#Marc Blank | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sarahghetti · 1 year ago

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moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that�� “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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spicyllewyn · 1 year ago

Text

Kinktober 6. - Mirror sex.

Moon system x F!Reader

Tags & warnings. Mirror sex + hair pulling. (+18)

Word count. 2.8k

Summary. Marc got tired of Steven and Jake breaking his rules.

Kinktober masterlist.

So far, the agreement had been going relatively well. You were in a serious relationship with Marc at first, you met in a café like those silly romantic movies, with the small difference that you almost killed him by spilling your cold drink on him and tripping over him.

Neither of you could deny that things were moving very fast, but everything with him was so ridiculously easy that you weren't afraid to give him your all. You told him about the pet you lost when you were young, about the disagreements with your parents, and the occasional traumatic event in your life. He did the same.

When he told you about Steven and Jake, you joked that he was winning the trauma competition, and he could breathe easy knowing that this was not even close to being an obstacle to your relationship. He could trust you.

Things began to get a bit out of control when everything also became easy with Jake and Steven, each with their own personal charm. You never imagined being with three very different guys, but starting to experience it was a real adventure. The problem was that while you were having fun, they had endless discussions about you and the boundaries they set for each other.

Well, the boundaries that Marc set.

The main and biggest one was that marks on your body were prohibited. He understood that all four were part of the relationship equally, but he also used something he liked to call "privileges of having met you first and being the main reason why everyone is together." Or something like that, he always changed the name for it, the thing is he couldn't help but be a jealous man, he hated that Jake and Steven would forget who you belonged to first.

The first one to break the rule was Steven, unconsciously. You didn't know anyone who was a bigger fan of make-out sessions than him, and when his kisses got deeper, more desperate, he had the habit of holding onto your hips as if you were about to run away at any moment, or as if he wanted to verify that you were real and that you were in his arms, devouring his mouth as if you depended on it to live.

That, combined with the fact that he had a terrible habit of forgetting that his muscles were stronger than he thought. You tried to be as discreet as possible when his fingers left marks on your skin, but with someone as touchy as Jake, it was impossible to keep secrets about your body.

He took it as a challenge, of course. If Steven could break the rules, why couldn't he?

The next day, you could be sure that he saw you as a blank canvas because your neck, your shoulders, and even your breasts were covered in bites and hickeys. You didn't remember him being so aggressive, but maybe pleasure had blinded you.

"What is this?" Marc held your chin, turning your face slightly, just enough to get a better view of your neck.

"It was Jake." You chuckled, still distracted by your phone as you let him guide you, without noticing how his jaw clenched, but feeling his fingers tighten on your jaw.

"Darling?"

Your eyes traveled to him.

"Mhm?"

"Will you come with me to the bedroom? We need to talk."

With a furrowed brow, you obeyed because the hand that held your chin ended up in one of your hands, pulling you as if he were a child wanting to show you something very important.

"Am I in trouble?" You joked as you watched him close the door behind you.

"Sit on the bed."

"Am I...?"

His brown eyes on you were enough for you to obey once again.

"Could you explain to me what the hell is this?" His hand in your hair made you turn your gaze away from the mirror you had in front, leaving the marks in plain sight.

You immediately understood who he was talking to.

Or whom.

"Oh, come on, hermano." Jake rolled his eyes in the mirror's reflection, his arms crossed over his chest. "Steven broke it first."

"False!" The mentioned objected after. It seemed like a competition of who could make Marc lose his patience first. "I would never do something like that."

"Check her hips if you don't believe me."

Raising an eyebrow, Marc released your hair.

"Stand up, sweetheart."

If there's one thing you've learned over time in this relationship, it's that it's not worth objecting when one or all three of them are arguing, especially when you don't even know what the problem is. You stood up slowly, wearing Steven's blue sweater that you slept in, which only covered half of your thighs.

He slowly lifted the edge of the fabric, his fingers brushing your thighs and causing a slight shiver. You could swear you heard him growl when he found the damn marks that fit perfectly with the size of his hands. Some of them were covered by your panties but they were pretty visible, already turning to a purple color.

“I-I didn't even notice those were there!”

“Why can Steven do it and I can't? That’s a damn injustice if you ask me.”

“Fortunately, Jake, I'm not asking you.” He rolled his eyes while you tried to imagine what the other two boys responded to him from the headspace. "On your knees."

The cold of the floor on your skin felt good and you had to look up to meet your boyfriend's chocolate gaze. You never had a problem following his orders.

“The problem here…” His fingers ran through your hair slowly, making you close your eyes for a few seconds. “They are forgetting who you belong to. Who do they think they are to mark my girl like this, huh?” He cooed, the gaze of the other two fixed on him.

Your hands went to the hem of his pants, and when he didn't object, you understood well what he wanted. A small smile spread across your lips as you freed him from his tight black jeans, as well as his underwear.

He wasn't completely hard yet until your tongue ran along his entire length from base to tip.

“I want you to show them who was your first, my love.” Your fingers, as if you were an expert, wrapped around his cock, giving it a squeeze before beginning a slow, up-and-down pace. “Who you think about every fucking time you cum.”

You couldn't see it, but in detail you imagined the way Jake was rolling his eyes.

“It's a punishment for all 3 of you, you understand, don't you, honey?” His eyes boring into you as you kissed all around his cock wetly. “What makes you believe you should allow yourself to be treated that way?”

You parted your lips, taking the head inside before starting to suck. That always gave him chills, the way you didn't rush.

“No-oh.” His fingers tangled in your hair, those soft caresses had stopped. One push of his hand and you had half of his erection inside your mouth. He groaned.

Although you enjoyed taking your time and savoring every inch of Marc, he seemed to be in a hurry, you thought that perhaps the clumsy and aggressive way in which he was directing your head movements was part of the supposed punishment.

Were you supposed to not enjoy that?

“Push deeper.” Jake's voice caught Marc's attention, who a few seconds ago had been distracted by the messy and sloppy way you were sucking him off. He could have sworn there was a point where the only sound in the room was your saliva every time he slid over your tongue.

Marc looked at the mirror with a frown.

“Push harder.” He repeated, looking up. “Steven always fucks her mouth until she cries, if you want to prove your point push harder. Right, Steven?"

The other boy received an elbow against his ribs that forced him to look up. It seems he was enchanted by watching the way your left cheek bulged against the pressure of the head of Marc's lenght against it.

Still distracted, he nodded quickly.

It was that what resulted in you suddenly feeling him push your head harder. The brush against your throat brought tears to your eyes and you heard your boyfriend grunt. He was never so rude.

You didn't complain, though.

You tried your best to relax the muscles in your throat around him, but you were so caught off guard that a couple of gags only did the opposite, feeling you squeeze him every few seconds until he guided your head back.

Saliva ran from your lips to your chin, some drops ending up on your neck. You broke the string of saliva that joined his cock to your mouth by licking your lips.

You sniffed, looking up before giving Marc a smile.

“Oh, you like that, don't you?” His fingers wrapped around himself so he could hit your tongue with his heavy member. You kept your tongue out, happy to receive it and hear the wet slapping. “Or does Steven do it better?”

