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HEYYYYY omfgggg I absolutely love your pics qwiepemekdkalalsjd I used to read your pics religiously a few yrs back and am so glad you got back into posting them!!! Also moonknight my beloved 🧎‍♀️❤️

asdfghjk tyms anon!!!

aaaahhhh moonknight is my baby. its the fandom i can always be sure i'll have some inspo to write on

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Atlas Hands | 3

Chapter 3: The Jackals Bite Back

Series Masterlist + General Warnings

Chapter Summary:

You knew something was wrong. The air felt too calm. Harrows men looked too alert and precise. Marc realizes the set-up a second too late. And he instinctively makes a choice. How will you survive?

The night falls over Cairo, heavy with a humidity that clings to the skin, thick and suffocating. It’s quiet, but you can feel it — the city is holding its breath. Every alley, every corner feels like it’s watching you, waiting for the moment when it all goes wrong.

Marc, and Layla have been tailing Harrow’s followers for hours, but they’re no closer to understanding what Harrow is planning. Every lead they get only leads them deeper into the labyrinth of Cairo’s streets. Marc’s impatience is starting to show, his body tense, eyes darting around, ever watchful.

“Marc, we’re getting nowhere.” Steven’s voice, small and anxious, cuts through the air.

Marc doesn’t answer. His focus is on the shadows ahead, his mind already half a step ahead, tracking every movement. They’ve been at this too long, and Marc knows something’s off. Harrow’s followers are too quiet, too careful. Like they’re expecting something.

Then it happens.

A shadow moves faster than it should. It’s too quick, too deliberate.

Marc’s instincts flare before he can even think. He grabs Layla’s arm, jerking her backward, just as a heavy impact smashes against his side. A body slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and everything goes to hell.

A dozen masked men burst out of the alley, surrounding them. The harsh sound of metal scraping against stone fills the air as they draw their weapons — batons, knives, and guns. There’s no warning, no mercy. They attack with ruthless precision.

Layla, ever quick on her feet, rolls to the side, pulling out a knife of her own. She doesn’t hesitate. The battle is a blur of sound, movement, and violence as Marc fights back, his every strike lethal and precise.

But amidst the chaos, you realize something. You’re alone. Too far behind. Too exposed.

A sharp, searing pain strikes across your back as a man’s boot connects with your spine, sending you sprawling to the ground. Your breath is knocked out of you as the world tilts sideways. You struggle to stand, but you’re overwhelmed. They’re everywhere, and the weight of it presses on your chest.

Then, the pain is nothing compared to the icy grip that wraps around your wrist, dragging you backward.

“Got her,” a voice snarls, and suddenly, your vision blurs. You fight to keep your head clear, but your body’s too exhausted, too battered. You feel yourself being pulled into the shadows, deeper into the maze of alleyways. A van screeches to a halt just ahead, and the doors fly open. You’re shoved inside, and the world goes black as the doors slam shut behind you.

Marc’s pulse races as he watches you vanish into the night, the sound of the van’s engine growing fainter with every second. His heart sinks into his stomach.

“No! Y/N!” He shouts, scrambling to his feet and charging after the van, but it’s already too late. The sound of the van’s engine fades, swallowed by the city.

“Marc, wait!” Layla yells behind him, but Marc doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not again. Not like this.

He’s already seen what it means to lose someone he loves — seen it too many times. His breath hitches in his chest as the familiar, gnawing fear starts to take hold of him. The rage, the guilt, the helplessness.

But it’s worse now. Because this time, it’s your life on the line. And he’s failed.

Marc freezes, his eyes darting to Steven, a reflection found among the shards of broken glass, looking pale and stricken.

“Steven…” Marc’s voice shakes. “She’s gone. They took her.”

“I—I know,” Steven stammers, swallowing hard. He looks between Marc and Layla, his face pale. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t… I didn’t think this would happen.”

Marc’s fists clench, the anger bubbling up. “You didn’t think this would happen? She’s been taken, Steven. She’s…” His words catch in his throat, but his eyes stay locked on Steven’s. “You didn’t think? You never think! You think everything’s fine until it all blows up, don’t you?”

Steven’s face crumbles, his lips trembling. “Marc, please—”

But Marc’s not listening. He’s already moving, his body tense with the urge to chase, to hunt down whoever took you.

