#Marcus Moreno x OC | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adhdnursegoat · 15 days ago

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Episode 7

Word count: 7.4K

Content Warning: depictions of violence and masturbation

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2024

The names blurred together on the screen, each one a grim reminder of Gotham’s rot, festering just beneath the surface. Edward scrolled through the database, his sharp eyes darting between columns of information: names, ages, employment histories, and last-known locations. The pattern wasn’t immediately clear, but patterns always revealed themselves to him eventually. They had to.

Marcus Kane.

Javier Moreno.

Luis Dominguez.

DeShawn Green.

Alan Park.

And so many more.

He clicked on Luis Dominguez’s file, his fingers moving with practiced precision. A grainy ID photo filled the screen, showing a man in his early 30s with tired eyes and a forced smile. He’d worked at a warehouse on Gotham’s south side, one of the dozens flagged in the database Romy had compiled last week. The same warehouse where his body had been found two weeks ago—another so-called “accident” in a growing list of suspicious deaths.

Edward’s hand hovered over the mouse as his jaw tightened, his mind racing to piece the puzzle together. Luis wasn’t the first victim connected to the flagged properties. He wouldn’t be the last. These weren’t random deaths, and they certainly weren’t accidents. The connections were there, buried beneath layers of falsified reports and sanitized records. Edward could see the edges of the web, even if the full picture hadn’t yet come into focus.

He clicked into another file: Marcus Kane, 45. The data painted a grimly familiar picture. Marcus had been undocumented, working under the table for a ghost company listed as a subsidiary of Janus Logistics. His death had been ruled a heart attack, but Edward wasn’t buying it. Not with the growing number of cases tied to Janus-owned properties.

A pattern was emerging, one that gnawed at Edward’s mind with infuriating subtlety. These men weren’t just unlucky—they were expendable. Tools discarded when they outlived their usefulness.

He narrowed his eyes, scrolling through more entries, the hum of the computer the only sound in the dimly lit room. His thoughts, however, kept circling back to Romy. Her meticulous attention to detail had been instrumental in compiling these files last week, her ability to sift through mountains of data both impressive and irritating. She’d flagged the initial anomalies, bringing the network into sharper focus.

Too sharp.

Edward frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. He hated admitting that her work had been flawless. It meant she’d seen what he had—the unspoken connections, the chilling efficiency behind the façade of disorder. Romy wasn’t blind to Gotham’s ugliness, and she’d been far too quick to grasp the scope of what they were uncovering. It wasn’t her intelligence that bothered him—it was how unbothered she seemed by it.

His gaze shifted back to the screen, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. This was his case to crack, his puzzle to solve. The work was what mattered, not her involvement, not the way her observations stayed with him longer than they should. And certainly not the way her presence felt, at times, like a disruption he couldn’t ignore.

He exhaled sharply, clicking into another file, the weight of the revelation settling over him. The victims weren’t just numbers. They were part of a system—one designed to exploit, to erase, to ensure that no one looked too closely.

His lip curled. “She’s good,” he muttered in private, the admission slipping out reluctantly.

Edward’s gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to the empty chair beside him. Romy had claimed that space as her own these past few weeks, invading his world with her presence, her scent, and her maddeningly confident demeanor. Now, even with her gone, the space felt occupied. She lingered, somehow, in the corners of his mind, impossible to dislodge.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as the thought settled. His hand rose to adjust his glasses, the motion deliberate, as if physically realigning his focus. With a sigh, he turned idly in his chair, letting the motion ground him as his gaze drifted to the stack of reports beside him. His lips tightened over his teeth. All this paper. The precinct’s stubborn clinging to outdated media was laughable in a world now dominated by digital precision. He rolled his eyes, his fingers brushing over the stack as though the mere texture of the pages irritated him.

And then his gaze landed on a smaller stack, set apart from the rest. The files Romy had left him last Friday before she left.

He hesitated, his hand hovering above the neatly compiled documents. Finally, he picked them up, flipping idly through the pages. The irritation that had flickered in his chest a moment ago began to dissipate, replaced by something quieter.

Each page was pristine. The data was meticulously compiled, each figure, timestamp, and cross-reference organized with such precision that it felt as if the documents themselves were tailored specifically for him. As he scanned the contents, he realized it wasn’t just well-done; it was exactly how he would have structured it—his preferences mirrored almost perfectly.

A faint sense of admiration stirred in him, unexpected and unwelcome.

Romy had taken almost three times the amount of time it would have taken him to complete this task, of course. He’d noted that last week—her slower, more deliberate pace was impossible to ignore. Yet, the result spoke for itself. The work was impeccable, precise, and thorough.

His smirk faded as he continued to flip through the pages, his brow furrowing slightly. How had she known what he would need? He hadn’t told her how to do anything. He’d just let her work, waiting for her inevitable failure. But she hadn’t failed. She’d anticipated the exact structure he’d find most persuasive, most efficient. He leaned back in his chair, the papers resting lightly in his hands as he considered the question. It wasn’t just competence. It was understanding—an infuriatingly precise grasp of what he valued, what he demanded.

For a moment, Edward allowed himself to sit with the thought, the faint hum of his monitors filling the silence. His admiration, as reluctant as it was, settled somewhere beneath the irritation she so often inspired.

Edward had not met someone like Romy before. It was maddening, this ease with which she had woven herself into his routine, carrying herself with an aura that was part silk, part steel—a contemporary, unapologetic, confident woman who drew him in, even as it irritated him.

She was a vision of modern allure, the kind of woman who knew exactly what power she held and wielded it with precision. Her wardrobe was anything but subdued, each outfit making a statement, often subtle but always intentional: tailored blazers, preppy shirts, chic sweaters, edgy dresses, and skirts that left just enough to the imagination. And those heels… He was ashamed to admit he had spared her calves numerous glances, observing the supple tone of her muscles poised in that unnatural yet oh-so classically alluring way.

There was her hair, cascading down her shoulders in luscious curtains, catching the light and shifting like silk with each movement, sometimes swaying when she walked. It was always luxurious, shimmering under even the poorest of office lights, and he was annoyingly aware of how often he watched it fall over her shoulder, only for her to flick it or brush it back in a way that drew his attention to the delicate arch of her neck.

Her makeup was never the same twice. It always accentuated her features so well, highlighting the line of her cheekbones, the arch of her brow, or the sensual curve of her cupid’s bow, each detail meticulously crafted yet seemingly casual. Some days, it was a timely look—a hint of blush, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips painted in a deep red or berry tone that made her look both effortlessly powerful and unattainable. Other days, it was daring, glossy lips and colorful negative space liner or sparse rhinestones decorating her eyes that pushed the boundary of professionalism in a way he couldn’t bring himself to dislike.

And those nails—acrylic, polished to perfection, shaped like little ovals. (Or were they almonds?) Mint green, then nude last week. Part of him wondered what color she had this week. He couldn’t help but notice the way they glinted when she typed or traced them along the edges of a folder. His mind wandered in spite of himself, wondering how her nails would feel on his skin like she’d jokingly suggested weeks ago, wondering what those slender fingers would look like wrapped around his…

No. No. No… No.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, squeezing his eyes shut. Feeling an insidious twitch in his loins makes him take a slow steadying breath. Then he drug his hand down his face before letting his hand drop to his lap.

It was infuriating—but he couldn’t deny the effect she had.

He wanted to say it was just a physical attraction, mitigated by baser instincts, hormones like testosterone and estrogen infecting and influencing his mind.

But it wasn’t just the way she looked. Edward had expected that by now, Romy’s focus would have wavered, that maybe the allure of this “work-study” would wear off, leaving her bored and inattentive within the first week. Instead, she had surprised him with a silent, steady concentration that he was hesitant to say matched his own. When he explained something complex, her eyes were on him, keen and attentive, the barest nod to show she was following.

She was generally quiet when she worked, slipping effortlessly into that role—so much so that, despite her brashness, her crudeness at times, he found himself appreciating how well she actually listened when she wanted to, how easily she fell in line with his rhythm when the moment called for it.

Like a good girl, he mused, only catching himself a split second later with a grimace.

This combination of confidence and compliance, of inappropriate, well-timed quips, daring looks, and mindful attention, left Edward increasingly off-balance. Romy was a puzzle, a challenge he never expected to find in a young woman who looked and talked like her. He didn’t intimidate her, and every attempt to rattle her only seemed to draw that maddening, knowing smile to her lips—a smile that seemed to say, I see you, and I’m not backing down, sir…

Each Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Edward steeled himself for her presence, knowing that, despite himself, he was drawn in, captured by the quiet power she wielded so effortlessly. She was a force, he realized, a clever, stylish, glossy-nailed hurricane that had him, against all reason, anticipating the days they’d share the same tiny, musty workspace.

His gaze kept drifting to the empty wooden chair beside him, the one where Romy so often sat. He frowned. (He really needed to get her something more comfortable to work in.) She wasn’t there today—she had an exam, her first of the semester.

At some point, he realized he had forgotten to wish her luck. The thought unnerved him as soon as it surfaced. Why would I want to wish her luck? he thought. He shifted in his seat.

Edward Nashton had never been the type to wish anyone luck or to care about someone else’s success or failure. Normally, he found satisfaction in the inevitable stumbles of others—the way they faltered or fell short of expectations. He even relished it, especially in those who paraded their ambitions with the naïve confidence he so despised.

But with Romy, the thought struck a different chord.

He pictured her on graduation day: a vision of her in that cap and gown, her usual chic style distilled into a single pair of elegant heels and a dress hidden beneath the formless black robe. The idea tugged at him, bringing the faintest curve to his lips. He could practically see it—her triumphant smirk as she stepped across the stage to accept her degree, that self-assured stride carrying her forward. The image made something warm unfurl in his chest, something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

He let the thought settle, that rare lift of the corners of his lips lingering for a moment. Maybe he should have wished her luck. After all, if anyone deserved it, it was her. Romy wasn’t like the others—she was intriguing, somewhat capable, and, against all his instincts, she made him feel… appreciative, somehow, of her presence.

Him, of all people, appreciative of someone else’s existence? Pfft.

In the silence, his eyes drifted to her empty spot again.

Today, in her absence, he decided he’d talk to Loeb.

Romy had been working alongside him for almost three weeks now, mostly assisting with mundane tasks and one-off cases, but she had also contributed to the analysis, organization, and compilation of his off-the-books response time investigation. The weight of it had been building, accumulating with each line of data, each correlation they had carefully drawn out together. Now, with everything laid out in stark, undeniable detail, he felt the pull to present it, to finally confront the decay that had festered in the department for far too long.

This was it. He was prepared, and with the foundation Romy had helped him build, the case was ready. There would be no disputing the corruption, no brushing off the carefully orchestrated negligence—the systemic rot that had turned Gotham’s protectors into something dark, twisted, and morally bankrupt.

As he stacked the pages, lining them up in perfect order, he couldn’t ignore the small, nagging awareness that Romy wouldn’t be there to see it. His grip tightened on the folder as he strode out the door and through the bullpen, every step steady, his pace unwavering. He was thankful no one stopped him, no one blocked his path. For once, his focus was undisturbed.

He climbed the stairs to Loeb’s office with long, deliberate strides, his resolve sharpening with each step. When he reached the mezzanine, he didn’t hesitate, rapping his knuckles against the door with confidence.

The answer was gruff, the Commissioner’s voice muffled but clear: “Come in.”

Edward’s breath remained calm, his nerves steady. The weight of what he was about to do felt right, as if every calculation, every line of data he had poured over—with Romy, his mind added—had brought him to this moment. As he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto Loeb.

The old bulldog sat hunched behind his desk, oversized form crammed into a worn leather chair that groaned under the strain. He was tapping at his phone, his fingers jabbing at the screen with impatient irritation, as though whatever he was doing was a poor distraction from the real issues at hand. Only when Edward stood before the desk, thick folder held firmly in his hands, did Loeb finally look up. The Commissioner’s beady eyes narrowed, a heavy sigh escaping him as he set his phone aside, clearly displeased to be interrupted.

“What is it, Nashton?”

Undeterred by his impatient tone, Edward held his gaze, feeling the weight of the evidence pressing at his fingertips. “I have something you need to see, Commissioner,” he said, his voice steady and low, just on the edge of formality. He slid the folder onto the desk with precision, opening it to reveal the meticulously organized pages. “It’s about a pattern I’ve uncovered in the officer response times. Specifically, certain neighborhoods and particular types of cases.”

The Commissioner’s eyes flickered over the documents. Edward paused, expecting a response, and, after a moment, his lips twitched. He forced down a smirk. The old man didn’t seem to comprehend what he was saying, so he continued, even being so kind as to lower himself closer and point out the data specifically. His actions were more helpful and generous than he had ever been in his life as he tried to make Loeb understand.

“For the last two months, I’ve compiled evidence of consistent delays in high-priority responses—delays that can’t be attributed to chance. The same officers show up in these records, over and over, and the pattern isn’t random.” Edward’s voice sharpened as he gestured to the pages.

He had never been more sure of something in his life. There was a mystery here, and he was smart enough to have uncovered it. The Commissioner should have been patting him on the back by now, but Loeb’s features tightened the longer Edward spoke. Edward laid out the evidence methodically, pointing to the pages, the names—Edison, Curtis, Hartley, and Murphy—and each pattern of delayed response times, tied to specific neighborhoods and incidents. His tone remained steady, but as he continued, he noticed the commissioner’s irritation seething just below the surface—the slight clenching of Loeb’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes.

“And what exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything.” Edward’s gaze was unyielding as he straightened up from his position of helpfulness. “I’ve discovered facts and brought them to your attention. These officers are deliberately delaying their response times in specific areas, and the data points to a level of coordination that suggests they’re acting under instruction or incentive.”