Another movement of his hips was so abrupt that you felt your nose eventually collide with his lower abdomen, having to close your eyes as your tears ran down them. Still, you didn't give up, you didn't use your well-known "signal" to ask for some mercy.

Instead you moved your tongue slowly underneath, you only managed to graze his balls with the tip of it but it was enough to get a gasp from his throat. You held on for more seconds than you thought you were capable of before it was Marc himself who pushed you away.

It took you several seconds to even out your desperate breathing, you wiped your lips on the sleeve of Steven's sweater.

"Stand up." He ordered. His chest rising and falling rapidly. Jake's smirk on the other side of the mirror screamed at him that he knew. He knew Marc would finish stupidly quickly if he kept fucking your throat like that.

You swallowed hard before standing on shaky legs, the intense heat between your legs beginning to burn through your entire body, without receiving any kind of attention the only thing you could feel was the way your insides clenched around nothing.

"Turn around." Your cheeks took on a reddish color as you remembered the two pairs of eyes that were on you on the other side of the reflection. You slowly turned your back on him, your fingers gripping the wooden cabinet that held the huge mirror. “You better not close your eyes, I want you to look at them.”

Marc's hands took care of the job, pulling the hem of the sweater up to your waist and pulling your panties down to your ankles. You didn't need instructions to spread your legs and raise your ass for him.

He positioned himself behind your body, holding his cock for help. The tip separated your lips and you flinched when it brushed your swollen clit, it was just a couple of brushes as if he wanted to collect your juices on it in order to make penetration easier.

Although with you dripping and him full of your saliva, at this point it was just his pettiness and his desire to make you beg. You lifted your hips higher.

Marc looked down, his hand positioning itself exactly over Steven's finger marks and with a single movement you felt him slide inside you. Your legs trembled as you received him this deep and rough way, an action that you recognized as more typical of Jake.

“M-Marc, fuck, Marc.” You stammered as your body tried to get used to his size. No matter how many times you had done this, it was like your body insisted on giving him that death grip that drove him crazy.

"That's it." He caught her bottom lip between his teeth in a lousy attempt to silence her gasps. “Louder, baby, remind them who's fucking you.”

Somehow you felt like Jake and Steven's eyes burned into your skin. You couldn't look in the mirror, not while you were babbling Marc's name between moans, with that look that made it obvious how cockdrunk you were with just a couple of thrusts.

When Marc hit that sweet spot that made you vibrate from head to toe, your eyes closed automatically, your head falling downward.

"No." He growled, his hand rising to place it in your hair where he tangled his fingers. The sudden tug he gave to your locks made you snap your head up and let out a loud gasp, your eyes snapping open. "Look at them."

On the other side Jake was leaning slightly so he could be at your face level, analyzing every small expression of pleasure he saw in you. Your cheeks are flushed, your pupils are dilated, and your lips are red from biting them so much.

Steven was too lost in his own thoughts to object anything, the truth is that he was enjoying this new angle he had to see his cock splitting you and making you whimper more than he would like.

“Tell them how good I'm making you feel, honey.” He cooed, his fingers giving your hair a harder tug to force you to keep your head up. “Remind them who was the first to break that tight little pussy.”

You stifled a moan, making your bottom lip bleed with a bite.

“Tell them.” He growled, his fingers squeezing your hips so hard you feared your body was going to give up at any moment.

“I-It was you, Marc.” You whimpered in pleasure as his thrusts pushed your body forward, you were already on your tiptoes so as not to end up with your entire body against the furniture.

“Repeat it, I want them to listen to you.” His entire length remained still inside you, brushing against that spot that made you lose your mind. "Louder."

Your parted lips took in deep gasps of air and you had to swallow hard to recover your voice by moistening your throat a little.

“It’s you M-Marc.” He didn't give your hair a break, he was pulling with his fingers so hard that it was starting to hurt. “Fuck, Marc! A-Ah, fuck. It’s you, it’s you, only you.”

Bold of you to assume that Jake wouldn't have that in mind the next time he had his turn with you.

“Fuck her harder.” Marc looked at the mirror when the opposing voice caught his attention. “Come on, she can take it.” A mocking smile appeared on his lips, only irritating Marc even more.

Still, he obeyed.

You could hear the slapping between your bodies every time he thrusted into you. Your legs were threatening to stop supporting your body weight as they began to shake, your entire body feeling small spasms as you got closer and closer to the end.

“Marc?” Steven's soft voice caught the attention of the other two. His pupils were dilated and there was an adorable blush on hid cheeks. "Touch her."

Marc grunted when he realized that this wasn't the punishment he'd originally thought, but who was he to say no to Steven? The hand that was holding your hip slowly slid between your legs, separating your pussy lips with his fingers and then pressing his thumb against your sensitive clit.

He immediately felt your little hole tighten around him.

“Circles.”

“I know how to touch her, Steven.” He growled in your ear, only reminding you of the pair who were probably enjoying the show. The pleasure you were experiencing was too much to rescue the few grams of shame you might have somewhere on your body.

Your nails scratched the wood of the furniture in front of you.

“Cum all over me, honey.” He managed to whisper between moans. Two more thrusts of his body snatching the air from your lungs. “I bet they’ll like it.”

And that was enough for the wave of pleasure to make your body tingle from head to toe, your walls milking Marc until he followed you immediately after, filling you with his warm, thick liquid, which he pushed deeper inside you with a couple more strokes.

For a few seconds the only thing you heard along with the ringing in your ears was Marc's heavy breathing. After a moment his fingers gripped your hips, drawing your attention.

He gave you one more thrust and you squealed, sensitive, overstimulated.

“Marc.” You complained, looking up at the mirror in front of you once more as you tried to catch your breath.

On the other side, Jake's smile greeted you, almost playful.

“Let's see which name you can shout the loudest, princesa.”

Tag list. @ninebluehearts @shousha133 @unear7hly @onefinnedwonder-fm @automnepoet @lokisremainingsanity @uncle-eggy @just-a-nightdreamer @spktrgantenk @chinglewingledingledong @queerponcho @faretheeoscar @spideyman-peter

Remember to comment if you want to be on the kinktober tag list!! <3

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bamboobooshark · 6 months ago

Text

MOON BOYS X READER

₊˚.⋆🕯️⋆⁺. SHARING FOOD : 1.1K WRDS

A/N : Here’s something to hold you guys over for the week! School has been a pain in the ass, so it’s been kind of hard to keep up with classes, homework, social, etc. Hope you guys enjoy these little scenarios where you ask the boys for a bite of their food, even though you told them you weren’t hungry! ALSO SORRY TO THE MARC FANS MY MIND WAS BLANK ON THINKING OF SOMETHING FOR HIM 💔💔💔

STEVEN GRANT .

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, love? Anything at all?” Steven asks you while preparing to order something in the drive-through for the two of you. “Mhm! I’m sure,” you reassure him with a nod for what feels like the millionth time in a row. He exhales deeply and nods in acceptance. He hates it when you insist on not ordering something for yourself. It’s not because he hates sharing his food, but because he wants you to treat yourself. You deserve it!

Your footsteps pad against the hardwood floor of you and Steven’s flat. You rub your eyes from the exhaustion of today. Your senses heighten a bit as you spot Steven on the couch. He’s watching a new documentary. You smile when you realize it’s the one you won’t stop telling him about. Your heart practically melts at the fact that he remembered.

