#and steven's the one who becomes moon knight

[valdrinors-writing]

OC HALLOWEEN CHALLENGE 2024 - DAY SIX - ROLESWAP AU

Luna Derbyshire as The Emissary of the Gods Amber Talbot as the Constant Companion

[therealraewest]

Do we think Marc naturally learned "let's get that bread" or did Reese teach it to him

Arguments for the former: Marc has been about gettin that bread since his original appearance

Arguments for the latter: Reese taking and improving the formula

I am imagining Marc stumbling into the mission half dead from a long night of Moon Knighting and deliriously mumbling "let's get this bread" before promptly passing tf out and leaving Reese like ?????

[gosmigenergy]

KINKTOBER 2024 / Day Nine

ANAL / PRAISE KINK / FOOD PLAY (@absurdthirst)

Starring: Steven Grant x F!Reader

Summary: You thought it was only you who had a praise kink until you realise Steven was a very good boy.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No use of Y/N, language, praising, P in V, unprotected sex (protection in real life, please, thank you)

Word Count: 1.8k

There was no denying you had a praise kink.

With any guy you’d been with, Marc Spector included, they could call you a good girl, tell you you were taking them so well and you would fold faster than a bad hand at a poker game. Yet with Steven, the dynamic shifted.

Somehow when the pair of you shared a bed or wherever you decided to allow your primal instincts to take you, you were the dominant one.

He always loved an evening in and tonight was one of those nights.

The cheesy d-grade film based on Indiana Jones was chosen, the British air turning cold enough for the pair of you to snuggle under a blanket, your comfiest attire that you hoped wouldn’t stay on too long. All you prayed for was that this one wasn’t set in Egypt because if it was, you were going to lose him and though you love his enthusiasm, it wasn’t in your plan.

You were already wrapped in the blanket when he joined you.

“What are we watching?”

You shrug, “It’s the sequel to that one we watched the other week.”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “hope it’s not set in Egypt.”

“I hope so too.”

His brows furrow not necessarily at your comment but at the way you give a lascivious look, he sinks into the sofa under your gaze, lifting the soft fabric to his shoulders.

The film was almost alike to the other, boring, but at least last time you had Steven’s commentary about how it should have been done. You’d already brought your body close, your thighs touching his, your fingers playing with his loose curls as your eyes remained fixed on the television.

He was on the brink of falling asleep, the action of you messing about with his hair almost soothing until your hand slipped under the blanket, a gentle squeeze above his knee.

His body flinched, muscles tensing.

“You alright, honey?”

You try to frame your innocence yet he knows what you’re doing.

His heart rate picks up but he likes this kind, not like when he’s asked to become Moon Knight or Mr Knight or whoever he his, this one leads to a more pleasurable outcome. He can’t help getting caught up in himself, body refusing to relax as your hand travels further up his leg.

“Uh-huh.”

You smile, he took too long to answer and he couldn’t say any actual words so your plan was definitely working.

He blinked, dropping his head slightly, his hooded eyes trying to remain focused on what was happening in the film. He began to chew the inside of his lip when your fingertips fell into the crease leading towards his crotch.

The heat rose through his body, his cheeks gaining a nice rosy hue, your lips burnt when you kissed him.

“Fancy doing something a little more exciting than this?”

You use your head to gesture to the screen, moving your upper body in an attempt to block it from view. He struggled not to make eye contact, the quick glance at you revealing the yearn to have you.

“Yeah,” his single word came out with a laugh.

The corner of your lips curled as you dropped your hand into his lap, fingers curling until the weight of his balls was in your grasp. He let out a strangled moan as he arched back, head tilting over the back of the sofa.

You hum, “I always love hearing you moan, it’s like music to my ears.”

His body relaxes, his head falling back even further and when you massage his balls more noises escape him. The bulge began to grow under his sweatpants and in his distraction, you climb over him to settle between his legs. He naturally makes room for you, unfurling his legs to a wide stance so you can perch on the edge.

You roll your shoulders, the blanket falling to your hips, opening Steven up to you.

You tuck your free hand under the hem of his tee, the muscles of his stomach rippling as you spread your warm palm over them. Your fingertips swirl, nails grazing lightly on his tanned skin, encroaching on the drawstring waist that he prays you’ll undo yet you don’t.

He swallows thickly, resisting the urge to say anything.

“Look at you,” you coo, “being so patient…”

He scrunches his eyes shut as you move, pulling up the cotton material, exposing his abs, his chest. Your other hand continues to work him as you stretch to press your mouth to the shell of his ear.

“Good boy.”

He whines as your palm crushes his balls and inflicting a bit of pain makes your pussy clench. 

Sometimes, it feels a little bit mean to use Steven in this way, he was sweet and harmless if you take away the fact he turns into a superhero who beats up bad guys. You move both your hands to his neck, allowing him some breathing room as you feel his pulse race underneath.

You sigh, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I don’t?”

He opens one eye, sounding genuinely surprised by your admission. You shake your head, sitting back on your heels, watching as he lifts his head drunkenly.

“You sit there, looking adorable…”

Your fingers reach for the waist of his pants yet your eyes are set firmly on his face. His mouth parts, brows knotting as if he doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, all he can think about his is where your hands are. You yank the fabric down, his cock swinging, bouncing between your bellies.

“When you have this fine specimen between your legs.”

He blushes, “It— it’s not that impressive.”

Now he can’t look you in the eye so much so you place each palm to the side of his face to bring him back to you.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

You kiss his lips, slipping away before he has chance to return the favour. Your dewy lips meet the skin under his jawline, the crook of his neck.

“I’d say it’s the perfect fit.”

Your kisses trail down his chest, your hot breath teasing like licking flames.

“Just the right girth to feel that stretch…”

You place a foot on the floor as you crouch to kiss down his navel, your cheek brushing against his stiff cock.

“The exact length to hit that sweet spot.”

His cock jerked when you brought your mouth to the tip, the kiss you deliver featherlight. You hear a ragged breath, you eyes flitting up to see his chocolate eyes wide with anticipation.

“Would you like a demonstration?”