“I can’t lose her, Steven,” Marc spits out, the words barely a whisper, but it’s a confession.

Steven watches him, heartbroken and confused. There’s so much anger — and so much fear — in Marc’s eyes. But Steven doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know how to fix anything.

Layla looks at the turmoil her husband is in. She extends and arm towards him, offering him comfort, but he flinches away.

You’re in pain. Every inch of you feels like it’s on fire, but the darkness creeps in faster than you can hold it back. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, each one a reminder that you’re alone—just like you were when Marc left you all those years ago. That memory claws at you, sharper than the boots, the blows, the blood.

The last thing you remember is the cold, suffocating air, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, and the voices that surround you. They laugh. They talk. But it’s all a blur, a haze of incoherent sounds. And you think, for a horrifying moment, that maybe this is how it ends—alone, betrayed, and forgotten.

Then the room shifts.

You’re lying on a cold metal table now, your limbs tied down. Your head is heavy, your vision a mess of fading shadows, and the only thing you can focus on is the voice in the room.

A man. A voice you’ve heard before.

“You don’t have to do this,” you croak, forcing the words out, your throat raw. The sound of your own voice startles you—it’s small, broken.

The man laughs. It’s not amusement; it’s a weapon. “Don’t I? Don’t I? You’ll tell me everything, one way or another.”

Pain surges through your side as he presses down, forcing you to stay conscious. But it’s not just physical pain—you feel the weight of every year Marc wasn’t there. Every time you needed him, and he wasn’t there. Every promise he didn’t keep. Every nightmare you had to face alone.

“Tell me about Marc Spector. Tell me about the Moon Knight. You know him, don’t you?” His voice cuts through the haze. “Tell me everything.”

You gasp, trying to speak, trying to find the words, but the fear in your chest feels like it might crush you. Your voice catches. Your hands tremble. “Marc…” you whisper, and the name is both a plea and a wound.

And that’s when it hits you: he’s gone. He’s always gone. He left you once, and now it feels like history is repeating itself in the cruelest way imaginable. The terror isn’t just that you might die—it’s that you’ll die without him, without him ever being there for you, and you’re forced to face everything alone.

The pain becomes a blur. The world tilts and spins. Your body screams. The shadows of the room creep in, wrapping around your mind, and you fight to stay awake—not just for yourself, but for the ghost of the sister you were when Marc abandoned you.

“Where is she?!” Marc’s voice is a shout, his hands gripping the edge of the compound’s gate with raw desperation.

Layla’s breath is heavy, her eyes scanning the perimeter. “We’re close,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. Her eyes dart back to Marc. “We’ll get her back. We just need to get in there.”

Marc’s fists clench as the sounds of gunshots echo from inside. He doesn’t need any more warning. He’s already through the gates, heading straight for the compound. Layla’s footsteps follow behind him — a steady, fierce rhythm.

“Y/N!” Marc shouts, his voice cracking as he moves deeper into the compound. “Where are you?!”

The sound of your voice — weak, choked, barely audible — cuts through the air.

“Marc…” The whisper is barely a breath, but it’s enough.

Marc turns toward the sound, his heart pounding. He sees you. Lying on the cold ground. Pale. Bruised. And broken.

A wave of nausea hits him as he rushes to your side, desperately checking for any sign of life. His hands tremble as he brushes the hair from your face.

“Please…” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, cracking under the pressure.

Layla kneels beside him, her eyes wide as she takes in the sight of you. “We need to get her out of here, now.”

Marc doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on you, his entire world narrowing down to this moment. His breath is ragged, and his hand presses against your chest — a silent plea for you to breathe, to stay with him.

For a second, the air is too still, too quiet. Then…

A weak, pained breath escapes your lips. And Marc feels like the world is still, like everything he’s been through has led him to this exact moment. You’re still here. Still alive.

But the war is far from over.

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ATLAS HANDS DAY BABY!!!

NEW CHP OUT BY EOD

ANGST!!!

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Fun fact: if you determine a research study is "shady" and "unreliable" because it is written with untraditional English grammar or comes from somewhere in Asia, you are actually just racist.