“Steven,” you say in a sing-song voice as you walk up behind the couch. “Mm,” he hums as an absent-minded reply. You lean forward and slip an arm on his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest. “I’m hungry,” you complain. Your eyes drift to the screen, and for only a moment, you and Steven are indulged heavily in the documentary. Your boyfriend let out a breath and winced softly. “Sorry, hun. Did you say something? I was a little focused on my documentary,” he told you with a nervous chuckle. His words pull you out of your own trance, and you nod your head. “Yeah! I said I’m hungry,” you exclaimed.

Steven chuckles softly and releases a hum of acknowledgment. "Well, how about we solve that problem?” he asks with a soft smile. “But I’d really like it if you sat with me first,” he requested as a form of compromise. You smile and roll your eyes at him. He’s always known exactly how to make you agree to do something with him or for him. You walk around the back of the couch and flop down right next to him. Without asking, you reach over to the side table and grab a bite of his food. He swats at your hand with a stupid pout on his face before the two of you exchange snickers and laughs.

MARC SPECTOR .

“Whatever you say, baby,” Marc says in a tone that asks if you’re really sure. You laugh at the way he dramatically raises his eyebrows, throws up his hands, and widens his eyes. “Whatever I say,” you repeat while giving him a playful look. On the way home, though, you keep eyeing his bag of food as stubtly as your attempts can.

Marc sighs when he hears you approach the dinner table. “Marc! Hey,” you drag out awkwardly. He looks up at you from his phone and gives you the same look he always does—the one that tells you he’s always right. “Hungry?” he asks before you get the chance to spit it out. You drop your head in defeat and nod. “Yep,” you agree sheepishly while glancing at his food.

He nods while taking another bite. He reaches his hand into the bag and pulls out food for you. You get butterflies in your stomach as he hands you the packaged meal. “Your usual. With everything you always ask for and nothing of what you don’t ask for,” he says with a knowing smirk. You stand there silently, embarrassed that he knew you’d ask for his food but blushing at how he knew your exact order.

“My kiss?” he asks while giving you a side eye. You put your hands up in defense before leaning forward and kissing his cheek gently. “Thank you, Marc,” you chirp sweetly. “Thank you for the kiss, baby,” he says in a similar tone.

JAKE LOCKLEY .

“Dios mío,” Jake groans over the phone. “I know you’re going to beg me for a little bite of my food later, cariño. Tell me what you want me to get you,” the man urges, like his life depends on it. “Jake, I told you I’m not hungry! If I do get hungry later, I’ll heat up some leftovers or something,” you insist while laying sprawled out on your shared bed. Another noise of annoyance comes from your phone before your boyfriend speaks again. “Okay, mi sol. Whatever you say, don’t come begging for food later. You know I’ll make you do something for it,” he says with a soft chuckle. The two of you say your goodbyes before he hangs up.

“I’m home, chiquito,” he calls to you as he enters the flat, holding his bag of food in one hand while the other holds a flower. He struggles to shut the door with his hands full, but manages to get it done. “Jake! I missed you,” you exclaimed with excitement from the couch. “I know you did. You always do,” he says cheekily. You give him a look that says, ‘Really?’ “Okay, sorry! I missed you too,” he says in a dramatically sweet voice. You both share a laugh. He comes and sits down by you, the couch squeaking a bit once he does. “I got you a flower. Es muy bonito. Just like you,” he says before pressing a kiss on your forehead. He gently gets a hold of your jaw, then tucks the flower behind your ear. He smiles wider because, damn, you are just too much for him to handle. He loves how you look adorning his little gifts.

Jake lets out a grunt as he gets comfortable on the couch. He snatches the remote from your hand with a smirk. He begins to browse through the channels and starts to eat. As your boyfriend is focused on finding something interesting to watch, you carefully reach your hand into the bag of food. “Aye. Don’t,” he tells you with a stern tone. He’s always so good at noticing little details and catching things; likely from being a cabby for a living. You groan as your hand retreats. “Please? Pretty please? I just want a bite,” you ask with a slightly annoyed tone. “I told you earlier that you’d have to do something for me if you wanted some, cariño,” he reminds you. You huff softly and give him a look that prompts him to tell you what he wants you to do. He hums in thought, then makes eye contact with you once he thinks of something. He leans close to you and takes your jaw in his hand once more. “Say please again,” he purrs while looking at you. “Please,” you hesitantly beg. He smiles and pulls back, causing you to yearn for a kiss. He laughs and gives you a bite of his food before you steal the kiss you rightfully deserve.

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insanityclause · 24 days ago

Text

“Pressure,” Tom Hiddleston says, “is a privilege.” He apologises for appropriating the title of Billie-Jean King’s memoir, but it’s a sentiment that feels pertinent to him and his co-star Hayley Atwell. They have known each other for 20 years, have both starred in the Marvel universe (Hiddleston as the charmingly villainous Loki; Atwell as the wartime spy Peggy Carter), but this is the first time they have worked together — if you don’t count their group audition to get into drama school.

In a baggy sweatshirt (Atwell) and natty pale-blue jacket with clasps (Hiddleston), they are in a south London studio to rehearse Shakespeare’s bantering would-be lovers Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. It will be only the second Shakespeare play performed at the 2,000-seat Theatre Royal Drury Lane in London since 1957. And the pressure Hiddleston refers to comes from the fact that the previous one — The Tempest, starring Sigourney Weaver, also directed by Jamie Lloyd — failed to go down a storm.

Atwell and Hiddleston in rehearsal for Much Ado About Nothing

MARC BRENNER

Withering reviews such as The Times’s (“Sigourney Weaver’s blank Prospero makes zero impression”) poured cold water on a desert island story that had been relocated by the director Jamie Lloyd to a charcoal-black netherworld. Prices were cut, and an onstage protest by Just Stop Oil looked like light relief.

“We can exclusively reveal that [Much Ado] is not set in a charcoal netherworld,” Hiddleston deadpans. The pair start each day of rehearsals with an hour of dancing. How much dancing will make it into the show? The pair, who are friendly but guarded, can’t or won’t reveal.

What they will say is that you don’t do a show like this by halves. It turns out that Shakespeare is more like a Marvel film than you’d think. “You’ve got to commit with heart and soul and body, like you do for action sequences,” Hiddleston explains. “All acting can be boiled down to how much you commit.”

“I like pressure,” Atwell says. “There is a part of it that is very healthy and useful. But any sort of pressure attached to an idea of my name as a brand or a public persona is so arbitrary and abstract. I turn off the noise that is inconsequential. I find the bit of it I can use.”

Tom Hiddleston as Loki, a mischievous Marvel villain

ALAMY

In 2022 Atwell had to do this while filming Mission: Impossible — Dead Reckoning Part One amid bogus reports of a relationship with the film’s star Tom Cruise; the pair are teaming up again for Mission: Impossible — The Final Reckoning, released this summer.

Hiddleston tells a story about his first big London Shakespeare opening, in 2007. He was playing Cassio in Othello, alongside Chiwetel Ejiofor as Othello and Ewan McGregor as Iago. At five o’clock the three popped out to a Covent Garden Pret a Manger to get a pre-show sandwich. (It is hard, the Much Ado two agree, knowing exactly when to eat before a show.) There was a first-night tension you could cut with a knife. Or there was until Ejiofor just said bluntly: “‘Well, this is a big night. No question.’ And it made us all laugh. Cos, yeah, it’s kind of a big deal — but what can you say?”

