summary:marc sees the world in your eyes. too bad he doesn’t realize that you see the exact same thing in his.
a/n: *gif is not mine, it’s from pinterest* listen as much as I love writing some toe-curling, nail-biting marc smut, it was time that I write a next-level fluff/angst fic for him (because he deserves all the love in the world). I have a ton of asks that I promise I am getting to, along with my mr. knight smut, it’s just taking me a lil’ bit. also, I have no idea why this took me so fucking long to write?? so, here it finally is, enjoy x
warnings:YEARNING to the max; this shit is angsty; pining (marc thinks it’s one-sided, but it’s not) readers still oblivious??; mentions of abuse; swearing; self-deprecation; fucking pain; but lots of fucking fluff; they’re so in love; steven grant: wingman of the year
And Marc knows pain. He’s experienced it in all forms; has seen it manifested into everything he’s known, and everyone he’s loved.
He’s felt the ache of being on the brink of death and the guilt of still being alive. He’s felt the loss of his brother and the torment of his mother’s wrath. He’s felt the sting of his actions as a mercenary, and the numbing of his mind through Khonshu’s control.
Butthis is new.
Because your presence is painful. Yes. But his love for you is debilitating.
So I start with the recs (I am still figuring out how to make collections, to keep all these in one place)
This is an adorable series that starts with the premise of Marc, hopelessly in love with Steven already, making himself known to Steven BEFORE the events of the show. Infinity_Sansa takes the challenge of making the boys be intimate despite being in the same body without just going the easy way and have all the sex to be in the inner_space which is quite a feat! While the second part, which is the main meat of the series itself is still a wip? It is quite worth while the read.
summary:marc sees the world in your eyes. too bad he doesn’t realize that you see the exact same thing in his.
a/n: *gif is not mine, it’s from pinterest* listen as much as I love writing some toe-curling, nail-biting marc smut, it was time that I write a next-level fluff/angst fic for him (because he deserves all the love in the world). I have a ton of asks that I promise I am getting to, along with my mr. knight smut, it’s just taking me a lil’ bit. also, I have no idea why this took me so fucking long to write?? so, here it finally is, enjoy x
warnings:YEARNING to the max; this shit is angsty; pining (marc thinks it’s one-sided, but it’s not) readers still oblivious??; mentions of abuse; swearing; self-deprecation; fucking pain; but lots of fucking fluff; they’re so in love; steven grant: wingman of the year
And Marc knows pain. He’s experienced it in all forms; has seen it manifested into everything he’s known, and everyone he’s loved.
He’s felt the ache of being on the brink of death and the guilt of still being alive. He’s felt the loss of his brother and the torment of his mother’s wrath. He’s felt the sting of his actions as a mercenary, and the numbing of his mind through Khonshu’s control.
Butthis is new.
Because your presence is painful. Yes. But his love for you is debilitating.
It’s a sort of wound that comes from no physical injury. It’s not jagged and bloody, nor is it scarred or scabbed over. It’s not a grotesque bullet wound or a deep gash in his side. Simply, it’s a brand on his heart. One that cauterized itself on a random Tuesday morning when his eyes found yours.
And realistically, he should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve been able to sense it sneaking up on him ever-so-gently over the horizon. The rise of realization. The breaking point.
Realistically, Marc knows it was bound to happen. One way or another.
He was just never good with that sort of thing.
In his defence though, the whole moment happened in an instant. It was so quick, that he had already been swept off his feet before his mind could cement itself back to his body.
And maybe if it was better timing, maybe he could’ve prepared. Maybe he’d get the chance to be ready at the bridge with Khonshu’s armour. Have the time to shield himself before the proverbial sand storm ripped through everything.
But timing wasn’t Marc’s strong suit.
He never understood why it happened then. Why, out of all the time in the world, the universe had selected that exact—incredibly average—moment.But it had.
The two of you sat on the floor of his hotel room, splitting cheap room service breakfast and enjoying each other’s company as dawn broke behind the pyramids. The interaction was a comfort to him. Enough where he could let his guard down for once as you both sipped at your coffees and snacked on fresh fruit. It was something you had done a million times before, and would probably do a million times again.
But then you smiled at him.