“You’re throwing accusations around, Nashton.” Loeb’s gaze hardened, his eyes darting from the pages to Edward with an expression that bordered on contempt. “And you’re doing it with a lot of confidence.”

“‘Confidence?’” Edward’s voice remained cool, his posture unfaltering. “No, no. This is pronounced ‘evidence.’” He gestured towards the documents.

Loeb eyed the pages, and, after a moment, his lips pressed and pulled into a tight line. He flicked his beady eyes up to Edward and crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest, his uniform jacket pulling tight.

Edward rolled his eyes. “You can ignore it if you want, Commissioner. But I assure you, the numbers don’t lie.” Against his better judgment, he smirked—a tricky little thing that usually got him in trouble. “But people do…”

The words hit their mark, and he watched with satisfaction as Loeb’s face flushed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The Commissioner unfulred his arms pushed the folder away, slow and deliberate, his fingers clenching slightly on the arm of his chair as he leaned back, studying Edward with an unreadable expression. But Edward didn’t flinch. He knew the strength of what he’d brought, knew the hours poured into each line of data, each name flagged, each statistic meticulously cross-checked.

Then a strange smile curled on Loeb’s thin lips—an unsettling expression that never reached his beady brown eyes. It was the kind of smile Edward recognized, the practiced smile of someone who knew far more than he was letting on.

“I’ll look into it,” Loeb had said finally, his voice oily, almost too smooth.

“‘Look into it’?” Edward’s eyes had narrowed, a spark of frustration flaring in his chest. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight as he spoke. “What else is there to look into? The work is done.” His voice had sharpened, no longer masking his irritation. “I’d say the evidence is damning as it is.”

Loeb’s smile hadn’t wavered, but there was an unmistakable edge in his gaze now, one that bordered on condescension. “Careful, Nashton…,” he drawled. “You’ve done your job. I’ll take it from here. Now, let the real investigators handle it.”

Edward had opened his mouth, then paused before snapping it shut, biting back the urge to press further, to demand action right then and there, to curse and degrade Loeb’s so-called “investigators.” But as he’d watched the Commissioner casually close the folder, his fingers curling over it as though he’d already dismissed it, Edward had felt a cold realization settle over him. This wasn’t news to Loeb. He could see it in the way the man avoided his gaze, in his dismissive tone, in that unsettling smile.

Without another word, Edward had nodded, maintaining a neutral expression as he stepped back, masking the frustration roiling inside him. He needed to be smart about this. Keep a level head. But as he’d exited the office, shutting the door harder than he’d intended, the weight of the Commissioner’s reaction had pressed heavily on his chest. He had done everything right, laid out the evidence, made the case impossible to dismiss, and yet…

He paused on the landing, staring out over the bullpen, the precinct buzzing with detectives, officers, clerks, and secretaries—each one absorbed in their tasks, oblivious to the poison rotting at the heart of their work. The sight grated at him, a reminder of just how deep the corruption ran, how many people were blissfully unaware of the filth surrounding them. Or worse—they were all filth.

This fucking place… he thought bitterly. It’s an institution built on lies. Liars, thieves, conmen, cheaters—the lot of them.

Long before he descended the stairs, his earlier calm had evaporated. Each step felt heavier, his anger simmering in his blood. He had come to the Commissioner’s office prepared, ready to stand his ground, expecting resistance but hoping that, at the very least, his work would be taken seriously. Instead, he’d been met with that unsettling smile, those dismissive words that stung more than he cared to admit.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, his fists clenched at his sides. His mind raced, cycling through his options. Loeb’s reaction wasn’t just resistance—it had been a warning, a reminder that he, Edward Nashton, was playing in a league where power wasn’t wielded through logic or facts. It was a game played in shadows, where truth was twisted, buried, and left to rot. And yet, he knew he couldn’t walk away from this. Not now. If anything, this only drove him further. He needed a moment to collect himself, to let the red-hot anger settle into something cold and calculating.

With a quiet exhale, he turned toward the break room, a quick, bitter laugh escaping him. Coffee, he thought. It was the last thing he wanted, but somehow the small act of going through the motions, of finding some semblance of normalcy in this mess, felt necessary. He couldn’t let himself spiral. Perhaps a minute to focus on something ordinary would be enough to anchor him, to bring him back from the brink.

The break room was quiet save for the hum of the coffee machine, filling the space with its gentle whirr. He poured a cup methodically, the simple routine almost grounding as he tried to corral his chaotic thoughts. Loeb’s reaction still gnawed at him, festering like a splinter under his skin. The Commissioner’s dismissive smile, the way he’d pushed the folder away without a second glance—it all felt too rehearsed, too controlled.

Something’s not right, Edward thought, his hands tightening around the mug as he leaned against the counter, scowling into the dark liquid. His mind roiled with a thousand plans and counterplans. Strategies bloomed and unfolded, each one bent on taking this fight further, on unearthing the depths of the rot festering within the department. He would let Loeb sit with the evidence, watch for any cracks in the Commissioner’s carefully constructed facade, see if the old man made a move. In the meantime, he would keep digging, keep collecting irrefutable data.

As he leaned against the counter, his mind crystallized around a single thought: I won’t give up. This was no longer about simply amassing evidence; it was a matter of principle now, a puzzle layered with intrigue, a challenge that demanded his skill, his intellect.

There was satisfaction in it, knowing that only he, Edward Nashton, had the insight and tenacity to solve it. Loeb might have tried to dismiss him, but that dismissal only sharpened his resolve, igniting his obsession to piece this mystery together. It was a test of wit, and his pride flared at the thought of proving himself capable—superior, even.

But as he considered the implications of success, a different satisfaction stirred in his chest, one less idealistic and far more self-assured. Not only was this a battle of principles, but it was also an opportunity to solidify his place here, to secure the respect he’d long been denied. If he could expose this corruption, bring the whole, rotten infrastructure to its knees, his career would be not just made—it would be legendary.

A smug satisfaction unfurled within him. The Cybercrime Division, a department once treated as an afterthought, would rise under his direction, shaped into something formidable. He could already envision it: with him at the helm, the division would have the resources, the personnel, and the tools to finally track, trace, and dismantle the criminal networks that infested Gotham. He wouldn’t just be a nameless cog in the GCPD; he’d be its backbone, its mind. People would respect him, perhaps even fear him, for his unrelenting pursuit of truth. He would be the one to cut through the shadows, and his name would carry weight far beyond the precinct walls.

And deeper still, beneath the principles and the professional aspirations, there was a flicker of something darker, a quiet thrill in knowing that he alone had the power to control the narrative. He would have his victory, his influence. The thought settled into a quiet confidence as he took another sip, feeling the weight of his decision settle firmly within him. His legacy would be set in stone.

And so would Romy’s…

The realization sparked a faint, barely noticeable smirk at the corner of his mouth. What would it mean for Romy, still a student, to play a role in a case of this magnitude? To report back on her capstone project and tell them she’d been instrumental in uncovering corruption within the Gotham City Police Department? It would be no small feat. A move like this would cement her place here, secure her future. She wouldn’t be a mere preceptee but a respected part of something larger. He could picture it—the way she would walk through the precinct, head held high, with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen beyond the surface, someone with purpose.

And he felt something strange and unexpected—a sliver of satisfaction, even pride, in the thought. Romy had proven herself worthy of the work, skilled beyond what he’d initially thought. She wasn’t at his level, of course, but good enough to surpass his lowest expectations and, perhaps, even more curiously, someone he was beginning to respect.

The sound of someone entering the breakroom tore him from his thoughts. He looked up and immediately frowned and looked back to his coffee, brows knitted.

Hartley.

The officer swaggered into the room, crony in tow, mid conversation. But the moment they saw him, they grew quiet, however they were undeterred.

He saddled up right next to Edward at the coffee maker and grabbed a cup. Beside him, Edward could see the way Hartley glanced at him, a smirk tugging at his lips. Then he looked back to pouring his cup.

“Naaashton,” Hartley drawled, the grin in his voice palpable. “You’re more doom and gloom today than normal…” He cocked a sandy brow and backed away, casually blowing on his pipping hot joe. “What’s wrong? Missin’ someone?” He settled back beside his partner.

“I’m not sure I want to entertain whatever you are talking about, Hartley.” Edward grimaced, not even sure why he was responding at all. The officer’s statement intrigued him, though.

“C’mon, your girl—the new one?” Hartley smirked, nudging his friend, his voice dripping with mock interest.

“My girl?” Edward cocked a brow, his lips twitching into a sneer.

“Yeah, the babe strolling to and from your dungeon,” the officer drawled. He looked at Edward over the rim of his mug, taking a languid sip before continuing. “Please tell me you’re fuckin’ her in there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” With an almost incredulous look, Hartley set his mug beside him on the counter. “Nashton… She’s super, super fu—super fuckin’ hot, bro.” He gestured to his partner—Curtis Murphy. “He’s seen her. We all have. That tight little ass, mmm, fuck, I bet everything about her is tight.” Those greasy eyes slipped back to Edward, a challenge almost in his gaze. “Is it?”

Edward’s eye twitched.

“Also, does she spit or swallow? Murph wanted to know.” Hartley gestured to his partner with a casual toss of his head, to which Murphy only smirked and crossed his arms over his chest.

How crude. Vile.

A blaze of irritation ignited in Edward’s chest. He fought to keep his face neutral, barely lifting his eyes to acknowledge Hartley. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not,” he replied coolly, his voice even but with an edge that could cut glass.

“Sooo, she’s available, then?” Hartley smirked, his eyes glinting with that same crude confidence, as though he’d won some imaginary contest.

A dark wave of something rolled over Edward, something deeper and more visceral than he was used to—something he had not felt before. It made his grip tighten on his coffee.

Edward wrenched forward, the mug flying from his fingers and smashing into Hartley’s smug, unguarded face. The ceramic shattered against his nose, hot liquid splashing across his skin, searing it. Blood spurted, crimson against the pale breakroom tile, as Hartley recoiled, shock and pain twisting his features. But Edward didn’t stop there; he leaped at the man, his hands gripping his neck, feeling the resistance of muscle and sinew as he drove him to the floor. His shoes skidded against the tile, slipping before he found his balance, pouring his weight down onto Hartley’s trachea, feeling the pulse of his screaming carotids under his fingers slow, then weaken, until those greasy eyes, filled with cruelty, began to dull. There was something intoxicating about watching the smug light fade, about knowing it was at his hands, his doing. Beneath him, Hartley’s body kicked, scrabbling for purchase, desperate for air, clawing at Edward’s arms in a final, useless attempt at survival. His grip tightened, his lip curling in savage satisfaction as he bore down, watching as the vessels burst in Hartley’s scleras, muddling those blue eyes of his.

Then he blinked.

Officer Jack Hartley was still standing before him, unblemished, alive, leaning casually against the counter, his short but stout crony beside him snickering along with his crude jabs about Romy. Edward stared, feeling the blood drain from his face as the real world settled back in around him, the brutal fantasy fading but leaving a charged, dangerous energy coursing through him. His fingers were fisted around his coffee mug, and he was acutely aware of the tension in his arms and shoulders, the clenched muscles that had been ready to spring into action. The urge to throw the mug, to silence that smug look, was a raw, simmering instinct, something almost frightening in its intensity.

The thought of Hartley even thinking about Romy, let alone considering the possibility of approaching her, disgusted him in a way he couldn’t fully explain. It was the way Hartley’s words slipped so easily, so carelessly, as if Romy were just another conquest, just another prize for him to leer at and pick apart. It was the blatant disrespect, the dismissive way he talked about her as though she were an object, something shiny to be coveted.

Edward took a measured breath, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto Hartley’s gaze. “Someone who has the good taste and sense to work with me, Hartley, wouldn’t stoop to… lower standards,” he said, his voice dripping with cold disdain, every word pointed. He took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the flash of annoyance that flickered across Hartley’s face.

“Hey, easy there, Nashton,” Hartley sneered, recovering quickly, his smile twisting into something uglier. “No need to get all possessive…”

He met Hartley’s gaze with an unflinching stare, his eyes icy and sharp, cutting through the officer’s smug confidence. “Possessiveness requires actual interest,” he drolled, his voice low and laced with contempt. “To which I have none.” Liar. He leaned in, his words clipped and direct as he narrowed his gaze. “No—what bothers me is the way you talk about people as if they’re here merely to stimulate that worn-out pleasure center of your puny brain. Not that I care, really. It’s just disconcerting to know you truly lack the executive functions to think with anything else but your dick.”

Hartley’s grin faltered, caught off guard by the blunt dismissal, but Edward didn’t linger long enough for him to respond. He kicked off the counter with a calm, deliberate stride, and as he passed the fuming officer and his dullard friend, he paused just long enough to let a cutting look settle between them. “So, go ahead, bro. Take your best shot.”

Without waiting for a response, Edward strode out of the breakroom, each step laced with the simmering anger he was barely keeping in check. But as soon as he was alone, the composure he had clung to in Hartley’s presence began to fracture. His brow furrowed, his jaw tight, and he picked up his pace, shoulders hunched with barely contained irritation as he stormed toward his office. The door swung open with more force than necessary, and he slammed it shut behind him, the sound stunted and sharp in the small space.

Inside, Edward sat, slumped in his chair, his gaze hard and unfocused, his mind still tangled in the aftermath of that encounter. Hartley’s words echoed relentlessly, the crude insinuations churning his thoughts with a bitterness he couldn’t seem to shake. Moron, he thought, his jaw clenching. Someone as mindless as him even thinking he had a chance with his student?

The thought alone felt like an insult.

But why?

Why was he so certain that Romy would turn someone like Hartley down?