“’This is not your average Thursday,’” Atwell says.

“It’s not!” Hiddleston agrees.

Now 44, he already had an agent when he auditioned at Rada, having got one while studying Classics at Cambridge. Atwell, now 42, who grew up with her mother in west London, had delayed higher education to travel around with her American father and work for a casting director. When they met, in the final stage of auditions, it was on a day of working in a group.

Atwell and Hiddleston at the premiere of Jamie Lloyd’s The Tempest last year

ALAN CHAPMAN/DAVE BENETT/GETTY IMAGES

Atwell feels she handled the pressure less well than Hiddleston. “The woman from Rada said to us, ‘We are now looking for the next generation of actors who will be making a profound contribution to the arts.’ And I was, like, ‘I don’t know about that, mate, I’m just trying to get out of being in a housing association — if I can make a living I will be very happy.’ I was very intimidated.”

“It was very intense,” Hiddleston says.

“I was too shy,” Atwell says. “I didn’t commit.”

“I thought you committed,” Hiddleston says. “I thought you committed hard.”

He got in, she didn’t, and went to Guildhall School of Drama instead. But after leaving in 2005 she got a big role in the TV adaptation of Alan Hollinghurst’s novel The Line of Beauty almost immediately. A few posh roles followed, including in the film Brideshead Revisited.

“There was probably a bit more classism around then, and I suppose my own prejudice about ‘I’ve got to sound a certain way to even be considered for the kind of parts that might lead eventually to a film career’. So I thought if I could go down a period drama route, as opposed to the soap route or more working-class plays, I might give myself more of a chance. I had no back-up plan. I didn’t have any kind of privilege, didn’t come from money.”

The Eton-educated Hiddleston may come from a more prosperous upbringing but insists that, as an actor, “you never feel you are on solid ground. I have had to remind myself to smell the roses, because they don’t bloom all that often.”

His next theatre role was Lloyd’s revival of Pinter’s Betrayal in London and New York in 2019, which is how he met his fiancée, Zawe Ashton, who was a castmate. Atwell, meanwhile, last appeared in the West End in Ibsen’s Rosmerholm in 2019. Before that her work included another Donmar Shakespeare (Measure for Measure) and an Olivier-nominated performance in Lloyd’s production of Alexi Kaye Campbell’s The Pride. She didn’t know it at the time, but theMission: Impossible director Christopher McQuarrie saw her in it — something that led, seven years later, to him casting her as the con artist turned secret agent Grace.

He had a moment like that in 2013 — when the second Thor film came out at the same time as he was earning rave reviews for Coriolanus at the Donmar theatre in London. Hiddleston was the man of the hour. “And then you’ve got to do another 75 nights on stage, and make sure you are careful in the fight scene not to slip on the blood. The work anchors you.”

“You can’t predict,” she says. “There’s so much luck involved. I’ve worked for a number of years … and failure is allowed. I didn’t used to find it easy to fail and get a second chance. Particularly as a woman there was this sense of ‘you have to be perfect’. But while you want to deliver, after a while it’s not yours any more. It’s for the audience, and if they don’t like it, or if it doesn’t work, they’re allowed, that’s allowed.”

Atwell as the wartime spy Peggy Carter in Captain America: The First Avenger

JAY MAIDMENT/MARVEL STUDIOS/THA/SHUTTERSTOCK

Hiddleston, meanwhile, who has been filming the second series of John le Carré’s The Night Manager after a nine-year gap since the first, is still Loki to much of the world. The pair have never been in a Marvel scene together, though they did appear at the same event: Comic Con in San Diego in 2013, to which Hiddleston turned up in costume. “Nobody knew it was happening , it was insane and foolish and really fun.”

“I was backstage,” Atwell says cheerfully. “I will never forget the vision of Loki brushing his teeth in full costume.”

She says she is glad she was 15 years into her career before her five-year tour of duty on Mission began with filming in 2020. “I’m so grateful for that, because the level of global exposure on it, purely from being alongside Tom Cruise, can uproot and upend your life. But actually I’m too old to go, ‘What’s next?’ A real sense of security only comes from the commitment to work for work’s sake.” Offstage, both are engaged to their partners: Hiddleston to Ashton (the couple have a two-year-old), Atwell to the music producer Ned Wolfgang Kelly.

What led to today’s professional pairing? Hiddleston and Lloyd wanted to do another play together after Betrayal, and the actor suggested Much Ado. “It seems so light and warm,” he explains, a nice contrast to the heartbreaks of Betrayal. When Lloyd suggested Atwell, Hiddleston said yes immediately. “We’ve known each other for so long, and Beatrice and Benedick have known each other for so long.”

“I had only one question,” Atwell says, “which was, ‘Jamie, how ‘hey-nonny-nonny’ is it going to be?’” Lloyd assured her the hey-nonny-nonny levels would be minimal. “So I thought, this sounds really exciting.”

And if this pulls in a crowd more inclined to Marvel than Much Ado, well, marvellous. Hiddleston, who likes to spin a yarn, gives an impassioned speech about the magic of storytelling in all its forms, about “something being transmitted, from the stage or from the screen, that leaves you feeling more connected, more human, more alive, less alone in the world”.

And that applies to Marvel — famous dislikers of the franchise such as Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola notwithstanding — too?

“One hundred per cent,” they say in unison.

Atwell sees superhero stories as modern-day mythology. “I don’t believe in highbrow or lowbrow — I think it’s just art and film and theatre. You wouldn’t necessarily connect Marvel with Shakespeare. But both can be for everyone.”

Hiddleston remembers going to a screening at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York of the first Avengers film. A group of first responders who had been at 9/11 a decade earlier were there too. “They were all wearing their uniform in the cinema. And the film is about how the Avengers have basically saved New York from Loki. And when Loki gets smashed by the Hulk like a fish at the end, they literally threw their hats in the air and cheered. That was so moving.”

Much Ado About Nothing is at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London, Feb 10-Apr 5, thejamielloydcompany.com

#posting the whole thing because it's behind a paywall #and I refuse to give Murdoch any more money #tom hiddleston #hayley atwell #much ado about nothing

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love-is-a-dagger · 6 months ago

Text

Rain

Marc Spector x seer!reader/ slight Steven grant x seer!reader

Being stuck between the future, past snd present is hard work, thankfully you have the boys

Tw: mention of blood, an attempt at a horror?

I’m just really in love with heleana from house of the dragon and just got obsessed with moonknight again, this is my first fic in like a year and a bit and it’s all new again lol, this description sucks but I swear it gets better. I’m just in love with the boys being involved with seer reader but idk how to put it to works, hope you all enjoy 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Rain. You always loved the sound and the feeling and the smell of it, everything. The rain also made it hard to see, made everything blurry in your head, maybe it was the constant sound or maybe the cold, but whenever it rained, you’d be staring out the window for ages, just staring blankly.

Screaming, constant screaming, then a cold feeling in your stomach

Flashes of different places, old and new. It was hard to see where you where sometimes. But the second you felt a presence on your shoulder, you were back in your flat London.