You don’t give him a chance to respond, you’re already straightening up, reaching for your own waistline. Ripping yourself from your pants, you stand there, presenting yourself to him and leaving him dumbfounded.

What he didn’t know was that you’d already prepared yourself, you had imagined how you wanted tonight to go, touched yourself whilst you were getting changed so your folds were already slick with your juices.

You straddle him and he comes back down to earth, his hands meeting the backs of your legs. Leaning forward, you nudge his curved nose with the tip of yours before kissing him squarely on the lips.

“I’m gonna show you just how good you make me feel.”

He nods enthusiastically.

Taking his cock in your hand, you rock back and forth a little, lining yourself up. You tease his tip along your folds before sinking, pushing it into your entrance, clenching the ridge between your walls.

He releases a long exhale, head falling forward to get a better look.

The pair of you moan harmoniously as you go further down, taking inch by inch slowly as you stretch to accompany him. When you settle into his lap, feel him deep inside you, you circle your hips in a figure of eight.

“How do I look?”

He peeked up at you, the glow of the television making you appear heavenly, celestial. You hook a finger under his chin and you don’t need him to say anything as he gazes upon you like all those goddesses he’d fawns over.

You bring your lips softly to his as you start rolling your hips, riding up and down without a hurry.

His hands follow your movements before they rise over the swell of your ass, skimming over your hips before wrapping around your waist. He presses his forehead to the centre of your chest, resting in the valley of your breasts.

He breaths you in, your natural scent mixed with an intoxicating aroma of spices from the perfume he’d bought you.

“Your cock feels incredible.”

Your voice breaks through the sounds of his own shallow pants, his cock twitching as the words manage to sink into that head of his. He allows every one of his senses to be engulfed by you as he pokes out his tongue to gain a taste.

“That’s it.”

Your fingers entangle in his thick locks, burying him deeper into your chest as you pick up the pace, a honeyed sigh escaping you.

Each slap of your hips echoes louder as you force your weight down on him, the tingle of your building pleasure dancing along your back. You keep riding, compliments overflowing as your tongue loosens.

Steven is pleading with himself to not come though he can feel stomach curling in on itself. His licks grow sloppy, moans more exaggerated as his heat consumes him. The hold of his arms on your waist strengthens.

“You’re taking me so well.”

You grind your mound into his frame, the delicate friction on your clit sending shockwaves across your nerve endings. Your walls tighten around his stiff length and his desperate cry vibrates through your bones.

“Not much longer, I promise.”

He holds you stronger, his nails digging into your flesh. 

You keep going, your hips finally stuttering when your legs begin to vibrate. Pulling at his scalp, he cranes his head up to look at you and though his vision was blurry around the edges, he still thought you were radiant.

His face was flushed, his saliva dribble from his bottom lip.

Neither of you spoke, all he needed was your approval, a single nod for him to find his release.

His eyes fluttered shut, the crease in the centre of his brow disappearing as his jaw slackened, a hoarse cry coming from his throat. His hips raised slightly, the tip of his cock notching deeper as his load coated your walls.

You pulsated around him, your own pleasure dissipating into a satisfying warmth.

Your hold on the back of his head relaxes and you follow the line of his jaw, thumbs rubbing his hot cheeks calmly.

“My beautiful boy.”

Three words you’d never said aloud before but ones he needed to hear.

He lifts his heavy head, eyelids drooping before a lopsided grin drew across his face.

“Nah, you’re the beautiful one,” he slurs.

The temperature rises in your cheeks and chest and immediately, you cover your face, heart skipping a beat.

“Steven!”

[bowieandqueen11]

Honeymooning With Steven Grant Would Include...

I’m so so sorry to the lovely anon who requested this - I tried to copy this into my drafts and accidentally deleted half of it :( I remember it being for honeymoon headcanons, so I hope this is alright love! 

(I do not own Moon Knight or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @marc-spectorr.)

Warning: nothing too explicit, but NSFW so 18+ please!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Do you have any idea?? How soft I am for this?? I am so soft I am YEARNING you have made me yearn god I love this concept so much

I feel like the two of you would go somewhere sunny: perhaps a couple of weeks in Egypt, staying in a nice resort by the Red Sea, since Steven is so fed up of the dreary London weather. Just a really nice spot, where the two of you can hire out a boat for the day, and he can sit holding you at the back and feed you strawberries. If he’s not too busy trying to taunt you with the fruit, or giggling like bursts of sunlight as you nip at his fingers, he’s leaning awkwardly over your head to give you a sweet upside down kiss. His lips are so plump, so tender as his top lip latches onto your bottom one, that for a moment the two of you are lost in a sweet abyss where the only thing that exists is the tart tang of each other’s mouths. Or, the poor man is holding onto your biceps for dear life, only being drawn away from your lips by the feel of the boat rocking wildly from side to side.

As twilight began to flood in, flitting past your eyes like a gliding moth chasing the last drop of the honey sun with its velvet tail, you and Steven perch up from where you’re entangled on the chaise longue. Underneath the silver flecks of the waves, a few hawksbill turtles languidly glider underneath the navy froth. Steven’s eyes immediately light up, seeming to glow like shining jewels against the strung lights hanging from the masts. ‘Turtles’, he whispers and points towards the water, turning to look at you as if he’d just seen true magic. You grip onto his finger and place his palm flatly against yours, doing your best not to laugh when he squeals and buries his head deeply into your neck. ‘Yes love’, you caress your free hand through his stubborn curls, ‘those are definitely turtles.’

He nearly loses his mind when a dolphin appears above the crest of the water line. He has to lie down for a little bit against your chest, panting like crazy and his heart racing a mile per minute because even though it’s day one, he’s becoming a bit overwhelmed by all of this bless him. You just snuggle down around him, rubbing your nose against the shell of his ear and whispering sweet nothings until he finally calms down. He looks so calm, so peaceful, with his pursed lips rising and falling in time with his chest, that you’re not too surprised when he begins to snore a few minutes later. 