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Save Me | Marc x reader

Summary: Hands tied. Surroundings unknown. No way out. Will Marc be quick enough to save you?

A.N: Ahhhhh I recently watched the rookie and was inspired to write a kidnapped!reader fic. this fic is inspired by the rosalynd dyers abductions in the series.

Tagging @sweetistic & @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

Warnings: cannon typical violence, mentions of blood, torture, gunshots, phycological torture. reader discretion advised

(English isnt my first language. Please pardon any grammatical/spelling mistakes. Gifs not mine. Divider by @firefly-graphics.)

You're not sure what day it is.

Time doesn't move here — it loops. Stretches. Contracts. Collapses.

You remember light, at one point. You remember the morning sun over Marc’s shoulder as he brewed your shitty instant coffee. You remember the warmth on your face as the sun shone softly through the kitchen window, and the soft way his hand rested on your back as he kissed your temple in passing.

Now there’s only darkness and buzz.

The room is small and compact. Just wide enough for you to stretch your legs, but never both arms at once. The floor is damp in the corners, like the room itself is sweating. There’s a vent above you, humming low and steady, just loud enough to keep you from falling asleep. Just soft enough that every minute feels like it lasts hours.

They don’t talk to you unless they want something. You haven’t seen their faces — only boots, gloves and a voice over a speaker that plays every few hours like a goddamn lullaby.

And then there’s the camera.

The red light blinks at you constantly. Mocking. Waiting.

They make you talk into it.

“Say his name,” they told you the first time.

You didn’t. Not for three days. Maybe longer. Having your eyes and mouth tied up made you loose track of your surroundings.

You bit your lip until it bled and kept your eyes down and refused to let the camera see how afraid you were. You didn’t give them anything. Not a name, not a single word.

So they did what they knew best.

It started small. A slice of the knife over your cheek, a punch to your ribs.

Not deep. Not dangerous. Just enough.

You thought maybe, just maybe they'd get tired of torturing you. But that night, he visited you. Harrow. And that’s when the real torture started — because that night, they played it back for you. Your voice, ragged and broken,

"Marc."

You hadn’t realized you'd said it. You knew he would be devastated. You wished you had kept quiet, but fate wasn't in your favour anymore.

Harrow circled you like a prey before removing the fabric that covered your senses. The squinted, trying to guage your surroundings after being in the dark for so long.

"Well, my dear. How are you feeling?"

You flinched at his sound, your body leering away as far as posible with the restraints.

Harrow bent over to you, whispering "All of this can be over right now. You just gotta call Marc to us. Put on a show even. No one will hurt you anymore, I promise"

You felt a shiver run down your spine. His gaze seemingly put you frozen in place. It was only when his hands grazed your face did you snapped out of it.

"Fuck. You"

Harrow laughed. Like a jackal who had cornered its prey. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him, his face inches from yours. You could feel the evil spreading from him.

"You think you have a choice. You see my dear, if you don't do it on your own will, I'll simply hurt it out of you."

You gritted your teeth and knocked your head ahead, a crack echoing through the walls. Harrow stumbled onto his back, nose seeping with red liquid.

"You bitch. Your dead body would also be motive enough to get him here. You just killed both of yourselves. Death will come for both of you."

His men scrambled inside, tying you up again. You thrashed around, trying your best to break free. One of them grabbed your hair and yanked you backwards, making you fall with the chair. Your hands bruised at the awkward angle.

You screamed. Loud enough to lose your voice. Loud enough that they turned off the speaker just to shut you up.

You collapsed, body wracked with sobs you hadn’t even felt forming. You don’t remember crying. You remember choking. Gasping like you were drowning in your own chest. You dropped your head to your chest and whispered to the air, over and over again, like a prayer.

“Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t let them find you.”

Because this place? It’s not about you. Not really.

It’s about breaking him.

You can feel it in everything — in the pacing, in the way they recorded a message with your voice cracked and wet from tears.

When the door opened the next time, you dared to hope that that was the end of it. That Marc had killed the bastards and had come for you. That you could finally go home. But when Harrow walked in, blood splattered on his face, you knew it was different. It got colder, as if the air was sucked from the room. He looked livid.

"I gave him a chance to turn himself over. And yet he wants to be the hero so bad. Guess what? I'll give him a proper chance to become just that."