When he examined it more closely, it almost seemed irrational—uncharacteristically emotional. After all, she was the type, wasn’t she? She was beautiful—effortlessly so. A former cheerleader. Sorority girl. Confident in ways he’d never been, with that easy demeanor of hers, and a social prowess that seemed second nature. Surely, he told himself, she’d been with someone like Hartley before. Hell, maybe she even belonged with someone like Hartley—someone who fit the part, who shared her seeming ease in the world. Someone easy to look at, easy to be with, and, more likely than not, someone who had never questioned his place in life.

The thought twisted his stomach in a way he didn’t understand. It grated against him, like sandpaper on raw skin. He’d always prided himself on his independence, on his unwillingness to conform or to care what people thought. But when he pictured Romy with someone like Hartley—a brute with no sense of subtlety, no spark of intellect, no intrigue beyond what he could bully or seize—it felt… cheap. Like she’d be wasting something; as if choosing someone like Hartley would somehow diminish the sharp wit and depth Edward had begun to glimpse in her.

And that, he realized with a pang, was what was eating at him. There was something in Romy that was different. Something he couldn’t name or fully understand but that he recognized, just beneath the surface, with every sly smile and barbed quip. She wasn’t what he had assumed, not another vapid pretty face that she presented herself to be.

Edward’s fingers stilled against the desk, and he inhaled, fighting to steady the unsettling rush within him. But his resolve wavered as his gaze drifted, almost instinctively, to the workspace she had set up beside his own.

The space felt strangely alive, as if it still held her presence, each detail carrying an imprint of her—the faint scent of her enticing perfume, the memory of her acrylic nails tapping against the keyboard, a sound he had come to find oddly comforting. In his mind, he could almost see the subtle arch of her spine leading up to that delicate curve of her neck. And there it was again: that teasing smirk that seemed to hover on her lips, one he had come to anticipate.

A smirk tugged at his own lips, and his gaze softened, his body losing some of the tension it had held only moments before. If he was honest with himself—something he rarely allowed in matters of this nature—there was a part of him that could, reluctantly, agree with Officer Hartley on one thing: Romy was, indeed, gorgeous. Beautiful in a way that was more than superficial, more than just a passing attraction. From the very first moment he’d seen her, he knew there was something about her that demanded attention, that drew his gaze with a power he couldn’t ignore. And in the privacy of his thoughts, he allowed himself to study the memory of her, her details vivid in his mind’s eye.

Her silken hair, the way it fell in such deliberate elegance around her face, and her alluring lips that he’d noticed moved with practiced charm, always careful, always in control. His mind traced over her—the shapely swell of her chest, her torso dipping into curving hips that seemed almost grippable. His breath caught, lingering on the image, following the memory of her form down to her thighs and calves. He had spent more than a few moments catching himself watching her cross her legs with that easy elegance, the subtle rise of her skirt when she shifted.

Then, Edward realized, with a pang of something between shame and excitement, that he had thought about the details of her existence more than he cared to admit. There was something fascinating in the way she carried herself… it was as if she were caught in a perfect balance between poised elegance and calculated seduction. She was fully aware of the effect she had, that much was clear, yet there was a restraint in the way she wielded it—enough to spark intrigue, but always keeping her allure just out of reach. It was maddening. That understated power she held, the way she navigated through spaces with that cool demeanor, the confidence that lingered around her like a cloud—it stirred something within him he was almost embarrassed to acknowledge.

But what was most confounding, what gnawed at him as he tried to dissect it, was that indifference. That fronted, artfully worn disinterest, as if she was completely unbothered by the world’s attention. But he wasn’t fooled, not entirely. He could see the hints, the subtle ways she showed she did care, that she was keenly aware of the impression she made. The way she smoothed down the fabric of her skirt, the deliberate flick of her hair, the glance in a pocket mirror when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was controlled, honed, a display of ease that felt intentional.

And, God, was it all effective.

Edward groaned, leaning forward, his elbows digging into his knees as his hands raked through his hair. His fingers gripped tightly at the roots, as if the pressure might somehow quiet his thoughts. His teeth grit, his brows pulling together into a sharp line as his eyes focused on the gritty black-and-white linoleum beneath him.

It didn’t help.

To his chagrin, Edward felt a tug of arousal pooling low in his belly, his body betraying him with a telltale twitch he wished he could ignore. He clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze back to his desk, willing the vision to fade. Yet it lingered, leaving him with a sense of helplessness he despised. He had never let anyone make him feel this off-kilter, this irrational, and yet here he was, caught up in thoughts he knew better than to entertain.

The repulsion he felt with himself caused his stomach to churn. He should not be feeling this way about her; should not be thinking like this. She was his student. But he could not help it. The dam in his mind had been broken, and now he could not stop himself from imagining what it would be like to have her.

Edward sat with his head in his hands, thinking hard about what to do. He reasoned with himself. Maybe if he were to release the pressure, he would feel better and be able to put the temptation behind him? Maybe then he would feel better?

Sitting at his desk, alone in the dusty, old file room converted to his workspace, Edward reached a hand down to grip himself through his pants. It had been so long since he allowed himself to indulge such primal desires. Normally, he did not need such baser pleasures, but he suddenly felt desperate. It was a disgusting desperation that he hoped the end would justify. Hand trembling, his fingers brushed against the top of his trousers and boxers. He undid the fly and button, trying his best not to think about it. Throat bobbing tight, he dipped his hand into his boxers to find and tentatively wrap his hand around his cock. A sigh of relief escaped him as he relaxed back into his seat, eyes slipping closed.

He, lips parted and brows knitted together, touched himself. He could already feel the uncomfortable stress leaving his body as a new pleasurable tension replaced it. Attempting to clear his mind, he tried to focus merely on the sensation of his fingers squeezing gently at the head before stroking down to the base of his member. Edward wanted to think about anything else but Romy. However, there was no use in thought-stopping because it only made the thoughts more persistent.

A desperate mewl left his lips as he imagined her—her body, her hands, her nails, her lips wrapped around him instead of his fingers. He could practically feel that pink tongue of hers on the tip of his cock, licking up the pre-cum that dripped and spreading it down his shaft. Edward couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have her pretty face staring up at him, her knees red and bruised from kneeling. Hand moving faster, his breath came in short gasps as he chased his climax. He wanted this to be over with, and yet…

The image of Romy now sitting in his lap enveloped his mind in a searing grasp. She straddled his hips as she bounced eagerly on him. The thought of her warm, wet cunt squeezing him nearly made him cum alone. His ears tingled as he practically heard her moaning his name, squealing as he filled her to the brim.

“Mr. Nashton! Yes, please fuck me, sir. You’re so good. The fucking best!”

Feeling his body nearing his climax, he pictured her riding him, her delicate fingers gripping his shoulders as she continued bouncing up and down on his hard cock, her skirt bunched around her hips and panties shoved to the side. The sound of her voice, hoarse and mewling as she begged him to fuck her good, echoed in his now burning ears.

“So close... I’m so close. K-keep going.”

Edward’s hand picked up the pace; desperation in his movements made the gestures jerky and short.

“Yes, that’s it! You’re so good, Edward. So fucking good to me. I want you to cum for me. That’s it, Edward, cum for me, baby!”

The groan that tore its way from his throat was stunted in the small room, his body trembling and shaking as he felt himself spurt into his hand.

“You did so well...”

Edward slumped back in his chair, his chest heaving. The silence that followed was deafening, the hum of the computer the only sound cutting through the thick, suffocating quiet. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling slightly as the intensity of his climax faded, leaving him adrift in the stark reality of what he’d just done. He blinked, the gravity of it all pressing heavily on his chest, the remnants of Romy’s vivid tableau lingering in his mind like an afterimage burned into his vision.

The memory was both deeply embarrassing and—he hated to admit—sickeningly satisfying.

His gaze flickered around the dim office, the quiet air feeling heavier now. His hand, sticky with evidence of his indulgence, curled into a loose fist before he sighed sharply, reaching for the box of tissues on his desk. A grumble rumbled low in his throat, a mix of frustration and quiet shame.

As he wiped himself clean, the hazy satisfaction began to fade, replaced by the creeping, familiar irritation that so often shadowed his thoughts. His gloves were a mess, and with a grimace, he tore them off, tossing them carelessly into the wastebasket. The action felt small, but it was a release—a way to discard the moment, as if ridding himself of the gloves might cleanse him of the lapse in his usually rigid self-control.

Edward muttered to himself as he finished cleaning up, the words lost in the low hum of the room but tinged with unmistakable annoyance.

Then he caught his reflection in one of the darkened monitors, a fleeting glimpse of himself—his slightly tousled hair, the vulnerability etched into the sharp lines of his features. The image was almost jarring, his own gaze looking back at him with a rawness he didn’t want to acknowledge. He looked away quickly, wadding the tissues and tossing them into the trash, his movements brisk and methodical.

The shame burned, but his walls were already rebuilding themselves, his detachment slotting back into place like armor he couldn’t live without. He adjusted his glasses, straightened his posture, and leaned forward again, his hands already reaching for the keyboard.

“Ridiculous.”

Ao3 link here!

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yourstrulylightstar283 · 7 months ago

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Adorable, I love Marcus and Evey's meet cute moment so much and thank you🥰

The Regulars

Summary: Marcus and Missy befriend a waitress at their favorite diner.

Requested by @yourstrulylightstar283

Rating: General/Everyone Warnings: Marcus Moreno x OFC named Evey, father/daughter banter, mention of stressful working environment, otherwise just fluff and cuteness. Word Count: 1175

”Again, dad?” Missy asks when he puts the menu down, already knowing what he’s picked, even though he hasn’t said anything.

“What?” he lovingly gripes in return, smiling as he knows where this is going.

“There’s so much delicious food in this diner, and yet, every time we come here you order the same thing: the cheeseburger with fries. Are you scared of stepping out of your food comfort zone, or something?”

“I’m not scared,” he huffs, “this is just the best burger in town.”

“Alright, I didn’t wanna do this, but you’ve left me no choice,” she counters, and her tone clearly suggests she’s about to change his mind, whether he likes it or not.

He loves when she gets all smart like this, so he leans back and feels a smile grow behind his cheeks as he watches her close her menu deliberately slowly before clasping her hands together and leaning her forearms on the table.

“Dad, you’re a public figure,” she begins, very seriously, “which means that people pay attention to you. And what they’re seeing every time we come here, is that not only does Marcus Moreno support the meat-industry, which we all know is fubar, but that he’s also entirely unconcerned with his own health.”

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel the smile in his cheeks anymore. Instead, he feels mildly nauseous, especially after he hears the next part of her reasoning.

“Now, if you were a member of the public, which the Heroics are tasked with protecting, would you feel safe knowing that your supposed guardian doesn’t even take good care of himself?”

He knows that she’s being deliberately manipulating, testing herself in how good she is at persuading others, but she’s also not wrong about anything she’s saying, and it’s surprisingly jarring to hear. Before he’s had a chance to recover, however, the waitress comes to take their orders, and he feels a creeping panic at the back of his neck, realizing he doesn’t know what to do.

“Hello, my name is Evey, I’ll be taking your orders today,” she says with a prize-winning smile which isn’t fake or overdone or disingenuous at all, and he’s momentarily distracted by the fact that he hasn’t seen this woman before.

“Hi, I’m Missy, and this is my dad, Marcus,” his daughter responds, saving him from having to speak through the befuddled mess that is his brain right now.

“Nice to meet you both,” Evey nods politely at them in turn, “what will it be today?”

His daughter confidently asks for an omelet with a side of salad instead of potato fries, and then immediately turns the attention back to him, fully aware he hasn’t made up his mind yet.

“Uh…” is all he says, before ripping the folded two-page menu open once again and scanning the options way too fast to actually make out what they are.

He glances at Missy over the top of the pages, hoping she’ll start talking and give him a moment to think, but she just smiles knowingly at him while she calmly waits for him to make a fool of himself.

“I can give you some options, if you prefer, sir,” the waitress suddenly offers him a lifeline, and he dives at it like he’s drowning.

“Please, do. I’m sorry, I’m a bit distracted today,” he tries to explain, hoping not to look like a complete moron, although that ship has probably already sailed.

“No problem, that’s why I’m here,” she smiles again, and then proceeds to list the entire dinner menu from memory, highlighting the nutritional benefits of each dish, as well as giving him a general idea of the flavor sensation associated with the various options.

Marcus has been at five-star restaurants with lesser service than this, leaving him staring dumbly at Evey once she’s finished, trying to comprehend what such a talented server is doing in such a simple establishment.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Missy pipes up after a moment of stunned silence.

“Yes, it’s my first week,” the waitress confirms, and the Moreno’s exchange a look of impressed bewilderment before both turn back to stare at her.

“I’m guessing you’ve been somewhere a bit more… demanding than this place before,” Marcus suggests, finally freed of the confusion his daughter had inflicted on him.

“Demanding is the right word for it, indeed, sir,” she replies, and while the smile is still warm and genuine, there’s a hint of something heavy in her eyes for a moment as she says it.

He knows that many prestigious restaurants can be hell to work at, no matter how skilled or experienced a person might be, so if she’s been at a place like that, he could understand if she needed to seek out a less stressful environment. A small corner diner might not seem like a desired workplace for someone used to the glamour of the top tier in her field, but there are benefits to be found in the simplicity and quaintness of smaller businesses.

“Well, I hope you’ll like it here,” he smiles back at her. “It’s not too crowded most of the time, and the regulars are pretty decent.”

Missy rolls her eyes at him in embarrassment over the last part, which Evey notices, and an adorable giggle crosses her lips.

“I take it you’re the regulars in question, then?”

“Oh, he’s a regular alright. A regular cheeseburger abuser,” his daughter shoots, paying him back for her embarrassment by making him look like an idiot in front of this lovely woman.

“Am not!” he desperately fires back, succeeding only in sounding childish on top of stupid.

