#The Silent Spector | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

Text

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters with a S/O who is shy and has social anxiety

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

This headcanons is for all my friends who suffer from social anxiety like me!

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter understands your struggles in a way few others can. He was the kid who sat alone at lunch, the one who stammered through conversations, the boy who felt too much and spoke too little. So when you shrink into yourself at a crowded event or hesitate before speaking, he doesn’t push. He waits.

- He is patient with you, always. If your hands shake when ordering at a café, his fingers brush against yours—not grabbing, not forcing, just reminding you he’s there. If you struggle to meet a stranger’s eyes, he fills the silence effortlessly, making bad jokes until you breathe out a quiet laugh. He knows how much effort it takes, and he never belittles it.

- When you’re overwhelmed, he finds ways to help without making a big deal out of it. “Hey, let’s get out of here,” he’ll say casually, like he wasn’t watching you from the corner of his eye, counting the seconds between your anxious glances. He makes excuses to leave early, to find a rooftop where it’s just the two of you, the city stretching wide beneath your feet.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he believes in you, too. He knows you’re stronger than you think. “You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you after a stressful interaction, “but you did great. And I’m proud of you.”

- One day, when you stand your ground, when you speak up even though your voice shakes—Peter looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like you’re the bravest person he’s ever met. And to him? You are.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony is used to fast talkers and smooth charmers. He’s not used to you. The quiet, hesitant way you speak, the way your gaze flickers away when too many eyes are on you. At first, he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then, he realizes—he doesn’t need to do anything. He just needs to be there.

- Social situations? He handles them for you. If someone puts you on the spot, Tony is already redirecting the conversation before you can panic. If a gala feels too loud, too bright, too suffocating, he whisks you away with a perfectly crafted excuse. No one ever questions him—he’s Tony Stark, after all.

- But he also refuses to let you believe your anxiety makes you less. When you apologize for stumbling over your words, he raises a brow. “What, you think that matters to me? Have you met me? I stumble over my words all the time. It’s called being devastatingly charming.”

- He builds little comforts into your daily life without making a fuss. Noise-canceling headphones that match your style. A secret signal for when you need an escape. He makes sure you know—“I got you, sweetheart. Always.”

- One night, when you tell him you feel like a burden, he physically stops in his tracks. Turns to you, eyes serious in a way they rarely are. “You think being loved is a burden?” And when you don’t answer, when you shrink under his gaze, he exhales. Steps closer. “I don’t throw around the ‘L’ word lightly. But I love you. You get that, right?”

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve is a protector by nature, but he learns quickly that you don’t need protecting—you just need understanding. So he listens. He doesn’t try to fix you, doesn’t tell you to “just be more confident.” Instead, he sits with you in the quiet moments, in the spaces where words aren’t needed.

- When your anxiety flares up, his presence is a steady, grounding thing. His hand finds the small of your back in crowded rooms, a silent reminder that he’s there. If your breathing gets uneven, he murmurs, “With me, sweetheart. Deep breaths. In… out.” And when the world is too much, he shields you—not with his vibranium, but with his warmth.

- He notices the things you don’t say. The way your shoulders tense before you speak, the way you fidget when too many eyes are on you. He never rushes you, never forces you to talk before you’re ready. But when you do—when you finally find the courage to tell him what’s on your mind—he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

- He makes you feel safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. You never have to pretend with him. When you’re exhausted from socializing, he doesn’t take it personally. Instead, he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Want to stay in tonight? Just us?”

- And one day, when someone comments on how quiet you are, how shy—you shrink back, but Steve? Steve straightens. Levels them with that unshakable, unwavering gaze. “Not everyone needs to be loud to be strong.” And the way he says it—the quiet pride in his voice—it makes you believe it, too.

Thor (God of Thunder)

- Thor does not understand at first. He is a god, a warrior, a king—he has never hesitated to speak his mind, never faltered in the presence of others. So when he notices your reluctance, your anxious glances, he frowns.

- But he learns. He watches the way you grip the hem of your sleeve when you’re overwhelmed, the way your voice gets softer when too many people are listening. He learns, and he adapts. Because that’s what love is.

- If you are uncomfortable in a gathering, he makes it known. “My beloved tires of this company,” he declares in the middle of a conversation, and before you can protest, he is leading you away, unbothered by the stares. To Thor, your comfort is more important than social niceties.

- He does not see your anxiety as a weakness. When you apologize for needing space, he shakes his head. “There is no shame in feeling.” And then, softer, “I would battle a thousand foes, but I cannot battle your thoughts. So tell me, my love—how can I ease them?”

- And when you finally speak—when you let yourself be vulnerable, let yourself be seen—Thor looks at you like you are more powerful than any storm he has ever summoned.

Loki (God of Mischief)

- Loki is used to masks. Used to hiding, used to maneuvering through conversations like they are battles to be won. But you? You don’t wear masks. You don’t need to. You are soft-spoken, hesitant, but there is a sincerity in you that unnerves him.

- He sees the way people overlook you, the way they dismiss quietness as weakness. It infuriates him. But more than that—it intrigues him. Because he sees what they do not. He sees the way your mind works, the depths beneath the surface.

- When you struggle with your words, he fills the silence with his own. When you are anxious, he redirects the attention elsewhere. He will never let the world swallow you whole.

- But when you grow comfortable, when you begin to speak more freely with him—Loki listens. No tricks, no arrogance. Just listens. And if anyone dares to mock your hesitance, they will learn why he is called the God of Mischief.

- One day, you tell him you feel small. Insignificant. He tilts your chin up, his green eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You are not small,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You are the only thing in this realm that makes me feel real.”

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint notices things. He notices the way your hands tremble when too many people are watching, the way your eyes flick toward the door in crowded rooms. He notices the way your breath catches before you speak, the way you fidget when someone puts you on the spot. He notices because he’s been there too—the kid no one thought twice about, the one who had to learn to take up space in a world that wanted to ignore him.

- He helps in his own way. Casual, unspoken, never forcing. When he sees your shoulders tense in a loud bar, he makes a joke so ridiculous, so absurd, that you forget why you were panicking in the first place. If you start to shut down at a gathering, he suddenly remembers an “important thing” he has to show you outside—just the two of you, away from the noise.

- He doesn’t push you to talk when you don’t want to, but when you do? He listens like every single word matters. Because to him, it does. He knows what it’s like to feel unheard, and he refuses to let you believe your voice is anything less than important.

- He’s protective, but not in an overbearing way. If someone tries to rush you into speaking, he’s already cutting in, redirecting the attention, making himself the distraction. If someone mocks your quietness, his usual easy grin goes sharp. He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his words are just as sharp as his arrows.

- But what really gets him? The way you trust him. The way you let him see the parts of you the world doesn’t always understand. One night, after a long day, you let yourself lean into him, burying your face against his shoulder. And Clint? He just holds you closer, arms firm around you, like he’s never letting go.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha understands. She understands in a way no one else does. She was trained to be invisible, to fade into the background when necessary. She knows what it’s like to measure every word before speaking, to feel like too many eyes are on you.

- With her, there’s no pressure. No expectation. She never pushes you to be something you’re not. If you don’t want to talk, she doesn’t fill the silence with meaningless chatter. She lets the quiet exist, natural and unforced, because she knows sometimes words aren’t necessary.

- She is your shield in public. If she sees you struggling in a conversation, she subtly shifts the focus onto herself. If someone tries to pressure you, she gives them a look—a cold, unreadable thing that makes them shrink back immediately. No one messes with you when Natasha is around.

- But in private, she’s different. Softer. When you tell her your fears—your worries about being a burden, about not being enough—she listens, then gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your forehead. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

- And one day, when you stand up for yourself—when you find your voice even though your hands shake—she watches you with something like pride. Because she knows exactly how strong you are.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows what it’s like to feel out of place. To feel like the world moves too fast, too loud, too much. So when you get overwhelmed, when the anxiety becomes too sharp, he doesn’t tell you to “calm down.” He just takes your hand. Grounds you. Stays with you.

- He’s not much for words, but he doesn’t need them. He knows when you need space and when you need him close. If you’re panicking in public, he subtly moves in front of you, blocking the world from view. If you need an out, he makes an excuse without hesitation.

- He’s fiercely protective, but he never treats you like you’re fragile. He knows you’re strong, even if you don’t always believe it. “You don’t have to be loud to matter,” he tells you one night, his voice quiet but sure. “I see you. That’s enough.”

- When you have bad days, the kind where speaking feels impossible, he never makes you feel guilty. Instead, he just sits with you, silent but present. Sometimes, he’ll read aloud, his voice low and steady, filling the empty spaces with something comforting.

- And when you finally whisper, “Thank you,” he just shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me, doll.” And the way he says it—like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love you—makes your heart ache.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears everything—the shift in your breath when you’re nervous, the way your heartbeat speeds up in crowds. He hears the words you don’t say, the ones caught behind your teeth, and he never pushes them out. He lets you speak at your own pace, in your own way.

- He’s a lawyer, a talker, a charmer—but with you? He is patient. Gentle. He knows the weight of words, the way they can soothe or break, and he chooses them carefully when speaking to you.

- If a social event becomes too much, he senses it before you even say a word. “Wanna get out of here?” he murmurs, already reaching for your hand, already leading you somewhere quieter, somewhere safer.

- He never lets anyone make you feel small. If someone talks over you, dismisses your words—his easy charm vanishes. His voice turns sharp, his lawyer’s precision cutting through their ignorance like a blade.

- But when it’s just the two of you—when the city quiets, when the weight of the world is gone—he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself with me.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank is not a man of many words, but he doesn’t need them. He sees you—the way your hands curl into fists when you’re anxious, the way you shrink back when too many eyes are on you. And without a word, he adjusts. He puts himself between you and the world, silent and steady, your shield against everything too loud, too much.

- He never tells you to “just relax” or “get over it.” He knows what it’s like to have demons clawing at your throat, to feel like your own mind is working against you. So instead, he stays close. A hand at your back. A steadying presence beside you. A quiet, unspoken promise—I’ve got you.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Frank’s entire demeanor changes. His voice drops, his posture shifts. “You got a problem?” And suddenly, the room is very, very quiet.

- But when it’s just you and him—when the world is far away and you don’t have to be anything but yourself—he’s softer. He pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You don’t gotta be anything but you.”

- And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you finally believe him.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc is a man of chaos, of violence, of war. But with you, he learns the art of stillness. He sees the way you hesitate before speaking, the way your hands tremble when too many eyes are on you, and he knows that kind of fear. He’s lived with it—not the fear of people, but the fear of never truly belonging.

- When crowds press in too close, when anxiety wraps around you like barbed wire, he moves instinctively—positioning himself at your side, shielding you from the world. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry—he simply becomes a wall between you and whatever is making your breath hitch.

- He’s rough around the edges, all sharp angles and battle scars, but when it comes to you? His hands are gentle, his voice low and steady. If you can’t meet his gaze, he tilts his head just slightly, lowering himself to where you are—never forcing, always waiting.

- If someone dares to mock your quietness, Marc is not a man of restraint. He looms over them, voice eerily calm but laced with danger. “Say that again.” He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his presence alone is enough to send them running.

- But when you’re alone, when the night is still and the world is quiet, he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. “I get it,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” And you know, without a doubt, that he means it.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny is fire, and you are the quiet ember he never knew he needed. He is loud, bold, reckless—the center of every room he walks into. And yet, when he’s with you, he finds himself softening, lowering his volume, learning to exist in the quiet without burning it away.

- He doesn’t always understand your anxiety, but he tries. He notices the way your fingers twitch before speaking, the way you flinch at unexpected attention, and he makes it his personal mission to be your buffer.

- If you ever feel overwhelmed at an event, he pulls you aside with the easiest excuse in the world—“Sorry, gotta steal my girl for a sec.” And just like that, you’re swept away, safe in the warmth of his presence, away from prying eyes.

- When someone comments on how “shy” you are, he grins wide, throws an arm around your shoulders, and says, “Yeah? Well, she’s also the smartest, kindest, most beautiful person in the room, so I’d shut up if I were you.” And somehow, you know he means every single word.

- At the end of the day, when the world feels too big and your voice feels too small, Johnny pulls you into his arms, presses his forehead to yours, and whispers, “You don’t have to be loud to be heard. I hear you.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed’s mind moves faster than most, always ten steps ahead, lost in equations and theories. But with you? He slows down. He listens, truly listens, because he knows how hard it is for you to speak sometimes—and if there’s one thing he values, it’s the power of a voice that chooses its words carefully.