“Love?”

You’ve been like it for a while, half an hour to be exact, sat in your shared bed, watching the rain fall from the window. He almost thought you where frozen had he not seen you blink.

He knew about your gift, or curse, it interested Steven. To be able to see into the future or past, he knew it haunted you sometimes, when loud noises or flashes scared you and you had to hide in his shoulder, it was cute but he knew it wasn’t always fun for you.

He watched as you slowly turned to face him, a blank face soon turned into a smile hard to hide. You always felt a little silly whenever one of the boys found you like that.

“I’m okay” you nodded to yourself, still in a slight trance. His hand travelled to your upper arm and his other hand joined the other. He sat on the bed next to you, rubbing gently into your arms, the feeling of his hands was nice, he saw how you always held onto things after being out, the feeling of something always helped being you to the present.

He has a handsome face, you realised after seeing him in your first vision of him when you were 16, it was a random day yet to come when you first met him, it was Steven you met first in your visions, you can’t remember all the details but he was cuddling you and talking about your recent visit to his old job at the museum.

You watched as he looked at you, trying to figure if it was a good vision or a bad one. This was a rare occurrence now days, but you still felt embarrassed whenever it happened. His eyes became too much and you looked down, looking at the loose piece of skin next to your nail.

Steven, let me

Steven looks over to the reflection of the glass to see marc watching, his brows scrunched together, concerned for you.

You felt his eyes on you, his hand left your arm and his fingers pushed your chin up to face him. His face hardened, and you knew it was no longer your bubbly boy.

“I know baby” gently, he pushed a bit of loose hair away from your eyes, his hand made home to your cheek. You matched him and your left hand met his face, his flushed cheeks finding you comfort.

You move your mouth to try and make sense of what you saw. You never had full moments, only flashes. Marc watched as your eyes searched his for the answer, his hands never leave their spot.

Blood everywhere, you couldn’t see where it was coming from, all you knew was that you wanted your boys. The copper smell burnt your nose, making your crinkle your nose trying to avoid it.

“I-I think Steven wants another fish”

Smiling, Marc’s lips met your forehead. He loved your gift, the nonsense, the drama, everything.

He felt the soft giggles that escaped, as his lips left your head, your eyes meet and your smiles match.

She’s so pretty

Marc couldn’t help but agree with Steven, you were breathtaking, with everything you did.

Suddenly, feeling the trapping tightness of the curse leave you mind, you jumped off the bed, slightly making your boyfriend jump.

You legs feel numb, so does the rest of your body. You found yourself walking to the window, still felling his eyes on you, you open the window. Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, you spin around.

Marc was already looking at you with love struck eyes, a slight smirk on his mouth as he leans on his arm, watching your every move.

“Get up” you demand, making marc tilt his head and rise his eyebrows, very amused. But doing as he’s told, he gets up, each step of his feet getting slightly louder as he approaches.

Flapping his hands, If asking what now. Watching as you make a sudden movement to grasp his hand, the other meets his shoulder.

Confused for all but a second as you start slightly swaying, dancing to the rain. The warmth of his body is nice, a nice contrast to the wet weather. He smells nice too, you notice, guessing by the smell, Jake woke up with the body today, a rich smelling fragrance meets your nose as you hide your face into his shoulder. His spare hand meets the back of your head, comforting you as you snuggle to his chest.

He watches you as you close your eyes and breath him in, never in a million years would he think he would end up here, the love of his life in his hands and two new brothers. He never knew, but you did. You knew everything.

#steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #moonknight fic #moon knight x reader #steven grant one shot #steven grant x you #marc spector x you

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st4rymoon · 11 months ago

Note

hiii

can i request a smut where steven gets jealous of marc and he tries to be dominant with the reader but while he was being rough she calls him daddy by accident and then steven goes insane and he overstims her just to hear her say it again 😋

I yearn for Steven Grant. I know he's a FREAKK and would always be so touched starved that he takes absolutely anything you give him <3

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 • 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

- 18+, unprotected sex!, creampie, teasing, daddy kink, slight breeding kink, jealousy, pet names, soft som Steven Grant!

Sorry for not posting recently I’ve been busy with mid-terms 😔💔

Steven will and always be a jealous lover. He hates the way Marc and Jake tease him about you due to the fact that you’re usually more dominant with Steven out of all of them.

Don’t worry Steven even if you tried she’d be yellin’ my name echoed in Steven’s head, marc was an ass and Steven was dedicated to showing both of them he could make you just as messy and submissive for him as you are for them.

It didn’t come to a surprise when Steven asked if he could try being in control, you would get hints of it here and there. But today, he didn’t want you doing any of the work.

You were sprawled on your back, legs spread to his sides as Steven rubbed himself through your messy slick folds, one hand holding your leg open and the other tease fucking your folds with his cock.

“Come on lovie, look at me” he pouted mockingly as you squeezed your eyes shut and whined at the teasing. You opened your eyes to the sight of Steven’s hooded eyes watching you intensely, his body glowing in the soft light being emitted through his dim lamp.

“That’s it bunny, jus’ keep looking at me” he smiled as he slid into your slick cunt. You mewled as he buried himself deep inside you, burning each vein and curve of his cock into your memory. “Remember the code word?” Steven hummed as he leaned towards your ear, his hands now running up your thighs and massaging your hips as he fucked you slowly.

You felt like your heart was beating out of your chest at Steven’s movements, so calculated and precise. “Uh huh, cherry” you moaned proving you remembered the safe word. His pace began to pick up “good girl” he smiled as he pulled his hips back and slammed into you brutally.

Steven knocked the wind out of you with each thrust, your eyes rolling back into your skull as his thumb rubbed soft circles onto your swollen bud. Steven was a man out of control as your pretty moans grew louder and louder.

His name spilling from your lips as he fucked you like he’s been dreaming of. “You like that huh? Look at you lovie, drooling and everything” he chuckled as your back arched at his pace.

“S- st- ohhh my go- ah!” You mewled as he rubbed your sensitive clit at the perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Steven almost choked on his spit as your walls squeezed around him, the mear sight of you going dumb almost making him cum.

This was the fastest you’d came with anyone and Steven knew it. He just broke a record for the both of you.

You were clawing at Steven’s back as he drilled you onto the sheets, your vision going blurry and thoughts going blank as he sucked onto your neck.

“O- feels so go- so good daddy” you gasped as Steven’s pubic bone rubbed against your clit.

The sound that came out of Steven’s voice was filthy, a gruntled moan spilling from his lips as your voice echoed in his head. “Yeah?” He seethed as he shifted himself up and wrapped a hand around your throat “fu- yea- daddy” you mewled as Steven’s hips rammed into you harder.

Your slick as all over the sheets, bed creaking as a warning of how rough he was fucking you. The noise complaints were the least of your worries as Steven continuously knocked at the spongy spot deep inside you.

“You like daddy fucking you don’t you love” Steven moaned as you nodded dumbly. He smiled at the way you mewled at his words “yes yes yes, love you so- so fucking much” you cried.

And with that Steven’s thick white ropes of cum painted your walls as a loud moan spilled from his lips. His orgasm hitting him hard enough to have him shaking above you.

