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deunking · 2 years

Text

In A Long Time

You x The MoonKnight System

Rating: T

Warnings: Eating disorder not specified

A/N: You are a part of the Mk system ! Have fun!

Summary: You’re starving.

Word Count: 2,992

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You can’t remember when it was the last time you ate.

The body is never really up for grabs; the other alters seemingly switch in and out on a specific system, which leaves you little or no time at all to front. It hasn't been that big of a deal in the past- the few times you've taken the body being because of silly things, like grocery shopping or going to the bank- but it's become rather annoying recently.

Ever since your strike with death, the outcome of it all has made the others grow. . . Quite close. Even the mysterious third one that the other two and yourself haven't seen since childhood. They talk daily, they work together, and have arguments over petty things.

They act like a family, which is excellent! What little memories you have of your family generally. . . Uh, lack sentimental value. So to experience your alters live with one another instead of amongst themselves is. . . Is cool. Really.

You wish you could be a part of it.

Which brings you back to now; you’re hungry.

It’s the middle of the night, and, from what you can tell, the rest of your party is asleep. All tucked inside their metaphorical beds— ‘metaphorical’ because the last time you dived into the headspace, you found one of them sleeping on the floor— and gone with the sun. The body is still tethered to the last alter that fronted, but with a simple nudge, you can slip in unnoticed.

The feeling of being something, someone, makes your heart twist. It’s been too long since you’ve fronted, and the body knows this. All those days, sitting back and watching through hidden reflections hits you like a truck. Loneliness sweeps through you, cold and unforgiving.

You panic, thinking the release might stir one of the others awake, and hold your breath. Ten painful seconds tick by, yet nothing happens. Not another soul shoves you out of the driver's seat. You’re left unbothered, free.

And that might hurt more than you know, but the abyss crumbling in your stomach swallows that thought up and leaves nothing else.

You’re hungry. So terribly— stupidly— hungry. Whatever foods the body last consumed fade off your tongue in seconds, trying to remind your brain that the bodies already eaten a failure as the absence of taste makes you feel sick. Though not ill with a cold but a morning sickness that comes with a reminder of the day's future events. Anxiety- you guessed- that made you repulsed by the idea of food.

Yet you were so hungry.

Throwing off the thin sheets, you stand up from the bed. A pile of sand greets your feet, yet the grains do nothing but shift beneath you.

“ What the fuck,” You say out loud to yourself.” Do these guys not clean? I could’ve sworn. . . Hm.” You weren’t exactly there for the conversation. Still, a faint argument about who was responsible for cleaning up another alter’s mess— the very ‘clever’ ring of sand around the bed- does feel very familiar. Those arguments, who’s in charge of what, sometimes make you feel grateful for the lack of inclusiveness. The body may be an athletic mess; you’re not much of a go-getter. Yes, you enjoy a morning run every once in a while, but besides that and a few push-ups, you mostly like to relax. Do your own thing.

Whether planting random things in your headspace or eavesdropping on others- your routine has never included chores of any kind. And it most likely never will.

You smile to yourself thinking about it. There’s been a handful of times- maybe once or twice- that a mess you’ve made was blamed on another innocent alter.

Precisely one time- before you or either of them were consciously aware of one another- you tracked a nasty mess of mud into the apartment. An unfortunate result of taking a shortcut through the park on a rainy day after dropping off some bills at the bank.

You didn’t even notice you’d done it before doing your second lap around the kitchen. Already munching on a pickle and your body sore from walking around the city, you casually shrugged and finished your snack. The mess was something that made you feel guilty for the poor alter that fronted a moment later, but the real kicker had to be watching them wash the pickle taste out of their mouth.

Then, the memory made you shrink in shame. Your time with the body dwindled to practically nothing. It was a type of punishment for yourself that you subconsciously never confronted. The last time you were fronting was almost a month ago— just enough time to water the wilting plant in the window- you knew there was a problem.

But you never took much time out of your day to think about it. Whenever the topic of your self-isolation reared itself in your head— you let it go. The thoughts would come and then leave just as fast.

You thought of it as a type of amnesia, the kind that sucked any thought of anxiety out of you until you couldn’t remember what it was that made you feel upset in the first place. It’s a pretty cool feature to have- thinking so much that you forget— but some side effects that you’ve come to discover haven’t been as savory.

For one, your childhood was full of those types of thoughts. A few years ago, you might’ve been able to recite every horrible thing that you could remember, but now. . . You can’t remember much of anything. Maybe a few flashes of rain followed by the thundering strike of a belt. . . and darkness.

But nothing else.

Nothing particularly happy or unique to yourself.

“ Fuck.” You shake your head. The lingering thoughts turn into fuzzy memories you’ll probably forget the next day. You massage your temple and take a deep breath, the sand an unknown calming agent as the grains sink between your toes.

Once you think you’ve sat around long enough, you’re hoisting yourself off the mattress. A slight itch tickles at your ankle, but you ignore it trying to focus on not making any more footprints in the sand—a careless mistake.