He makes you leave the hotel room before dinner for a couple of minutes while he gets dressed. With an ear pressed up against the door, you ignore the weird looks you’re getting from the elderly vacationers heading down to the dining hall as you listen to the thud of Steven falling across the floor. He seems to be... jumping, probably trying to pull his trousers up quickly, which is followed by the sound of a hanger crashing onto the floor and a squeaky ‘oh, bollocks!’. You’re pressing a finger to your lips to stop yourself erupting when he finally unlatches the door, but it immediately drops down to your side when you take him in. He’s wearing his best polka dot yellow tie and sheepish smile, gazing down in terror at his feet and back up at you. He’s got a squashed box of chocolates in one hand, and a rather pressed bouquet of roses in the other; it almost takes your breath away, since he looks almost identical to the way he arrived at your doorstep for your first date. Even though you’re married now, his arm is still shaking as he offers it to you, and he still sighs a breath of relief when you loop your own through enthusiastically.

‘I’d been dreaming of this moment ever since I first put eyes on you, you know that love?’ He manages to say between shaking words as he leans you downstairs. ‘Every night. All I could blooming think about was how lucky I would be if I could hold your hand every night. You might as well pinch me right now, ‘cause I must be blinking dreaming.’

You spend a lot of your honeymoon down by the sandy strips, sharing a sun lounger and lying together underneath the warm shelter of a beach umbrella. He would read to you, his lips brushing against the tip of each with the pronunciation of each word: hot, tingly, the inside of his lip dragging against your earlobe from time to time. Eventually, when he noticed you were starting to fall asleep from where you were tucked up around his arm, he would become like a big child. He would teasingly shove you with his shoulder with a booming ‘tag, you’re it!’, before giggling as heartily as birdsong and running off across the sand. You finally manage to rugby tackle him down after a solid ten minutes of him skiting around the place, and he looks up at you as if you hung every swinging star in the sky as you hold him in place. Your legs are firm against the taut muscle of his calves, your hands pinning his trembling wrists above his head, and his breath is shaky as you press your weight against his lower abdomen, your bottom resting firmly against his groin.

He feels he’s about to pass out as you let go of his left wrist to run your fingers gingerly across the stubble of his jaw, before cupping his chin to hold in in place. He squirms beneath you, beginning to mewl as you lean down to kiss him. You’re quickly thrown to the side before lips can meet, though, as Steven manages to get you turned and shelters you from the massive wave that comes breaking onto the shore. When he looks down at you, sea water dripping down his wet hair and onto your nose with the most disappointed face in the world, you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut in laughter. 

This man is the BIGGEST softie in the world oml. You come wandering out of the bathroom that night, not expecting to see Steven biting his bottom lip and jutting his chin out. He’s muttering nervously to himself, a quiet ‘oh dear, oh dearie me’ busting out of him as he squats down and runs back and forth across the floorboards like a terrified little crab. He’s grabbing at rose petals he tried to shower across the floor, not realising the cool night breeze would burst in through the French doors and steal them away. When he notices you from the corner of his eye, he quickly straightens up, hiding the woven basket behind his back. He pretends he doesn’t know what’s going on as you walk over to him, but when you drop your towel and grab the back of his head to bring him down for a fervent kiss, the basket is quickly dropped to the floor and the jig is up.

Bro.. bro... oh my god, the body worship this man is hellbent on showing you is beyond crazy on your honeymoon. Like, dear lord, turn it up by a hundred and you might get a little closer to understanding how this emotionally vulnerable, touch starved, drowning in love man might be. I mean, Steven’s always been a giver if you know what I mean, but this is just next level. He’s so nervous though the sweetie pie, that you decide to help him out by loosening his tie. He’s nearly drooling on the floor by the time you throw it off of him, standing there like putty in your hand and just watching with lovesick eyes as you undress him. When his mind finally registers the almost inaudible pop of his shirt buttons though, he’s full on racked by whole body shivers as your palms glide the material apart from his chest. His firm pecs tighten against the feel of your bare skin against his, and behind the breathless inhale he swears he could die quite happily right now as long as you just don’t stop.

When he finally can’t take it anymore, it’s your turn to groan as he grabs onto the back of your thighs and shoves you backwards, pulling your bottom until it’s resting at the edge of the mattress. He slots his frame between your legs, knees coming down onto the floor as he buries himself between your soft flesh in ineffable bliss. Your thighs tighten around his head, and he breathes against your inner thighs as he kisses a path up them, gripping tenderly onto the back of your leg. When a little bit of extra oomph seems to overcome him, and his teeth nips across your panty line as they try to pull the seam of your underwear down, he immediately starts cooing and pressing a delicate brush of his nose against the mark, as if in apology. 

Although he’s far better around you, some nights Steven still doesn’t sleep very well. You do your best to wake him up gently on these days, unlatching him from where his legs have tumbled onto yours during the night to start the kettle going. The smell of peppermint tea always perks him straight out of his dreams, and so he curls the duvet around his head like a hedgehog diving into the soft mound of a giant marshmallow as he goes looking for you. His feet slog around the room until he reaches the kitchenette, and he feels his heart begin to fizzle and pound as if a thousand scarabs were flitting around trying to escape the mortal walls when he spots you bopping around to the static hum of the radio. He immediately scares the pants off you by wrapping his arms around your waist, joining in your dance by swaying your hips side to side in time with his own. He’s impossibly close, his warm breath tingling against your neck as he kisses you. Suddenly, you’re enveloped by darkness, realising Steven’s taking the opportunity to assimilate you into the duvet fortress as well, so he can lean down and kiss every inch of exposed skin on your face and neck as he can, with a billion rushed pecks. You finally manage to push him off by pressing your hand against his mouth, and he relents to go get some tea.

The two of you sit knee to knee, criss crossed on top of the unmade bed. ‘We’re married’, he suddenly says, sitting bolt upright as if he’d been shocked between sips from his cup. ‘Yes, Steven’, you reply as he turns to look at you with a smile of pure wonderment, ‘I remember. I was there too.’

‘But it wasn’t a dream. That actually happened. You married me. This isn’t a joke, is it?’

‘It’s not a joke, Steven. I love you’, you state plainly, grabbing onto the back of his hand.