Your nails clawed down his back as he let himself spill out of your puffy cunt. The moan Steven let out was pornographic as he pulled out, his eyes watching your cunt gush his sticky cum.

“Now that’s it doll, all lush and pretty” he cooed as he leaned into your lips and gently kissed you. Both of you know this wouldn’t be the last round tonight and neither of you have anything against it.

#steven grant smut #steven grant x you #steven grant x reader #steven smut #steven grant #moonknight smut #moonknight x reader #moon knight smut #smut #marvel smut

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myeagleexpert · 1 year ago

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𝕸𝖞 𝕳𝖔𝖑𝖞 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

Yandere ex bad boy x reader When a former bad boy gets out of prison and finds you, the light of his life, he decides he would never let you go again.

cw: delusional yandere, creppy, clingy, no use of yn, reader is stressed and doesn't love yandere but is with him just because he's a stress reliever, the straight-laced girl gets involved with an ex badboy, use of pet names “princess , love”, stalking, insecurity, thoughts of getting married, beginning of a relationship, religious themes at the beginning (youth meeting), very soft at the beginning because the longer you stay together the more he develops an obsession.

"I will marry you". You would be grateful to hear this from a long-term relationship….but hearing this on the first day of your first official relationship?? Who would have the audacity to ask you that??

Marc, your new boyfriend. He is of average height, with shaved hair and thin. You met him by inviting him to a youth meeting at your church, and since he wanted to embrace his new good guy phase, he clearly went. And it wouldn't take long for you to regret that decision.

Marc is strangely strange, like a criminal in interrogation, already anticipating the argument he would have with the lawyer. He has an anxious look on his face every time you meet, and the pressure he has placed on his shoulders to be the “perfect boyfriend” requires him to be honest with you. Everyone knows and feels that pleasant and cozy atmosphere when a couple gets to know each other more and more, opening up little by little, leaving themselves vulnerable to the person their heart burns so much but…. I don't want to ruin this phase, but… he opened up about his past and it totally changed your image of him. How messing with delinquent people influenced him, how he left his family and ran away from home, how his other two serious relationships were toxic and abusive and hurt him psychologically, how he spent time in jail when they caught him with drugs , how he abandoned the will to live….

Until he met you and everything changed.

“You are the light of my life” “I only see my future by your side”

Of all the years he appeared in your life, he appeared just when you were killing yourself studying for a place at the college of your dreams! How much sacrifice! So much pressure! So much stress! The year you followed an intense study routine and practically isolated yourself from the world to study was the year he appeared…as a distraction.

You were so stressed that you needed a distraction on your side. After all, you need to live your youth too, don’t you? It won't be anything serious, you don't have time for that princess, it will just be a momentary relief, just a little flig.

Not if it's up to him.

In fact, you "met" in high school, from different classes, he uses and insists on this argument every time you say that you haven't known each other long enough. "But we never spoke….". "But we talked through our eyes!" You swear you can count on the fingers of your left hand how many times you've actually seen him.

Upon leaving the cold and degrading prison and feeling completely lost, he prayed to the heavens about what direction to ask for in life and coincidentally your profile appeared on his Instagram!

"As soon as I saw your profile, I knew you were different and would change my life" he tells the story of how he met his precious girlfriend for the millionth time, with the same dreamy sigh as always.

He spent 8 months just observing you, what you like and what you don't like, following you, your friends and family on all social networks, he discovered your favorite books and read each one of them trying to be the one you admire most, he discovered where you buy your favorite perfumes and bought the ones you liked the most, to know how you felt and all that… thrown out the window. Because every time Marc looks at you, he forgets everything, the world goes blank and his focus is absolutely you.

He forgets the beautiful words he thought when he was going home, he forgets the way the heartthrob in his book convinced the girl to give him an innocent kiss on the cheek, or how he rehearsed in the mirror how to hold her hand and kiss her without looking so awkward, Marc forget that he has to breathe to continue living but frankly he prefers to be in your air, breathe your oxygen. He also forgets that he had other relationships and shouldn't be so nervous around you.

“Then I said-…hey, I can feel your gaze from here.” “Am I staring at you a lot?? Aah sorry, you’re so beautiful that I couldn’t resist.” he says while kissing your cheek and interrupting anything that would come out of your mouth.

Marc desires to be a devoted follower of his goddess, you. But most of the time it fails miserably. He is in such a trance that he forgets everything and even though the eyes of a passionate puppy that he looks at you with seem cute, you are not guilty of feeling offended. He forgets your favorite place to go out, he forgets your favorite snack, he forgets that sweets make you feel calmer in tpm, he forgets that you canceled a date and gets sulky afterwards blaming you, he forgets that you have bigger goals clear and more important than him and most importantly, he forgets that you have a life before him and whenever you mention an ex-boyfriend he's like "What do you mean you had a boyfriend before me? Who is he? Why did they break up?" So that I don't make the same mistakes he did so that I find him and threaten him to never even look at him again.

and for you so I can make you feel guilty for still having his contact so it's just me and you in the world

Marc is strangely strange, have you ever seen a bear hiding behind a lamp post? So is his jealousy. His blood boils every time you mention a name that isn't his, his body screams mine mine mine, to possessively squeeze your waist and his mouth kisses you until the princess's stressed little head forgets that useless name what you just said after all, I'm the one next to you and I bet he can't make you feel good like I do but…. he hides it well, sometimes, when he forces it. But it's so fking hard to disguise it!

"I met a friend of mine today" "Friend, what friend? A man?" "Then he said- "But wait, love - sorry to interrupt you - since when and where have you known him?" Wasn't this friend of yours on his list where he came from? "I met him in my first year of high school, love, he moved away after that, and I met him again now" " And you hugged him? "Of course, like I do with everyone-" "whyyyyyy?" “Marc he’s my friend and-” “And do you remember his name?”- He asked something simple but that had a strong and heavy meaning behind it.

the name. the name is something so simple but so important, isn’t it?

In a random dawn, he realized that the little princess didn't remember people's names very well and when asked, you replied “They're not important to me, just some extras interacting with me” and while you sleepy laughed at theory made on the spot, his heart squeezed as he remembered that you often forgot his name too.

I'm not so important that you remember my name?

In a random dawn, you told him that you had had other relationships before him, but you never felt anything for them, so you ended it and left and forgot about them. Others, which were hidden and you did crazy things in love for them, regretted them and never saw them again. And that he was your first official boyfriend, the first you took home, the first you took to meet your parents and family, the first you took to your hiding place in the house. He. But as quickly as pride filled his heart, his mind fed the uncertainties and insecurities that keep him awake at night.

Would you live love adventures with him too? Would you regret loving him? Do you have feelings for him or is it a one-sided relationship? Would you forget about him? Would you trade it for one night? Would you… leave?

Marc is so strangely strange that he sometimes blurts out strange and chilling phrases every time you try to subtly open his eyes about the relationship, and in his head they are sweet and romantic, passionate and sincere declarations always sealing the promise with kisses and hugs that are increasingly hard and possessive, but they are red signs in your eyes that something is wrong.