- He’s observant, even if he doesn’t always show it. He notices the subtle shifts in your posture, the way your breathing changes when anxiety creeps in. And without a word, he adjusts—offering his hand, shifting attention away from you, giving you space when you need it.

- When someone talks over you, dismisses your words, Reed is not an aggressive man—but he is precise. He calmly redirects the conversation, effortlessly reinforcing your point until the offender realizes their mistake. It’s a quiet kind of defense, but it leaves no room for doubt: your words matter.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he encourages you in the gentlest ways. When you whisper your thoughts to him, he repeats them out loud, ensuring your ideas are heard. He never takes credit for your brilliance—he amplifies it.

- And when you’re alone, when the weight of the world is too much, he pulls you close, resting his chin atop your head. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” he murmurs. “You are enough, exactly as you are.”

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia is a storm wrapped in silk—a whirlwind of charm, confidence, and mischief. And yet, with you, she is something softer, something gentler, something she never thought she could be.

- She adores the way you shy away from attention, how you linger in the background—not because she wants you to hide, but because she loves the way your beauty is something only those who look closely can see.

- When you get anxious in public, she drapes herself over you like a shield, whispering teasing remarks into your ear until you laugh and forget why you were nervous in the first place. She makes the world feel smaller, safer—like it’s just the two of you, even in a crowded room.

- If someone insults your quietness, her entire demeanor shifts. The playful smirk sharpens, her eyes go cold, and she takes a single step forward. “Wanna say that again, sweetheart?” No one ever does.

- But when it’s just the two of you, when the night is quiet and you’re curled up in her arms, she presses a kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “You don’t need to change for anyone, least of all me. I love you exactly as you are.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen is a man who has faced horrors beyond comprehension, who has seen the vastness of the cosmos and returned unchanged. And yet, you—soft-spoken, hesitant, shy—unravel him in ways he never anticipated.

- He is a man of logic, of knowledge, and yet he finds himself studying you as though you are the most intricate spell he has ever encountered. He learns your tells, your fears, the quiet ways you ask for help.

- When your anxiety becomes too much, he doesn’t try to “fix” it—he simply exists beside you, grounding you with his presence. If words fail you, he conjures illusions of calming landscapes, filling the space with something serene, something safe.

- If someone belittles you, his voice turns cold, clipped. “Do you always judge people based on volume, or is it just when you lack the intellect to comprehend quiet strength?” His words cut deeper than any blade, and the offender is left stammering, humiliated.

- But when you’re alone, when the world has faded away and it’s just the two of you, he takes your hands in his, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and whispers, “You don’t need grand gestures to be extraordinary. You already are.” And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a force of nature that bends to no one. He is fire and water, fury and grace, and yet when he looks at you—quiet, hesitant, soft in ways he has never been—his arrogance falters. He has ruled the depths for centuries, but he would kneel for you.

- He does not understand your reluctance to speak, the way your hands shake in crowded halls, but he does not mock you for it. Instead, he watches, learns, and makes sure his court knows that your words carry the weight of a queen’s decree.

- When you feel small, when your voice wavers, Namor’s is strong enough for the both of you. If anyone dares to belittle your quietness, his voice booms across the room, regal and unyielding. “You would do well to remember that power is not measured in volume, but in presence.”

- He encourages you to stand tall, not because he wishes to change you, but because he knows the depths of your strength, even when you don’t. He will remind you as many times as necessary—until you believe it, until the ocean itself whispers your name with reverence.

- And in the moments when the world is too much, when the pressure of existence weighs heavy on your chest, he takes you to the water. He carries you effortlessly through the waves, where silence is sacred and your anxiety cannot reach. Here, with him, you are weightless.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has stared into the abyss and walked away burning. He has made deals with devils, has felt Hell’s fire in his veins, but nothing terrifies him more than the thought of you feeling like you are alone.

- He knows what it’s like to be trapped in your own mind, to battle demons no one else can see. So when he sees your hands tremble, your voice falter, he doesn’t push—he just stays. A quiet, unwavering presence, reminding you that you don’t have to fight alone.

- When your anxiety is a storm raging inside you, he lets you borrow his fire. Not in words, not in force, but in touch—a steady hand at the small of your back, a whispered joke to pull you from the darkness. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just makes sure you know you’re not broken.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Johnny doesn’t bother with threats. He just looks at them, eyes burning gold, voice like gravel and embers. “Wanna run that by me again?” One glance at the fire flickering beneath his skin, and they never do.

- But when the night is still, when his demons are quiet and yours are loud, he holds you close, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “You don’t need to be louder to matter, sweetheart. You’re already everything.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie has never been good with words, and Venom has never needed them. But when it comes to you—shy, hesitant, unsure of your place in the world—they both learn a new kind of patience.

- Venom is fascinated by you. “WHY IS SHE SO QUIET?” the symbiote demands. “SHE IS STRONG. THEY SHOULD FEAR HER.” And Eddie just sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, buddy, but not everyone wants to be feared.”

- When your anxiety flares, Eddie keeps you close, shielding you from the world with the ease of a man who has spent a lifetime on the outskirts. And if that isn’t enough? Venom coils around you, a silent, watchful protector, daring anyone to make you uncomfortable.

- If someone ever makes fun of your quiet nature, Eddie lets out a slow, measured breath—then smirks. “You really wanna keep talking?” And before they can respond, Venom grins wide, teeth gleaming. “WE COULD EAT THEM,” the symbiote suggests, only half-joking. (Probably.)

- But in the quiet moments, when it’s just the three of you, Eddie rests his forehead against yours and sighs. “You don’t have to change for anyone, least of all me.” And Venom, surprisingly gentle, echoes, “WE LIKE YOU AS YOU ARE.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa has ruled nations, fought wars, stood against gods. But when you look up at him, eyes hesitant, voice barely above a whisper, he feels like a man first and a king second.

- He is deliberate with his affection, precise in his understanding. He does not rush you. He does not try to fix what is not broken. Instead, he offers his hand—steady, unwavering, waiting for you to take it when you’re ready.

- When your anxiety makes you withdraw, he does not let the world swallow you. Instead, he ensures that you are given the space to exist on your terms. You are not just "his" in the public eye—you are your own, and he will defend your right to be exactly as you are.

- Should anyone dare mock your shyness, his response is quiet but lethal. “Do not mistake her silence for weakness,” he says, voice like the edge of a blade. “There is power in stillness. And wisdom in restraint.” And just like that, the room remembers why he is king.

- But when the throne room is empty, when the world is quiet, he cups your face with hands that have known both war and tenderness. “You do not need to raise your voice to be heard, my love,” he whispers. “I will always listen.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, speaks like a blade. She has spent a lifetime in the dark, but with you, she learns that love does not need to be loud to be real.

- She understands your silence in a way few others can. She does not push, does not pry—she simply exists beside you, unwavering, patient. If you need space, she gives it. If you need grounding, her hand finds yours, steady and sure.

- When your anxiety takes hold, she does not fill the silence with empty words. Instead, she teaches you how to fight—not because she expects you to, but because she wants you to know that you are strong. Even in stillness. Even in silence.

- If someone ever dares to mock your quietness, Elektra doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. One sharp glance, one tilt of her head, and suddenly, the offender remembers they have somewhere else to be.

- And when the night is quiet, when it’s just the two of you tangled in silk and moonlight, she runs a slow hand down your spine and whispers, “The world does not deserve you.” And you believe her—because in her eyes, you are more dangerous, more beautiful, more powerful than anyone could ever understand.

738 notes · View notes

multific · 2 months ago

Text

Through Shadow and Light

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/ Jake Lockley x Reader

Summary: Marc fears love, Steven longs for it, and Jake doesn’t trust it, but you are the one who ties them all together.

Marc had always been afraid of love.

To him, it was dangerous, something fragile, fleeting, and bound to be taken away.

Steven, on the other hand, craved it in every way.

He wanted affection, connection, a love that would last.

And Jake?

Jake didn’t trust love.

He had seen enough of the world’s cruelty to know love could be a weapon, sharpened and aimed right at the heart where it hurt the most.

But you? You were the one thing that tied them all together.

At first, they tried to keep their distance in their own ways.

Marc avoided deep conversations, keeping things casual.

Safe.

Steven wanted to open up but held himself back, afraid of being too much.

Jake lingered in the shadows, watching, waiting for the moment when everything would fall apart.

Except it never did.

It was the small things that changed them.

The way you never flinched when Marc pulled away, instead waiting patiently for him to come back.

The way you matched Steven’s excitement over the smallest things, listening to his rambles about history and mythology with genuine interest.

The way you saw Jake, not as a shadow or a threat, but as someone just as worthy of love.

One night, it all came to a head.

Marc had returned from a mission, bruised and battered, barely speaking as he locked himself in the bathroom.

You left him there for a couple minutes, giving him the space he needed before you went and knocked on the door with a gentle voice. “Marc?”

A long pause, and then the door creaked open just enough for you to see his tired eyes.

“You don’t have to talk,” you assured him. “Just let me stay.”

He exhaled slowly before opening the door wider, allowing you in.

You didn’t press, didn’t demand answers.

You just sat beside him, your presence enough to help him when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Then there was Jake.

He had always been the hardest to reach.

The most guarded.

But one night, after a particularly brutal mission, you caught him staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re waiting for me to leave,” you said softly.

Jake tilted his head, intrigued. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

He studied you for a long moment before scoffing, and shaking his head. “You should.”

“But I won’t.”

And that was that.

No grand declarations, no promises you couldn’t keep. Just a simple truth that settled deep inside him, unwilling to be ignored.

The next time he appeared, he let you touch his face, fingers ghosting over the scar on his jaw.

He didn’t flinch away.

Over time, the walls they built began to crumble.

Marc started reaching for you first, resting his forehead against yours after long nights, his way of silently asking for comfort.

Steven no longer hesitated to pull you into his arms, murmuring how much he loved you against your skin.

And Jake?

Jake no longer fought love like it was the enemy.

He let it in. He let you in.

One evening, as you lay in their arms, Marc’s fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, he spoke quietly. “You know you’re the only thing keeping us sane, right?”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I really don't do much. You give me too much credit.”

He shifted, and now Steven hummed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Maybe love isn’t so bad after all.”

And in that moment, in the quiet warmth of your embrace, they all knew, they belonged to you, and they never wanted to let go.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

910 notes · View notes

keferon · 5 months ago

Note

I need to see this. I'm doing it.

After reading this post. https://www.tumblr.com/spector-author/769138472871182336/keferon-first-things-first-this-is-so-sweet-of?source=share

(i don't know how to add a link from mobile)

I just want to see them interact.

-------

"FELIX!! YOU DID WHAT!?"

Ratchet voice boomed from hangar. Felix shrinks, squeezing his eyes shut until the ringing in his ears stopped.

"I was afraid so I take the sleeping bag to Vortex and..."

"Do you understand how dangerous that was!!! You could have died!!"

"I...I know but..." Vortex wouldn't hurt him. He swallowed the rest of the sentence under Ratchet's intense glare

a loud metal foot step was head and Vortex moved over head. He could barely fit, so the mech has to kneel down. Cameras locking on to the old man, gigantic hand lifting up like it wants to grab him.

Deadlock move instantly. Although smaller than Vortex by almost half, he tries his best to put himself between Ratchet and the bigger mech, blades at the ready.

"Stop right there, big guy" he said, pointing the blade a Vortex.

"Vortex! No!!" First Aid cries, the mech didn't move further, but didn't back down.

"What..? It can actually move without a pilot?" Ratchet stares up at the mech in disbelief. He knew of the rumors, but most rumors were still of things that could happened. Freak accidents and malfunctions. This is the mech actually moving without anyone inside the cockpit.

"Yes. He can...He has been for the most part" Felix answers weakly. Still looking up silently pleading for Vortex to back down.

"He?"

"Vortex....He's...there"

"I don't want to talk like I believe in ghost. But, Ratchet, he's there"

As if to emphasize the point, Vortex moved again, reaching his hand over again threatening to grab at Ratchet. Deadlock raises his blade.

"ENOUGH! Both of you! Stop before I make spare parts out of you!"

There was a pause. Felix can feel Vortex's camera moved from the other mech to Ratchet who out his hand on his hips glaring at both mechs.

Finally Vortex moves. He made a rude gesture at Deadlock then withdraw. Deadlock lower his blade.

Felix realizes he was holding his breath the whole time.