This time, it wasn’t your usual smile; it wasn’t the typical snarky tick of your lips. It was lazy. Mellow. A gentle smile that slowly crept up to the ridge of your nose and the curve of your eyes. And when his gaze caught yours—when you gave him the softest, most intimate look he’s ever seen in his life—it all fell apart.
You hadn’t done much. And in hindsight, you never needed to.
Because, looking back on it, he was gone for you long before that morning. But it was at that moment he had decided you had the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. It was also then that he realized how very badly he wanted to taste the coffee on your tongue.
And he almost did it. He almost swooped in and kissed you with just as much tenderness as your eyes offered him. But it didn’t take more than ten seconds for Marc to realize that no matter how badly he wanted you, he couldn’t have you.
He would never let himself.
Marc was broken. Irreparable. An empty carcass of a man that wasn’t anything more than an abundance of self-hatred and trauma. He was a pathetic comparison to you. If he was the moon, then you were the sun. You were so far away, and so beautiful and bright. And he just lived in your shadow. Watching from the dark; pining over something—someone—he could never reach. Someone that was never meant to be his.
And it was truly idiotic of him to think he even had a small chance. Even if it was for a few seconds…
Because he wasn’t worthhaving.
He can love you, and he already does with every fibre of his being, but that’s not enough to make you stay. Because you have to love him back.All of him. Every sharp edge and splintered crack. Every piece of him you could cut yourself on, you would have to love completely. Wholly. Without any doubts or fears. You would have to love him the way he loves you.
And Marc knows that’s just too much to ask.
So he moved on that morning, and every day after, acting as though he hadn’t had the biggest revelation of his life. As though the way he felt didn’t matter in the slightest, and that his heart didn’t betray him every single fucking chance it got.
But you had made it so incredibly difficult these past few days.
Pretending was his biggest strength. He could fib until he was blue in the face; could bluff until he believed any lie to be true. But every time your eyes searched for his, every time they softened in his direction, and every time you gave him that smooth smile, his resolve would crumble.
Like clockwork, you took a hammer to the cavity of his heart and smashed down the walls. You’d break everything with ease until it all fell in a giant pile by your feet. And when he built them back up; gluing and haphazardly tacking them back together, you would simply tear them down again.
In those moments of defeat; in the times when he was far too tired to rebuild the fortress, he’d be stuck wondering.
Thinking.
Entertaining the smallest possibility that there’s something else hiding behind your eyes. That past the galaxies—all the nebulae and stars—he’d find a home, made just for him. A place that assured him that he was welcome. That he was wanted. That you lovedhim.
And it was when he wondered when he had the time to mull over every late-night fantasy, that he just ended up hurting more.
But he assumes there’s a point where he has no one else to blame. Because he’s the one who keeps doing this to himself. He’s the one on his knees, praying to whatever’s out there to just take him out of his misery already. To show him some kind of mercy. Not that he deserves it. He knows he doesn’t. But you do. You deservemercy.
You don’t deserve the burden of being what he lives for; of being his salvation. You’re more than just a lifeline.
Unfortunately, his soul had already decided that he needed you.
Holding himself back was a daily battle. One that left his heart contracting and his mind torn to shreds. It was a battle that gave him scars. Each night, he’d find a new scar in the constellation on his body. And every morning, it was accompanied by yet another one. Darker in colour. Bruised beyond anything.
A never-ending cycle.
Hehated himself for falling. Hated how easy it was; how little effort it took to gravitate towards you. He was like a pebble in a flowing river, constantly moving and being thrown around as he aimlessly barreled toward the lake. Marc lacked any sort of self-control when it came to you.
And he hatedit.
But not you. Even after all those times he convinced himself he should—for both of your sakes—he could never hate you.
Never.
11:20 pm.
You could never hate him.
But he could certainly hate you.
At least, that’s how it seemed. But there really was no other way to perceive it, was there? Marc had been ignoring you. And he had no problem in hiding that fact.
You weren’t sure if it was something you said. Whether you offended him or he just realized he was better off on his own. Regardless, he was ignoring you. Every joke, every small bit of conversation you tried to ignite would be shut down with uncharacteristic “hm’s” and a quick turn of the eyes.