Just as you’re stepping over the sand, something pulls tight around your ankle, and you end up face first on the ground.

You grunt on your way down. The lack of time to brace for impact forces a strained breath out of your chest, making you cough and sink into the vibrating pain.

Before you can process what happened— a burst of muffled laughter forces you to freeze.

“ Qué idiota.” The Spanish accent is one you’ve heard multiple times outside of the headspace. The alter it belongs to being an annoying, sings in the shower, type that also loves to yell at the other two.

“ Eso fue muy estúpido. No puedo creerlo.” You roll your eyes at the clear amusement in his voice.

“ Jake! Shush! We’re supposed to be quiet!” Your face flushes red at the second voice, the British accent making you turn your head away from the mirror beside the bed. A pitiful attempt at trying to hide from the alters.

This wasn’t how you wanted them to find out about you.

“ ¡Qué! ¡Fue divertido! ¡Admítelo!”

“ I— Well, yeah, I guess it was. . . But still! Quiet!”

Ignoring their continuous argument— the one you weren’t supposed to be aware of- you harshly rip the ankle restraint off and throw it on the bed.

You hiss through your teeth, standing up. A sharp pain spreads around your knee before retreating into a dull throb. It’s not enough to stop you from trotting to the kitchen, but there is an evident limp to your walk. An embarrassing thing that makes you feel old as the joints in your hips pop when sitting down.

“ Fue tu idea, ¿por qué estás tan enojado?”

“ Of course, it wasn’t my idea to bloody hurt them, you dolt. And I’m not angry!”

“ Parece Que estás enfadado.”

“ But I’m not mad. Do I sound mad? Cause I’m not.”

“ sólo Alguien Que está loco diría eso.”

“ I’m not mad! You’re just pissing me off-“

“ ¿Así Que estás enfadado?”

“ No! Would you stop saying that? I’m not-“

The more the two argue, the more a sharp pain increase behind your eyes. It stings with every little shout and burns an irritation through you.

You don’t know if they could feel it— could tell that you were feeling this way- but even the most oblivious person would be able to see that you were upset. Hungry, hurt, and bitter.

“ ¡Estás muy loco! ¡Es gracioso!”

“ Stop it! This isn’t helping, and you’re just being childish!”

“ Dice el niño enojado.”

“ Don’t call me that!”

Yet, you had to guess that neither of them had the same awareness.

“Lanet olsun.” You curse.” I just wanted a quick sandwich— is that too much to ask!”

You don’t realize you’re shouting until the silence of the apartment rings in your ears. The two alters arguing was replaced by the wind rattling the windows. You’re quick to try and find traces of them hiding in the sink's reflection. Not too keen on being watched, you’re relieved to see your reflection the only thing looking back at you.

A simple thing that makes your shoulders relax and the knee pain bearable.

You huff. The hunger in your stomach pushes you to ignore a faint tug behind your eyes. “Want something to eat. . .Just a small snack.” The cabinets great you with little to nothing— a few packets of crackers, some peanut butter- but the sight makes you all the more hungry.

“ Hm. . . Ah, here we are.” You lick your lips and reach for the empty bread bag at the very back. “ Perfect.”

You throw down two slices of bread on the counter before pausing. The bag has two pieces of bread left- the two butt ends that no one wants and someone will surely throw away later- but their sight stirs your stomach. You shrug and throw the last two pieces out on the counter with the rest.

The empty bag lays forgotten in the sink while you reach for the peanut butter. You generously cover each slice of bread until the ratio is outrageously ridiculous—the white bread is now nothing but a thin slice that breaks when you squish the pieces together. You lick your fingers clean of the peanut butter— same with the knife- and put away the jar.

You don’t care to get a plate out and put both sandwiches on a paper towel on the table. You hum and lick the knife clean before putting it in the sink on your way to the fridge.

“ Please, please,” You mumble, searching the fridge.” I know they’re here; I just saw them- aha! Yes!” You pluck the jar of pickles out from behind a bottle of milk and shut the fridge. A huge grin spreads across your face after cracking open the pot on the first try, and you stumble into your seat.

“ Damn,” You lick your lips; the salty pickle smell makes your mouth water. Before you could savor the taste, one pickle disappears down your throat in a flurry of quick chomps. You bang the table and throw your head back dramatically.” Damn!” Your pink tongue licks leftover juices dripping from the corner of your mouth. The taste is enough for you to bite into another pickle- this one juicer than the last.

“ Mm. Jesus Christ. Lezzetli.” You kiss the last bite of your second pickle. Not worried about anyone seeing you this way, the food haze clouding your shame- you throw it into the air. It bonks your teeth a bit but successfully makes it into your mouth. A satisfying crunch follows its way down into your stomach.

You recline in the chair and take a deep breath. You’ve only had two pickles, but an annoying fullness is already pushing against your stomach.

Which, is reasonable. . . To some degree.