“I don’t know if I could handle that either.” You said as you casually gossiped about a breakup between a couple you saw on the internet, without realizing it Marc's eyes darkened when he heard the word breakup "Listen, if we broke up I…"

"Baby, you know that if it's up to me, we'll never breakup, right?" With a determined look, Marc pulled you onto his lap

"Of course, dear, but if what you did…"

"I would come to your house, take you and lock you away from the world. Because if that's the case, you would never leave me."

"Whoa boy, a little bird wasn't meant to be trapped." When you felt the sincerity of Marc's words, you tried to leave your dear boyfriend's lap, demonstrating that you were serious about the matter, this fact did not go unnoticed by him as he smiled at you and with hearts in his eyes, he kissed you madly until you was breathless and again and again and again….he put you in a bridal carry position, pressing you against his chest with such force that it left you sore

"So i cut the bird's wings and we stay together, love, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We will never break up, remember what I told you? Let's get married, my beautiful darling."

#tw yandere #yandere boy #yanderecore #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #clingy yandere #delusional #red aesthetic #my ocs #oc yandere #infelizmente inspirado em fatos reais #yn girl

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sirhamburrger · 1 month ago

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KINTSUGI (m. bachira x reader)

━☆ (soulmate au, for day four of @phantasmaebg) ━☆ in which you find him when you least expect to. ━☆ wc: 2805 (am i insane for this) || tags/cw: f!reader, reader is lowkey not listening but very much judging, bachira is a stoner confirmed, mentions of substance use (alcohol, drugs), nothing too specific, photog major reader and art major bachira || event m.list ━☆ day five ends in ten minutes... yeah i'm skipping that

there are only two undeniable truths in this world, as far as you know.

number one: everybody has recurring visions of the moment they’ll be the happiest with your soulmate.

it’s always been like this, ever since the beginning of time. cleopatra and marc antony. frida kahlo and diego rivera. johnny cash and june carter. they knew, because it was foretold, written in the stars. the revelations come in daydreams, fantasies, trances, dreams. it’s different for every person, supposedly.

number two: you’ll never find your soulmate.

you’ve long since given up waiting for them. you think you might be a cupioromantic - aka you want a romantic relationship, but have never truly experienced romantic love. not uncommon, but you feel… unlucky, almost.

for the past seventeen years, or for as long as you can remember, you’ve never experienced one of these visions. passing thoughts about guys in your classes, and eyebrows raised when you see a particularly attractive actor on-screen, but none of the euphoria that people say is supposed to accompany it.

middle school and high school was when you felt the most left out of all of it. friends and classmates finding their soulmates left and right, squealing in delight when they happened to catch sight of someone who looked like the people in their dreams.

these truths have held true for you, for seventeen whole years. so understandably, everything comes crashing down when you have your first dream about him. you dream it the night after, too, and on the nights that follow.

it’s always the same. the two of you are on some sort of grassy knoll; his hair is mussed, deep brown and bright yellow mixing, as he stares up at you from where his head lies in your lap. late afternoon sunlight spilling across his features, he looks like a veritable work of art, an angel. he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out -

you wake up.

sitting bolt upright in your bed, you deflate in disappointment.

you don’t stop thinking about him on the walk from your dorm to your first class of the day. they’re the same questions from a week ago - is he your age? older? where is he from? if you know what he looks like in your dreams, why does your mind go blank when you wake up?

and most importantly: does he dream about you every night, just as you dream about him?

you don’t know if you can say for sure if you love someone just by dreaming about them, but you will anyway. because you already know you love him, wherever and whenever he might exist.

you might never find him, because you don’t even remember what he looked like in your head. and for this, you feel broken.

---

meguru feels her again tonight, when he's blackout drunk at a gatsby-esque party hosted by rin itoshi so he can get the attention of a girl in his psychology class. the couch he lays on is pristine, but probably won’t be for much longer.

he does not dream; if he does, he forgets it. visions of his soulmate, his other half - they come only when he’s out of it, only when he’s drunk, or high, or depressed.

and it is always the same.

it’s the feeling of soft warmth on his face, like gentle sunlight. a soft, calming chuckle. light touches on his hair, brushing his locks out of his face. it’s the feeling of being adored and cherished.

it’s the feeling of being loved.

he’s fairly sure he hasn’t known it before.

meguru dimly registers isagi calling out to him. yelling something about yet another round of beer pong. with that, he stumbles towards his friends and the promise of more alcohol, because he’s too drunk and full of an inexplicable euphoria to deal with this right now.

---

your first class of the day is portraiture 302 with professor anri teieri.

you flash a tiny smile at your classmate shidou, too tired for anything else. setting your things down at an empty seat, you pull your laptop out as people start to trickle in.

it’s still starting up when someone sits down in the seat next to you.

“hey,” he says cheerfully. a bit too cheerful for your taste, seeing as it’s eight-thirty in the morning. “all the other seats are taken, so.”

“sure,” you mumble, jamming your thumb into the space bar repeatedly as if it’ll speed things up. you feel his eyes on you, silently judging, maybe, and look up -

oh.

he’s one of rensuke kunigami’s friends. even within the friend group he might be considered an oddity; not all that forward like isagi, or as flirty as chigiri, or as gentlemanly as kunigami. he’s just… there.

he’s a real character, too, or so you’ve heard. famously wild at rin itoshi’s parties, though the version of him you see at present seems much more subdued. he plays soccer for the university, and he’s an art major.

and honestly? he makes you a little uncomfortable. not bad-looking, but there’s a scary depth in his eyes that makes you think he’s seen more than he should, knows more than anyone else does.

in short: you think meguru bachira is a weirdo.

which begs the question: why is he even here taking this module, since he’s not one of your photography coursemates?

“- peers from the art department will be joining us for the next two months as we study composition and portraiture in greater depth -”

okay, well, that doesn’t mean you have to talk to him -

“- pair up with someone from a different major for your graded project -”

still, doesn’t have to be him -

“- these are your assigned pairings. try not to get on each other’s bad side.”

and you don’t even have to look at the projector screen to know the cruel fate the universe has bestowed upon you; all you do is notice bachira’s pleased reaction.

he starts, “i’m looking forward to working with you -”

“okay,” you say bluntly, turning your attention back to your laptop. you feel a little bad for the way his smile fades slightly when you cut him off, but you’re not about to apologise.

at the end of the lecture, he hands you a slip of paper with his number on it, tells you you can text him if you want to work on the project. his voice sounds small, and you feel a strange pang in your chest as you watch him go.

---

lately your dreams have been shifting, changing.

no longer are they impressionist paintings of quiet moments spent together in mother nature - they are pop art, abstract-expressionist, surrealist. which, quite ironically, are terms that bachira would use.

lingering touches in dimly-lit party venues. stolen kisses in secluded corridors. the high of alcohol and weed and who knows what else - they coagulate into a single stream of thoughts that have you seeing bright colours behind your eyes. though, they always return to the very first dream you had of him.

you wonder, is bachira’s party animal stoner personality rubbing off on your subconscious mind?

in any case, you're currently keeping your interactions with him to a minimum. you talk for no more than one hour a week, then go your separate ways once more.

the project itself is deceptively simple: create a likeness of your partner in any form you want. and you plan to do well on it. right lighting, right composition, right everything - and bob’s your uncle.

but bachira can’t seem to get a grip. you’ve come to realise he’s flaky, fickle-minded. it’s like his thoughts are bouncing off the inside of his skull like a pinball machine.

all his drawings and paintings bear a resemblance to you; charcoal captures your hair, acrylic your features. but when he’s finished he always insists they don’t look right, like something’s missing. and strangely enough, you find yourself agreeing with him.

you feel like with those scarily knowing eyes, bachira truly sees through you and into you. like takeichi does to yozo oba in osamu dazai’s no longer human. except bachira isn’t nearly as unattractive.

because with each dream you have of your soulmate, details of meguru bachira start to creep in. hands, slender but still larger than yours. the shape of his lips, perfect and pink.

the euphoria just makes it all so much worse.

so now you wonder if your fate with your soulmate is to be kissed up against a wall, drunk, until you are breathless.