He untied you from the chair and pulled you roughly towards the deep end of the seemingly rundown building. You heard gunshots being fired in the distance, your heart racing at the prospect of escaping this hellhole.

That hope was shortlived however, when you felt yourself being pushed roughly. The ground beneath you suddenly gave off as you fell onto a metallic surface. Your legs gave out beneath you, sprained from the angle of impact.

You were still tied up. eyes covered. It felt ominous. You couldn't feel anything. You were scared.

"Enjoy." Harrow said as you heard the sound of metal doors closing.

You were trapped. But where? What were you trapped in? Would Marc be able to save you this time?

"Marc"

His knees buckled. He slid to the floor, hands in his hair, head bowed so low you thought he might break in half. Steven tried to come forward, to try to calm the body down, think rationally. But then Marc came back. Cold. Sharp.

The video showed you bruised and bloody. Tied up lile meat for slaughter. Marc went silent for a long time.

No voice. No tape. No movement.

Just you. And the screen. And his own unraveling.

When he got the next message from Harrow, asking to give himself up, he was determined. He'd do anything to save you.

You sat up and managed to get the fabric to fall from your eyes.

It’s a steel container. The contraption you’re in, it’s cylindrical — akin to a barrel. Tall enough for you to stand, wide enough for you to try to wriggle your arms free, with the top welded shut. A glass section allowed you to peer into the darkness, rays of light escaping from under a door too far away for anyone to hear you.

You're not even sure if anyone would hear you from the metal tube. But you scream. Scream for Marc.

You try to break the glass. Slam your shoulder into it. Kick with your bare foot, teeth gritted, wrists aching behind you.

Suddenly, the lights turn on. They hum like a predator waking up.

You blink against the harsh fluorescence and look through the glass again — and that’s when you see it.

The room is no longer empty.

A pressure-activated rig is mounted to the ceiling above the door. Wires snake toward the latch. And perched right beside it — sharp, polished, and ready — is a mounted rifle.

Pointed straight ahead.

You gasp against the cloth gag. Try to shake your head. Try to shout.

Through the barrel’s glass, you can see a faint red laser line stretching from the weapon to the exact spot anyone would stand if they walked in.

And then — a voice.

“MARC!” you scream, or try to, but the sound is muffled, strangled, swallowed by the gag.

You bang your shoulder against the wall again. Your knee. Anything. Panic claws its way up your throat. You shout louder. Louder.

And then you hear him.

“I'm here! Just hang on — I’m right outside!”

NO. No no no—

You throw yourself forward, slamming your bound hands into the side of the barrel. The metal sings under the pressure.

“MARC, DON'T—”

The handle turns.

You scream, guttural and violent, but he can’t hear you through the thick walls.

Then the door opens.

Bang.

Time stops. You see it, the spark, the snap of pressure, the rifle’s kickback. Then Marc stumbles through the doorway.

He jerks back — a flash of blood across his shoulder as he hits the floor, hard.

“Marc!”

You scream, but your voice is still lost. Your mouth burns under the cloth, soaked with spit and desperation. You thrash, fingers twisted, wrists bleeding now from the friction of the ropes. You scream again.

He’s crawling. Arm dragging. One hand pressed to the wound.

You shake your head violently. No. No. He’s still alive but—

Then you feel it.

The sudden hiss beneath you. Something shifting in the floor.

And cold.

Water.

Your bare legs are soaked up to your shins.

You twist, breath catching. The bottom of the barrel is now flooding. A sharp intake of water from a small port below — quiet, methodical, deadly.

It keeps rising. You scream again, tears pricking the edges of your vision.

Outside the glass, Marc is trying to stand. His body sways. He sees you now. The barrel. The panic in your eyes. The water rising.

His face crumples in horror. He rushes forward but you slam yourself against the glass, over and over again, trying to stop him.

Don’t come closer. Please. What if this is a trap too?.

He presses his shivering hand to the glass.

“I’m going to get you out,” he says, voice hoarse.

You shake your head violently, scream through the gag, but it’s too late.

The water is at your chest now. Freezing. Heavy. Your breaths come faster. You feel yourself losing control.