You can see the tears begin to gather behind his bloodshot eyes, his bottom lip blubbering out as his fingers turn to grip, almost painfully, the ends of your own. ‘I love you more than everything in the universe, Y/n.’

I mean, it’s Steven Grant so you 100% go sightseeing around the place! He so delicately holds your hand on the bus, nearly vibrating out of his seat he’s so excited. He even manages to ignore the side-eyes of fellow passengers as you pass by a really exciting historic site, Steven’s shoulder butting against your own as he points out to everything through the window. He hunches over your side until he’s nearly fully leaning onto you as he begins to rush out a boatload of facts he’s learnt from his books back at home. By the end of the night he’s so exhausted he’s fully lying across both the seats, legs planted in the aisle and his head blissfully cradled in your lap. His content smile is literally beauty incarnate, and you can’t help but disturb him from his sleep by kissing the tip of his nose. He replies by latching onto your top lip when you go to pull away, pressing his tongue tiredly against your own before flopping back against your knee as if he’d just won the lottery.

Steven definitely makes you take silly photographs in front of everything you go to see: the picture he took of you jumping in front of the pyramids past Cairo end up pinned on the wall next to his fish tank. After he kisses you goodbye in the mornings before work, it’s become part of his routine to also press a kiss against your cheek in the picture <3

Although he did manage to come round one of the market stalls holding a stray cat in his arms. With pleading eyes, he sounded like he was about to burst out crying as he looked at you, sniffling.

‘Can we keep him?’

‘Steven, how are we supposed to smuggle a cat back in our suitcase??’

‘He can have my plane seat instead, I don’t mind :(’

He tugs you down back alleys during your last few days in Egypt, running down cobblestoned streets hand in hand, flying across the dusty ground like loose kites free in the breeze. He’s on the hunt for a second hand bookstore: one he gets lost in almost immediately. You finally manage to find him hunched over by a knobbly looking bookshelf in a dusty side crevice near the back of the small shop. You have to literally hitch yourself over a pile of pretty worn, ancient looking encyclopaedias, shimmy past a dusty looking globe, and brush through a gap between two lined oaken bookshelves before you spot him. He doesn’t realise you’re behind him until your arms are squeezing around his soft belly, and you’re kissing the bunched material between his shoulder blades. His hand comes up to squeeze your fingers as he gives you a loving, slightly embarrasssed ‘oh! Hello love! Fancy seeing you here!’

He becomes even more shocked when, after you’ve finished resting your nose against his back and just breathing him in for a moment, you spin him round to face you. His eyes widen as he drops the book he was looking at onto his feet, but the confusion is quickly replaced by his features melting into one of intoxication as you press a lingering kiss against the side of his mouth. His eyes are blinking slowly, trying to shut as he crumples against your chest, his elbow knocking backwards and nearly knocking over a few piles of books domino style.

He literally tells you he loves you at least ten times a day. It just blurts out of him, as if he’s going to burst if he doesn’t get to say it. Baby. Baby boy. He deserves this forever love, and has wished for nothing more since the two of you first met.

[panic-in-the-multiverse]

Venom

Pairings: father Miguel O’Hara x gn!teen!venom!reader, Venom x teen!reader

Imagine: what it would be like to be Miguel’s son and a spider-man along with venom, spider-venom? Idk guys

Warnings: mention of death, mention of parent death, mention of injuries, father Miguel O’Hara, idk what else, not proofread

A/N keep in mind the first part of this is before Gabriella died. Second I am aware that Miguel has a son somewhere out there in the comics, third don’t mind me referencing Moon Knight in some parts, lastly this is actually based on one of my ocs, but I made this fic x reader instead :)

Side note: I did imagine reader to be male (like my oc is) but I made it gn!reader so that everyone can read it

You lived on earth-TRN1042 (is that the name, it was when I searched it up, might be wrong tho), with you father Miguel O’Hara and your sister Gabriella O’Hara

Your canon event as tragic as it is was to watch as your father died — which would eventually lead you to become Spider-Man

You’d been bitten a few days prior and was still adjusting to the whole power thing

But we are getting ahead of ourselves, Here’s the thing Miguel (earth-928) lost his family on his earth and when he found out a way to go into other earths he found your earth. The one where he still had a happy family

His original plan was to just watch from afar, but when your father died, Miguel made the rash decision to take your fathers place, which didn’t go as smoothly as he thought, after all you had watched your father die

At first you thought you were going crazy when you first saw Miguel, apparently he’d been with your sister all day. You didn’t trust him one but, you knew for a fact your father was dead so when you saw him playing with Gabriella and her dolls you were in shock, you’d told Gabriella to go to her room, once she did the interrogation started, you’d felt your father take his last breath so you sure as hell would find out who this imposter was.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your father”

“No, no, no, no, I watched my father die, who are you?”

Miguel knew you wouldn’t stop your interrogation until you knew what was going on, this led to him giving you a long explanation about different earths, his family and everything in between, how he got his powers and literally his whole life story, only to ensure that you would let him stay, he wouldn’t stay against your wishes

You let him stay, not only because you knew what loss felt like, but you hadn’t told Gabriella yet and you didn’t know how you could tell her that her actual father was dead, and it would prove to be good to have an adult raise your little sister with you, so you let Miguel stay, eventually you saw him as your father too, Gabrielle being none the wiser when it came to her fathers true identity.

The first time you called Miguel “dad” or something alike, he was overjoyed

Miguel didn’t really enjoy you going out to beat bad guys up but he never told you not to, he knew why you did it so he never stopped you, and he used to do it so it would be kinda hypocritical of him to force you to stop, instead he’d be at home, and every time you snuck in through your window you could find Miguel in the living room ready to patch you up, telling you of every time for being reckless and getting hurt so many times

Don’t be offended when he calls you an “reckless idiot” (he’d probably say it in Spanish though) when you get home nearly half dead (Miguel might of overreacted a bit)

It was around this time when you started to get memory gaps from time to time, some fights you didn’t even remember how you defeated the enemy, and some days you woke up in an alleyway, (kinda like Steven in episode one of moon knight)

Before it all went to shit I’d like to think that Miguel gave up on the spider-man part of him and was just a single dad with his two kids working a boring job — not at Alcehmax, he won’t do that mistake again

You all lived rather peacefully for the most part, you’d help Gabriella get better at football/soccer, going to an ice cream shop every time after one of Gabriella’s matches, loss or win didn’t matter there was always ice cream after a match.

