not to draw even more attention to himself, but it slowed down fractionally along with the tears rolling down his cheeks. The buzzed shouting of his mum screaming in his head lowered ever so gradually as another voice that wasn’t his own filled the air. It was calm and collected, a steady and familiar tone saying something. Reciting something.

It wasn’t something he understood, not at first, not in english. It took a moment before he processed what the phonetics sounded like. It was french. His favourite poet. Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

As the voice spoke, delivering more stanzas of poetry, Steven copied. His thoughts running on autopilot as he mimicked the words being spoken by the voice, the safety it carried. Then half way through one of them, he began to translate it, his body taking over and steadying his breathing as it started to settle it back into the automatic and subconscious process.

“N’écris pas. Je te crains ; j’ai peur de ma mémoire ; Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent. Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire. Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant. N’écris pas.”// “Do not write. I fear you. I fear to remember, for memory holds the voice I have often heard. To the one who cannot drink, do not show water, the beloved one’s picture in the handwritten word. Do not write.”

As he thinks the words, he feels a rush of confidence at the lack of immediate danger, tentatively peeling his eyes open and peeking up from underneath what he now sees is a blanket. It takes a moment for them to adjust to the darkness of the room, a single dim lamp acting as a spotlight, highlighting a single figure sat across from him on the floor with her legs crossed and a book in hand. He knew her. He knew this place. This wasn’t the car, his mum wasn’t here. He was in his flat in London, and sitting adjacent to him was Layla. Steven’s lip trembled slightly, the overwhelming emotions not having completely settled down yet, jaw clicking quietly as he opened his mouth to speak in a rasped yet hushed tone.

“Your voice is lovely.”

Instantly, Layla’s head snaps up and looks towards him, her eyes full of surprise but also joy and reassurance at the sight of a mostly grounded and present Steven. She smiled, a dash of worry still evident but mostly hidden by relief. Softly, she closes the poetry book and places it to her side before slowly shuffling towards him, leaving enough time for him to say something if he doesn’t want her to be near. Eventually, she makes her way to be just in touching distance to the man, but still not touching him and instead waiting for any contact to be initiated. In a voice that’s so uniquely safe to Steven, she speaks.

“Hey, Steven. How are you feeling?”

The Brit swore he could’ve almost started full on crying again at the softness in which she said his name. He nodded gently in response, glancing down briefly to see the teddy he was holding hugged to his chest. As childish as it might’ve been, Steven treasured that item more than he could ever truly convey, and it warmed his heart to know that Layla not only acknowledged that without judging but also willingly gave it to him as comfort when he couldn’t accept it in any other forms. He looked back up to meet her eyes and knew the silent question she was asking. Do you want to talk about it?

They’d started trying to be more transparent about things with her about their childhood. Not to the extent of relaying everything, but she knew enough to paint a clear picture in her mind as to what they went through. He knew that she knew exactly what the subject of the nightmare was about, if not for the faint memory of all of the things he said out loud while he still thought he was stuck inside of it. And as much as he hated the idea of admitting the problem after months of hiding it, he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the burden of carrying the weight alone. So he lifted his arm up to expose some of the blanket, nonverballing asking her to sit beside him, and started to talk.

“Why did she have to do those things to us? We were a child. We were scared and we were grieving and we’d just lost our brother. Marc had just lost his brother and all he needed was his mum, we needed our mum. We needed someone who cared about us. And instead, we had to deal with it ourselves. We had to care for and look after each other because no one else would. We were just a kid, Layla. We shouldn’t have had to do that. None of this should’ve ever happened. She’s the reason that we’re even a we in the first place and we got away from her and she’s still managing to break us even now. It’s not fair that we had to- I hate it so much- I just- I just want it to stop. Why can’t we just make it stop?”

Stray tears trickled down his face as he leaned into Layla just as he’d done earlier in the night, her arm wrapping around him in a hug and rubbing small circles into his shoulder as he rambled. A heavy silence settled over them as his words fell to a close, a shuddering breath shaking him slightly before he forced himself to relax. Steven didn’t expect a response from her, he was just glad he had someone who listened to him. He felt her add a bit more pressure to his back before pausing and slowly drawing him in closer for a hug, in which he gladly allowed himself to be pulled and enveloped into her arms. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the faint smell of incense lingering in her hair from having burned some earlier.

He knew he’d have to talk about things later in more depth. Layla would never force him to talk about something he didn’t want to, but he knew he’d feel better getting it all out in the open, and he knew that she’d listen to anything he had to say without judgement. Sure, it was uncomfortable sitting on the hard wood of the old floorboards, and they’d probably regret not getting up sooner and moving to somewhere more comfortable later on. But for now he just wanted to exist safely, sheltered in the protection she provided him, so that’s exactly what he intended on doing. He closed his eyes and allowed her to just hold him. To give him the comfort and compassion he had been denied as a boy. It wouldn’t magically fix everything in an instant, but it was a start and that’s all he could ask for.

[makiruz]

Basically what if Wendy Spector took therapy and became a decent human being.

No, it's not child abuse apologia, I wouldn't share that