“Am too! And apparently also dishonest, since you won’t even own up to it,” she counters, and he doesn’t have a good comeback for that, so he ends up just sitting there scowling for a beat, before finally closing the menu and setting it down on the table.

“Fine. I’ll have the damned burger.”

He expects the waitress to politely excuse herself then, as this little tiff has probably left her feeling uncomfortable. But when she’s still by the table after a few seconds, he looks up to find out what she’s doing, only to discover her grinning at him with her head cocked to the side, looking as sweet as a labrador waiting for ear-scritches.

“Good choice,” she says with a wink. “It’s the best burger in town.”

Missy’s head hits the tabletop with an audible bonk, followed by her exacerbated groan of disapproval, now directed at both the adults, as her masterful plan to manipulate her father has been ruined. Marcus, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh, and when Evey joins in even though she has both their orders and doesn’t need to stay there any longer, he feels like a friendship has just begun, and it sends a nice warmth through his abdomen.

“I’ll be right back with your dinners,” she giggles, and then right before she turns away, she adds: “I think I’m gonna like the regulars here.”

THE END

#marcus moreno #missy moreno #other people's oc #oc x canon #canon x oc #we can be heroes #wcbh

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sp00kymulderr · 8 months ago

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WIP Tag Game

ty for the tags @schnarfer & @thetriumphantpanda

RULES: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

oh god here we go. I have too many wips and it's actually sickening to look at them lmao don't judge me lets see...

racing towards the sun (Marcus Moreno x Dieter Bravo)

you in Dieters robe (Dieter Bravo x reader)

OHOF Pt 4 - Cinder (Joel Miller x reader)

Cherry ch 2/3 (Dieter Bravo x ofc x Reader)

ttlwh pt 3 (Marcus Pike x reader)

gym!crush Joel (Joel Miller x reader)

FLESH (Joel Miller x reader)

you play the part, i'll be the art (Joel Miller x reader)

Picture You (Joel Miller x reader)

Lost, Found pt 2 (Dieter Bravo x reader x Ezra x oc)

ways to love (Marcus Pike x reader)

mercy. (Lucien Flores x reader)

draw a line around my thoughts (Javi P x reader)

Any colour you like (Javi P x reader)

professor (Dieter Bravo x reader)

tags for these babes but sorry if you've already done it!

@chronically-ghosted @perotovar @covetyou @freelancearsonist @javier-pena

@mothandpidgeon @missredherring @yxtkiwiyxt @seventeenpins @qveerthe0ry

#i have more wips than this lmao but some of them are so bare bones its not funny

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gemmahale · 9 months ago

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Hi!! 💕 for the fruit asks!

🍊🍑

Please and thank you! 🙏

Fruit Fic Ask Game!

Taylor! Hi friend! 💚

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more? (They’re so interesting! But maybe you have trouble pinning them down, or keep getting distracted by another blorbo…)

I want to get back to some of my Pedro Boys. 😖 Especially Marcus Moreno and Ezra and Marcus Pike. I just need to sit down with them again and see where I'm at. 😏 Otherwise, I struggle writing Ghost/Simon from CoD- I don't have any individual fics with him yet. I want to, but I have nothing that's really sparked my thoughts yet beyond having him in addition to at least one other character. But I'll have whole bits of him in some of my universe-building fics, when I get there. Eventually. Maybe. I'd also like to write more Price x OC, but again, he'll get parts in my universe fics, so I'm okay with it right now. (And Useful Girl is still giving me fits.)

🍑 If you could make a connection between your favorite character and another work you care about (whether a crossover/fusion or a wonderfully “pretentious” literary reference) what would it be? How would it work?

Ooh, this is challenging to think of. I think it'd be interesting to put Pedro's characters and CoD together, especially the civil servants - Moreno, Pike, Peña, (I know I'm forgetting some). I don't know how I'd do it though, but that's going to noodle in my brain now lol.

#gemma answers #Fruit Fic Asks #Chronically-ghosted #Ask Game

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ghostofaboy · 1 year ago

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Kinktober 2023 - October 14th

Day 14: Uniform, Suspension Bondage, Abduction/Kidnapping

Marcus Moreno x Male OC

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1320

Warnings: abduction, forced orgasm, edging, mentions of oral sex, suggested dub-con

@absurdthirst Kinktober List | Ghost of a Boy Masterlist

It had been a trap. Looking back, it was obvious. The intel too vague, the location far too deserted when he arrived, the first wave of henchmen far too easily defeated. Marcus had been advancing into the next area when he was Blinding Fast go down. He remembered running towards his friend and then… nothing.

Blinking his eyes, Marcus looked around his new surroundings. He was tied to a chair in what appeared to be a plain concrete cell. Great. Thick concrete stretched from floor to ceiling. No windows and only a single wooden door as the only way in and out. Wait! A wooden door?

Marcus reached out with his powers and felt nothing. There was no metal in any part of this cell. Just concrete, wood and large wax candles for light. He didn’t even have the metal from his uniform to rely on as, glancing down, Marcus could see even his clothes had been removed, leaving him just in his underwear. It seems his captors had thought of everything. It also seemed he was their primary target.

=====

Marcus had lost track of time by the time the door to his cell first opened. He guessed it had been four or five hours, judging by how numb his hands were from being tied behind his back. Looking up, Marcus was greeted by a tall, thin man dressed in a regal purple suit complete with cape and immediately scowled.

“I see from your face you know who I am.” The man spoke, circling Marcus as the door was closed behind him.

“The so-called Lord Daemon.” Marcus spat. “What do you want with me?”

“You’re the leader of the Heroics.” Daemon stopped in front of Marcus, looking down at him with a strange look on his face Marcus couldn’t place. “You’re a very valuable target.”

“So this is a ransom?” Marcus laughed. “The Heroics don’t negotiate with terrorists. And they certainly won’t negotiate with a murderer like you.”

“They will, in time.” Daemon shrugged. “But for now, let us see what secrets are locked in that pretty head of yours.”

“You can’t seriously think I’m going to give anything up.” Marcus spat back. “I’ll die before I-”

“Oh no, Marcus, my dear.” Daemon leaned in close, smiling in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. “I’m not going to kill you. In fact, I won’t ever let you die.”

=====

Come dribbled down his leg as Marcus slumped against his bindings. His whole body felt as though it was one fire as Daemon stood watching, smirking. Inside his ass, the vibrator finally stopped, making Marcus gasp and moan. He’d long since lost count of how many times Daemon had forced him to come.

So far, he’d endured four days of this. Four long days of Daemon inserting larger and larger vibrators into his ass before switching them on for hours. Over and over, Marcus had been brought to the brink before Daemon would stop, let him recover his composure before beginning again. Hours upon hours of edging, day after day. Marcus was amazing he still had any come left in his balls. Over and over, Daemon found different ways to take Marcus to the very edge and yet he had told them nothing.

Another jolt from the vibrator snapped Marcus’ head back sharply. His vision swam as he fought to stay conscious. He was exhausted. Over to his left, he could hear Daemon moving around before the vibrator was shut off and roughly pulled out of his ass. Letting his eyes flutter shut, Marcus let exhaustion take him.

=====

Marcus wasn’t sure how long he was out for, but when he came to, he wasn’t tied to the chair anymore. His face was resting against the cool concrete and on shaking arms, Marcus pushed himself up. He still felt dizzy but he could tell something was different…

Looking around the cell, Marcus couldn’t see any sign of the vibrators or toys Daemon had been using on him. Instead, on his chair was a piece of paper. Climbing to his feet, Marcus reached out to pick it up, only to find it wasn’t paper, just a photo. Turning it over, Marcus’ heart sank and his skin ran cold.

It was him.

It was him spread out on the floor, cock hard and leaking, with his knees up near his shoulders to show his asshole to the camera. This must have been taken when he was passed out but anyone seeing this would think he was posing himself. His eyes were closed, but the smile on his face made it seem like he was awake and fully aware of his actions.

Throwing the photo across the room, Marcus let out a frustrated growl. Fucking Daemon! What was this asshole’s game? As if sensing Marcus thinking of him, the door opened and Daemon appeared.

“You’re awake.” Daemon smiled, his eyes raking over Marcus, before spotting the photo on the floor. “Did you like our little photo session? I think you look quite beautiful, but then again I’m biased.”

“Fuck you!” Marcus hissed. “What do you want?”

Daemon laughed, deep and loudly, shaking his head. “I have what I want. All the money in the world couldn’t equal making the leader of the Heroics into my personal pet.”

“Pet?” Marcus growled. “Never gonna happen.”

“Oh no?” Daemon continued to laugh. “That’s not the only photo I have of you. So many poses, so many beautiful expressions. My personal favorites are after you’ve come. That look of bliss on your face when you’re covered in come.”

Marcus froze. How many times had Daemon done this to him? He’d passed out a few times during the vibrators and endless orgasms. Had there been photos each time? Who had been touching him?

Watching Marcus’ face, Daemon’s laughing subsided and he began to advance. “Would you like to see them? Behave yourself and I could even be persuaded to destroy them.”

“What would behaving myself look like?” Marcus asked cautiously. He didn’t trust Daemon as far as he could throw him but he couldn’t let those photos get out.

“Let's start with something simple. Something you’ve done before for me, although you were a little less ‘aware’.” Daemon reached out, stroking Marcus’ face and Marcus fought the urge to pull back even as his stomach sank. “I must say, even half-conscious, you are quite adept at sucking cock.”

Marcus lurched backward away from Daemon, his worst fears realized. Daemon smirked, licking his lips, his eyes wandering down to Marcus’ crotch.

“Come now.” Daemon motioned to his zipper. “Do a good job and I’ll show you the photos from today. You can pick one to keep and do what you want with.”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“Get on your knees, pet.” Daemon commanded, his eyes hardening as he step towards Marcus once more. “Or I’ll show these pretty photos to Missy!”

“Pineapple.”

“What?” Daemon stopped immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s weird now.”

“Shit.” Daemon’s shoulders slumped. “It was cos I mentioned Missy isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah.” Marcus folded his arms, scowling at his lover. “Talking about my daughter during our… it’s not exactly sexy, baby.”

“Sorry.” Daemon pouted, wrapping his arms around Marcus who reluctantly accepted the hug. “Up until then, was it what you wanted?”

“Yeah.” Marcus leaned against Daemon as they made their way out of the room and up the stairs into Daemon’s kitchen. “Up to then, it was perfect. I was completely lost in the role. You were very good. Very believable.”

“Thank you.” Daemon planted a gentle kiss on Marcus’s cheek before handing him a robe. “Do you want to get something to eat then start over?”

“No.” Marcus shook his head sadly. “The immersions gone now and we’ve only got one day left. Blinding Fast will only be able to cover for me for so long.”

“So… snacks then bedroom?” Daemon grinned.

“Perfect.”

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #marcus moreno

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yourstrulylightstar283 · 2 years ago

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Nice and beautiful work! 😀

Wow this one went fast!!

This is a moodboard for @radiowallet ‘s Poorly Wired Circuit, requested by @disgruntledspacedad .

Correct guesses by @bunniesofsteel @novemberrain221 @nolanell and @day-off-inkyoto so I’ve got several more moodboards in the works. Just a heads up, these will take longer but I love that you’re enjoying

Magpie’s Moodboard Game!

#other people's work #poorly wired circuit #pwc #radiowallet #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x sarah bailey #sarah bailey #other people's oc #original character #missy moreno #we can be hereos #sarah bailey x marcus moreno

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yearofcreation2023 · 2 years ago

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Year of Themed Creations: July 2023 Collection (in progress)

WORDS:

When It Comes To You by @flightlessangelwings - Year of Protectiveness Dialogue prompt- “ you need to get out of here! go! i’ll buy you some more time!“ Action prompt- [ REUNION ]: after spending a considerable length of time apart, the sender reunites with the receiver after saving their life from an immediate and potentially lethal threat. (Comandante Veracruz x fem!reader)

Not All Heroes Wear Capes by @all-the-things-2020 - Year of Fandom Crossovers Lt. Marcus Moreno is posted to the Enterprise after a stint at Starfleet headquarters. His daughter Missy is eager to go but is he ready to return to space after losing his wife? (Marcus Moreno)

Love at First Fight by @ironmandeficiency - Year of Idiots after a tavern visit, you seriously consider getting your eyes checked when you mistake an unassuming dwarf for your best friend’s ex. (bofur / reader)

Full-Time Problem by @never--doubt - Year of Soulmates In a universe where everyone has timers that freeze when they meet their soulmates, it's hard to focus on that when a war is brewing. What will Rey and Finn do when they figure out that Poe has already found his soulmate? (Poe Dameron x Female!Reader)

A Chance Taken by @ghostofskywalker - Year of Flowers It took a long time to get over the boy that you used to spend time with in the Senate building, but your lives took you in separate directions. But when he shows up during the Clone Wars with a dire warning for your planet, you don’t want to let him go without telling him how you feel. (Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader)

Something Soft by @keldabe-kriff - Year of Small Joys More attempts at feeling out moments between Joel and Ellie, placed at a point when they have more trust in each other. Other than that it isn't any specific point in the timeline of the show. (Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, no pairing)

Is This How It Ends? Pt. 4 by @artemiseamoon - Year of Whump Memories from the past haunt Rhea as she reflects on a moment that could be the cause of Santiago's personality change. (Santiago, OC Rhea, Frankie Morales)

First Dance by @hopeamarsu - Year of Firsts You find yourself with the Red Viper of Dorne. What would you ask from him? (Oberyn Martell x gn!reader)

Saying I Love You Through An Accidental Kiss by @songsformonkeys - Year of Saying I Love You I think the title is pretty self-explanatory. Unbeta'd. (Joel Miller x reader Pre outbreak)

Buck Moon by @grogusmum - Wheel of the Year This is a companion to my one shot Your Spot Okay, I should admit from the jump. This is not all that pagany. It’s smut. Sorry. But not really. Oops. I just, okay, this is what happened on Frankie Friday, I was thinking about him and Rocket. I also kind of got interested in the challenge of writing a smut for a gender neutral reader, if I could manage it. Fingers crossed. (Frankie Morales x gn!Reader)

Bird Strike by @captainsophiestark - Year of Olympians Prompt: Apollo; light, the sun, truth, inspiration, medicine, healing. Summary: A bird strikes brings Hangman down and leads to confessions from him and Rooster’s sister. (Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader)

#year of themed creation #july

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quinnnfabrgay-writes · 3 months ago

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The Masterlist

I wanted to thank each and every one of you for the outpouring of excitement for this challenge, and the abundance of absolute talent y'all have shared with @hauntedhowlett-writes and me. I am just blown away with how y'all have taken these characters and creatures and have created these incredible stories and worlds; I could just kiss every single one of your beautiful brains!