It was almost like you disgusted him in a way. And that thought absolutely ruinedyou.
You felt stupid. Silly. Completely unlike yourself. But you couldn’t help it. You were heartbroken. And, really, there’s never been a light way to explain that kind of pain. It just was. You had already cried yourself to sleep over this. Had already imagined every possible reason why this was happening; why he was suddenly acting like this. But every time you got settled into bed, you couldn’t focus at all. Because of course, the guy you had to fall in love with had to be a massive jerk. Of course, the universe and all the gods had to do that to you.
It was just your luck.
But you should’ve seen it coming. It’s your fault for falling so easily. For thinking—wishing—that something good was finally coming to you. It was too good to be true and you just never picked up on that. It was your fault for interpreting the way Marc acted with you as something else. You two were friends, yes. But nothing more. Never were, and never willbe.
But you’ve always been naive. Too naive.
Because at the end of the day it didn’t matter that you loved his eyes. It didn’t matter that you had seen yourself in universes and worlds with him. You had convinced yourself the two of you walked on the tightrope of friendship and more. So set on believing that you actually would fall together; into each other, like all those happy couples you see walking the street.
But you were wrong. About all of it. Because it doesn’t matter that you feel that way. He doesn’t.
He doesn’t see your eyes the way you see his. He doesn’t love you the way you love him.
And you just have to accept that.
Though it would definitely be easier to accept that in your sleep. If you even could fall asleep.
It was one of those nights where you were just far too uncomfortable to get situated in your bed. The pillows weren’t cool against your cheek and the sheets were scratchy against your legs. There was no breeze sweeping through the open window, and the air had gotten increasingly more muggy over the past hour.
Sweat stuck to your forehead as you tossed and turned; desperate for your limbs to relax and your breathing to slow.
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t possibly try to focus on anything other than the heart you ripped out of your chest and left on your bedside table. It would’ve been an ugly sight if your imagination was real. If that were the case, it would sit in a puddle of blood and mourning. Exposed and in misery as it convulsed in time with your anger.
You felt like a petulant child. A kid that didn’t get to have what they wanted, and so, they resort to throwing a tantrum. A physical display of their frustrations and raging emotions.
A tantrum.
Your head turns to the clock beside your head.
11:25 pm.
You’re out of bed before you can even think. Stuffing your feet into your slippers you walk over to your bathroom mirror. There’s a scowl on your face, eyes cast dangerously low in mock threat. Your breathing runs ragged. Heavy. You’re upset. Royally pissed off.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
You tuck a couple stray strands of hair behind your ears before throwing open your hotel door. It slams shut as you inhale deeply, stomping over to Marc’s room.
He’s down the hall from you. A couple doors away to the right at the end of the corridor. Luckily, it’s out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind from the other guests who would surely kick you out the second, you gave him a piece of your mind.
Banging your closed fist on his door, you wait a couple seconds. The sound of blood flowing thrums in your ears filling the empty, late-night silence.
There are some muffled noises—the soft padding of feet and the squeak of the doorknob—and then Marc opens the door.
You both stare at each other. Sizing the other up for entirely different reasons. “…is…everything okay?”
“How ‘bout you tell me, Spector. Is everything fuckingokay?”
You shove past him, barging unceremoniously into his space. His eyes grow to the size of full moons as he follows your pacing. The way you swiftly move back and forth from the balcony to him. You seem resentful, far more irritated than he’s ever seen you before. Then he’s ever wanted to see.
And he can tell that this won’t end well. He might not be the smartest man alive, but he’s perceptive enough. He’s been taught to pick up on reactions and situations way before they unfold. So as you grimace at him—as he watches the unfamiliar fire smoulder in the eyes he loves so much—he can’t help but feel the bubble of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
Oh, this definitely won’t end well.
“Why are you ignoring me?” You snap. Marc, like the idiot he is, just stares right through you. You cross your arms and meet him in the middle of the room. “Did I do something wrong? Did I—did I offendyou?”
“Wha—“
“Why the fuck have you been ignoring me, Marc?”
It’s right then and there when he realizes what you’re asking. When he realizes that you know. That you’ve figured him out completely.