And then in a single day it all got taken away from you, in just a couple of minutes all you had ever known was gone

Your whole earth started to disappear along with the people in it, you’d been out on your daily spider-man patrols when it happened, you saw your father/Miguel running with Gabriella and so instead of trying to stop whatever was happening — or more like knowing you couldn’t stop it as you had no clue what it was — you went into the direction of your family.

And when your sister disappeared you didn’t know what to do anymore, Miguel at least able to think somewhat took your hand and soon enough you were on earth-928, and from a screen you watched as your dimension disappeared into nothingness

This left many questions and problems but the question you were mostly focused on was the fact that you hadn’t disappeared

Turns out the spider that bit you had bonded (idk if this works but it does now) with a symbiote — Venom — who was from another earth, and when the spider bit you, you’d not only gained spider-powers but Venom transferred over to you and the two of you bonded, this changed your DNA and caused you to be able to coexist on your own earth along with the earth that Venom was from (does this make sense ain’t got a single clue)

Turns out Venom hadn’t made an appearance (to your knowledge and Miguel’s) because he protected you whenever you couldn’t yourself, and all those memory gaps that you had was the times that Venom had taken over (you know kinda like Jake with Steven and Marc in Moon Knight)

Fast forward a bit and you’d joined the spider-society

You had learned to coexist with Venom, it took some time but it worked out in the end, at first people would think you were crazy as you yelled at nothing (except for you you were talking to Venom who was speaking inside your mind), a lot of spider-people stayed away from you not wanting to be near Venom as he is supposed to be a villain, but when they realized you were one of the good guys they stopped avoiding you and Venom

Venom would deny it to his grave but he is extremely protective over you, if anyone hurt you he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt/kill/eat them

Miguel also became way more protective, after he lost Gabriella he only had you left and he would only send you out on the easy missions — that is until you snuck out on one of their worsts missions and got hurt because no one else new you were there — cue Miguel letting you go on dangerous missions so that you wouldn’t sneak out again and possibly die, at leas if he knew where you were he could make sure you didn’t die.

Not only did Miguel become more grumpy and strict with all the rules, you also become a lot more grumpy as you grieved your sister, and friends

And then all the shit with Miles happened but that’s for part 2,3 (part 2 siding with Miles, part 3 siding with Miguel idk which will come out first)

[angel-of-the-moons]

A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc, Steven, Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Guilt, grief, angst, some self-harm tendencies

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger last chapter aslhdlshl enjoy this one to compensate for it! This one feels.... All over the place I'm so sorry if it doesn't make any sense, y'all! 😭😭😭

Taglist: @bad4amficideas @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @lokisremainingsanity @mundivagantsoul @furblrwurblr @zoleea-exultant @latenightcravingz @daygirl26 @thelastemzy @leahnicole1219 @marsmallow433 @crazyunsexycool @oscarissac2099 @littlenosoul @animechick555 @capsiclesworldsblog @cloudroomblog @lov3vivian @princessakirika @fog-sama @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @badbishsblog @lillycore555 @stardream14 @meowmeowyoongles @kate-ohara @kittenlover614 @patchesofwork @enheduannasposts

Chapter 14:

Chaos

You woke up that morning crying. A stone settled in place of your heart, thudding around your ribcage to the point you felt pain.

Did he reject you? What was it he was so afraid of? Who was this "He" the boy mentioned? Why was he so scared to let you be close to him?

What was going on?

You wanted to scream, you wanted to hit something. But all you could manage to do was sob into Puck's velvet fur.

The feline sensed your discomfort, licking you with her sandpaper tongue, rubbing her head on your cheek in her best efforts to soothe you. You were aching from a wound you couldn't place, an injury you couldn't bandage.

Puck's tongue scraped the inside of your wrist, right where your soulmark was. It was still there. So it wasn't a rejection... a... a warning, maybe?

You felt the stone lurch from your heart and lodge itself into your throat. He was trying to protect you. From whatever he was afraid of, you were certain, but...

You were soulmates. You should be there for him, to make him feel safe. You couldn't do that when you were children; you lived such vastly different lives... But god damn it all, you needed to be there for him, now.

Your heart throbbed as Puck purred and rubbed her head over your mark. The top moon was full, today; whatever that meant, you still had no idea.

You only wish you knew his name.

You heaved a sigh. It was a rather slow day today. You weren't surprised.... it was beginning to get colder out. Sleet had crusted over into ice, so navigating sidewalks had become tricky.

Puck purred happily, content to snuggle in your wadded up sweater on the table by the door as she groomed herself.

"It must be nice to not have to worry about stuff like soulmates, bills, taxes..." You sigh, chin resting in your hand as you watched her simply exist in feline bliss. "You just sit there and lick your tummy and your little butt, eat your dreamies..." The cat didn't seem to pay any mind to your one-sided conversation.

Puck would occasionally turn from you (and her grooming) to look out the window. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear she was waiting for someone. But sadly, it looked as if nobody was to come into your shop, today. Nobody was interested in trekking out in the frigid conditions to buy an old musty romance novel.

Layla mentioned that she had some sort of important business to attend to here in London, so you knew that whatever it was was very likely more important than coming to hang around your shop and chat over tea or coffee.

You hadn't seen Jake in a while, Marc and Steven for longer. You were beginning to miss all three of them, they were the most interesting people you'd ever met; and you missed the enthusiastic conversations between you and Steven, the reserved talks with Marc over some stupid shows on the telly, even the silly conversations you'd have with Jake, asking what he was knitting or working on next...

Your routine had become droll, tiring... where it had been previously a joy to do, it has now become a tedious thing you wished you could pass to someone else for a little while. You looked down at your wrist after pulling up your sleeve, at your mark.

The top moon was full. The bottom right was a quarter full, and the one on the bottom left was practically a sliver. You wondered what that meant. Was it an emotional gauge? Was he upset? Happy? Sad?