This list will be updated as the rest of the pieces are posted. Again, please do not feel bad if you haven't posted your story yet - I know more than anyone that sometimes the creative juices just ain't there. All I ask is that you tag us when you're ready so we can love up on you and show off your work!

Also if you have already posted your piece and it's not listed here, please let me know! My notifications have been spotty lately.

THE PRETTIEST - @almostfoxglove (ghost!Max Phillips x f!reader)

Sweet Sweet Girl - @whocaresstillthelouvre (incubus!Maxwell Lord x f!reader)

bite me nicely - @jolapeno (vampire!Javier Peña x f!reader)

Like A Man Without Skin - @thischarmingmandalorian (ghost!Jack Daniels x f!reader)

Sins of the Flesh - @ak-vintage (incubus!Pero Tovar x f!reader)

fire starter - @kedsandtubesocks (dragon!Dieter Bravo x f!reader)

A Certain Fae's Melancholy - @nerdieforpedro (fae!Jack Daniels x gn!reader)

Me and the Devil - @saradika (devil!Din Djarin) moodboard, playlist, and drabble

Foretold in the Scales - @crowandmousewritingco (dragon!Marcus Moreno x gn!reader)

Two for One - @max--phillips (alien!Frankie Morales x afab!reader)

Cosmic Kiss - @clawdeewritesfanfic (alien!Joel Miller x f!reader)

shadows - @burntheedges (tentacle monster!Din Djarin x f!reader)

limits - @perotovar (minotaur!Joel Miller x m!oc/reader)

divider credit goes to @saradika-graphics

#monstersmash24 #monstersmash24 masterlist #pedro pascal characters

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words-are-fireproof · 2 years ago

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With the Kids in the Gym (Ribbons Part IV)

(gif by @nicolethered)

Summary: Marcus helps Missy with Guppy and goes out on a limb.

Rating: T

Content: kids being kids, uncertain Marcus Moreno should come with a warning, anxiety, disabled canon and original character, Marcus being soft and fluffy.

A/N: As always, this story is unbetaed. Sorry, not sorry. ;P

Word Count: 3.9k (this chapter is chonky)

[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part Three || Part Five

-----

The sounds of the gym met Marcus’ ears as he stood outside the big glass windows. Big brown eyes watched as Missy and Guppy trained in front of a large mirror and punching bag. Guppy pummeled the punching bag with her shark strength, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Missy had to jump away from the bag because it kept swinging precariously on its carabiner. He couldn’t exactly tell what his daughter was saying to the little pint sized hero, but whatever she was saying wasn’t exactly sinking into the little one’s head.

Despite whatever Missy was–or wasn’t–accomplishing, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for his daughter. He never doubted her for a second. Not when the entire fate of the world rested on her small shoulders. Not when the subsequent training seemed to push her down. She kept getting back up. Every single time. He knew exactly where she got her strength from. Others would say that she got it from him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. She got her resilience from him, maybe, but her strength she got from Laura.

A sharp pain stabbed furiously in his chest.

He took a deep breath to try to steady it, to make it go away, but it lodged there and didn’t want to move. This happened every single year, sometimes more than once a day. Around this time of year, it seemed to linger from sun up to sun down and sometimes it even seeped into his dreams and nightmares at night. Of course, Aaron’s words and the reason why he currently stood at the gym doors didn’t help matters either. He knew that. He also knew it wouldn’t go away until he did something about it.

He took a deep breath, carding a hand through his shaggy dark hair. He needed a trim. He’d set up the appointment later. For now, he let the breath steady him as he pushed into the gym, letting the door shut behind him. His eyes surveyed the thinning crowd. All the kids were there with various equipment. Training. Rewind and Fast Forward seemed to be working together much smoother than they had in the beginning. After the takeover, they still had their issues, and sometimes they didn’t work together well, but any progress was better than nothing.

Slo-Mo was the real MVP of the post-takeover team up. The slow moving hero finally moved at almost regular speed now. With Missy’s and his dad’s help, he finally learned how to control his speed. There were still moments when he moved too slowly–he noticed it when the kid seemed tired at the end of day or after a particularly long training session–but for the most part, the kid moved normally. He chalked it up to Missy’s strength as a leader–among other things.

A sense of pride welled in his chest, replacing the sharp pain for a little while.

The only person he couldn’t see in his survey of the crowd was the one person he wanted to see the most. Keilah. A frown tugged at his lips, and he tried not to entertain the disappointment he felt rising within him. Maybe she left early that day. Maybe Aaron just wanted to tease him. Maybe pursuing her would end up being a fool’s errand. Marcus didn’t know, but he didn’t like the feeling currently settling inside of him. It felt needy and desperate and oh, so terribly stupid. Why did he think he could do this, whatever in the hell this was? He was a widower. No matter what Aaron said about getting a life, it already didn’t feel worth it.

Another sigh and he walked through the gym to Guppy and Missy, just barely missing a whack from the punching bag.

“Guppy,” Missy began, exasperation tinged the edges of her voice, “try it again. Focus on the power you feel when you’re in a rage but don’t actually go into a rage.”

Guppy whipped around on Missy and bared her teeth, snapping at the older girl fiercely. Marcus chuckled softly as Guppy began waylaying the bag again.

“How’s it going nina?”

“Well, I’ve already had to break up Fast-Forward and Rewind today. Wheels is skipping arm day because he thinks he doesn’t need it, and Wild Card’s just been messing around and setting mats on fire because he can.” She huffed, her hands settling on her hips.

“Sounds like a normal day for me.”

She snorted softly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, if you remember, I didn’t do a good job of it. Not at the end, after all.”

She made a face, her lips and nose scrunching a bit. “You have a point.”

“Don’t I always?” He asked as he playfully reached to pull her in a one armed hug.

“Dad,” Missy whined playfully.

“Missy,” Marcus whined back teasingly. But he let her go.

She never failed to make him feel better. He felt a surge of gratitude for her. Gratitude and pride. It threatened to boil over making him insufferable, but he held it back. She didn’t need an overly prideful father who couldn’t see her shortcomings or help her overcome them. She needed someone to help her whenever he could. He admitted, he didn’t always have the answers, but he was more than happy to try.

This felt like one of those times.

“Do you want me to get onto Wild Card?”

She shook her head. “You know it wouldn’t work.”

“You have a point.”

Then, his gaze landed on Guppy. “What’s up with her today?”

“Shark Boy and Lava Girl are off on assignment.”

“Ah. She’s having a hard time adjusting,” he said knowingly.

“You know her well,” she admitted easily.

He wasn’t sure how true that was. He felt like he knew Guppy well. Truthfully, he had a soft spot for the little girl. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of Missy when she was her age. Missy had been a wild child. He and Laura had a hard time reigning her in. When she had just learned how to walk, she toddled everywhere, getting into everything, tearing books off shelves and pulling pans out of cabinets to bang on them and make noise. She had a wicked temper sometimes. Only Laura could calm her in those days. After she’d died, Missy seemed to calm down a lot, perhaps somehow knowing that he’d need a much more mellow child. He loved both sides of Missy. Just as he adored both sides of Guppy.

“I do,” he concured. “Tell you what. Take ten or go help someone else. I’ll handle her for a little bit.”

Relief immediately spread over Missy’s face. “Thanks, Dad.”

She left to go help put out one of Wild Card’s fires. He watched her walk away with a smile before he turned his attention back on Guppy. The little girl’s wild punching of the bag ceased. Wide blue eyes trained on him and her stance immediately softened. He grinned, crouching down to get on her level.

“Hey, Guppy.”

“Marcus!” She wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

He hugged her back briefly. “Well, I’m here to see if Missy needs any help.”

She pulled back a little to peer at him curiously. “You’ve never came and helped before,” she said, her little lisp making him smile wider.

“No, I know.”

She frowned. “Did we do something wrong?”

He settled her gently back on her tiny feet. “What? No.”

“Because when the grown ups come to check in on us, it’s because we did something wrong.”

Marcus shook his head, his kind eyes trained reassuringly on her. “No, Gup. You’re fine. Though,” his gaze flicked over to Missy and Wild Card, “I might have to get onto Wild Card.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s not being very nice to Missy.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s just a kid. You’re all kids. You’re allowed to have bad days sometimes.”

Her little face scrunched up as she stood there and thought what must have been a mighty large thought. His expression softened and he had to resist a laugh as it began to bubble up in his chest.

“Marcus?”

“Yes, little miss?” The nickname fell from his lips easily without him even realizing it.

Her lips curved into a wide smile that almost devoured her face. She liked that nickname. He’d have to remember that.

“Are adults allowed to have bad days, too?”

The blood in his veins buzzed a little bit. For a moment, he allowed his attention to drift. The sound of a fire extinguisher hissed to his left. He tilted his head. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that Missy was dutifully putting out literal fires. Then, to his right, he heard the door to the gym squeak open and squeak shut, latching with a soft click that he felt more than heard. A rather unfortunate training mishap had seen the then head of HQ swap out all metal from the gym equipment, but the door hinges and door knob hadn’t ever been changed. They always pulled at his powers when he wasn’t paying attention, his fingers tingling with the life in them.

When he looked toward the door, he saw Keilah with her head down, stalking across the gym with her head down, hair swept up in a ponytail. Her ever present headphones sat dutifully in her ears. His heart pounded in his chest. Aaron was right. She came to train at the end of the day. In the back of his mind, it made sense. With the kids here, there were less adults present. Less adults meant less people intent on bothering her. He’d have to remember that.

Keilah sat her stuff down at the leg press just across from them. Marcus watched her for a long moment before he remembered that Guppy asked him a question and he hadn’t responded yet.

He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the little girl in front of him.

“They have more bad days than you think they do.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you have a lot of bad days?”

Marcus nodded. “I do.” He took a breath, considered, then continued, “You know this morning I destroyed a sofa bed because I had a bad night.”

The look on her face broke his heart. He briefly wondered if it was a bad idea to let her in on his bad days, but if they helped her, maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss.

“Missy says I need to control my shark frenzies because it’s bad for the team.”

“You don’t think they’re bad, do you?” He asked curiously, figuring he knew what the little girl would say.

“I’m stronger when I’m in them,” she stated with a shrug.

“Maybe you are, little miss, but think of how much stronger you’d be if you channeled your strength and were fully conscious of what you were doing.”

Guppy lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you should stop relying on your frenzies and train your natural strength.”

She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

Marcus blew out a breath, palming the back of his neck as he tried to think of an easier way to explain what he meant. All the while, his eyes drifted over to watch Keilah as she began her work out. He longed to talk to her, but he knew that helping Guppy was the right thing to do. That and he could hear Missy and Wild Card arguing behind him.

“Okay, so. Your frenzies put others at danger because you let anger…push you along. Right?”

“Yes…” she answered slowly, uncertainly.

“So what you need to do is find inner peace. There you find your greatest strength.”

She frowned. “How do I do that while fighting?”

“I’m not sure.” He rested his hands on hips, fingers tapping his belt in thought. “You meditate, right?” Guppy nodded eagerly. “What do you do to meditate?”

She shrugged elaborately. “I just sit down and not listen to people.”

A strangled laugh died rather unceremoniously in his throat. He shouldn’t laugh, but he couldn’t help it. It was such a simple answer for such a complex little girl.

“It doesn’t help, does it?” She shook her head. “I didn’t think so.” He tapped his belt some more as he continued to think. “Okay, we’re going to try something. It’ll be a work in progress, so you’ll have to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

You’re the only one, he thought bitterly, and he wasn’t even sure why he thought it.

“So��can I ask you something? Before we start?” She shrugged. “How do you feel right now?”

Her face scrunched in thought. “Sad. I miss my mom and dad.”

“I know how that feels. Being sad. You know how I use my sadness to fight? I channel it through me and let it fuel me, but I also use it to calm me.”

“Sadness calms you?”

“Yeah, in a way. Because I miss my wife, and when I think about her, it makes me sad but I also remember the good times we had together. So, think of your mom and dad and think of all the good times you have when they’re here.”

“You think that will help me?”

“I think it could, yeah. So, try it. Punch the punching bag and let the sadness and happiness move through you, but try to keep the anger at bay. Try not to be angry at them. They will be back soon and think of how great that will be.”

Her brows furrowed thoughtfully as she slowly turned to face the punching bag. She considered it for a long moment then started punching the bag, slowly at first, then quicker as time went on. He wondered if what he said was working for her. He wished he had powers of telepathy, but then he was glad he didn’t. Telepathy would be too much to bear for him. He knew this far too well. He’d seen good heroes come and go who had telepathy and they couldn’t be saved. He didn’t want to be one of those people.

His thoughts were pulled from that line of thinking and he turned to watch Keilah as she sparred silently with a holographic sentinel. Marcus envied her solitude. He wished he could have just a fraction of it. He wondered if it would make him feel better. Maybe it could help him feel more centered and less out of control, especially now as he dealt with the memories that continued to pummel him, even as he stood there. He listened to the faint squeaks of the punching bag, not paying attention to Guppy until he heard the loud thump of the bag breaking free from its hook on the wall and falling to the ground a few feet ahead of them.