Once an acceptable amount of your hunger has been dealt with, you find out through the vanishing of your food haze- it has been many months since your last proper meal. Almost a year or so...

You tilt your head at the thought. The idea of you not eating anything for almost a year is already concerning- for many reasons- but how you were able to ignore it is one thing entirely.

Maybe you’re not as ‘educated’ as you thought about your own body. As the other alters eat enough for two human beings altogether- you thought your hunger wouldn’t be a problem. In the headspace, you don’t even have to breathe, let alone eat. And with you being in there for so long primary human nature shouldn’t be as. . . hurtful. It shouldn’t make you cry because you’re finally able to taste something.

But it does just that.

You let a few tears openly slide down your face. The cold chill a sizzle against your skin. You sniff, hesitating, before sticking your tongue out to lick up one of the drops.

“ oh no,” The taste of salt brings more tears, and you lean forwards to hide your shame in your hand.” No. No…Neden tadı böyle? Neden.. . tuzlu?” You let a sob jerk your chest while reaching for one of the forgotten sandwiches. The disgusting ratio of bread and peanut butter helps shock your taste buds into forgetting about the tears. You push the food around in your mouth until it’s soft enough to swallow, but even then, a sob keeps it from going down.

You let the sand which falls from your hands. The creamy peanut butter taste feels like gooey slime, coating your mouth and throat in a thickness that hurts. Your tongue pushes against bits of bread to try and soak all the peanut butter up, but all that does is make a giant mouthful of muck.

A sticky, peanut and bread crumby mess.

Your shoulders shake— the sobs growing more and more as unwanted thoughts try and force the bite down.

Yet, you won’t swallow. An unwillingness feeds you to savor the taste for as long as possible. The thought of betrayal- being shoved back into the headspace- raging a storm in you that makes your stomach hurt.

They know you’re here. They know you’re here— they know.

They’re going to throw you away. They’re going to starve you; you will never eat again. You will never be free. You will never be one of them.

You will-

“ Hey.”

Startled, You choke down the mess in your mouth. It goes down without much fight, but the aftertaste leaves you craving a nice sip of water.

“ The sink.” You’re not one to take orders from others- especially people from Chicago- but the soft command nudges you towards the sink without argument. As if someone was guiding you by the shoulders, rubbing slow circles into your arms.

You don’t realize it is- in fact- your arms until they move on their own to make you a cup of water.

Your hands- no- your alter hands bring the cup to your face. Through tears, you stare at the rippling reflection on the surface of the water, visibly not your own, as the eyebrows twist in a way you know yours aren’t.

Angry. . . But you have a feeling it’s not directed at you.

“ Drink. Small sips.” The Chicago accent comes alive to cup your jaw. You lean back and let your hands tip a bit of water in your mouth. They hesitate as you swallow before allowing you two more generous sips.

“ Ok. Feel better?”

Still, it is spaced out, your throat recovering from the sticky peanut butter, and you nod.

“ Good. That’s good. Can I. . .?”

A gentle prod phases you out of the front for just a second. But it’s enough for you to sober up and shove back into place. Your heart is racing twice as fast now, trying to keep the alter put.

“ Don’t-“ You shrink back at your shout.” Don’t, do that. . . Please.”

You feel a pair of eyes on you and turn. The same eyes you saw in the cup stare up at you in the faucet reflection. It’s a bit hard to tell- your poor eyesight making you squint- but when the reflection moves up into the mirror a few inches away from the sink, everything becomes clear.

“ Marc,” You breathe, the familiar eyebrow slit a sign as to which alter you were dealing with.” How. . . How are you?”

Marc- clearly uncomfortable- folds his arms.

“ Could be better,” He looks down at the floor and then backs up to you.” Who are you? How long have you been here?”

You couldn’t answer that question. Technically, you’ve been here as long as the other two- Jake and Steven- but the lack of good memories skews that.

You decide to bullshit it.” Don’t know. A— a while. As long as Jake or Steven, probably”.

Marc raises a brow.” Probably? Why’s that?”

“ Um,” You look away.” I don’t— I can’t remember. My, my memories are. . . I can’t remember a lot.”

You lick your lips with a sigh. Looking back at Marc, your shoulders hunch over your chest.” I’m sorry for all this… I was just-“

“ Are you ok?” Your lips tremble. The soft look in Marc’s eyes is like a punch to the chest, the pity making you feel all the more shitty. “ Do you, do you need something?” Marc eyes the forgotten food on the table. A pit of shame opens in your stomach.

“ No, no. . . I’m good,” You give a quick smile, your head bowed.” I’m just going to— need to sleep. I’ll; I won’t bother you again. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

You catch Marc’s eyes widen.” Wait, no-“

But it’s too late. You fade back into the headspace, a lingering taste of peanut butter replaced by the tasteless wetness of your tears.

#moon knight fanfic #moonknight #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight x you #marc spector #mcu fanfiction #marc spector x reader #kinda sad #yeah </3

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