Marc fumbles for something — a crowbar? A knife? You can barely see anymore through the water rising and the tears clouding your eyes.

You try to keep your head above the line. You’re shivering, teeth chattering behind the gag.

"I’m sorry,” Marc says. “I’m so sorry, baby, please, just hang on. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You try to say his name. Try to tell him you love him. That you’re not angry. That this isn’t his fault.

But all that escapes is a sob. Then the water hits your neck. Then your chin. Then your mouth. You hold your breath as long as you can, eyes wide, lungs screaming.

Marc screams your name. He punches the glass with his bare fists. Blood smears across the surface. But you’re already slipping under.

Everything burns. Cold wraps around you like rope. Your lungs ache, screaming for air. You twist, pull, slam your shoulder again, but the metal holds fast. There’s no escape.

Then…

Nothing.

Your body goes still.

Black.

But something stirs in the dark. Not water. Not pain.

A voice. Ancient. Cold as the desert night.

“You are not hers to take.”

The air shatters like glass. Light explodes behind your eyes.

And then — a cracking sound.

The barrel splinters open, shards of glass flying across the floor like razors. You fall forward into his arms. Safe.

Marc catches you — barely conscious, your body limp, soaked and freezing, wrists still bound.

“Baby—hey. HEY. Look at me. Come on, please, look at me.”

Your eyes flutter open for a second. He’s crying. Blood smeared across his face. His shoulder soaked red. But he’s here.

You whisper something, but your voice is barely a whisper.

He pulls the gag down from your mouth. Cradles your face like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You blink. “You got shot,” you whisper, barely audible.

He smiles, shaking. “Just a scratch.”

Liar.

You reach up with the little strength you have and touch his face. Fingers trembling.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’d die first,” he whispers. “I would’ve torn the world down.”

You start to cry. Silent, shaking sobs that press into his chest. His grip tightens around you.

But you can feel it, even now, the weight of what just happened. The gun. The trap. The water. His blood on your hands. Yours on his shirt.

You’re alive.

But not whole.

Not yet.

And as he carries you out, broken glass crunching beneath his feet, you look back at the ruined barrel.

Your voice, ragged, catches in your throat.

“He was trying to kill both of us.”

Marc doesn’t answer. He just walks faster.

[avatar-of-procrastination]

Heyyyyy I love your works smmmm omfg esp your mk and chishiya ones 😭😭😭💖💖💖

Hope you'll write more abd more!!!

heyyy loveee <3<3<3

tysm for the kind wordsss aaaahhhh. im so glad you enjoy the fics!

[avatar-of-procrastination]

was watching the rookie and got this really cool idea of a kidnapped reader, being tortured by harrow and the moonboys literaly tearing apart everything that stands in their way hehehehe

comment if you guys wanna be tagged!!!

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or so you THINK. jokes on you, i stick it somewhere and then live the rest of my life in regret

people who can decide where to put stickers must really have their life together

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NOT FAST ENOUGH

Summary : What if Marc wasnt sent on a mission to kill the archeologists in Cairo? What if there was another reason he became the MoonKnight?

A.N : yeah so idk where this came from. I was writing a perfectly fluffy dune fic when this idea popped into my head. Please read the warnings before heading on. English is not my first language. Please pardon any mistakes.

Pairings : Marc Spector x reader (mainly) ; Steven Grant x reader (slight, not much)

Warnings: spoilers for ep5 of moonknight below the cut. Mentions of death, violence, kidnapping, shooting.

Steven felt uneasy, standing amidst the lifeless bodies Marc had killed. He shuddered, unable to comprehend how someone could be capable of such a cruel thing as taking someone's life. He was absolutely disgusted by Marc and couldnt look at him without feeling like punching him.

Marc on the otherhand, was completely silent, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Marc had begged Steven to not go into the room. He would do anything but relive the memories of the day he lost everthing. The day he lost you.

Marc remembered the day vividly.

He was on a clean-up mission in Dubai, where he was asked to take out a group of drug smugglers. The job would've been quick and effortless if not for a small child. Even though he was a mercenary, he would never have the heart to mercilessly execute an innocent child. That, however, would turn out to be the most fatal mistake of his entire life. Marc left Dubai, unaware of the fact that the child, the heir of the underground mafia, informed his parents of the drug bust Marc caused.