“Oops,” Guppy quickly covered her mouth in horror. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”

“Hey, it’s okay. There’s no need to apologize.” He glanced between the downed bag and the little girl beside him. “Are you angry?” She shook her head. “How do you feel?”

“Strong,” she beamed in pride behind her hands.

“I’d say it worked, then, don’t you?”

“Well…”

“Guppy.”

“I might have gotten a little angry.”

He crouched down in front of her. “Can I ask why?”

It looked like Guppy was about to answer when her blue eyed gaze rose to just past his left shoulder. He turned to be met with Keilah, all beautiful and wonderful and standing there with her hair pulled up in a ponytail, barely breaking a sweat despite her fight with the sentinel. She smiled down at him and his heart skipped a beat. He tried to ignore the fact that Guppy stood there, watching him and his reaction to the woman. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the little girl was smiling from ear to ear. Dios mio.

“Uh, hi,” Marcus said as he stood up to face her.

Hi, she hastily scrawled on the notebook she held in her hand. I wondered if I could help you?

“Help…help with…” He trailed off and motioned at Guppy who just giggled.

“My name is Guppy!”

Hi, Guppy. If you have it handled, then I can just go.

“Oh, no. It's fine. You can help. Of course you can help.”

She laughed and looked at the bag on the floor before scribbling quickly, Can’t help with the punching bag, though.

Marcus chuckled as well, trying to keep from snorting unceremoniously. He turned to look at Guppy. “Want to move to the sentinels?” The little girl nodded eagerly. “Perfect. Let’s move over there.” Then he frowns. “I won’t be kicking you out, will I?”

Keilah shrugged. It’s okay. I’m not feeling like training today anyway.

He laughed again. “Noted.”

The three of them went off to the little corner of the gym that Keilah once occupied and the three of them began to train. Marcus tried to keep himself from staring at Keilah too much, but he didn’t feel very successful with that endeavor. She looked beautiful. Even with the headphones in her ears. Even in her gym clothes. Especially in her gym clothes. He tried not to be lewd, but as she crouched down to help Guppy, he couldn’t help but sneak a look. He immediately felt dirty and straightened up, averting his gaze from her to focus on Guppy.

Soon, Guppy was off fighting sentinels on her own and the two of them watched her closely. He stood near enough to Keilah that he could feel the heat radiating off the skin of her arm. In fact, he could feel the blood singing in her body, the iron calling to him faintly under layers of skin, muscle, and sinew. It felt so strange yet not unwelcomed. Not at all. Marcus liked feeling it. For the most part, he’d learned to ignore it. But with her, it was hard to ignore. It felt like a siren’s call, his fingers tingling with the feeling. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he couldn’t imagine that would go over very well. He knew it wouldn’t. So, he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore it.

He also tried to ignore it when he felt a very soft hand lay briefly on his forearm. He turned to face her and was immediately met with her notebook full of her delicate writing.

My name’s Keilah. I’m sorry. I realize now we’ve never properly met.

He shook his head. “It’s alright. I’m Marcus.”

Her cheeks turned a light pink as she wrote quickly. I know who you are. I used to have your poster hanging up in my room. She looked mortified as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ears, showing him what she wrote.

He chuckled, palming the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, um, thanks, I guess?”

She scribbled quickly on her notebook again. Sorry. This is awkward. I…don’t usually talk to people.

“Is it okay if I asked why?”

I’m deaf.

His eyes briefly widened. “Oh, oh. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that. It makes sense now.” Then his brows furrowed in thought. “Do I need to be writing on the notebook too? Would that be easier?”

Her shoulders relaxed a bit and even the blood in her body seemed to stop moving so quickly. Her heart slowed down. He felt it and immediately knew the answer to that question.

It would be, actually. Reading lips exhausts me. I try to make do, but it doesn’t always work.

Marcus smiled, holding out his hands expectantly for the notebook. He tried to ignore the way her eyes seemed to shine at the realization that he was serious. He was going to do this for her. He wondered how many people overlooked her because of her disability, how many people didn’t make concessions for her. He imagined that more often than not, people didn’t care or take the time to learn what she needed to thrive.

When he took the notebook, he immediately started writing. What else would make you more comfortable? If you don’t mind telling me.

She stood there, considering that for a long moment before she took the notebook again to write, I can’t think of anything right now. If I think of something, I’ll let you know.

He nodded. Awkward silence settled over the pair. Guppy continued to fight, but Marcus noticed that she was beginning to slow down. The girl must be getting tired. He shut off the simulation after she downed one of them with some difficulty. Confusion shone all over her face as she looked over to the both of them.

“That’s all for the day, Guppy. You did good, little miss.”

She beamed. “Thank you, Marcus.”

“You’re welcome. Now get cleaned up, okay?”

She nodded eagerly, disappearing into the newly designated kids’ locker rooms to get cleaned up and changed into her regular clothing. One by one, the other kids began to do the same, all of them in various degrees of exhaustion until the only people left in the gym were him, Keilah, and the trainer who had the rather unfortunate job of trying to find a new place to hang the punching bag. It made him chuckle quietly to himself.

Suddenly, he felt the edge of the notebook poke into his chest. He looked down, eyes scanning the writing.

You’re good with her.

Guppy? Oh, yeah. She’s one of Missy’s best friends. She’s fun.

It seems like it.

Yeah. He took a deep breath, about to hand the notebook back to her when he took a leap, deciding to add something to it that made his heart pound in his chest. Do you want to go get lunch with me?

Her eyes widened briefly as she considered, writing back hastily, Sure.

He couldn’t believe it. She said yes. He thought maybe she would let him down easily and say no, but no. She said yes. He could hear the hollow rush of his blood pounding in his ears. His fingers prickled with his barely contained powers. At the front of the gym, he could hear the hinges and the door knob of the door squeaking under the pull of his metal manipulation. He swallowed thickly and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Sorry. Um, great. That’s great. Is tomorrow too soon?” Keilah shook her head. “Good. Good. That’s…that’s great, actually.”

She beamed right as Missy came out of the locker room, her bag slung over her shoulder. “Dad, are you ready to go?’

He turned his attention to his daughter. “Si, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Then he turns back to Keilah. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” She nodded. “Perfect.”

He smiled, in fact, he couldn’t stop smiling. His powers still tugged at the metal in the doorframe despite them being shoved in his pockets. He could still feel the slight tingle of the iron in her blood. He tried to ignore it but couldn’t. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. Now if only he could stop himself from going power crazy before he got home. This should be interesting.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal #marcus moreno fic #marcus moreno fanfiction #marcus moreno x ofc #marcus moreno x oc #marcus moreno #we can be heroes #we can be heroes fanfiction #fanfiction #like ribbons on wrists #ribbons part iv #sam writes

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yourstrulylightstar283 · 2 years ago

Note

I am glad Marcus and Sarah got a happy ending they wanted! 😀

Congratulations on PWC! It seriously one of my all time favorite stories. The way you wrote the relationship between Marcus and Sarah is just beautiful! I’m so happy that they are happy and content. It’s a perfect end to a perfect story. Thank you so much! I appreciate all your hard work at crafting such an amazing world with beautiful characters. Time to binge the whole thing! Love ya! ❤️

-🐈

Kitty anon! Thank you so much! It a big emotional moment for sure, and while the story is done it doesn’t mean good bye. I anticipate many many stories are still left to be told for Marcus and Sarah 🖤

#other people's work #radiowallet #poorly wired circuit #pwc #marcus moreno x sarah bailey #marcus x sarah #sarah bailey x marcus moreno #sarah x marcus #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x ofc #marcus moreno x oc #sarah bailey #other people's oc #oc #original character

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bittercoldbrew · 3 years ago

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Not Beyond Repair

Summary: He was her first love, her greatest heartbreak. Twenty years and an alien invasion later, the universe seems determined to bring Marcus Moreno back into her life.

Rating/Warnings: Rated M for coarse and suggestive language (no smut, but mentions of a past sexual relationship), allusions to (but no descriptions of) child abuse/neglect. And just like so much angst. 18+ ONLY

A/N: Wow so this has been sitting in my wips since uhhh March I guess??? I wasn’t really planning on ever finishing it, just something I’d tinker with from time to time, but over the past week or so while procrastinating writing something wholly unrelated I was suddenly struck with inspiration and couldn’t seem to pull myself away. No idea if I’ll ever write a follow-up, but I’ve gotten pretty attached to these characters now, so I guess we’ll see! Anyway, here’s 7k+ of Marcus Moreno x OFC angsty tender goodness. Enjoy!

It’s been a quiet day, rainy and cool, the gloomy weather keeping all but her staunchest regulars at bay. Not great for her bottom line, but getting back into the swing of things after being lightly kidnapped by decidedly un-sexy tentacle aliens has been...more of a challenge than anticipated. This has been a good chance to get caught up on packages to be shipped out, and sprucing up a few displays, and generally working her way through the rolling list of ancillary tasks. After an admirably productive morning and a quick trip to the sandwich shop next door for lunch, Vera had just settled in behind the counter and cracked open her current read when the bell above the door chimed for the first time in hours.

The thing about owning a tiny bookshop in a quiet part of an otherwise-bustling city is that people expect her to just be reading behind the counter all day—not remotely the case, there are a hundred other things she should be doing right now, but at least she doesn’t have to feel too guilty at being caught slacking off as she looks up to greet the new customer with an easy smile.

Her expression freezes halfway there.

The long legs and broad shoulders of Marcus Moreno fill her doorway—and all the rest of him, too, clad in tight dark jeans and a light gray sweater and a black leather jacket. There’s a strained, nervous expression on his face as he lifts a hand to sweep rain-slick hair out of his face, then gives her a half-hearted wave. “...Hey,” he says softly.

"...Marcus," she sighs, hoping she doesn’t sound quite as confused and uncomfortable as she feels, gripping the book in her hands so tightly the binding creaks.

He attempts a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry to just show up at your work like this, but I, uh...don’t have your number anymore.”

“But you have the shop’s address?” she asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

He shrugs. “It’s a local bookstore with your name on it. Even I’m not that bad with google.”

She sighs. Smack dab in the middle of the block, the name West & Elm Books had seemed a cute idea, prompting visitors to ask, “This is Elm Street, but what’s West?” The first twenty or so times, she’d been chipper as anything to respond, “I am! Vera West, nice to meet you.”

The routine had gotten old very fast.

“Pretty sure google also knows the shop’s number,” she drawls, with a pointed nod toward the landline literally two feet away from her on the counter. Even with three separate online storefronts, quite a few of her customers aren’t terribly comfortable navigating the internet, and these days the shop phone probably gets more use than her cell.

He has the sense to look abashed, at least. “I... Yeah, I know, I just wanted... I can—leave. If you want me to.”

She finally sets down her book, not caring to mark the page. A week ago, she would’ve run him off the moment she saw him. But now..? “Just—try not to...drip on anything,” she huffs, gesturing vaguely at his wet clothes. What, were superheroes too cool to carry umbrellas or something?

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He looks down at himself as if he hadn’t even realized, tries to wipe his shoes off on the mat, takes a few steps inside. Instead of swinging closed behind him, the door gets caught by a gust of wind that blows it open further, then yanks it shut with a harsh clang of the bell, and they both flinch. “Sorry,” he mutters again.

“What do you want, Moreno?” she asks—not angry to see him, really, but suddenly and completely exhausted.

He nods his head, as though her snappishness is exactly the welcome he’d expected, and it makes her bristle with old hurts thought long buried. But then his next words surprise her right out of what should’ve been a one-way trip to anger: “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinks, confused; asks dumbly, “For what?”

For the first time since entering, he meets her eyes—and god, she had forgotten how warm they can be, how kind, how tender. “You thought the world was ending, and you ran to find my mom.”

She shrugs her shoulders like it was no biggie, like making sure Tía Moreno was safe hadn’t been her first and only thought after watching him get attacked and captured by aliens on the fucking morning news. “Didn’t have anyone else to check up on,” she says—and it’s true, if not entirely honest.

“She said you showed up to the house with a baseball bat,” he says, resting his hands on his hips and shifting his weight to one foot, the way he always used to when he knew he was about to get on her nerves. “A Slugger, even. Like the one I gave you.”

The gift had been half joke, half deadly serious; something to keep her safe on the nights she couldn’t stay over at his parents’ house and instead had to navigate the unpredictable environment of her mother’s apartment and the men she sometimes brought back with her from the various bars she worked at—and a wooden bat so, he’d told her with a dimpled grin, she could turn it on him if she ever needed to. They’d been best friends at the time, just a couple of stupid barely-teenagers, one with the supernatural ability to command metal, the other with no particular power or significance beyond a certain knack for always knowing how to make the gloomiest boy in school smile. The moment he put that bat in her hands had been the moment she realized she was hopelessly in love with him, even if it’d taken her a few more months to put words to the feeling and say them to his face.

It’s the same bat tucked with her behind the counter now, the one she’s kept at her bedside every night for more than twenty years, the one with “VW + MM” lovingly carved into the handle. She’d made herself a real pain in some squid alien’s ass to get it back from whoever had confiscated it, once they’d finally been released from the spaceship.

She sure as hell isn’t going to tell Marcus that, though. With a huff, she gets up from her stool and turns from his prying gaze, stepping over to the espresso machine. “¿Quieres un café?” she asks, but her voice sounds so flat and tired that it comes out as more of a command than a question.

“...Gracias,” he mutters awkwardly, as though he’s not entirely sure whether she’d been asking or telling, either. It doesn’t matter; she’d never known him to turn down good coffee, and although it’s been a long, long time since she last called him a friend, she can't imagine that’s something that will ever change.