God, all you wanted was to hold him, let him scream and cry his feelings out, let him just feel... safe and vulnerable, for once in his life without feeling like he was going to be abused for it afterwards. You wanted him to trust you, to know that you were never going to hurt him, but... He had been so abused that you weren't sure if he even knew how to trust anymore. At least not entirely.

And who was this "He" that he was talking about? Whoever it was, how could he possibly assume this "person" was sending you to torment him? How was that possible? Why was he so scared of him? Was he his current abuser or--

You almost jumped when the bell dinged, your hands slapping onto your counter as the chilly air washed in, drowning out the heating for a moment as it swung back closed.

Your eyebrows rose when you see...

"Marc?"

He spun, turning to face you, his eyes sunken, glassy, his hair not as styled as he usually kept it. He cleared his throat and straightened up, running a hand through the rebellious curls to smooth them out. (Yeah, that was not happening.)

"Uh--yeah. Hey." He said a little too quickly, rubbing his hands together; he looked at Puck, his eyes widening as the black little creature stood up, meowing loudly at him, hopping to balance herself on the back of the booth before nudging her head against his elbow. "I, uh..."

Your brows furrowed as you took in his rather... "wet poodle" state. His hair was messy not because he hadn't styled it, but because it was positively soaked. In fact... He was soaked. You could see the dark wet patches in his jacket and pants and shirt as he fumbled about nervously.

"Oh, my god! Marc!" You gasped, almost tripping yourself as you rushed over to him, a tea towel in hand as you began to pat his shoulders, "You're going to catch your death!"

"Oh, if only." He muttered, not looking you in the eyes. That statement caught you completely off-guard.

Something was... off. He didn't seem like himself, despondent--scatter-brained, even.

"Marc, that's not..." You shook your head, wiping some frigid droplets from his cheekbones. "Look, what were you doing? You're soaking wet, it's almost the dead of winter. You could get frostbite."

"I'm fine, uh--coffee." He babbled, his eyes finally tracking yours; the umber depths uneasy.

"Huh?"

"Oh, I mean... Can I please have some coffee? I--don't want to go to one of the cafes, today. Too crowded, to loud, too..."

"Overwhelming?" You supplied.

"Yeah, uh..." He watched as you laid the towel on his shoulder, walking around him to the front door of your shop. You flipped the sign in the door to "closed" and locked the door, "What are you doing?"

"Come on, I'm taking you up to my flat." You say, tugging his wet sleeve, "I know I have some sleep clothes that should fit you; you're going to get sick if you don't get out of those clothes! We can have coffee while your clothes are in the wash."

"But, I--but--" He stuttered as you closed the register, locking it as well and turning off the coffee pots off, too. You could live with it if you had to toss them; but you certainly didn't want to have to scour the pots because you let the coffee scorch when you walked away to tend to your friend.

"Oh, please." You snort at him, untying your apron and setting it on the counter. "Jake couldn't talk me out of dragging him up there, you sure won't."

Marc's head rocked back as you smiled, hands on hips. "Wait, what? Jake went to your... when did he--?"

"Couple weeks ago. Caught the dork trying to eat some pre-packaged meal for dinner." You shrug, "Dragged him back here and made him a proper meal."

"I... he, uh... he didn't mention that." Marc replied, mumbling as he rubbed at his arm, looking over at Puck, whom still continued to rub up against Marc.

He seemed... weirded out by the little cat. Puck liked him already, which made you happy. You'd hoped she would get along with Marc and Steven as well as she had with Jake; especially after that day where she attacked that poor student and clawed up your arms.

Marc squirmed, feeling like a bug under a microscope. He had been restless, ever since that last dream he'd had with... her. Something inside of him had been rubbed raw--painful. It always had him on a livewire; jumpy at a moment's notice.

As he opened his mouth, Puck leapt at him. Marc instinctively flailed at first, but then went to cradle her as she scrambled to nest in his arms. "I, uh... think she likes me."

You laughed, clapping your hands as you giggled, "Oh, yeah... I think she's got a little crush on you!"

Marc pursed his lips tightly, squirming once more as you tugged his sleeve, pulling him behind you to the back of your shop, through the winding labyrinth of bookshelves and to the door that led upstairs to your flat.

You smiled at him over your shoulder, "Relax, Marc. I'm not gonna kill you or anything."

He wasn't sure how it happened, why it happened, or even... Shit, where was he going with this?

All he knew was, that one minute he was walking--just... walking through the parks and streets of London, not bothering with an umbrella. The icy sleet had chilled and numbed him, as it often did when he ran away from home as a boy.

The icy weather of Chicago would soothe the burns, the cuts, the bruises--would numb the injuries so he didn't have to worry about them for the time being. His feet carried him, not knowing where he was going, or what awaited him when he finally stopped.

He hadn't even expected to wind up at your shop, but when he finally felt the pain creep into his fingertips; the frigid sensation of his hands beginning to lock up snapping him out of the spell of guilt he was drowning himself in. He was cold; and, well... he knew you had one of his favorite coffee flavors stocked, and would likely welcome some form of company on a slow and dreary day like today.

He didn't want to go back to the flat; the air in the place felt stifling. And with Layla taking the shift of daylight crime-fighting with Taweret for Khonshu, he didn't want to be alone.

Steven was just barely aware of what was going on, hardly even a fly on the wall at the moment. And he hadn't heard from Jake since that night he woke up with his hands wrapped around Layla's throat.

Marc was practically alone, today. And he didn't like that, not when he's been so upset. Steven was aware of the dreams he'd been having, and how Marc had scared off the woman in his dreams, forcing her out, pushing her away.

Steven had chewed him out majorly over it when he found out; lecturing Marc. That the poor woman didn't deserve to be rebutted without a reason, that she was likely confused and hurt... And Marc had to agree. They just couldn't risk that poor kind soul being swallowed into the darkness that had almost claimed him forever.

But he didn't want her to be drawn into this magical, gods-involved bullshit, too. He'd suffered enough when he let Layla get mired in this mess, he didn't want someone innocent and normal to suffer, too. Even if it hurt them.