---

I imagine Vortex used to getting yelled at a lot by Ratchet and the others for being really reckless with his piloting. Sometime he comes back with the mech in a mess. A few times he broke his own arms or legs because he was too violent wrestling with the kaijus.

OH YOU. YOU JUST MADE ME REALIZE AHAHA

You made me realize what kind of circus will form if all the guys and gays get to team up. Because usually we have a bunch of characters who are at least somewhat compatible. But these guys??

Literally ahaha. We have a Decepticon who's used to ignore everyone who doesn't outrank him (also a professional backstabber may I add)

Then we have class Keter SCP fucking metal giant sadist/masochist/freak who is also allergic to any kind of authority.

Then we have poor little Swerve who just wants to save his crush.

And then Prowl who is an Autobot and basically should be in charge here but literally WHO is gonna listen to him??

Those aren't Avengers, those are the Suicide squad but it's called suicide because they're literally gonna dismember each other after five minutes in one room.

First aid, Ratchet, Jazz and Blurr: It's so nice to hang out with you guys. So chill and great.

Their gay machinery:

#tf mecha universe #mecha ta writing #mecha rl writing #texaid #ratchlock

551 notes · View notes

sarahghetti · 1 year ago

Text

moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes

mgparker · 1 year ago

Text

Come Back to Me

Marc Spector/Steven Grant x F!Reader

Summary: Mark leaves on a mission for Khonshu while you deal with a confrontation of your own. Unfortunately, this particular foe is aware of your specific skill set and uses your weakest spot to deliver a fatal wound. Laying there defenseless and abandoned, your final desire is to speak to the love of your life one last time.

warnings: ANGSTTTT!! (the fav), character backstory, flashbacks, character death, reader wound, sadness, despair etc etc, cliffhanger

masterlist!

“M-Mark?” Fuck. Fuck. Your voice was wobblier than you had expected.

“Baby?” You heard some shuffling. “What’s wrong?”

You pulled the phone away to clear your throat. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Despite your assurances, he wouldn’t be fooled. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yeah, I just wanted to talk.”

The pain was spreading from your side, crawling through your torso like deadly vines. It was nearly blinding. Pulling the phone away from your mouth, you tried to steady your breathing.

This isn’t how you wanted to go. Whimpering in pain and regretting every decision that got you here.

No. What you wanted was to hear your lover’s voice one last time. The warm timbre of his essence. Your favorite sound in the entire world.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He pressed. “Where are you?”

Your man was nothing if not stubborn. “Yes, baby. I’m okay—“ you really weren’t. “What—what did you do today?”

Marc sucked in air through his clenched teeth, gripping his phone with white knuckles. “It was meant to be a surprise, but I’m coming home for a few days… our leads haven’t gotten us anywhere and Khonshu believes we just need a comfortable place to think.”

You would’ve scoffed at that if your chest and throat weren’t on fire. Khonshu believes?

The big bird knew what Marc would be returning to. He knew you were lying in a pool of your own blood.

The thought sent a surge of panic through your body, even as the pain was beginning to overwhelm you. “No! Uh—um you— you’re already so close. W-what are you stuck on?”

Tears welled in your eyes, it felt like a blazing iron rod was being shoved into your chest and dragged up slowly until every organ could feel the flame.

It was silent on the other end for a heavy moment, before Marc’s deep voice hesitantly spoke your name. His tone lifted, suspended in question.

A shake courses through you, fear beginning to blossom in the pit of your stomach. The last thing you wanted was for him to panic… and now you’re beginning to panic as well.

You weren’t ready.

A sob broke through your lips before you could stop it. As if you even had the strength to.

“Marc,” you sobbed, turning your head to gaze at the phone beside you. As if it would give you one last glimpse at the love of your life.

His breathing picks up frantically. “Where are you? Tell me now.”

On his end, fabric is wrapping around his body at a faster rate than it ever had before. He could feel the strength of Khonshu enter him, the god’s presence filling the void.

The corners of your vision darkened and just when you thought you’d scream from the pain— it was gone. Miraculously, you felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Your heart dropped.

“I’m sorry,” a daze washed over you. There was nothing else to do but wait. A forlorn smile graced your paling face. “I’m so sorry, baby. There isn’t much time left.”

“What time?! Stop this shit, where are you? I can make it there as soon as you tell me.”

“There’s not enough time,” you pressed. You were coming to terms with the distant bright light that was supposed to be illuminating your vision.

You would’ve wished that that was what you were seeing as you drifted off, but one wish stood above all the others—

Your desire to be with Marc and Steven.

You barely notice the frantic yelling on the other end of the line before you’re cutting it off weakly.

“I—“ you go to clear your throat but the numbness had spread too far now. “I love you. Every part of you, baby. I just— I just wanted to hear your s—sweet voice one last t-time. Okay? I love you…”

The last word died on your tongue. And the darkness had taken over before you could hear Marc’s broken response.

A strangled yell left Marc’s lips. His stomach was knotted. The shadow of Khonshu appeared in his peripheral vision.

But Marc was rooted in his own grief. His lips were quivering, snot mixing with salty tears as he bared his teeth, shaking from the pure emotion of it all.

Why wasn’t he home? He had vowed to protect you, shield you from the horrors of the world— his world— but it wasn’t enough.

He couldn’t be there all the time, and you’d always reassured him that it’d be okay. That you didn’t feel like you constantly had to look over your shoulder, you didn’t want Marc or Steven to spend every second of their life protecting yours.

It’s his fault. God, the thought made him choke. Hands flying up to grasp at his throat as if he could stop it from tightening. It’s all his fault.

Maybe—maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, just maybe, you’re alive.

He could still feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder. “Take me to her.”

It’s silent. The wind breezing past his ears, the serenity of the night sky brazenly mocking his wild panic.

“Now, Khonshu!” He spun around quickly, voice wavering in rage.

If it hadn’t been for the God’s power over him, Marc would’ve been with you. The only person who truly matters to him in this world.

By some beautiful twist of fate, Khonshu unexpectedly relents, nodding his giant head in the direction of a portal.

Marc couldn’t find it in himself to thank him, everything else had faded away until all he saw was your mangled body on the other side of it.

His feet took him across the rooftop at an immeasurable feet, practically flying over the distance, until his surroundings had changed completely.

“No,” he cried, dropping to his knees painfully. Shards of glass pierced his skin as if he weren’t already bleeding out with you. “Baby? Baby, wake up. Wake up!”

Your body was lifeless in his arms, and the embrace felt strange, nothing like how you’d lay in his arms at night. Fingers gripping his necklace loosely, head tucked into the crook of his neck… legs tangled with his as if your bodies were one.

Blood left a trail from your nose to your chin and shaky hands went to wipe it away before pausing in midair to hover over your face…

“Love?”

Bewildered, Steven nearly gave himself whiplash as he snapped his head away from the sight of your bloodied body.

And despite wanting to run away, his hands tightened around your frame, his lungs failing.

Everything burned, his chest, his stomach. God, his arms and legs were going numb.

And where Marc couldn’t go, Steven went.

Denial.

“Love, come on,” his head has turned to you again but his eyes were squeezed shut. “Wake up. The gag has gone long enough.”

No response. Your laughter wasn’t shaking your frame, your voice wasn’t reassuring him that it’d all been a silly, cruel joke.

“Lovie…” he knew how much you hated the name and despite it, absolutely nothing.

Weren’t you going to argue? Playfully punch him in the shoulder as you giggled at him to never call you that again. Weren’t you going to put on that half-assed angry frown that you always did before smiling and pulling him to your lips?

Weren’t you going to kiss him and tell him everything would be alright?

His heart dropped with the realization that you already had.

You already spoken those words sweetly and he’d dismissed them, twisted them into something rageful when all he should’ve done was pulled you into his arms and never let you go.

“Steven,” you tried, grabbing onto his hands with an unusual hint of desperation. Almost as if you knew something he didn’t. “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be alright.”

The sincerity in your eyes practically sparkled or maybe that was just the pure love that you felt for him. But it didn’t get through to him this time, instead his panic and anxiety twisting his words and actions into something else.

“How can you say that?” Steven stressed. “How can you be so positive all time?! Consider the possibility that maybe sometimes you’re just wrong!”

His soul shattered when he realized… it was the last time he’d ever hear those words.

He hadn’t believed in them and now this happened.

Steven forced his eyes to open slowly.

In the pale moonlight, your face was still as beautiful as the first time he ever saw you.

It was early in the morning; the sun was barely over the horizon and the streets of London were not all too busy for this hour.

Thankfully for Marc, the little coffee house that was nestled in the array of buildings on Russell Street was practically empty. Save for the steady stream of customers who would fly in and out with a streaming cup of coffee or tea in their hands.

But tucked in the corner of the large window seat was you.

Exactly as he’d seen you in his numerous hours of laborious research. Hair tucked behind your ears, oversized round glasses slipping off the tip of your nose, lips tucked in concentration, a loose sweater hanging off your shoulders.

There was a sense of tranquility about you. A stillness despite the bustling customers mere feet from you.

A girl immersed in her own world; a utopia all within the threads of your pale green sweater, the gentle sway of your feet under the table, the hint of a smile at the corner of your lips.

How odd it was to find such astounding beauty in someone you knew everything and nothing about.

Because in your little world, you may have been closed off from the reality around you, but an open book to anyone who cared to look.

And Marc couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t.

He just hated that he had to be the one to shatter your universe.

“Excuse me,” Marc said when he finally worked up the courage to enter the shop. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Then you looked up at him and he knew it was a sight he’d remember for the rest of his life, an image that would flash behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes.

Your eyes piercingly studied his through your eyelashes for a long moment. The hint of a smile was gone.

“Sure,” you eventually smiled brightly.

A dazzling smile that kept him rooted to the spot a little longer than necessary.

Thankfully, you didn’t seem to mind it. “You’re American?”

Marc finally sat down next to you, gripping his chocolate muffin tightly. “Actually, I’m from Chicago.”

If your chuckle was charming, he couldn’t imagine your laugh.

“Which is in America, if I recall correctly.”

“You do, it is... in America.” God he needed to work on his social skills. He felt like a bug under a microscope. Partly because of your particular line of work, mostly because you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

You shut your book softly. “What brings you to London?”

Marc was sure you would’ve shut him down by now, questioned his intentions or tried to put his ass down. But you were graceful, serene... Seemingly not worried at all about his intentions.

If he’d asked, you would’ve told him that you had a keen eye for vibrant souls. His being one of the brightest you’d stumbled upon.

“Uh, work,” he replied unconvincingly. “What about you? You’re a fellow American yourself, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away?” You were teasing him.

Maybe he could hear that laugh again after all. “Your accent and the whole sweater thing you’ve got going on? Practically screams California.”

Your laugh was surprisingly booming, genuine. He found himself smiling at the sound of it.

It can’t be this easy to fall in love with someone you just met.

“It’s New York actually,” you corrected between fading giggles. “Close enough.”

Embarrassment tinted his ears red. “It’s not.”

Smiling widely, you shook your head in agreement. “It’s really not.”

It’s silent for a few moments and just when Marc thinks you’re going to open your book again, you speak softer than before.

“I’m assuming you sat in my little corner for a reason, Mr. Spector.”

The gravity of your simple statement uncharacteristically flew past his head. Instead, he was a little more focused on trying to hear that twinkling laugh again.

“What’re you doing?” You rose an eyebrow, watching as the man wildly looked around the space you were occupying. From the two adjoining walls to the wooden round table.

“Looking for any indication that this is in fact entirely your corner. So far I see nothing except...” There was no way he wasn’t making a fool out of himself but he was in too deep to stop--

The pin suddenly dropped.

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

A nonchalant expression adorned your face. “People like you don’t seek people like me unless they need something.”

His brain short-circuits.

“People like me...” Marc repeated, his voice lifting slightly as if almost in question.

“I’m aware of every single entity within my range whom fit the qualifications of a very secure database. Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov, Spider-Man who happens to be around on a school trip...” you listed idly, twirling the little stick that was stained with your hazelnut coffee. “... Marc Spector.”

The rose-colored glasses were slowly slipping off. His years of servitude under Khonshu’s hand began to harden his exterior until he could finally look at you as a threat. Just to be sure.

“Why would I be on that list?”

You motioned toward the untouched muffin. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“Why would I be on that list?” His jaw clenched.

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” You take a sip. “Moon Knight is an incredibly promising prospect in the eyes of those who protect our world. You’re incredibly powerful.”

Marc scoffed. Is that what he was to you? A potential business deal, a recruit?

“But it doesn’t really matter to me anyway.”