She can feel his eyes on her while she pulls a couple shots and steams some milk, but he at least keeps his dumb mouth shut, for once. The espresso machine is a real treasure—an Italian import, small but mighty, a worthy investment simply because she loves to have a little something special to offer her favorite regulars and kind customers (though it’s always mysteriously in need of repair whenever anyone’s rude to her, weird how that happens, huh?)—and she wouldn’t want him saying something to sour her mood while she uses it. The Marzocco deserves better than that.

When she turns back around with a cortado for him and a latte for herself, she sees that he’d grabbed one of the stools from the little table by the window, has seated himself across the counter from her own spot. Any hope she may have harbored that he’d been planning on drinking his espresso and walking back out of her life flees at the sight. Biting back another sigh, she sets the drinks down and sits, holding her cup in both hands as if it might protect her from whatever else he has in mind to say.

“Thank you,” he says softly, picking up the tiny spoon and twirling it in his fingers absent-mindedly. “Vera—”

The bell dings again, and they both turn to watch a huge umbrella force its way through the door, followed closely by a young-ish couple huddled together, laughing brightly at their successful escape from the elements. Their obvious mirth somehow manages to make Vera feel even grouchier, and she straightens up and calls over to them, “Hey, sorry folks, we’re closed!”

The two stop shaking out their umbrella all over her nice wood floor, and turn to look at her in surprise. The woman’s eyes widen in something like camaraderie and understanding, taking in Vee’s and Marcus’s closeness and tense posture; but the guy’s expression sours, and he gestures sharply at the door he just barged through, unable or unwilling to read the damn room. “The sign says you’re open.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she agrees, trying and probably failing to keep the bite out of her tone. “You can flip it for me on your way out.”

He looks ready to argue with her some more, but his date grabs his arm with a “C’mon, babe...” So instead he flips her the bird—but at least the woman turns the sign as they manipulate the umbrella and themselves back out to the street. Hopefully they’ll find their way to the sandwich shop next door to weather the storm, go be Bill and Stu’s problem rather than hers.

“Sorry,” Marcus murmurs, a needlessly contrite look in his eyes. “Want me to, uh...hit the lock?”

She’d been halfway off her stool to do just that; sighing, she sits back down. “Sure, knock yourself out.”

He twists at the waist, lifts a steady hand; a moment later, she hears the metal latch click into place.

Apparently it’s still enough to make her heartbeat kick up a notch, the way he so casually defies the laws of nature. People with powers aren’t quite so rare as they once were, but they tend to keep to their own communities, out of necessity if not some blatant prejudice. Vera knows a small handful of other folks with inexplicable talents, but no one holds a candle to Marcus Moreno.

...To his superpower, that is.

Shaking her head of useless thoughts, she takes a slow sip of her latte to keep from having to meet his eyes. “So, uh... Your mom. She doing okay?”

He nods his head, taking a sip of his own drink—she tries not to let herself be charmed by the way his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose when he dips his head, just barely managing to resist the muscle-memory instinct to pluck them from his face and put them on herself. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s good. Disappointed in me and the other adults, of course. But the Heroics asked her to lend a hand with training all the kids, and she couldn’t be happier.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Vera can’t help but smile at the thought; she may not be an active hero any longer, but age hasn’t slowed Anita Moreno down much at all from the woman she remembers, the closest thing to a mother figure she’d had after dad died and mom subsequently lost her grip on reality. It’ll be good for Tía to get back into it, she thinks. “And Missy? How’s she holding up?”

“She’s great,” he says, and there’s a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes as he speaks of his daughter. “She has— I mean, she likes the hero stuff well enough, and don’t get me wrong, that’s a huge relief, but... But she has friends again, y’know? It’s been so long, I thought... Well, she’s... She’s doing great.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she tells him, and—despite everything—she really means it. Despite everything, she still remembers how it’d felt after dad died, and mom had moved the two of them halfway across the country to get away from the memories, and Vera herself had sworn she’d never care about anyone else ever again, until the gloomiest boy in school suddenly got it into his head to change all that. “She’s a good kid. Clever, kind. The rest of the day sucked, y’know, the whole fake alien invasion thing, but...I liked getting to meet her.”

“She’s better than I deserve,” he says, tone solemn as he nods his head. He sets his cup down and folds his arms on the countertop, leaning in a little, brow creasing into something stern. “She told me you talked to her.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, holding her cup in front of her chest and leaning back a fraction, hoping the movement comes across as subconscious rather than calculated. “What’d she say?”

“Not much,” he admits. “Which means it must’ve really mattered to her. She said you swore one another to secrecy.”

If she lets herself think about it, Vera can almost feel the memory of the girl’s small hand in hers. But she doesn’t let herself dwell on it, just shrugs instead. “It’s good for a girl to have a couple secrets from her dad.”

“It is,” he agrees with a nod. His lips purse, his eyes lowering to stare into his espresso thoughtfully. “But mom... She said Missy seemed about ready to give up on the other kids, on coming after us, on all of it. Said she looked ready to shut down, until you went over and spoke to her.”

It sounds like Tía’d been exaggerating; really, it hadn't exactly been some kind of profound heart to heart or inspirational monologue or anything, it was just...a nice chat. The girl had asked who she was, what she was doing at her abuela’s house; Vera’d explained that she and Marcus had once been good friends, that she and Anita Moreno still kept in touch, that she’d been worried about the woman who practically raised her after seeing all the scary stuff on the news. Missy had been surprised to find out that her dad had a friend she’d never heard about, so Vera had shown her the carving on her bat and told her a truncated version of how he’d been kind to her in the darkest period of her life and they’d become inseparable for years, until time and circumstance made them go their separate ways.

And then Missy had asked...if she'd loved him.

And—hell, she'd been talking to his daughter, and an hour earlier she'd watched helplessly as he got swallowed up by a tidal wave of flying alien robot monsters, and she'd thought the world was ending, and she'd...answered honestly.

"I did. And I think I still do. And I'm scared I'll never get the chance to tell him."

There'd been other things they talked about, too; Vera had tried to be a little motivational for a minute there, had told the girl how she didn't have any powers, either, but that she'd never let it keep her from doing what needed to be done to protect the people she cared about. But none of that had seemed to land quite as close to home as the things she'd admitted—to herself as much as to her new young friend—about Marcus.

Not that she had the least intention of mentioning any of that to him, of course. The world hadn't ended; and once she'd gotten over the initial flood of relief at seeing him alive and unharmed, once he'd explained that this whole ordeal had been a test—for their own children, for fuck's sake—she'd been too angry at him and his stupid face and the Heroics most of all to be able to admit any such thing.

And if Missy hadn't told him what they'd discussed, she certainly would not betray the girl's trust. It had been a solemn (if improvised) oath they'd sworn, after all. Vera had never been one to break a promise, and she was not going to start now.

"It wasn't anything like that," she sighs, propping her elbow on the counter, her chin in her hand, taking a moment to study the face of this man who had once been the boy she’d known. Gone a little softer around the edges, but also far more put-together than she can ever remember seeing him. He has grown and changed in ways that are unfathomable to her, and it's her own fault that she wasn't around for any of it, and the realization makes the ache in her chest expand into a gnawing chasm, makes her words come out breathy and stilted and weird. "We just...talked about you, I guess. What you were like at her age, that sort of thing. If she...found inspiration in that, I think it's got more to do with you than me."

"Hmm," he breathes, his tone low and thoughtful. He takes another sip of his espresso, eyeing her over the rim of the cup, and those dark, watchful, gentle eyes are just the same as they have always been. For all the ways he's changed, he is still just as handsome and familiar as she always knew him to be, and this realization is staggering, too. "She asked me about you too, you know?"

"Really?" Vera lifts her mug to her lips, considering this. The girl had struck her as clever and curious from the moment she saw her, even before she'd recognized her father's expressions in her face and realized who she must be. It shouldn't be a surprise that Missy had pressed him for more info, but she can't help but feel pleased and, also, a little humbled by the attention. "What'd she want to know?"

"Why we stopped being friends," he answers, so bluntly that she has to cast her eyes away, staring out at the rows of bookshelves because she just can't look at his face anymore.

"What'd you tell her?"

"The truth. The...appropriate parts, anyway. I told her about your dad," he admits, his voice going gentle at the mention of her father, even now afraid to rub salt on such old wounds. "How he was a real hero, a firefighter without any powers to protect him, and I told her...how hard it was for your mom, after he died. I wanted her to know you weren’t...wrong to be afraid of what might happen to us, if I became—well, what I’ve become, I guess.”

What he’s become...

Sure, yeah, she’d been able to see a lot of it coming. Until his wife, no one had known Marcus half so well as Vera had, and even twenty years ago she’d been able to visualize the potential brimming just beneath his skin—could see it so clearly, it was as if she could reach out and touch it.

And now here he is, stumbling back into her life after all this time, looking like a snack and a half, just overflowing with big dilf energy in his dorky glasses and leather jacket and tousled hair.

But he's a widower, too; a serious man with an important, impossible job and a bright, wonderful daughter, and what does she have? A used bookstore perpetually in danger of not quite making ends meet, and the painful, delectable memory of how, once upon a time, this venerated hero had simply been the boy she loved, eating her out in the bed of his dad's old pickup truck like his life depended on it.

They were good memories, ones she'd never been able to make herself forget, no matter how much they hurt, no matter how much time passed. And it wasn't just the sex, either. He'd been her first, sure, and she'd been his—but he'd also been her first of everything else, too. Marcus Moreno had been her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first best friend. He'd been the first person to ever hold her hand when she was scared, to ever give her a shoulder to cry on, to offer her refuge with the mere fact of his presence and the softness of his smile. He had been the first person to ever see her.

She has dated other people after him—eventually, occasionally—but no one very lasting. Loving Marcus had made her feel like her heart was too big to fit in her chest, like her veins were full of sunlight, like none of the sorrows in her life would be able to dig their roots into any inch of her skin that he had ever touched. No one else even came close.

Her own fault entirely; too busy pining after the one that got away to notice the possibilities available to her, too wounded by her first and greatest heartbreak to acknowledge that the love she'd lost had likely been nothing more than a dangerous blend of hormones and youthful fantasy. But she couldn't deny that he'd just about ruined her for all others. Nobody since had ever fucked her so good or made her laugh so hard—certainly never both at the same time.

Meanwhile, he had well and truly and decidedly moved on. Married a beautiful woman who looked absolutely nothing like her, had a brilliant daughter and the life of his dreams with her, at least until tragedy struck. And Vera—she had genuinely mourned when his wife died, had felt gutted when he lost her. All she had ever, ever, wanted was for Marcus Moreno to be happy—wanted it enough to know she could never give him what it would take, enough to sacrifice her own happiness by removing herself from his equation.

“It was stupid,” she admits aloud, hauling her mind away from the melancholy with both hands, forcing herself to meet this head-on. “I was stupid. I should never have made you choose—”

“No, you didn’t, that’s the thing,” he blurts, cutting in with a vehemence that shuts her up quickly. “I didn’t realize until I was telling Missy, but then it was so obvious. I was the stupid one. You said you couldn’t be with me if I joined the Heroics, but that never meant I had to cut you out of my life the way I did.”

“No. No, Marcus, that was your dream! And just look at what you've done with it. I still... I can’t believe I ever thought to ask you to give it up.”

“You didn’t. You set a boundary for yourself. I can see that now, I can respect that now, but at the time? God, Vee, I threw away the best friend I ever had because I couldn’t see past my own ego. Stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

"Maybe we were both stupid, then. I thought—" her voice cracks, brittle and far too full of feeling, and she has to blink hard and take a sip of her quickly-cooling latte, pulling herself together. But if she ever has any hope of getting over this—over him—she has to get this out in the open. "I thought I wouldn't be able to live with the worry. You saw how my mom fell to pieces after dad, but even before that she was already...splintered. Every time he was on duty, it was like another piece of her crumbled away—she had that fucking police scannner, would just hover in front of it all day and night, just in case, and I... I couldn't let that be my life, too."

"Vera—" he starts, but she shakes her head tightly and cuts him off, because now that the floodgate's been opened, there is no turning back.

"It didn't matter, Marcus." She pushes up from the stool, paces behind the counter with her hands on her hips, too riled to sit still. "I found the one thing I knew you couldn't give me and I used it to drive you off and I let you go, and it didn't even matter because I still spent every day of my life scouring the news, or laying awake at night terrified of losing you, and I didn't even have you anymore!"

When she manages to risk a glance his way, the expression on his face is one she's seen only once before, the day after his college graduation, right before he told her they were done. Stricken is the only word for it, and when he speaks, his voice is a low, dark rasp. "I never wanted that for you, Vera."

Hidden away, deep inside her chest, something softens—something she thought had calcified, after all these years.

"I know, Marcus." She runs a hand down her face, shakes her head and turns away from him. "I know. And I've gotten...better at managing it. Or, hell, maybe I just grew up. Lost enough people in my life that I finally learned that sometimes there isn't anything you can do. Maybe I would've been okay, eventually, if I hadn't... If we'd stayed..."

She can't finish the thought, it's still too painful to speak aloud.

I loved you, she thinks, but can't say this, either. And I think I still do. And I don't know if I'll ever be brave enough to tell you.

"...I know you've kept in touch with my mom," he says, gentle-voiced, and the change of subject is so jarring that she turns back to look at him. He's got his head bowed, staring down at the little espresso spoon, twirling it in his fingers. "She always told me she was meeting with her ‘book club’, that I couldn't come over because I'd be too distracting. Can't believe it took all this for me to figure out she meant you. You were always the smart one."