By the time Marc landed in Cairo, his phone was filled with messages and missed calls. From you. He immediately pressed redial in a frantic worry, imagining that the worst had happened.

One ring, two rings, and someone picked up the call. He felt a momentary relief when he heard your voice but that quickly turned into panic when he heard you scream. His blood boiled at the thought of you getting hurt and rushed to the coordinates of the place he traced the call to.

Marc reached the co-ordinates and found himself in the windy desert with many tents lined up. He ran towards the secluded part of the camp, careful to not be noticed and overheard two guards talking about a beautiful person bound in one of the tents.

"Maybe we can have some fun before they kill them." One of them suggested.

Filled with rage, he quickly took down both of them, feeling no remorse for taking their lives. He stealthily searched every posible tent for you, his heartbeat increasing with every passing moment.

He burst into the last tent and found you bound and gagged to a post. Your head was bloody and you had quite a few bruises on your face and stomach. You weakly picked up your head when he called out your name and met his eyes in fear. With the remaining energy you had, you franctically motioned to him to stay away from you. You violently shook your head but Marc ignored everything and ran towards you. He started untying your hands and apologizing profusely. He almost untied you when something hit him from behind. You screamed, the sound muffled by the cloth in your mouth. You tried to free yourself, but your already weak body could do nothing to the tightly bound ropes.

Groaning in pain, he fell to the ground. After a few minutes, he regained his senses and stood up shakily, seeing the large amount of people gathering in the tent, with guns and knives. Marc knew he couldnt take them all out without getting you hurt. One of the men came close to you, still bound to the pole, and placed a knife to your neck. Marc immediatly flung towards you but the other men pulled him back holding him down firmly, while the man next to you chuckled darkly.

"Oh how nice is this! Do you know who i am?" He questioned Marc.

He simply stared coldly at him. If looks could kill, he'd been dead long ago.

"Ofcourse you don't. Let me remind you. Earlier today you blatantly killed my men. For what? Meeting the needs of my customers? Following my command?"

"They were drug dealers. Your men were supplying drugs far worse than the cocaine shit."

"You know, out of the people you so mercilessly killed, one of them was my fiancé. I was supposed to marry her later this week. I was surprised when my nephew called me. Do you know how much it hurts to hear that your love is dead? That an American man had put a bullet through my beautiful angel's head. Huh. Now what kind of gentleman would i be if I didnt return the favour?"

"NO. Don't you dare lay a finger on her. We can work something out here. Please. PLEASE. Just Dont hurt her."

"Oh dont worry." He laughed darkly, " I'll make sure it doesnt hurt."

The guy pulled out a gun and shot the bullet right throught your head.

Marc had never seen rage like that before. All he saw was the limp body of his lover fall down as he screamed for her.

It was like a switch went off in him as he shot down every last person in the room with him. The leader of the group managed to escape into the cave outside. Marc followed him outside and limped into the cave. The man fell down as he crawled behind, trying to escape the blood thirsty mercenary.

Marc didnt hesitate to pull the trigger and didnt even wince when the blood sprayed all over him.

Once he killed the scumbag, his hand dropped the gun, heartbroken and hollow. He lost you like he lost his brother. You, the only source of happiness in his life were now gone because he couldn't save you. Marc screamed into the night, tears streaming down his face because he was once again alone in the world. You were dead and it was his fault .

It was then that he heard a heavenly voice talk to him and ask him if he wanted to be the face of vengence. The thought of your smile was enough for him to agree to be the Egyptian God's Avatar. For him, it was a means of penance, a way to save innocent lives like yours. He thought that with the power of Khonshu, he would be able to prevent anymore people dying because of him.

Steven saw the entire scene unfold in front of him and felt himself tear up. Marc was sitting next to your body, staring into nothingness with tears in his eyes. Steven walked to Marc and hugged him tightly and Marc leant into his embrace, letting all the tears and pent up frustration out.

"If i would've been faster, she woyld've been here. Now she's not. And it's all my fault."

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don't let anyone dull my shine or dampen my attitude

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good lord look at what i found

i wanna write a model!chishiya au so bad rn

[avatar-of-procrastination]

Off-Camera | Chishiya x reader

Summary: Chishiya might be a world famous model. But when he's with you, he's just a sweet man, who wants to give you the world.