His eyes shot up in interest. The corner of your lips had turned up again.

“I don’t work for any agency anymore,” you explained. “I’m just a girl with an incredible skill set and impressive resume.”

“Humble much?”

There was a knowing twinkle in your eye. “Only when I need to be.”

Your stares met with a shared interest. As if you two were really seeing each other for the first time.

To Marc, your beauty was astounding, ethereal. He could only hope that you’d choose to stay in his life.

“I did come for a reason... I have a mission and I could use someone with your specific skill set.”

“You need help.”

“Well, I didn’t say that exactly--”

“It’s what you meant,” you narrowed your eyes playfully. “Thankfully, I’m a woman of the people. But why should I help you?”

“I’m backed into a corner. I’m just trying to do things right in the best way I can. But I need you to trust me.”

“Trust is gained, Spector.”

“Then allow me to earn it.” The mercenary countered.

You allowed your eyes to look over him. At his open grey button up, his ironed white shirt and black pants. His ebony hair, brushed away from his face, sprinkled with a hint of grey. The scruff on his jaw and the brown of his eyes.

Falling in love with someone you just met can’t be this easy.

Your resolve crumbled and you knew he was going to be in your life for the unforeseeable future. The fluttering in your abdomen pulled you in before you could stop it.

Not that you wanted to.

“So what does this mission entail?”

Slowly, a genuine smile curved Marc Spector’s lips, one that you reciprocated with a blinding beauty that made his heart nearly stop.

And as he walked out of the coffee shop that morning, your number scribbled on a note that was neatly folded in his pocket, there was a sudden change... brief but enough for Steven Grant to suddenly find himself on Russell Street. Confused and a bit frightened, but only for a quick moment--

Until he turned his head and gazed into the large coffeehouse window...

To see you for the first time, with eyes that had adoringly gazed upon yours for hours.

And the sight was like a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs with something he didn’t quite know he needed.

The close-lipped smile that spread from cheek to cheek behind the fist of your closed hand, idle strands of hair that fell to cover your joyous expression, the simple rise and fall of your chest...

And between the moment that he saw you and Marc reemerged to front, Steven Grant couldn’t help but wonder who had made your eyes light up in that way.

Steven Grant wondered if he had the chance, could he make you happy?

But he couldn’t see the light in your eyes anymore. Eyelids rested over those effervescent eyes and a part of him finally shattered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. Bringing your forehead close to his, his lips tenderly touched your warm skin. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

Softly, as if to not disturb you, he reached for your hand, catching a glimpse of the fading paint job he’d done on your nails before he left last week.

“I-I-I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t breathe anymore, gasping against your body as he tightened his embrace.

Acceptance.

With a shudder, Marc kept his eyes closed despite the sudden switch.

This way he could imagine that you weren’t dead, you weren’t cold and lifeless. No, you were alive. Finally squeezing in a nap between your tireless research, hours upon hours at the computer, hacking databases and trying everything you could to help the boys.

Yes, yes, he could take a moment to indulge in that fantasy.

Because once he opened his eyes, it was finally over. Marc Spector would have to live without you.

“How wasteful...”

That pent-up anger reared its ugly head. “What?”

If he wasn’t holding onto you, Marc would’ve committed violence against the god.

“To let such a valuable asset go would be a pitiful waste,” Khonshu drawled from behind his avatar.

Marc shook his head at the audacity. “I don’t want to hear this. I--I don’t want to hear this.”

“Perhaps you do, Spector,” the god insinuated. “Feel the warmth of her skin... look at the color beneath her skin...”

This was cruel. “No...”

“Your grief may be premature--” what? “-- her fate lies in no one’s hands but her own.”

He finally looked up. “Stop with the riddles. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just as I once appeared before you, the goddess Isis requires an avatar. Your lover is still in the fight between life and death.”

Deception was a skill Marc was certain Khonshu had mastered but yet, he found nothing but the truth in his tone. He felt the god’s sincerity.

Shock stilled his body, mouth slightly open as he stared into the night sky and then slowly back at you.

Despite his aversion to serving a god, the only thought running through his mind was the desire for you to come back to him.

In any way, he’d have you.

Otherwise, neither he nor Steven would make it.

“This is up to you, baby,” Marc whispered into your hair. “But fight. Please... fight. Come back to me.”

Please.

Come back to me.

The voice bounced off the walls of the chamber, echoing until it faded away.

It was the voice that would always bring you back.

“You have a choice to make,” a different voice reminded you, sweet and smooth. “Be my apprentice and help me restore the world to what it once was.”

You were on the tip of the iceberg, held back from what you’d seen Marc and Steven deal with for years but itching to get back to the broken man that was begging for you.

“What does that even mean?” You groaned.

Isis gave you no further explanation than what she’d told you before. You glared at her for another moment before feeling a phantom pain shoot across your body. Well, metaphysical body.

You realized you’re running out of time.

“So I do this or what? Die? I love how you all deal in absolutes,” your snark was still intact. “Any room for negotiation?”

The Goddess of Magic and Fertility towered over you, mighty with large wings that spanned the length of the golden chamber. Eyes that pierced into your soul, quite literally, and a beauty that wasn’t made to be seen by mortal eyes.

It was easy to tell why. Such beauty was captivating, breath-stealing and enough to send any man or woman to their knees.

But yet here you stood, slightly annoyed and about three feet under.

Unamused, Isis blinked expectantly.

Please... Air caught in your throat. Baby...

The decision suddenly wasn’t hard at all.

And it seemed as if Isis knew it as well.

“Will you be my apprentice and help me restore the world to what it once was?” She repeated.

The other half of your soul was missing and you knew how to soothe the agonizing pain for the both of you…

“Yes.”

#marc spector angst #steven grant imagine #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #moon boys #moonknight #moon knight #Marc Spector #Steven grant #jake lockley #oscar Isaac #marvel #f!reader #angst #character death #character wound #mgparker

1K notes · View notes

ryniswright · 2 months ago

Text

ᯓ★ THE MOON BOYS AFTER AN ARGUMENT WITH THEIR PARTNER

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

(soft headcanons) (giving and receiving care)

STEVEN GRANT

✶⋆.˚ Steven isn’t the type to start arguments; he will almost always discuss things openly enough to avoid them. Although, when you do argue it’ll usually be from misinterpretations you’ll only laugh about together after. Like you doing something different that he takes as a sign of ill intent. Or him doing something that you feel is abandonment. None of the threats you’d perceive between each other would be true.

✶⋆.˚ Throughout the argument he would make sure to gently reassure you. He’d sprinkle in “I love you’s” and “we’re getting through this” to make sure you feel safe. He knows that you take things hard and wouldn’t want you to feel like he doesn’t love you. Even when he’s frustrated with you.

‎✶⋆.˚ He would definitely want to cuddle after an argument and he’d try to bury himself into you while you stroke his hair. You’d do a lot of reassuring him, making sure he knows that you don’t hate him just because you two had a disagreement. He is brave, but he trusts you enough to show this kind of vulnerability. “So you’re sure you don’t hate me?” He’d ask while practically sitting in your lap with your hands running through his hair.

✶⋆.˚ He never wants to see you upset. So knowing that he upset you, even when you upset him too, would be devastating. He’d do everything he can to make it up for you, then when you tell him he doesn’t have to he’d do things sneakily. You’d wake up to a clean kitchen and a packed lunch that he claims was a “spontaneous decision.”

MARC SPECTOR

✶⋆.˚ Marc suppresses a lot of emotions. He’s working on it, for you, but there would be points where things he failed to bring up boil over and cause him to start arguments. The ones he starts himself would typically be because he’s worried about you, jealous, or self destructing.

✶⋆.˚ You’d always know when he’s trying to self-destruct. You’d know he’s only attempting to hurt you because he feels that that’s who he is. It would often be in an effort to “show you his true colors” or “harm you before you can harm him.” You’d listen and gently reassure him the entire time he masks his fear with anger because you know his real true colors. On the inside he is a lover boy with a heart of gold.

✶⋆.˚ Arguments are very triggering for him because of his childhood. He wouldn’t say or show it to you, of course, but you’d see the way that he shakes a bit even when you’re having regular disagreements. He’d probably try to distance himself from you while arguing because he feels like he’s only harming you. You’d always find him and reassure him, even when he’s still pissed. “Marc I will always love you even when we’re frustrated with each other.”

✶⋆.˚ He’d eventually come back to you and silently initiate physical contact. He’d massage your hands and gently kiss them, like an apology from him and an acceptance of yours all in one. It’s hard for him not to distance himself, so this contact is a big deal for him and something he can only do with someone he truly trusts and loves. “I’m sorry” he’d eventually say verbally. “I’m sorry too.” and he’d take you into his arms.

damn i made him bpd coded

JAKE LOCKLEY

✶⋆.˚ Yes, Jake is an intense person, but he would never pick petty fights with someone he loves as much as you. Play fights are excluded from this of course, he’d love to tease you, but real fights would almost always be rooted in fear about your wellbeing. He wouldn’t be able to rest if he didn’t feel you were safe or taking proper care of yourself. So, he tends to get pushy with those things.

✶⋆.˚ The second you communicate an issue you’re having or a boundary you need he’d immediately apologize and fix it. He’d make sure that he’s respecting you and giving you all of the admiration that you deserve. Afterall, you are his love. You mean the world to him and slight changes are nothing if they make you more comfortable.

✶⋆.˚ After arguments he would go over the top with apologies. He’d constantly say things like “Lo siento, mi vida” and “let me make it up to you, mi querido.” (even after you’ve assured him a hundred times that he has nothing to make up to you). He’d massage you, bring you drinks, and dote on you for the rest of the day. He can’t bear to see the love of his life hurt and he loves doing acts of service for you. You’d tell him he doesn’t need to do all of this, but it would only strengthen his resolve.

✶⋆.˚ Just like when he’s excited, when he gets really angry he starts slipping into Spanish more and more. Even mid argument you love hearing him in his native language. You’d pick up on the broad strokes of what he’s saying from your studying- you’re learning for him, of course. It’s the least you can do for someone who means the world to you.

#can you tell i have bpd #moon boys #moon knight x reader #fluff #moon knight fanfic #jake lockley #marc spector #steven grant #gender neutral reader #mcu

137 notes · View notes

my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 6 months ago

Note

thinking about cuddling up with soft marc☹️☹️☹️thats my baby fr.. just him being so enamoured and comfortable with you and being sososo sweet<33

Sobbing over this! 😭

Little Spoon

Marc Spector x gn!Reader • Rating: PG pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? • ask-travaganza masterlist •

Summary: Marc comes to bed late.

Warnings: Fluff, Marc being a bit anxious, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 411

Marc gets into bed slowly, trying his very best to be as calm and quiet as he can. Part of him wants to just go and lay down on the sofa, to sleep there so that he doesn’t chance disturbing you. But he knows how much you’d hate it. Especially after you’d explicitly told him not to do it again after last time.

He eases in, lifting the duvet cover as gently as he can before he sneaks into bed. He lays on his side, on the very edge of the mattress, trying to take up as little space as possible.

For a moment, he holds his breath, freezes in place. But your breathing stays gentle and even and slowly he relaxes slightly, as much as he’ll allow himself.

He just needed to-

Marc jumps when you move and snake your arms around him, pulling his back to your chest.

“What you doing on the edge of the bed?” You mutter, your voice thick with sleep.

“It’s okay baby,” he squeezes your arm gently, “Go back to sleep.”

“No,” you mumble and kiss his neck, softly coaxing him more into the middle.

There’s a slight resistance at first, you know he’s trying not to be a hindrance.

“Don’t make me turn the light on and force you over,” you do your best to sound as grumpy as possible despite the smile on your lips.

Marc moves immediately, shifting closer to you and you grin.

You snuggle into him, holding him comfortingly. His heart beats a little fast under your hands.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” He whispers.

“Don’t be.” You yawn. “Means I get to hug you.”

A little smile pulls at his hips.”I should be hugging you.”

“No Spector, you’re the little spoon. Deal with it.”

He giggles gently. You know he prefers being in this position, not that he’d outrightly admit it. He likes to feel your weight on his back and arms on his chest, it makes him feel… safe. Wanted. And he doesn’t have to worry about squeezing you tightly if he has bad dreams.

Finally, he relaxes somewhat. Shuffles back against you even more. He puts one hand on his hip, his fingers flexing ever so slightly and you know what he wants before he even has to ask.

You shift your leg onto his side and he squeezes your calf in a silent thanks before he breathes deeply and finally drifts off to sleep.