She pulls a face that he doesn't see, hopes he can hear the contrition in her voice. "I'm sorry about that. I just asked her not to tell you, thought it'd be...weird." It was weird, wasn't it? What kind of person still got together with their ex's mom on a regular basis, decades after such a spectacular breakup? But Tía has a gravitational pull all her own, one Vera's never been able (nor particularly willing) to evade. Plus she makes the best honey cookies. "I didn't think she'd straight-up lie to you, which is...probably even weirder. I, uh... Sorry."

"It's alright, Vee." He lifts his head a little, lets her see the smirk on his face, an expression so familiar that it makes her whole body ache. "I know how she is. I'm glad things stayed good for you two."

She nods slowly, running a hand through her hair. "Me too. You're mom's the best, Moreno."

"Yo sé." There’s habit to the words, a rhythm neither of them have forgotten, despite all the time that’s passed since last they said them. But the old sparkle that used to come into his eye is missing, replaced with a heavy caution. “When you guys met for book club, did she...talk about me?”

“Not always,” she answers dutifully, because technically it isn’t a lie. Sometimes they talked about the weather, or Anita’s gardening, or even—ostensibly—books. Honestly, Vera usually tried to steer well clear of any talk of Marcus and his perfect life without her, and for the most part Tía was respectful about that. But as the years passed, it grew less and less painful to hear, and she’d been grateful to have some sense of what was going on with him even when it still hurt a little.

"Did she tell you..? After my wife died," he says, and something in Vera's chest constricts, and she forces herself to keep her eyes on his face and not his hands—not his fingers toying with the ring he wears, the tiny piece of metal that she cannot bear to look at directly. "After she died, I stopped going out in the field. Did mom ever tell you why?"

Her throat has gone tight and the words won't come, not certain where he's going with this but certain from his body language and the look on his face that it's not going to be somewhere pleasant. She shakes her head.

"Missy asked me to," he says with a shrug. "Simple as that. She was scared, and grieving, and she didn't want to lose me, too, and she asked me to stop fighting. So I did."

"Marcus—" she tries, but her voice breaks on his name and tears start to well in her eyes, and she turns her back to him because she will do a lot of things, but she will not let him see her cry.

"I did it without hesitation," he continues. "Without question. It took me actually experiencing grief to understand where you'd been coming from, and even at the time I still never made the connection. But Missy asked and I agreed, because I love her. I still...broke that promise, now, because I thought I didn't have a choice. But I was willing to try, and I wish... I wish I had loved you like that, back then. I should have loved you enough to try."

Okay, well, maybe she is gonna let him see her cry.

“Jesus, Marcus,” she croaks, whirling on him. “You can’t just say shit like that to me.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, lifting a hand as if to reach out and comfort her—but she’s about three feet and twenty years too far away, so he lets it fall back to the countertop instead. “I just— I want you to know that I know I fucked up, and now I finally understand why. I know I’m too late, but...when the Ogima brought you back, and I saw you again, I thought...”

She’d been separated from Anita when the aliens took them aboard their ship. Even handcuffed and relieved of her baseball bat, she’d done her best to fight back, determined to find Tía, superpowers or no. The aliens hadn’t actually been willing to hurt her, a random civilian caught up in the midst of their twisted game, and eventually they’d given up on trying to restrain her and simply tossed her in with the Heroics.

His face when he saw her, and the way he’d fallen to his knees beside her to tear off the metal cuffs like they were made of paper, and how he’d cradled her sore wrists in his big warm hands, and what he’d felt like against her chest when she threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into his neck—Marcus, alive and whole—all of it had seared into her memory on contact, his voice and his scent and his body plaguing her dreams again for the first time in years.

“I was telling Missy about you,” he says, clearing his throat and changing the subject, and she can’t help but wonder if he’d been remembering those same things, whether thoughts of her had been plaguing him as well. “And thinking of how good things used to be, when you were a part of my life. And noticing how much I’ve missed you. And I realized... I think I broke your heart, Vera.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, unwilling to lie to him about this. “Yeah, you did, Marcus.”

He nods his head, gaze dropping with the movement, accepting her words but unable to look at her.

She takes a step forward, and then another, sinking back onto her stool, her shoulders relaxing for perhaps the first time since he'd entered her shop. His right hand still rests on the countertop where he’d dropped it, balled into a fist, and she stares at it for a long, quiet moment, hesitates...then rests her own hand beside it, close enough that her knuckles brush against his. “But not—” she swallows thickly, watching as his fingers unspool, reaching for hers but not grabbing, waiting to see what she’ll do. She isn’t sure, herself, surprised by the warmth of his skin and by the sight of her hand in his, not entirely certain how it got there. “Not beyond repair.”

His thumb rubs the back of her hand, fingers curling around hers, holding her steady, grounded to him. He lifts his eyes to hers, and they’re just as dark and warm and beautiful as she remembers. “I know I can’t take any of it back. I know we can’t just start over. But would you consider—I mean, would you even... Do you think we could try again?”

She blinks back a few traitorous tears, glancing away to stare out the display window at the rain-swept street beyond. A week ago, her answer would’ve been a resounding no—hell, she probably would’ve chased him off with her bat the moment she looked up and saw him in her doorway. But now, after everything, after realizing she might never see him again, after finding him here in her shop with his heart on his sleeve, looking to make amends...?

“Do you mean as friends?” she asks, forcing the words out past her reluctant tongue, forcing herself to look back at him so she can gauge his reaction. “Or as...you know...something more?”

His brows draw together and he tilts his head to the side, eyeing her curiously. “I don’t know. Would that be...something you want?”

“I don’t know,” she echoes. She eyes the flecks of gray in the scruff along his jaw, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, thinking of all the ways he’s changed since she last let herself love him, and all the ways she’s tried to change, too. “Maybe...someday? But I’ve been...getting over you.”

She doesn’t tell him that she hasn’t been very successful at it. She doesn’t tell him that it’s a battle she’s been fighting with herself ever since he walked away from her; doesn’t tell him that most days it still feels like she’s losing.

She’s sure he can tell that she’s holding all that back, but he doesn’t push her, just nods his head and lowers his gaze to their hands, still clasped together.

“Yeah, that’s... I haven’t, uh...dated since...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and she’s grateful—the memory of his wife is already a tangible enough barrier between them, without him speaking her name aloud. Anyway, he was never any good at casual, her Marcus, and she isn’t surprised to learn that he’s stayed single after losing her.

“Maybe we could start with friends for a while,” she offers, shrugging when he lifts his eyes back to hers. “Just...see how it goes?”

He flashes an amused smirk. “What, a friendship trial run?”

“Sure. It couldn’t hurt, right?”

“Yeah... Okay, what’re you thinking? Like...a few months or something?”

“Six,” she says definitively—it seems to be the average length of all her relationships after him, just long enough for her to figure out if she’s losing interest, not so long that she’d feel compelled to stay together for the sake of sunk cost. If, after six months, they haven’t driven each other away again, and she still feels this overwhelming urge to peel that leather jacket off of him and have him right here beside the cash register, then, well... Maybe by then she’ll feel confident enough to follow through.

“Six months.” He nods his head thoughtfully, considering her offer, apparently unruffled by the specificity of her time limit, content to roll with it. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that. And then we’ll...touch base, see how we’re both feeling, see if we want to stop or...try something else?”

“Right,” she agrees, nodding too. Laid out like that, it almost sounds like a totally rational sort of plan.

“Right,” he echoes, a small smile beginning to tug at his lips, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. She glances away before she can catch a glimpse of that dimple in his cheek, the one that always made her knees feel weak. “Okay, well, in that case, I have something for you here...”

She turns back when he pulls his hand free from hers, reaching in the inner breast of his jacket for some secret hidden pocket. There could be any number of things emerging from there—after having been abducted by real-live aliens, she’s learning to expect the unexpected. But he simply pulls out a sheet of paper, folded in half twice, and holds it out to her.

“It’s from Missy,” he explains as she hesitantly takes the page from him. “She said I should give it to you even if you said no, but I, uh...thought that’d be weird.”

Vera frowns at his words, unfolding the paper delicately. It’s a sturdy cardstock, decorated with a colorful border of vibrantly-patterned washi tape. In the center, written in fluorescent bubble letters, the message reads: “You are cordially invited to the MORENO FAMILY BI-MONTHLY MOVIE NIGHT, this Saturday night. Doors open at 7pm, dinner and snacks provided. Movie TBD.”

Below, in purple gel pen and careful cursive, there’s a postscript: “P.S. Please come! My dad’s really sorry. <3 Missy”

“Please don’t feel obligated,” Marcus is saying, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told her we shouldn’t pressure you, but she really wants to see you again. But also if it’s too much, I can tell her you already had plans or something, or... I mean, I won’t make you out to be the bad guy or anything.”

She traces a finger along the looping letters, feeling a few sappy tears start to prick at the corners of her eyes. Blinking them away, she asks, “‘Bi-monthly’, huh? Does that mean twice a month, or every other?”

“Twice a month,” he confirms with a sigh. “It used to be every weekend but, y’know, she has friends now. I’ll have to learn to share my Saturday nights.”

Vera laughs, surprising even herself, and looks up to find him smiling fondly at her, dimple on full display. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“You’ll come?”

“I was cordially invited,” she points out, gesturing to the paper, watching as his smile spreads into a broad, brilliant grin. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“That’s...” he starts, trailing off breathlessly. “That’s wonderful. And, uh, no, you don’t need to bring anything. Just...yourself. We usually—I try not to let us eat too much takeout, but Saturdays are special so we’ll probably order pizza. You still like mushrooms on yours, right?”

She laughs again, surprised that he would remember such a thing. “Yeah, Marcus, I do.”

“Good.”

He looks at her, those deep brown eyes twinkling, his gorgeous face lit up with a happiness she hasn’t seen there in far too long, and she starts to wonder how she’s ever going to make it six months without his mouth on hers.

“I’m, uh... It’s really great to see you, Vee.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I mean—me too. I mean... I’m glad you came by, Marcus.”

“Me too.” His smile is infectious—it always has been. She watches, amused, as he clears his throat and fidgets awkwardly, patting his pockets, then running a hand through his hair, then downing the rest of his cortado in one gulp. “Thank you for the coffee and, uh...for giving me another chance. I, um. I should get going, let you enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Sure,” she says, wondering what his leagues of fans would think, to discover that Marcus Moreno gets like this when he’s nervous, fumbling with his words and forgetting what to do with his hands. She hopes they never find out, that this can be one of the many secrets kept safe from his adoring public, a side to him that she is privileged—even now, even after everything—to see. “Oh! Hang on, wait. Here.”

He carries the extra stool back over to its place at the window, then returns to the counter and watches attentively as she grabs a scrap piece of paper from the stack beside the phone, scrawls out seven digits, and hands it over to him.

“My number,” she tells him, shrugging. “So you don’t have to google me to stay in touch.”

He laughs and accepts the paper, fingers brushing against hers for a brief but luminous second, and she’s pleased to see that it gets tucked away into his jacket’s special secret inner pocket, too. “Actually, I, uh... I might’ve got your address from mom, instead.”

Vera shakes her head with a smirk, sliding from the stool and moving around the counter to walk him to the door. “I should’ve known she had a hand in this, somewhere. She’s been trying to get me to talk to you for years, now.”

He sighs heavily, slumping his broad shoulders. “Yeah, same here. I’m sorry it took me this long and an alien attack to actually listen.”

“Yeah, y— Hey, wait...” she trails off, frowning as an utterly ridiculous thought occurs to her. But...could it be..? “You don’t think your mom... I mean, I know that whole thing was set up for the sake of the kids, but she wouldn’t have— Would she—?”

“What, would she have staged an alien invasion just to get us talking again?” he jokes, but the smile drops quickly from his face, his brow creasing with suspicion. “I... No, she... Surely not. I mean, how could she have known you were going to come find her?”

“Right,” she agrees, a little too quickly, a little too eager. She doesn’t mention the fact that, after checking on the other Elm Street shopkeepers and texting her few friends that live downtown, she’d had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do than to check on Tía. Vera shakes her head. “And she wouldn’t have put Missy at risk like that just to meddle with us.”

“Right,” he echoes, nodding vigorously, his eyebrows shooting up. “Still, I... I’ll call her.”

“Okay,” she says, feeling relieved that he had thought her wild idea was at least worth looking into, that she isn’t just totally paranoid. Or, at least, that he’s equally as paranoid as she is.

It’s...a nice feeling, to know that she and Marcus Moreno are still on some same wavelength, even after all the years they’ve spent apart.

“And I’ll call you,” he says, brown eyes meeting hers as the concern on his face melts into a gentle fondness, making her chest feel warm, her body light.

She grins. “Yeah. And I’ll see you Saturday at 7.”

“Yeah. Missy will be so excited to see you again.” There’s a definite flush to his cheeks as he adds, “And—I will be, too.”

She laughs, unlocking the door and pulling it open for him. Outside, the rain is still coming down, but she can just make out the first rays of sunlight beginning to pour through the clouds.

He turns to look at her one more time, flipping the collar of his jacket up with a gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. “I’ll see you later, Vera.”

“I’ll see you soon, Marcus,” she says, and her heart thumps hard against her rib cage and the words are so sweet on her tongue, because they’re true.

From the calm safety of her doorway, she watches him dash through the rain, head bowed, out to his car—watches him stop to wave at her before getting in, and she returns the wave with a laugh as he fumbles with his keys—watches as he finally makes it inside and starts the car, and as he backs carefully out into the street, and as he begins to drive away—watches until his tail lights fade away into the distance and the rain.

Only then does she straighten up and let the door swing shut. With a smile playing across her face, Vera West flips the sign to Open.

#marcus moreno x oc #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x ofc #my writing #oc vera west #oof okay looks like tumblr finally decided to add this to the tag thank goodness!#so im pinning this post! bc im very proud of it!#and bc i crave that sweet sweet validation #to everyone who reads this: i love you

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