Model!AU

A.N: Y'all remember this? Yeah. This is what you get when I hyperfixate on a video that DRIVES ME FERAL OMFG

Warnings: none at all! sweet fluffff!!!

(English isnt my first language. Please pardon any grammatical/spelling mistakes. Gifs not mine. Divider by @firefly-graphics.)

You're brushing your teeth when the bedroom door creaks open softly.

“You’re up early,” Chishiya says, voice still deep, barely awake.

You glance at him through the mirror. He’s shirtless, blonde hair sticking up in every direction, a pair of navy sweatpants sitting low on his hips. For a man who graces billboards across countries, it’s ridiculous how soft he looks in the morning — eyes still half-lidded, cheeks faintly flushed, hair a disaster.

You rinse your mouth. “I could say the same. Didn’t you get back from Milan like… six hours ago?”

He shrugs and pads over to you, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. You lean into him easily, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Jet lag can wait.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You just missed my cooking.”

“That too,” he says, then kisses the side of your neck lazily. “Also your bed. And how it smells like you. My hotel smelled like detergent.”

You snort, exiting the bathroom and heading towards the kitchen. Chishiya follows behind closely, immediately missing your comfort.

As the water boils, he sits at the kitchen island, chin propped on his hand, watching you with sleepy contentment.

This is what he misses — the parts no one sees. Not the flashing lights, the runways, the editorials. But you in your pajamas, humming while pouring tea. The way you tap the side of your mug to the beat. The sunlight shining down on your hair as it pours through the window.

The world knows Chishiya as the cold, sharp-cheekboned enigma who never smiles in photos. But here, he’s the man who steals your socks, folds laundry with an unnecessary amount of precision, and leaves notes in your lunchbox when you’re stressed.

“You looked beautiful in the Calvin Klein shoot,” you say, handing him a mug.

He smirks over the rim as he takes a sip. “I was half-naked.”

“And still managed to look like you were judging the photographer’s soul.”

“Old habit.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the quiet clink of mugs and the sound of the city waking up outside. He breaks it softly.

“You coming with me to the Seoul show next week?”

You blink. “You want me to?”

Chishiya sets his mug down and leans forward. “You think I keep a spot open in my first-class seat just for my bag?”

“I assumed it was for your skincare products.”

“That’s what the other three bags are for,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and he smiles, really smiles, the kind only you get to see, the one that crinkles his eyes and softens every edge of him. Then he reaches over and laces his fingers through yours across the table.

“Come with me,” he says, quietly this time. “We’ll sneak out between fittings, eat too much street food. You can watch me suffer in designer shoes.”

You glance at your calendar in your mind. You do have some flexibility next week. And Seoul with Chishiya… sounds like a dream.

“You’re paying for my food.”

“Obviously. I’m rich and in love.”

Your heart skips. Even now, even after months together, those words feel like a warm shock.

You raise your brow. “In love, huh?”

He stands, walks around the table, and kisses your forehead like it’s a vow. “Hopelessly. Tragically. Publicly, if I have to.”

You can’t stop grinning. “Well, in that case, I guess I’ll come.”

“Good.” He tugs you into a full embrace this time, nuzzling your hair. “It’s a crime to look this good and not have you by my side.”

You laugh into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your hands.

The cold, famous Chishiya may belong to the world. But this version — the soft, sleepy, completely smitten version, belongs entirely to you.

[avatar-of-procrastination]

guess what

good lord look at what i found

i wanna write a model!chishiya au so bad rn

[avatar-of-procrastination]

good lord look at what i found

i wanna write a model!chishiya au so bad rn

[avatar-of-procrastination]

bruh ive seen this post atleast 10 fucking times in the last hour

I was being stalked through my house by Slenderman and I finally got fed up enough that I took a metal chair and beat the shit outta him.

[avatar-of-procrastination]

ALWAYS!!!

burst my inbox!! ask me about random shit! send in random shit!

Reblog if it's okay to invade your ask box.

Always

[avatar-of-procrastination]

I do not AI WRITE, I do not AI DRAW, I do not listen to AI MUSIC and if it isn’t created by someone IT IS NOT ART.