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh

@romanarose @strangerhands @saturn-rings-writes ho

@steven-grants-world @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie

@silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin @apesarecuul @reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom

@alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr @spxctorsslxt @novarosewood

@pygmi-cygni @hammerhead96 @emma23 @sub-aro @killerdollz

@maplemind @mwltwo @loonymagizoologist @dameronshandholder @queerly-anxious

@homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop @oscarssimp @milkypompon @eternallyvenus

@mandytrekkie @lounilu @avengersinitiative2012 @pigeonmama @marcsb1tch

@iolaussharpe-24 @chaithetics @DowBaStan @faretheeoscar@lonelyisamyw-0love

@queerponc @twwcs @Spnwhore2430 @mari-thesimp @ominoose

@ierofrnkk @have-you-seen-my-sanity @to-be-a-sunshine @blushingrn @missdictatorme

@musicalnacho @buckyssugarchick

@soft-girl-musings @hammerhead96 @emma23 @sub-aro @killerdollz

@mwltwo @loonymagizoologist @dameronshandholder @queerly-anxious

@homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop @oscarssimp @milkypompon @eternallyvenus

@mandytrekkie @theratscorner @krakenkitty@casa-boiardi @i-have-all-these-freakin-uwus

@amasdaydream @purple-amaranthe @brunlocc @bookoffracturedescapes @marcsb1tch

@pigeonmama @sergeant102105 @weekendgothgirl @Silver-night-m

@klillah @howellatme @mystic-writings @f0url3af

@silvernight-m

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

#marc spector #moon knight #moon knight mcu #marc spector x reader #x reader #marc spector x you #x you #marc spector x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #marc spector x gn!reader #x gn!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

277 notes · View notes

spctrsgf · 2 years ago

Text

morning banter

summary: something about you and marc? he wakes up early, and you most certainly do not.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: language, my shitty spanish (i’m trying okay)

a/n: took a quick break from b+h for a lil marc spector drabble!!! hope you all enjoy

Es tan temprano para esta mierda, Marc. Jake’s annoyed Spanish drawl smacks into the side of Marc's head. The combination of his drowsy, slow mind and that Marc knew next to no spanish caused the said man’s eyebrows to crinkle. “What the fuck did you just say?” He can barely hear his own voice, but he knows Jake can.

Don’t worry about it.

“Jake.”

Marc. Only Jake would pitch up his name in a high voice: it’s a mimic.

“Hey! I don’t sound like that.”

Yeah you do.

“No, I don’t! Back me up, Steven.”

Don’t bring me into this.

C’mon, Stevie— Jake cuts off abruptly, probably the doing of Steven.

“Jake,” Marc resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what you said.”

Go to sleep, puta.

“Okay, I know that one,” Marc hisses, toiling you in closer to him. “Rude.”

You deserved it.

“You wanna know what you deserve?”

Oh, yeah, Jake taunts. What’s that?

“A fucking pun–”

His voice goes legato as soon as he senses you moving, causing him to fall silent. You curl tighter into a ball, spiraling the covers more into your fists and tucking them again beneath your chin. Jake, by some miracle, also goes quiet, as if somehow his words could expel themselves out of Marc’s mouth and to your ears.

But, the soft exhales are the only noise you left out, and if you heard them, you didn’t show it. Marc’s shoulders roll back from where they were hunched, surely Steven’s gentle gesture to the position he hadn’t even realized he’d been in.

Would it kill the two of you to just be nice to each other? The Brit muses.

Absolutely. Jake’s response is automatic.

“One hundred percent true.” Marc chimes in.

HAH! Steven ejects the exclamation in triumph. Now I got the two of you agreeing.

“Sure, whatever.”

Only time we agree is when you finesse us into it, hermano.

Marc slides his arm out from where it was wrapped around your waist to give the two a thumbs up in agreement with Jake, reluctantly.

Or, he tried to.

“Noooooo…” You groan groggily, tightening your hold.

Marc freezes. “Baby?”

“Mmmmm?”

“I- I didn’t know you were aware.”

“Well,” you snuggle closer into his chest, his warm embrace. “You ‘n Steven ‘n Jake aren’t exactly quiet when you argue.”

He sighs, guilt pooling in his stomach. “Listen, ‘m sorry. You know how we can be.”

“Yeah, I do. And I love you all,” you reach back, squeezing his bicep reassuringly. “But I also love my beauty sleep.”

“You don’t need to sleep to be beautiful.” He ducks his head to place a featherlight kiss to your neck, savoring the sigh you let out in return.

“You’re sweet, but we both know that’s not true.”

“Do we?”

“Mhm,” you turn, nudging Marc’s arms off of you as you face him. “‘M a menace without it.”

“That’s true,” he chuckles when you slap his arm, letting out an effortlessly beautiful smile. “But it’s nothing a cup of nice, warm coffee can’t solve.”

You giggle softly. “That’s true.”

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” He moves to slide you both out from under the covers. “Let’s get going.”

“Nope.” You let him go, rolling to burrito yourself in the covers again.

“Nope?” He inquires, rounding the bed to stand over you.

“Nope.”

His shadow covers your shut eyelids and you know he’s bent over your face. “I’ll make you coffee to apologize for waking you up, baby, I promise.” You scrunch your nose. “Tempting, but no.”

“Not even because I’m asking you?”

“Not even if you were on your knees and begging.”

“Oh?” The sentence your half asleep brain had kindled clearly took him by surprise.

You huff, flipping over in the bed dramatically. “Go away, I’m tired.”

“What’s so great about this bed that I can’t give you, huh?”

“Well,” You take a deep breath, and some small, rational part of your brain tells you that maybe the spew of words about to come out of your mouth is what he wanted to happen all along. “The bed is warm. It’s cozy. The covers are just the right heaviness and just the right thickness to provide optimal warmth and the right amount of pressure to keep me sleeping like a bear in hibernation. ‘Nd my pillow is the right firmness, but has my desired amount of sink to put me out as soon as you turn off the light and wrap your arms around me. Even though that only happens sometimes.”

Marc huffs in frustration. “Hey!”

“Yeah, Marc, my bed is always here on time. It never goes anywhere, and the only life it’s saving is your sorry ass right now.”

“Uncalled for.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Thought you liked a bit of banter.”

“I like a kick or two,” He leans over and pulls your shoulders to level on the bed and your eyes to meet his own. “But not at eight in the fucking morning.”

“Neither do I,” You reach up, pulling his face in for a kiss.

He gives in almost immediately, setting a knee on either side of your legs and scooping his arms underneath your body to pull you up.

“Nuh uh,” you pull away and unwrap his arms, flopping back onto the bed. “Sleepy. Time to sleep.”

“You can't leave me hanging like that!”

You yawn, pulling the covers up to your chin again. “I can and I did.”

For a second, a naive, small second, you think he’s going to leave you be. Your brain relaxes, you feel yourself on the precipice of sleep, the hypnotic, rich swirl of unconsciousness sucking you deeper into its whirlpool. But then you feel the covers lift, and Marc’s— frighteningly cold— fingers are dancing along your sides to a tune you illustrate with laughs. You slap his hands away, reaching out towards the lure of sleep that now sneaks away to taint another victim.

“You ready to get out of bed now, sweets?”

You groan, turning to face him in defeat. “You fucker.”

He throws his arms mockingly. “What’d I do?”

“You manipulated me! I hate you.”

“I did no such thing. What are these accusations?”

“You knew I would get worked up,” you sit up in the bed now, and Marc shrinks ever so slightly under the weight of your deadly stare. “You knew that would wake me up.”

“Hey, let’s calm down–”

“You knew that if you pushed the right buttons, you would get what you wanted.”

Marc’s face is ghastly, and he looks two steps away from summoning his suit and flying away.

“I warned you earlier about this, Marc, were you listening?”

He nods frantically. “Of course–”

“I’m a menace when I get woken up early.” You launch off the bed, and you might as well be Moon Knight yourself with your accuracy.

The takeaway from this event? For Marc, it’s to never try waking you up before you’ve recharged fully, or to have some coffee made ahead of when he was to attempt it. For you, though?

It’s that Marc shrieks like a little girl.

translations (HELP I FORGOT):

es tan temprano para esta mierda - it’s too early for this shit

puta - bitch

i felt very fancy using these

#moon knight #jake lockley #marc spector #steven grant #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector imagine #steven grant imagine #jake lockley imagine #moon knight tv #marvel #marc spector fluff #marc spector x you #oscar issac #oscar isaac hernandez estrada #oscar issac x reader

3K notes · View notes

loud-mouth-loser · 2 months ago

Text

not him - 3

summary: you meet steven for tea...

pairing: marc spector? x reader, steven grant? x reader

tags: angst, feelings, confusion, miscommunication, tension, cliffhanger, all the good things we hate, an incredible use of italics and em dashes, no marc :(

wc: 2.4k

note: hey...it's been (checks the blog) a year and a few months...hi...

ch. 1 | ch. 2

[an extended author's note is at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers!]

---

Your POV

Warmth seeps into the pads of your fingertips as you clutch the paper coffee cup in front of you. You initially ordered a medium iced coffee, but when your name was called you were presented with a hot cup of something else.

You took it without complaint, eyes briefly glancing along the long line by the register before returning to the misspelled name scribbled onto the side of the cup. You’re sure the baristas are overworked, so as long as it’s caffeinated and palatable, you’ll be fine.

Some may call you spineless because of this, but you like to think you’re just…easygoing, flexible – able to adapt to unexpected changes without too much fuss. But now, with those soft brown eyes staring back at you from across the table, you realize that change is harder to face than you initially thought.

Steven has his usual Earl Grey steaming in a lidless cup next to a pile of tea-blotted napkins. He already found a way to spill his drink on the table before taking a single sip. He mumbled a censored curse, quickly using three folded napkins to soak up the herbal puddle before it could drip to the floor.

You couldn’t help but watch silently as he cleaned up the mess, his dark brows furrowing as he evaluated the table that separated the two of you. His eyes flashed with a brief spark of harshness directed at the empty space before him, masking over his usual gentle look. You could see the flood of self-reproaching thoughts that rushed through his mind as he pushed the soggy mess to the side. The short bout of frustration painted on his face immediately reminded you of Marc –

And suddenly you're reintroduced to the issue at hand.

Other than the portion of tea on the napkins, Steven’s drink is full, sitting there untouched as he looks back at you like he’s waiting for you to start the conversation. As if he wasn’t the one who invited you out. You’re used to him babbling through the silence, even if the conversation holds no substance.

You fiddle with the cafe’s logo sticker on your cup, peeling it off halfway before pressing it back, an attempt to distract you from looking back up at him. You can feel his stare backing you into a corner.

Thoughts rush through your mind as an unfamiliar tension surrounds the two of you.

He doesn’t know, right?

No, he can’t.

Marc was fronting last night and Steven went to bed early. It’s not like he’d tell him anyway.

Why would he?

–

Steven’s POV

“Good day at work?” Your voice comes out softer than he’s used to, hesitant…testing – as if you haven’t heard yourself speak since you left his flat.

“Work?” Steven takes a sip of his drink — not because he’s thirsty, but to buy himself some time to come up with an excuse for why he missed work today. He winces slightly from the heat of the tea. He can’t lie to you, but he can try to soften the truth. “Right, I-um…” And the truth was: Marc decided to use one of his rare vacation days to mope around because of what happened the previous night. “...slept through my alarm again today.”

You finally look up from your cup and meet his stare, eyes rounded with concern. “Steven.” He scratches the back of his neck, feeling guilty for lying to you, but you interpret his sheepish expression as a response to your usual soft scolding about him missing work. “Donna is not going to be happy. You’ve already missed a handful of shifts this month!” Donna, his manager, has always been hard on him – no matter how many extra shifts he picks up or how late he stays, it’s never good enough for her.

Steven hides his small relieved smile as he watches you fuss over him, murmuring about different ways he could get a better night's rest or the various alarm clocks that you’ve read about. It’s only now that he notices the warm feeling he gets when you worry about him.

“It’s okay, I just called in sick last minute.” This time he isn’t lying, he did call in once he got the body back, but Donna wasn’t happy to hear about it. But really, when is she ever happy to hear from him?

“This is coming out of your paycheck, Stevie.”

Oh, how he hates that nickname…

But he doesn’t want to think about that now, he’ll deal with the consequences of Marc’s actions later.

Right now, he wants to deal with…the consequences of Marc’s other actions.

You reach across the table and take his free hand, a comforting gesture you’ve often used in the past to capture his attention whenever you sense his mind is racing with hundreds of thoughts.