He doesn’t respond. Truly, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how he could answer your question without revealing everything. The constant fear he has of acknowledging his feelings nags at the edges of his consciousness. The words are trying to claw themselves out of his throat; rip through his vocal cords and float through the air. But he holds his breath. And for now, the words stay stuck in his mouth.
You’ve begun to quiet down, to an extent, as you wait for Marc to speak. And although he remains quiet, the tension—though it remains incredibly heavy—slowly dissipates the longer you stare at him.
The fact annoys you even more.
Because you want to be mad at him. And, to some point, you still are. But you’re also just sad.So fucking sad.
“Look, Marc, if I said something…if I hurt you somehow, I’m so, so sorry.” Your lip suddenly and unexpectedly quivers and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Marc’s focus shifts to your change in demeanour. And within seconds, he feels his heartbreak. He feels the internal fortified cage begin to crack beneath its own weight. You sniffle, and he winces at the sound.
Taking a shaky breath, you pull your arms tighter over your chest; taut until there’s no room to breathe. Until you’re as small as possible. “I just want you to talk to me. So…if you could just…if you could just cut the horseshit that’d be fuckinggreat.”
You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand and look away in embarrassment.
You’re exhausted. That much is clear. The bags beneath your eyes and the way your mouth falls are all clear indicators that you’re in pain.
You’re in pain because of him.
Which is exactly what he was afraid of.
I didn’t want this to happen.
“What?” You cry in confusion. Another sniffle. “What do you mean by that?”
He realizes then that he spoke out loud. His body had betrayed him once again. Unknowingly, Marc had opened the floodgates. Everything had been released, slipping away further and further away from his control.
You were so much closer now, face mere inches from his. Your eyes search his. And he gulps in a feeble attempt to gather himself.
“I meant that…” He takes note of the way the tears have glazed over your eyes and he grits his teeth. “Can’t handle seeing you cry, honey.” Marc shakes his head and tries to step back from you. “I’m sorry…”
Your hands cling to his forearms, slowly easing him back to you. The aggression in contrast with the tenderness makes him stop in his tracks; makes his breathing begin to stutter. “Marc…what’s wrong?”
He shrugs lightly, looking in the direction of the mirror beside the bed. He anticipates seeing Steven. To find some familiar comfort as he dangles above dangerous territory; as he dangles before you. Except he doesn’t find him. Instead, he’s just met with himself. Just his own reflection.
Andyours.
Even in the reversed distortion of the glass, you’re gorgeous. Other-worldly. He can see the way you look at him with intent; with both trepidation and determination. Even when he won’t meet your eyes, you give him all of your attention. You’re special that way. You make people feel special that way. So, if it were different circumstances, he would be preening beneath your gaze.
Time almost seems to slow when he actually looks your over. Fully. For the first time that day, really. From here, he can see you from another angle. In another light. It reminds him of how he sees you when Stevens fronting and he can stare in peace. When he can admire you from afar without any repercussions. Without any worry or fear.
Though he typically hates not being in control of his own body, most recently the reflections have been his closest friend. It’s the one time when he can allow himself to feel. When he doesn’t have to think about reality. When he can live in his delusions without judgement.
It’s a kind of freedom he doesn’t have anywhere else.
Except, he’s looking at your reflection—at you—now. He’s not hiding behind a barrier, not shielded by the safety of the unknown. He’s just there. Standing in front of you; present in front of you, with painfully obvious adoration all over his face.
Your hair is thrown up onto your head, and your shirt hangs over your left shoulder. You look partially unkempt. Messy. Natural. You look beautiful. The kind of lovely people can only dream of. And here you are. Looking at him in the mirror.
Shit.
He watches his mouth gape open and close like Gus, far too shocked to process what he’s witnessing. You’ve caught him in his dream. In seconds you stripped Marc bare until he was presented to you in just bones and muscle.
And sure you’ve never noticed before (at least he hopesso).But this? There was no way to get around this moment. There was no way to explain himself; excuse his actions and apologize in advance for putting you in such an uncomfortable situation.
He watches his mouth fall open again as he breathes in a gust of air. He goes to speak, but his throat is bare. Raw and sore and unable to form words. But then he’s watching your eyes drift from the mirror, up to his arm then to his face. You move so effortlessly; like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like looking at him is the only thing you want to do.