---

meguru doesn’t understand why she’s doing her damndest to avoid him. it’s not like he’s done anything particularly wrong, at least not to her face. sure, he’s been a little much at times. but he’s been nothing but nice to her.

so why the cold shoulder, then? why the stiff smiles and the distant glances?

he doesn’t understand, but then again, he’s not sure he understands anything anymore. ever since his dreams have changed for the first time in ten years, he’s been walking around in a haze, trying to balance the his waking life with the dreamlike euphoria that drips from the edges of his consciousness.

every vision he sees starts to feel more and more like her. and when he looks at her - really looks at her - he starts to feel as if maybe, just maybe, he knows her better than anyone else.

but that thought scares him too much to admit, so instead, he swallows it down and pushes it to the back of his mind. better to focus on what’s in front of him. better to focus on the work that still doesn’t feel quite right.

one night, after a particularly frustrating session in the studio, he finds himself alone with her, just the two of the under the dim lights. his fingers grip his paintbrush, so hard he thinks it might snap.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says finally, point-blank. “why?”

she shrugs, but he notices her stiffen in her seat. “it’s not like that.”

“not like what?” he presses. “you’re trying to keep your distance, and i get it. i’m not... i’m not normal. i know that.”

she blinks hard. swallows.

he watches her, waiting for a response, and the tension between them grows thicker, more charged with every passing second. finally, she manages to speak, though her voice trembles slightly.

“i don’t know what you want from me.”

“i don’t want anything from you,” meguru murmurs. “i just… i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t feel something strange. i’ve been seeing things lately, and i -”

“don’t drag me into your delusions, bachira,” she snaps.

he sees her cold exterior fracture for a second, and he knows. he knows that she knows. his breath hitches in his throat, his eyes never leaving hers.

“maybe you should stop pretending you don’t know exactly what’s happening.”

it’s terrifying.

meguru doesn’t understand why she’s avoiding him, but maybe that’s okay. because in this moment, with the air thick with unspoken truths and something more between the two of them, she doesn't need to understand. not yet.

---

on sunday afternoon, bachira brings you to a local park two cities away. it’s where he used to go whenever he was bored, he tells you. he had very few friends growing up.

it’s beautiful, you admit. the perfect place for the photoshoot.

you make him lean on the only tree on the hill for half an hour, before deciding the photo doesn’t feel quite right. with a pang of shame, you realise that’s what bachira means when he says the art doesn’t feel right, like there’s something missing.

because no photo will ever be able to capture bachira’s beauty.

facing towards the setting sun with the little houses in the background? the photo’s too empty. staring right into the camera lens? a little creepy. finally, after a long time of unsuccessful attempts, you slump against the tree, resting in the shade.

“sorry,” you mumble. “just doesn’t feel right.”

“yeah, i get that.” he sits down on the soft grass next to you, and you smell the tea tree shampoo in his hair. “just happens sometimes.”

the silence is nice and comfortable for once, but then you go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like -

“i’m sorry i’ve been avoiding you.”

meguru’s eyes flick to you, the sincerity in your voice making something inside him tighten. he tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes you feel like he’s reading between the lines of everything you’ve said and haven’t.

“it’s okay,” he says softly, like he’s trying to reassure himself as much as you. “i guess… i don’t blame you. i can be a lot sometimes.”

you shake your head quickly, catching his gaze. “no, that’s not it. it’s just…” you trail off, unsure how to voice the weight of everything that’s been pressing on your chest. the dreams. the confusion. the feeling that something inside you has shifted, and you don’t know how to adjust.

“i’ve just been… scared,” you admit, wanting to cringe at how vulnerable you sound. “i don’t even know what’s going on with me. it’s like everything i thought i knew is just… fading.”

meguru watches you quietly, his gaze unwavering. there’s a softness there that you haven’t seen before. the usual carefree grin is gone, replaced by something deeper - something that makes you feel like he’s truly hearing every word you don’t say.

“i get it,” he murmurs. “sometimes the things you don’t want to face, they catch up to you.”

you glance up at him, surprised. “you do?”

“yeah.” he reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing against yours in the gentlest way possible, and to your own surprise, you don’t jerk your hand away. “sometimes you don’t even know what you’re running from until you stop.”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “okay.”

without thinking, you push yourself up from the tree and take a few steps back, your heart suddenly beating faster than before. it’s not just the project anymore - it’s something more.

meguru stands up, his movements fluid, as though he’s been waiting for this moment too. “what are you doing?” he asks, but there’s an edge to his voice now, an unspoken question that mirrors your own confusion.

“come here,” you say before you can stop yourself, your words shaky but firm.

he doesn’t hesitate. in two strides, he’s in front of you, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer.

and then finally, you do what feels as natural as breathing.

you let your hands rest on his shoulders and guide him to sit back down on the grass. without a word, you slip into the same position as the dream you’ve had over and over again - the same moment that’s haunted you for countless nights -

his head in your lap, sunlight spilling over his face, the world hushed and peaceful around you.

he doesn’t speak. he just watches you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. his lips part slightly, but no sound comes out, and for the briefest moment, it feels like you’re back in the dream, like you’re both somewhere else entirely.

it’s only when you feel the softest weight of his hand on yours that you snap back to reality. he’s holding onto you now, fingers threading through yours, and his gaze is softer than it’s ever been.

“this… feels right,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“yeah. it does.”

the sunlight is fading fast now, the sky painted with dusky shades of pink and orange. his hair is mussed, deep brown and bright yellow mixing, as he stares up at you from where his head lies in your lap.

you fumble for your phone, snap a quick photo of the scene with your shaky hands and almost sob -

because you know for certain, now, that this is the dream you had, and it’s about your soulmate, meguru bachira.

because here, in this stillness, you realize that maybe - just maybe - you weren’t running from him after all.

because maybe you’ve always been running toward this moment, even before you knew it existed.

meguru lifts his head from your lap, his eyes searching yours, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel lost. not here. not with him. his lips move, forming a question you can’t quite hear. but you don’t need to. not anymore.

you lean down slightly and kiss him, and everything you’ve been trying to understand falls into place. amidst the salt of your tears he tastes sweet, like the dreams, the euphoria, the love you thought you’d never have.

his golden eyes are powdered gold dusted onto the lacquer that fills the cracks in your fragile heart. kintsugi.

and for once, you feel complete.

#phantasmaebg #phantasma ebg #kai writes #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #meguru bachira #bachira meguru #bachira x reader #bachira x you #bachira drabble #bachira fluff #i love bachira

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