“Alright, but if you want, I could call you in the morning to wake you up? I’m already up at that time anyway.”

Steven almost flinches when you wrap your fingers around his. He can’t help but stare down at your touch. Your hand is so soft, and warm, his eyes flit to your face, just like your li–

Wait, what is he thinking? That wasn’t even him!

You’ve done this countless times before, so why does this feel different all of a sudden?

—

Your POV

You watch curiously as his gaze grows distant, “Steven?” You softly squeeze his hands to wake him up from his thoughts.

“Um, call – alarm?” Steven pulls his hand from yours and fiddles with the collar of his shirt which suddenly feels quite tight against his neck. “No, it’s fine, I just think Marc had a lot to drink last night, that’s all.”

Your eyes widen. Right.

You pull your hands back from where they'd settled on the table, abandoned by Steven’s touch, and rest them in your lap. Fidgeting nervously, you shift your focus to the neglected napkins at the edge of the table next to Steven, eager to avoid his gaze as his alter is suddenly brought up.

“Well…you should tell him to not drink so much when you have work in the morning…”

You can tell that Steven noticed how you retracted from the conversation as soon as you heard Marc’s name, but he doesn’t bring attention to it. He just chuckles nervously in response.

“I’ll try…”

The two of you remain silent for a moment. The comforting energy that was once fuelled by your friendship feels distant now, overshadowed by the tense anticipation of the inevitable confrontation.

He takes a breath before breaking the silence, “Love…I have a question.”

“Okay.” You bite at your bottom lip nervously.

Here it comes.

“Are we still up for movie night this week?” A weak smile cracks from the seam of his lips as his eyes find yours again.

…Or not

You immediately cover up whatever anxious energy you are sure you were overflowing with – putting on your usual smile, the one made just for him. The one that always makes him feel at ease.

“O-of course, Steven. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Oh, okay, good.”

–

After confirming your plans, Steven went on to ramble about the movies and shows he wants to watch with you.

Of course, he’s already seen each one at least two or three times, but he enjoys watching them with you – seeing your reactions, answering your questions, telling you fun facts…

You can’t keep up with the conversation.

Your mind is running in circles, anxious about returning to the crime scene and possibly seeing him again. You’re not ready for that confrontation yet.

You left the cafe feeling worse than when you arrived.

How are you supposed to keep going on like everything is okay?

Like your world hasn’t been turned upside down?

—

The warmth of Steven’s flat is comforting. You swear it was designed to be homey – which is why you never understood why Marc always looked so tense in here. The low hum of the kettle on the stove, the faint smell of old books and tea—it’s familiar. Safe.

But not tonight.

You’re curled up on his worn couch, clutching a fluffy blanket tighter than necessary, trying to focus on the show playing in front of you. You can barely register the actors on screen. Your pulse thrums loudly in your ears, drowning out every word of dialogue.

Steven ended up choosing Sherlock because “each episode is 90 minutes – basically the length of a movie – so we’ll have at least a month of movie nights figured out!” You can tell he has a big fat man-crush on Cumberbatch’s Sherlock…just look at the way his eyes sparkle brightly when Holmes starts deducing – but you don’t say anything. You’re too anxious to tease him tonight.

Steven sits beside you, a careful amount of space between you. He’s been quiet, unusually so, eyes flickering between you and the TV. You can feel it every time his gaze lingers—soft, curious, hesitant.

Sure, you’re used to this back and forth habit he has when you come over, but usually he’d be chiming in throughout the movie or show with a “you see that?” or “did you know that [insert actor here] was actually [insert fun fact here] during filming?”

Tonight he’s barely made a peep.

It’s freaking you out.

And then, halfway through the episode, you feel it.

The slight shift of the cushions – Steven trying to scoot closer.

Not boldly, just inching forward like someone dipping a toe into cold water. Your breath catches in your throat. His knee barely grazes yours, and it feels like a shockwave ripples through you.

Again, you’re used to his cuddly side. You’re supposed to be used to it.

Used to the way he’d lean against you, his head on your shoulder as you both read books in comforting silence. Used to the way he’d intertwine his fingers with yours during tense scenes in a movie, squeezing when the sound effects get too loud – though he’s seen the same scene a handful of times already and should know what to expect (he’s still a scaredy cat). Used to the way he’d let out those soft breaths when he’d fall asleep with his head in your lap, your fingers running through his perfectly messy hair.

You were.

But since his confession about Layla, it’s different. Since what happened between you and Marc, it’s different.

You could hear an intake of breath, signaling that he wants to say something, but before he can get it out, the kettle whistles loudly. He gets up, a bit rattled by the sudden interruption, and tends to the tea. He doesn’t even pause the episode. He always pauses when he has to get up.

Clearly, neither of you are focused on the show tonight

He comes back with two steaming cups – chamomile because “having caffeine after the sun goes down disrupts your circadian rhythm” – and he sets them on the coffee table in front of you. You’re surprised he can even find enough space for them because the table is usually –

It’s clear…

You didn’t even notice how uncluttered his flat is.

You take a second to look around. There are still overflowing bookcases, excessive amounts of cuddly blankets and pillows, and a couple of mugs out, but otherwise, it’s neat. And that can only mean one thing: Marc is stressed out.

The one time you’ve seen Marc during the day, by accident and before you really knew him, he’d been grumpily cleaning the flat.

You could tell that something more was happening behind the scenes, something other than frustration towards his alter for attempting to read 5 books at once, then falling asleep at his desk before being able to put them away. He was antsy, muttering to himself as he meticulously organized the bookshelves by author and subject.

You assumed it had something to do with his strained relationship with Khonshu, but you didn’t ask. Steven had warned you against mentioning anything Khonshu-related in front of his alter in the past and you heeded to it. Instead, you left the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter and quietly slipped out.

Unfortunately, you’re aware of what’s stressing him out this time.

“Do you like the show so far?”

You’re immediately pulled from your thoughts. Steven is back in his seat with his hands cradling his mug for warmth. He’s noticeably further away from you than before.

“Yeah, I actually can’t believe I haven’t seen it yet.” Your voice is soft as you lean forward for your drink. You take a sip.

You must have been lost in your thoughts for a while as the tea had cooled enough for you to easily drink it. You look down at the tea bag sitting at the bottom of the cup, unsure what to say next.

You hear Steven sigh before the TV is shut off. Whatever Sherlock was monologuing about is cut off, replaced with the quiet buzzing of the A/C. You look up to be met with an equally hesitant gaze.

He situates himself on the couch so he’s facing you more directly.

“Steven…?”

“Are you okay?” He finally says, “Because you’ve been distracted all night – Haven’t even said anything about the show, or asked for snacks, or sit in the way you usually do when you use me like a footrest…”

“Um, no, I’m fine.” You dismiss his worries and place your mug back on the table, hoping he’d just drop the subject. “I’m just tired, you know? Had a long day at work is all.”

“I know that’s not it.”

You turn away from him just to stare at the blank TV, “Yeah? And how would you know?” Your words sound harsh but your voice is soft and unstable. “Aren’t you too busy worrying about Layla?” You regret saying it as soon as it leaves your mouth. You don’t know what drove you to say it, but something about him trying to care is frustrating you.

“W-what, this has nothing to do with her.” He places a hand on your shoulder to get you to look at him. It works. You hate how the warmth from his hand can instantly calm you and have you itching for his touch. “Look,” He looks at you with guilty eyes before letting it all out, “I know that you and Marc kissed.”

The warmth between you instantly disappears.

You freeze.

Your mind races with excuses, stupid ones, and straight lies, but they’re all stuck in your throat – you can’t say anything.

Steven continues to speak, “I just can’t help but wonder…” He pauses briefly and you watch him roll the words through his mind before taking your hands in his. He squeezes them like he does when he’s watching a thriller movie and it gets too intense – “...were you thinking of me when it happened?”

If you were shocked before, now you’re floored.

---

author's note:

like I said with the last chapter, i'll have a chapter half written out and left in my google drive until I finally, painstakingly, finish it. 😭

i really want to write a lot and have it out for you guys immediately, but i'm simply not a writer so i can't do that. i don't ever have a plan for these chapters or the story as a whole so if it's messy just know: it's all me, baby :)

i genuinely could NOT write out the confrontation -- but how did you like the twist? or should i say the AUDACITY of steven 😼 (if you hate it, i am sorry 🙏 truly). the reason why i wrote out all of this was so you could get an idea of the dynamics around steven and the reader. i wanted to make some hints at your past friendship and how this situation has ruined it. i know this story is slow asf (and not just bc of my inconsistent posting) but i swear i want to see where it goes just as much as you guys do. unfortunately, i'm in charge of figuring it out.

sorry again for the delayed chapter. 👋 see you in a year i guess...

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector #steven grant #moon knight #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfic #angst

134 notes · View notes

bamboobooshark · 8 months ago

Text

MOON BOYS X READER

₊˚.⋆🕯️⋆⁺. SHARING FOOD : 1.1K WRDS

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

STEVEN GRANT .

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

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

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

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

MARC SPECTOR .

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

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

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

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

JAKE LOCKLEY .

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

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

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

321 notes · View notes

themoonknight-system · 1 year ago

Text

Seven thousand dollars? Steven you're so lucky I can't kick your ass right now...

#it's marc spector #rp event: silent auction

1 note · View note

urdreamydoodles · 5 months ago

Text

MCU Characters x Reader (Part.2)

How they react when you are angry with them (Part.2)

Characters: Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock & Frank Castle

Loki Laufeyson

- When Loki senses your anger, his reaction is one of mild panic hidden behind a mask of indifference. He’s not used to dealing with his emotions head-on, so he may initially act dismissive, trying to pretend it doesn’t bother him. But as the tension lingers, he realizes he can’t stand the thought of you being upset with him, and he knows he’ll have to address it.

- Loki’s first attempt to make amends is usually manipulative charm. He’ll try to win you over with clever words, even playing the victim a little if he thinks it might work. But when he sees that you’re genuinely hurt, he drops the act. His apology, when it finally comes, is quiet and almost vulnerable, a rare moment of honesty where he admits he hates the thought of you being unhappy with him.

- To make it up to you, Loki does something truly meaningful and personal. Maybe it’s a gift tied to a private memory you share, or a show of his magic in a way that’s tender rather than grand. He wants you to know he’s put thought into it, going out of his way to make you feel special. It’s his way of showing that he’s willing to try for you, even if vulnerability isn’t his strong suit.

- As you begin to soften, Loki opens up more than he usually would. He lets down his walls a little, talking about the parts of himself he usually keeps hidden. He’ll even joke about how “you must be the real trickster” if you’ve managed to make him care this much. Beneath the teasing, he’s genuinely grateful that you’re willing to give him another chance.

- When you forgive him, Loki’s relief is palpable. He gives you a soft smile, leaning in to kiss your forehead, his hands lingering as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He might joke that you’re too good for him, but there’s something uncharacteristically sincere in his voice. Loki knows he doesn’t deserve you, but he’s grateful all the same, and he silently vows to make sure he never drives you away again.

T’Challa

- When T’Challa realizes you’re upset with him, he immediately takes it to heart. He’s a leader, used to taking responsibility, and seeing you angry makes him instantly reflective. He approaches the situation with calmness, his face serious but soft, wanting to understand what went wrong. He respects you deeply and is ready to listen without judgment.

- T’Challa’s apology is direct and sincere. He’s never one to evade responsibility, and he owns up to his mistakes without hesitation. He’ll look you in the eyes, telling you how much he values your feelings and that he’s truly sorry for any hurt he’s caused. His words are heartfelt, and there’s a quiet strength in his voice as he assures you that he’ll work to make things right.

- To make amends, T’Challa chooses something deeply meaningful, likely a private moment where he can focus solely on you. Maybe it’s a walk through a quiet part of Wakanda’s gardens or a peaceful night under the stars, giving you his undivided attention. He’s regal yet humble, and he makes sure you feel appreciated and respected, knowing that actions speak louder than words.

- Throughout the time he spends making it up to you, T’Challa is gentle and attentive, his presence a calming force. He’s careful to show you through his actions that he cares about your happiness, making sure you feel seen and valued. He might open up about the challenges he faces as a leader and how much he relies on your support, wanting you to know that you are his anchor.

- When you finally forgive him, T’Challa’s relief is warm and heartfelt. He pulls you into a close embrace, holding you tightly, his hand lingering on your back as if grounding himself. He thanks you for your patience and promises to always consider your feelings. T’Challa values loyalty and love, and he’s deeply committed to making sure your relationship is built on trust and understanding.