He feels it in his fingertips first. There’s electricity there; trickling up his veins through his arms and into his neck; down his chest and into his legs. His body, from head to toe, feels numb as he studies your expressions. He closely watches as a softness forms in your eyes and your lips turn into a small smile.
You’re looking at him. Actually looking at him.
And really, it’s no different from the way you always look at him. It’s just…he’s seeing it differently now. If he was anyone else—an outsider looking in—he’d assume with the way the two of you are wrapped up in each other, you were lovers. Two people with an innate connection that couldn’t fool anyone.
Something he’s wanted for a longtime.
Marc’s immediate response is to dismiss it. Pretend, yet again, that what he’s seeing isn’t real. It’s just his imagination. Matrixing, or whatever the fuck people call it.
But it’s difficult to brush it off. Especially with the way you’re looking at him.
“Marc,” you whisper. He can feel your breath on his neck; can feel the slight shake of your arms against his sides. You’re nervous.
So is he.
But something—someone—wills him to look down on you. Your mouth purses in shock at his confidence, as you come face-to-face with his dark brown eyes. They bore into you, yet they calm you all the same. You both reason, at the same time, that there’s no going back now. You lean into him. So much so, that his nose brushes against yours and your eyelashes flutter against his cheek. Your hands have come up to hold his shoulders, steadying yourself so as to avoid falling to your buckled knees.
And then he feels a push. It’s a gentle shove, a twist of his feet that aren’t his own actions, that makes his mouth collide with yours. The two of you stay there for a moment pressed into each other, eyes blown wide as you remain frozen in place.
It’s awkward and uncertain at first. But then instinct kicks in, and any confusion or hesitation you had left your body with a content sigh. Your hands smooth themselves over his arms as you gently move against his mouth; giving in to him as he touches your face.
He kisses you. Again, and again, and again. His lips glide over your bottom lip, tug at your top lip and peck at the corner of your mouth. He takes his sweet time exploring you. Exploring what you taste like. How you feel against him. How your kiss is better than anything he could’ve ever imagined.
All the while, he holds you in place. He cradles you as though you’re fragile like you’ll shatter beneath his touch. One wrong move and you’ll disappear.
But as your grip tightens on his body—as you pull him even closer to you; breath fanning over each other’s face, eyes screwed shut as you allow yourselves to finally feel everything you’ve ever wanted to—he understands that you aren’t going anywhere.
Marcloves your eyes. You lovehis.
And although it may have taken a while to get here, it’s better late than never.
sorry this is so late, my darlings! but happy end of april, i hope your month was great and filled with nothing but the best vibes!
shockingly i didn’t consume as much fic as i would have liked within the month, but the ones that i did were absolutely amazing and helped fight the depresh.
as usual i am thanking every one of you talented souls for sharing your beautiful work with the world, you make this hellsite better <3
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please do not spam like the works above, no one likes a spam liker. comments and reblogs are always the better way to show your appreciation to content creators.
if you would like me to remove your works within this list, for whatever reason, please let me know and i will kindly do so!
warnings: implied smut, angst, mentions of stalking, everyone just being a mess, especially marc, obsessive behavior
summary: Your relationship with Steven is constantly strained by the presence of Marc’s disdain for you.
author’s note: I tried to be careful to be conscious of the presence of DID on this property, but if I wrote anything that is offensive or ignorant, please please please let me know.
The restaurant’s staff did a poor job at masking that they were sending you looks of pity every so often. Much like you, they were wondering when you were going to give up and shamefully admit that you had been stood up. You twiddled with your freshly polished fingers and checked your phone often as you nibbled on cold appetizers. It kept you busy since you had already tried calling thirteen times. Yet, it took the tenth couple eyeing you with concern on their way out for the embarrassment to finally make a bed under your skin. You ordered the first thing you could pronounce, and afterward, left the restaurant gripping your to-go plate as you looked at your phone one last time.
This experience wasn’t new, but you were already tired of having to find a restaurant that hadn’t seen what you looked like when you were in denial. It’s not like Steven didn’t want to come. It was the fact that he and Marc’s schedule clashed, and you were always at the receiving end of Marc’s negligence—you considered it forgetfulness to give him the benefit of the doubt.