And now, somehow... he was here. In your flat. That Jake had been in your home, too. A part of him wondered when exactly it happened, too. And what exactly transpired between you two.

A part of him was worried that you and Jake had slept together, and the thought almost enraged Marc. He wasn't sure why, but imagining Jake doing that to you, was... well. Let's just say he was happy to have his mind preoccupied with the small black cat in his lap, kneading his thighs through the fuzzy pajama pants he now wore.

The clothes you'd supplied him were pajamas you had bought on a whim at a thrift store. You hadn't had a chance to wear them after you bought them, so they sat in a drawer in your bedroom for the past month-and-a-half. They fit Marc almost perfectly, and he was grateful for that. He didn't exactly want to wear hot pink short-shorts with unicorn heads on them and a spaghetti strap.

He would have rather kept his soaked clothes, if you had insisted he wear something like that. He wanted to keep his dignity, thank you very much.

You set a fresh mug of coffee down on the table in front of him, grinning as you dropped onto the cushions next to him, "Your clothes are almost done in the wash. Then I can pop them into the dryer and you're all set."

"Thanks." Marc replied on a mutter, carefully leaning over to grab the mug and not displace little Puck. He'd already gotten a little attached to her. He wasn't allowed pets as boy; a rule of his father's because they might destroy the furniture. Sure, he had Gus n co., but he couldn't exactly pick up one of the pudgy goldfish and give them a pet, now could he?

"So," You said, sipping at your own mug and hoping to lighten the mood. "How was your trip?"

"My... trip?" Marc asked, sipping the bitter brew. He was thankful you'd left it black, with only a few lumps of sugar; especially since that was how he liked it.

"Yeah, Jake said you and Steven took a trip to the States. To show him around where you grew up? He mentioned that Steven had been curious about it for some time." You said, your brow quirking upwards curiously. "He said he and Layla stayed behind to... feed your fish?"

"Oh! Oh, right! That trip, uh..." He swallowed nervously. Of course Jake had to come up with an excuse as to why he and Steven had been "absent" the past few weeks. He couldn't exactly tell you that he needed to give his headmates a mental vacation from all their stress, hmm?

"It was... fine. Showed Steven some, uh--some baseball games, and some parks. He uhh... had fun in the museums."

"Of course he did," You chuckled with a shake of your head, "How was it for you? Did you two and... see your parents?"

Marc's jaw tensed, and for a moment you thought you'd overstepped your boundaries, pushed a button you shouldn't have as his hand shook slightly, the coffee sloshing bit by bit. Did something happen?

However, as quick as that shift in his demeanor appeared, if washed away like the sand being beaten back by the tide, and Marc was back to his previous self.

He shook his head, "Our, uh--my mom died a while ago. Had a bit of a falling out with my dad after that, so..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to..." You cringed, "I'm sorry."

Marc rolled his shoulder stiffly, a little perturbed when you called him "honey". He wasn't sure why it made him lightly uncomfortable, or made a tickle creep around in his belly like a spider frantically crawling around its web when prey was trapped within.

"It's fine. We're adults, and... Steven, Jake and I all respect each other's space, now." He sighed.

"I'm sorry you guys didn't get to grow up together."

Marc looked up at you from his mug to see you frowning into your own. Your eyes looked... tired. Exhausted. Was work getting that tiring for you? Had another rude bastard barged into your shop when he wasn't aware? If somebody laid a hand on you...

"It's fine." He said once again. "As long as... you know. We're together now, that's what really counts, right?"

"Yeah, you're family, right? It's good to keep them close." You say, locking eyes with him and smiling. He found himself smiling back, your energy infectious, and nodded.

"Yeah... Yeah."

You heard the phone by the door ring, and you groaned. Marc found the childish reaction a little endearing, and snorted softly when you apologized to go and answer it.

He sighed, setting his mug down and going to stroke Puck's fur. She stared past your open bedroom door, her fur standing on end. "Hey, hey, sweetie, what's wrong?" Marc asked the little cat. Something had her upset, and it had him wanting to coo to the animal, to stroke her chin and soothe her.

Until... he looked up. And saw exactly what was upsetting her.

There, perched at the edge of your bed, was Khonshu.

He tipped his head to the side, huffing in amusement. "I thought I'd find you here. I am not surprised. You are drawn to any sense of normality like water is to a sponge."

The dim light in your bedroom made him look spooky--the dreary daylight barely filtering into the room past the cracks in your curtains to cast rays across his body. His massive staff lay across his shoulder, his arm hanging on it casually. As if he had been her a number of times before.

Maybe he had. Marc had to wonder just how many times.

Marc chewed his bottom lip, looking at you. You had your back turned to him, chattering into the receiver at whomever was on the other end. His heart beat faster and faster.

When he looked back, Khonshu was standing over him, and Puck had her back arched, growling very lowly in her tiny throat.

No. No, no, no, no. Not here.

"I have been curious about her for some time, I must admit. Curious as to why you three seem to gravitate towards her."

No.

Not you.

"This fallacy is pathetic. You cannot have a normal life. Anyone you get close to is doomed to suffer." He stomped his staff on the floor, scaring Puck away to hide under the coffee table. "Leave this woman be, Marc."

"Go. Away." Marc hissed softly, standing up from the couch, his hand trembling and his jaw clenching. He wanted to shout, wanted to punch, wanted to knock his stupidly large beak askew. But he couldn't risk blowing it all out of the water in front of you...

His eyes kept flitting over to you, blissfully ignorant of the terrifying entity within your home. A place you should have been safe.

A place... that they--that he--had brought Khonshu into.

His fists clenched at each other, shaking as he tried to keep his rage in check. No. No, no, no. No!

"You cannot swat me aside like the fly you wish I was, Marc Spector." Khonshu leaned back, his head just barely brushing the ceiling. "You cannot lock me out of anywhere you do not wish me to be."

Puck hissed, yowling as she skittered out from her hiding place, to run over to you. She turned, facing Khonshu, her back arched and tail puffed out as she spit and hissed, swatting towards him.

"Pesky little creatures. I cannot stand them, sometimes. Must she always harass me when it suits her?" Khonshu growled, stomping over to where you were.