Marc Spector

- When Marc realizes you’re angry with him, he’s immediately defensive, his body language tensing up as he prepares for confrontation. He’s used to keeping his guard up, even with those he cares about, so he doesn’t respond well to criticism at first. His instinct is to pull away, maybe even avoiding you for a bit as he tries to process what’s happening.

- After he’s had time to cool off, Marc comes back, his expression serious and his tone softer. He hates apologizing, but he hates the thought of losing you even more, so he does his best to be open. His words are a bit clumsy, and he struggles to be vulnerable, but his honesty is evident. He tells you he’s not great at this kind of thing, but he values you enough to try.

- Marc’s way of making it up to you is practical and thoughtful. He might surprise you with something you mentioned in passing, or he’ll fix something around the house that’s been bothering you. Marc doesn’t do big romantic gestures, but he shows his care through small, meaningful actions, hoping you’ll see the effort he’s putting in to make things right.

- When you start to soften, Marc’s demeanor becomes gentler, more comfortable. He opens up a bit more, talking about how hard it is for him to trust people and how much it means to him that you’re still here. He’s careful with his words, but his sincerity shines through. You can tell he’s genuinely trying to let his guard down for you.

- When you forgive him, Marc pulls you into a tight hug, holding on longer than usual, as if grounding himself in your presence. He doesn’t say much, but his embrace is warm and reassuring. For Marc, actions speak louder than words, and his quiet, steady affection is his way of showing that he’s grateful for your forgiveness and that he’s committed to you.

Steven Grant

- When Steven realizes you’re angry with him, he’s immediately flustered, his expression filled with concern and confusion. He’s not used to upsetting people, and it bothers him deeply that he’s somehow hurt you. He’ll ask, in a soft and anxious voice, “Did I do something wrong?” his eyes wide with worry as he desperately tries to understand what went wrong.

- Steven listens carefully as you explain why you’re upset, nodding along and taking in every word. He’s genuinely apologetic, his voice soft and sincere as he says he’s sorry. Steven is open about his feelings, admitting that he sometimes makes mistakes without realizing it, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make things right.

- To make amends, Steven will put together a thoughtful, heartfelt gift for you. It might be something personal, like a handwritten note explaining how much he values you, or he might buy you a small trinket that reminded him of you. He’s sentimental, and his effort to make it up to you is sincere, filled with little details that show how much he cares.

- Steven is extra attentive after the apology, going out of his way to be thoughtful and supportive. He’s always asking if there’s anything he can do for you, maybe even cooking your favorite meal or suggesting a quiet night in to relax together. Steven’s kindness and warmth make it hard to stay upset, and he does everything he can to show you that he’s there for you.

- When you finally forgive him, Steven’s relief is immediate and obvious. He beams at you, pulling you into a gentle hug, his touch soft and affectionate. He’ll murmur about how lucky he feels to have you in his life, and he’s grateful for your patience. Steven’s love is earnest and wholehearted, and he promises himself that he’ll try even harder to make you happy.

Jake Lockley

- Jake’s reaction to your anger is a bit unconventional; he’s not one to openly apologize or make a big deal out of things. When he first realizes you’re mad at him, he keeps his cool, almost acting indifferent. But beneath the calm facade, he’s carefully observing, figuring out exactly how to approach the situation without making things worse.

- Jake may not be the most verbal with apologies, but he’ll pull you aside and, in a quiet, serious tone, tell you that he didn’t mean to hurt you. He’s direct and to the point, admitting that he’s not the best at this “feelings” stuff but that he does care about you. His words are simple yet genuine, and you can tell he’s making an effort in his own way.

- To make things up to you, Jake does something unexpected and a little daring, like taking you out on a thrilling adventure or a drive to a scenic spot he knows you’ll love. Jake isn’t one for flowers and love notes; he expresses his affection through bold, memorable experiences that bring you closer. He hopes the thrill and excitement will help mend things between you.

- Once things start to ease, Jake becomes more attentive and protective. He’s the type to keep an eye on you, making sure you’re safe and happy, even if he doesn’t say much about it. His subtle actions, like putting his arm around you or keeping you close, show that he’s invested in you and wants to keep you by his side.

- When you finally forgive him, Jake’s reaction is understated but genuine. He’ll give you a small, satisfied smirk, pulling you into a brief yet affectionate hug. He might whisper something like, “Knew you couldn’t stay mad at me,” with a playful glint in his eyes. Jake’s love is quiet but intense, and he’s grateful to have you in his life, even if he doesn’t always show it with words.

Scott Lang

- When Scott realizes you’re angry with him, his first reaction is a bit panicked, his eyes widening as he tries to figure out what he did wrong. He’s naturally lighthearted and doesn’t like conflict, so he immediately tries to lighten the mood, maybe cracking a joke or two to ease the tension. When he realizes you’re not laughing, though, he knows he has to be serious.

- Scott’s apology is genuine and a little rambling. He’s awkward, tripping over his words as he tries to explain himself, but his sincerity is obvious. Scott doesn’t try to deflect blame or make excuses; instead, he’s honest about his mistakes, even poking fun at himself a bit to show he’s willing to take responsibility. He’ll say something like, “I’m a bit of a mess, but I’m your mess… if you’ll still have me.”

- To make it up to you, Scott goes all out in his own quirky way. He might plan a fun, silly date that’s just the two of you, or he’ll do something offbeat and heartfelt, like creating a mini scavenger hunt with little notes and clues he’s hidden around. Scott’s got a big heart, and his way of apologizing is playful, thoughtful, and just a little over-the-top.

- As you start to soften, Scott becomes even more attentive, peppering you with sweet gestures and affectionate touches. He’s incredibly open with his feelings, constantly reminding you how much you mean to him and how lucky he feels to have you. Scott’s love is enthusiastic, warm, and reassuring, and he’ll do everything he can to make you feel appreciated.

- When you forgive him, Scott’s relief is immediate and heartwarming. He breaks into a huge smile, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground in a big, exuberant hug. He’s incredibly grateful, telling you over and over how much he loves you and how he’ll try harder not to mess things up again. Scott’s love is vibrant and genuine, and he makes sure you know just how much you mean to him.

Wade Wilson

- When Wade realizes you’re angry with him, he’s quick to act dramatically hurt, clutching his chest like he’s been shot and whispering, “Betrayal… by my one true love!” He’ll follow you around, trying to make you laugh with exaggerated groans and over-the-top pleas for mercy. But when he realizes you’re genuinely upset, he dials back the antics (well, a little) and asks what he did wrong, his voice a bit softer.

- Wade’s apology is both heartfelt and a complete mess. He stumbles through it, alternating between cracking inappropriate jokes and telling you he’s sorry in his own awkward, sincere way. His mouth runs a mile a minute as he promises he didn’t mean to mess things up and insists he’d do anything to make you smile again. It’s clear he’s trying, even if he’s not great at keeping it serious.

- Wade’s attempt to make it up to you is pure, chaotic Wade. He might surprise you with a random gift, like a stuffed unicorn, or even write you a (terrible) poem in crayon that’s equal parts hilarious and surprisingly sweet. He’s not big on traditional romance, but he knows how to keep things memorable. His efforts are ridiculous, but his heart’s in the right place, and he’s hoping you’ll find his weirdness endearing enough to forgive him.

- As you begin to soften, Wade becomes more openly affectionate, toning down the jokes just enough to let his softer side show. He’ll look at you with wide, hopeful eyes, holding your hand tightly and telling you he’s genuinely sorry. He’ll even admit he’s scared of losing you, which, for Wade, is about as vulnerable as he gets.

- When you finally forgive him, Wade’s relief is palpable. He breaks into a huge grin, shouting, “Yes! I knew you couldn’t resist all this!” He’ll probably tackle you in a playful hug, peppering you with sloppy kisses and laughing as he holds you close. Wade’s love is chaotic, messy, and intense, and he makes sure you know that he’s beyond grateful to have you back.

Logan Howlett

- When Logan realizes you’re angry with him, his first reaction is to clam up. He doesn’t handle emotions well and tends to avoid confrontation, so he might retreat to brood alone for a while, hoping you’ll cool off. But as he stews over things, he realizes he can’t stand the thought of you being upset with him, and he knows he has to make things right.

- Logan’s apology, when it finally comes, is quiet but heartfelt. He doesn’t waste words, simply telling you he messed up and that he’s sorry. There’s a rough sincerity in his voice, a hint of vulnerability that he rarely lets show. He might even mutter something like, “I don’t know how to do this… but I care about you,” his gaze steady as he waits to see if you’ll give him another chance.

- To make it up to you, Logan’s approach is practical but meaningful. He might cook a quiet dinner for the two of you or take you somewhere peaceful where you can talk things through. Logan doesn’t do grand gestures, but his actions are thoughtful, showing that he’s listening and genuinely wants to make amends. His way of caring is subtle, but it’s filled with raw sincerity.

- As you begin to soften, Logan grows more relaxed and open, reaching for your hand or placing a comforting arm around your shoulders. He may not say much, but his quiet presence is grounding, and he lets you know through small, affectionate gestures that he’s there for you. Logan’s touch is gentle, steady, and reassuring, making it hard to stay mad at him.

- When you forgive him, Logan’s response is understated but warm. He gives you a slight smile, a rare softness in his gaze as he pulls you into a hug, holding you tightly. He murmurs something like, “Don’t know what I’d do without you,” his voice gruff but sincere. Logan’s love is steady and intense, and he makes sure you know he’s committed to you.

Matthew Murdock

- When Matt realizes you’re angry with him, he’s immediately worried, his heightened senses picking up on your every movement and sigh. He tries to talk to you, asking gently, “Are you upset?” as he tilts his head in concern. Matt’s naturally empathetic, and it bothers him deeply that he’s hurt you, so he’ll listen closely as you explain what went wrong, taking in every word.

- Matt’s apology is calm and sincere. He admits that he makes mistakes, especially when he’s caught up in his own battles, and he apologizes for any hurt he’s caused you. He’s not one to hide from his flaws, so his apology is straightforward and honest. He tells you how much he values your presence in his life and that he wants to make things right, his voice soft and genuine.

- To make amends, Matt goes out of his way to plan a thoughtful evening for you. Maybe it’s a quiet dinner at home where he can give you his undivided attention, or a peaceful walk through a spot you both love. Matt’s incredibly attentive, always picking up on what makes you feel special, and he uses these details to make his apology feel personal and meaningful.

- As you begin to soften, Matt’s relief is visible, and he becomes even more attentive. He holds your hand, brushes a gentle thumb over your knuckles, and speaks in a soft, affectionate tone. Matt’s world can be dark and filled with pain, but he finds comfort in you, and he makes sure you know how much he appreciates your patience and love.

- When you finally forgive him, Matt smiles, his expression soft and full of warmth. He pulls you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, and tells you how grateful he is to have you in his life. Matt’s love is calm and steady, and he promises that he’ll try his best to balance his own battles with making you feel loved and appreciated.

Frank Castle

- When Frank realizes you’re angry with him, his reaction is a mix of confusion and frustration. He’s not used to dealing with feelings in a healthy way, and his instinct is to shut down or brush it off. But when he sees that you’re genuinely upset, his defenses start to waver, and he realizes he needs to do something to make it right.

- Frank’s apology is rough around the edges. He’s not great with words, but he’ll mutter a gruff “I’m sorry” and look at you with a steady, serious gaze. He’ll admit he doesn’t always handle things well, but he’s trying to be better for you. His apology is raw, straightforward, and filled with the kind of honesty that only Frank can deliver.

- To make it up to you, Frank’s approach is quiet and thoughtful. He might bring you something meaningful, like a small trinket he thought you’d like, or he’ll simply spend time with you in a way that shows he’s committed. Frank’s gestures aren’t grand, but they’re heartfelt, and he makes sure you know he cares in his own reserved way.

- As you begin to soften, Frank’s demeanor becomes more gentle and open. He’s careful with his touch, maybe placing a comforting hand on your shoulder or pulling you close, his presence solid and reassuring. Frank may not say much, but his actions speak volumes, and he lets you know through quiet moments of affection that he’s grateful for your forgiveness.

- When you finally forgive him, Frank’s relief is visible in his softened gaze and the way he holds you a little closer. He’ll wrap his arms around you, his embrace protective and strong, as if silently vowing to never let you go. Frank’s love is intense, raw, and unwavering, and he’s deeply grateful to have someone like you willing to stay by his side.

895 notes · View notes

xbellaxcarolinax · 2 years ago

Text

Need You

Marc Spector x f!reader

Word count: 2588

Summary: In the middle of the night, when Marc comes home, is when he needs you the most.

Warnings: S m u t. Nasty, filthy, smut. Specifically: oral (both male and female receiving), riding, and p in v (no protection), let's add praise kink to be safe. Which means this is NSFW. Which means minors DNI. Also language. That's a big one. Marc can't help it.

There's fluff too, probably very cheesy. So bad omg. Smut with no plot. Not beta read. Let me know if ya'll like <3

...

The bed dipped and you stirred, your mind foggy—caught between consciousness and the realm of sleep. Your bleary eyes cracked open, vision hazy in the darkness. You managed a quick glimpse at the digital clock on the nightstand.

3:55 AM.

Your eyes fell shut as you stretched your limbs like a cat under the sun, a tired little whine escaping you. You had work in a few hours.

Turning over, you collided with the warmth of bare skin. Strong arms immediately wrapped around you, calloused fingers burying under your too-large t-shirt to skim down the dip of your spine. A warm kiss to your temple had you sighing in contentment and you breathed in the fresh scent of body wash as your hands slowly glided over damp skin. Your fingers traced the familiar ridges of marred flesh, tiny scars from the past that led up to the thin golden chain nestled comfortably between you both.

"Marc?" His name felt thick on your tongue. You knew it was him by touch alone. He was the one that held you as if afraid of losing you. He’d dreamed about it enough times to fear it, and each time, you reassured him that he wouldn't.

"Yeah, baby, it's me," he muttered, drawing small circles over your skin, "didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay. Missed you." You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your voice heavy with sleep. Marc hummed, a hand slowly trailing down your back to grab the globes of your ass under your thin panties, giving each of them a gentle squeeze.

"Missed you, too." He said into your hair, kissing your bed-slept strands. You tipped your head back to look him in the eyes. The moonlight peeking through the blinds did little to illuminate his features, but you could make out the contours of his face, the prominent line of his nose. His eyes, dark and hooded, were focused on nothing but you. It was a stare you were well acquainted with. To others, it was deadly. To you, it was nothing but pure affection.

"You okay?" You asked him as you always did after he came home from a mission, reaching up to cradle the side of his face. His stubble was rough under your fingertips, your thumb lovingly caressing his cheekbone. He didn’t shave, probably too tired, but you didn’t mind.

"Yeah," he sighed into your touch, lashes fluttering, "I'm okay. Better now." You could feel the hardness of his bulge through his boxers. He was needy, pushing his length against you in a silent plea for attention. You chuckled tiredly, shifting to press your lips over his eager ones. It started innocent enough, lips fusing like puzzle pieces in a dance you both knew well.

Marc peppered kisses over every inch of your face before gently sucking a bruise onto the delicate skin of your neck. You groaned, your fingers threading through his damp curls, easing him off just a bit.

"What's gotten into you?" You breathed, relishing the way his tongue lapped over the mark he'd left to soothe the ache.

"Need you, baby," he grunted, trailing his plush lips over your face, “need to feel you.”

"Yeah?" You shuddered, a throbbing need blooming between your legs, "then take what you need."

As soon as you uttered those words, one of his hands came to rest behind the nape of your neck, guiding you into another heated kiss. It was filthy this time—wet—tongues and teeth clashing sloppily. Not so innocent anymore.

Okay, so Marc wanted it messy. Who were you to deny him?

The night lamp was quickly switched on, and all thoughts on getting any sleep were left in the dust, not that you minded too much. You ended up between his legs with his boxers gone and your t-shirt flug somewhere, your knees cushioned by the pillow Marc had placed on the floor for you.

"Let me take care of you." You purred, breathing over his cock before spitting on it without hesitation. You watched it run down his length and over the curve of his balls, seeping into the sheets below. Your eyes followed the stream with fascination before you devoured him whole, working your lips back and forth, from base to swollen tip.

Marc was seated at the edge of the bed breathing heavily, one of his forearms propping him up while the other hand disappeared in your hair, guiding you.

"You take me so well, sweetheart," he whispered, eyes lidded as he watched you work, "love how you choke on my cock." And as if to prove his point he weaved his fingers into your hair, shoving your face into his pelvis. He made you sputter and wheeze, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. More spit dribbled past your lips and down his length, as you sucked and sucked and sucked.

"Fuck, baby, you know exactly what I need, don't you?" He groaned, his head lolling to the side lazily. You hummed, letting your glossy eyes flutter just a bit when you glanced up at him, making sure to hold his gaze for a moment before lowering them again. You knew that drove him crazy.

And it did, judging by the growl that rumbled in his chest. He tapped a finger over the tip of your nose, a signal for you to stop. You obediently pulled away with a loud pop, licking your swollen lips free of the salty precome that lingered.

"Fuck, c'mere," Marc snarled, surging forward and lifting you to straddle him. He fell back against the bed, letting your hands roam the expanse of his smooth chest, your fingers lightly grazing over his skin from collarbone to navel and back up again. You openly admired him—the sheen of sweat over his tanned skin, the swell of his muscles as he held you tight, his glazed eyes following your every move.

"You're beautiful," you murmured, carefully taking hold of the delicate chain around his neck before dipping forward to kiss him. His arms wrapped tighter around your form, holding you against him. He smirked into the kiss, the tiniest huff of laughter pouring over you.

"Never been called beautiful before," he said between kisses, giving your ass a nice slap. You moaned at the light sting, grinding your clothed cunt over his slippery cock, desperate to be filled. Marc hissed, his hand pressing down on your lower back to encourage your grinding, the tip of his cock wet and leaking over his stomach.

"Shit," he panted as you pressed your nose against his lovingly, "you wanna ride me, pretty girl?"

“Mhm.” You whimpered, feeling the pad of his thick finger press against your core, relishing in its moist heat before pulling the soaked fabric of your panties aside.

“Go ahead, baby.”

Firmly planting a hand on his chest, you lined up his cock with your entrance before taking a breath and sinking slowly, swallowing him inch by inch.

“Mmmm, God,” you moaned, pausing as soon as you took him to the hilt, “fuuuuck, Marc.”

“My cock too much for you, sweetheart?” You could hear the smugness in his tone despite his panting. His hands flew to your hips, slowly raising them to feel your walls flutter against his length before bringing you back down gently, “You can take it, I know you can—yeah, that’s it, baby.”

You choked out a sob as you rocked up and down his thick cock, whimpering at the delicious stretch. Despite having had him more times than you could count, it still made you breathless at how well he stuffed you, how deep he could reach inside and make you see stars.

"Baby, I think you got it all wrong," Marc grunted, his fingers digging into your skin as he guided you faster and faster.

"W-what?" You pushed Marc's damp hair away from his brow, watching how his hooded eyes were pinned to your face.

"I'm not the beautiful one here. Lookit you, you’re so fucking beautiful like this, so fucking pretty when you cream all over my cock, fuuuck." He looked at you with so much adoration, like he couldn't believe you were his. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and you continued to spear yourself on his length with your lip pressed between your teeth. His words went straight to your core, drowning him in your juices.

Within seconds Marc had you on your back, one of his hands pinning both your wrists above your head.

"So fucking beautiful." He said again, his heated gaze roaming over your body before he dipped down to give you a bruising kiss. His necklace swung in the duvet between your collarbones, the pendant barely skimming the surface of your skin.

You loved being under him, loved the way he moved over you and manipulated your body. He was the musician and you the instrument. He played you sweetly, expert fingers trailing over your skin and down the valley of your breasts to tweak a pert nipple before continuing his journey in search of the treasure held within you. He quickly dragged down your panties—now completely soaked—pulling them down your legs with your help and flinging the flimsy thing somewhere across the room to be forgotten.

"Goddamn." He breathed, dragging his middle and ring fingers over your cunt, spreading your juices over his digits. You were a sopping mess, coating his fingers with every sigh and mewl that escaped you. "You're so fucking wet, baby—you're soaking the sheets."

"Mhm," you moaned, feeling a bit vulnerable stretched out under him. Your thighs were spread so he could inspect you, and all you could see was his crown of curls between your legs, his breath fanning over your cunt until suddenly he spits on it. "Oh my God," you tossed your head back with a groan. Your toes flexed and your thighs shook as you fought to release your hands. You wanted to touch him, desperate to feel his skin under your fingertips.

"Marc," you begged through sobs, though you weren't too sure what you were begging for exactly, "p-please." He smiled, taking pity on you, releasing you from his grip.

"Be a good girl and let me take care of you now, can you do that for me?" He took his cock in hand and rubbed the underside over your messy cunt, tapping it until you were begging for him to put it in.

"I'll be good," you choked, "just put it in me, please, in me, in me, in me—" you chanted until he silenced you with his lips, and in one fell swoop he entered you to the hilt unforgivingly. You’d scream if you could but Marc swallowed all your moans and squeals, silencing you as he moved above you gracefully.

Your hands flew to grip his arms as he practically folded you in half, reaching the deepest parts of you with ease. You ripped your lips away to let out a series of whimpers.

"I know, baby, I know, I got you, doing so good for me," Marc heaved, "so fucking tight." He pressed his chest flush against yours, burying his face in your neck to silence his moans.

You were cockdrunk, mouth hanging open as he slammed into your sopping core with a precision that only he seemed to have. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, the head of his dick kissing you where you needed it most.

Suddenly your body seized up and your pussy tightened as you came.

You swore you were on a different plane, a different galaxy even, floating away as pleasure rippled through you like an electrical current. You could barely hear him cooing at you, whispering pretty things in your ear as you gushed all over his cock.

"I-I love you," the confession slipped past your lips quicker than you could think it through, too high off your blissful orgasm. You meant it—of course, you meant it—but this wasn't the way you had planned to tell him, blissed out your mind with tears blurring your vision and drool running down your chin.

It had lay heavy on your mind for a while now, ruminating, waiting for the right moment.

This hadn't been your intention.

You could barely react to your mistake, your mind now fuzzy with Marc's pretty whimpers.

"T-that's it pretty girl, that's it," he moaned, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, "you did so well for me, baby, so perfect. You're perfect." He babbled on as his thrusting became more sloppy and uncoordinated, chasing his own high.

"Come inside," you whined, barely finding your voice, "come inside me, Marc, please, I wanna feel you." One hand was buried in his hair while the other dragged down the expanse of his broad back, your nails marking his skin with angry red lines.

"Fuck," he moaned as he slammed into you one final time, releasing his thick spend inside.

He laid atop of you for a few moments, both of you struggling to catch your breath. Your limbs were a tangled, sweaty mess, useless for much else but laying there in a euphoric state.

Marc pressed a kiss over your collarbone before slowly holding himself up on shaky arms, gently removing his softening cock from inside you. His cum trickled out, a stream of white running down from your hole and straight into the sheets to join your juices.

"You're a mess," he tutted quietly, immediately diving down to clean you up with his skillful mouth. Within minutes he had you coming again, his tongue lapping in and around you in search of every drop you had to offer until you yanked him away by the hair from the overstimulation.

"You're gonna kill me." You panted, reaching for him with shaky hands. He chuckled, pulling you in his arms as he smiled into your neck.

"Hope not," he muttered tiredly, holding you in the same position he had you in when he first arrived home, "love you too much."

"Hmm?" Your eyes lose their haziness from earlier, instantly alert and searching Marc's features for any signs of falseness in the statement. But you couldn't. His brown eyes seemed to hold nothing but honesty. You hoped he didn't feel forced to return the sentiment. You knew he cared for you a great deal, but that didn't mean he was necessarily ready to express it.

"Marc," you could feel your brows pull together in concern, "you don't have to—I didn't mean for you—" He silenced you with a kiss, long and sleepy, pouring everything he had with that one action.

"I love you," he said, clear as day, surging forward to kiss your brow. "I love you." He said again, kissing the tip of your nose. "I love you." A kiss on each cheek. "I love you." A kiss to your chin. "I love you." A kiss to your swollen lips before resting his head over yours. And that was that.

You choked, tears springing to your eyes but you said nothing more, just curled yourself into him as he rubbed your back in soothing circles. After a while, you felt your eyes grow heavy and you gave the clock one final glance over Marc's shoulder.

5:21 AM

It's okay, you thought, nothing wrong with calling out from work later that morning.

You fell asleep moments later to the sounds of Marc's sleepy whispers-

I love you, I love you, I love you—

#marc spector smut #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #marc spector #marc spector x reader #moon knight smut

2K notes · View notes