Marc immediately moved, his eyes wide and frantic as you turned around.

You couldn't see Khonshu, that much was obvious. But Puck could. You set the phone down and hung up, looking at your feline companion with confusion. Spotting Marc standing, his hands outstretched as if he were about grab something. You tilted your head to the side, smiling awkwardly as you reach down to pet Puck, but she spits and hissed, swatting at something that didn't seem to be there.

It couldn't be Marc, even if she was facing him. She had just been coiled up and snuggled in his lap for the past half hour! What on Earth could have triggered this?

"I... I'm sorry. The phone was, uh... A shipment I put a bid on, recently, and..." You say bashfully, rubbing the back of your neck, watching Puck. "I'm beginning to think my place might be haunted, ha ha... she's been staring off into space and growling at nothing, lately. Don't, uh, please don't take it personally?"

You began to babble, feeling a cold sweat erupt in your palms, rubbing them together. You weren't sure why there was so much tension in the air, the aura of it weighing down on your shoulders like a lead blanket.

"I, uh... ehm. I feel like maybe I should call a priest, right? Ha ha..."

You were completely unaware of the god looming down; so close to you that he would touch you if he reached out. And Marc knew he didn't want Khonshu's rotting, horrible hands to touch you. His robes flowed around you, curling and undulating on the floor like papery tentacles. One of his hands began to lift, almost gently curious as he reached for your hands.

"No! Get the hell away from her!" Marc shouted, rushing forwards to push you back, his bare feet slapping on the polished wood as he used his body to shield you, thrusting his hand out to ward off whatever it was he apparently saw.

Puck hissed, launching herself at Khonshu, hopping on her little paws to spit and hiss, making the deity growl and step back, looking down at Marc with what he could feel was a sense of superciliousness, superiority. "She will inevitably become wise to this, Marc. Do not try and keep her from me. It will end badly for you."

"Shut up, shut up!" Marc shouted, curling in on himself, slapping his head over and over. "No! No, no, no, no, no! Fuck you! You won't hurt her, too! She's our friend!"

You grasped Marc by the sleeve, disturbed by the scene unfolding in front of you, forcing him to turn towards you. "Marc! Marc, who are you talking to? What's wrong?"

"No! Stop..." Marc whimpered, watching out of the corners of his eyes as Puck continued to thrash at Khonshu, only serving to irritate the god into vanishing in a puff of mist. Puck growled lowly, walking in a little circle; checking to see if he was still hanging around.

"Marc? Marc, it's okay! What--"

"No, I can't stay here. This was a mistake." He choked, turning to make a dash for your front door, his hand wrapping around the knob, not even caring about his clothes still in your washer.

"I'm sorry..."

How could he be so stupid? Of course Khonshu would stalk him! Of course the old bastard would try to use you, the one normal thing in their lives against them! He should have known!

He did know, and still he made the stupid decision to get close to you; Jake, too, damn it! And now you were on his radar, now he would inevitably interfere with your life, put you in danger!

Why.

Why was the man known as Marc Spector such a curse on those around him?

Ever since he was a boy, he was a plague. He hurt people, even if he didn't intend to.

"Marc, stop!"

Your voice was drowned out by the pounding in his ears, his blood rushing like a waterfall.

(Marc, no!)

But before he could stop himself, halfway out of your flat, Steven surged within him, trying to project his gentle and calming influence into the frantic and fearful Marc.

It wasn't working.

"Marc!" You gasped as you watched him suddenly tense, jerk his head back a little, and seize, beginning to fall forwards with his eyes rolled back; towards your stairs. Instinctively, you reached out and gripped the back of his sleep shirt you'd let him wear, clinging to him with all your might as his body went limp and he began to stumble.

You were fast enough that you were able to haul him back, tumbling with a loud thump! to your floor, your tailbone now aching as you cradled an unconscious Marc.

Your chest ached; pain radiating through you. Half of you wanted to run and call 999; the other half demanded--no, screamed--that you check on your friend. Hefting him up a little to rest his head on your lap, Puck was right there, sitting on Marc's chest and staring at him with wide eyes, her ears flattened back and her tail tucked.

You grab his face, ignoring how your heart felt like it was about to explode. "Marc? Marc, talk to me!" You pleaded.

"Oh, please, please, please, please don't tell me you had a seizure and be dead!" You begged, beginning to tremble with hysteria as your eyes watered and burned. What happened? What had caused this outburst? Did he really have a seizure?

And thankfully, much to your relief, his eyes opened and he made a loud gasp, his back arching as he sat up straight, Puck fleeing to sit on the floor to stare at the both of you.

"Oh, thank god!" You cried, wrapping your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"Oh, uh... oh, bollocks." An unmistakably accented voice blabbered out; heavy hands gently patting your back. "I, uh--eh--s-sorry, luv... Oh... Oh, this is a mite awkward, innit?"

You pulled away from him, then--your eyes wide as you grip his shoulders, staring into his eyes. Much softer than Marc's, sweeter... almost innocent. You felt like the floor had opened up beneath you.

"Steven?"

Chapter 15: Link

[scarletttries]

NSFW Headcanon Request: Steven Grant (Moon Knight)

Pairing: Steven Grant x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.8k (Explicit)

Request: "If you are still taking requests from the prompt list… what about Steven Grant and the Alleyway/Alley corner? I recently found your blog and it is *chefs kiss*"

Steven Grant + Alley/Alleyway: (prompt list here)

- Working under the guidance of an ancient Egyptian goddess was hard enough, without having to track one of your counterparts halfway across the globe every time he had a crisis of confidence. Marc Spector had been a thorn in your side for years on the job, his stubborn and erratic personality making him a nightmare to work with and the last person you'd willingly spend time with.

- So when you landed in London and started tailing him to see what shit he was pulling before you made your move, you could hardly believe the the change you saw in him - his arrogance facade faded into a sweetheart who took pride in showing little kids around a museum and helping them pick out toys, even if it seemed like a bittersweet irony that he always strayed into the Egyptian exhibits first. The man had become a creature of habit, taking the same route to and from work every day, stopping at the same places, and generally being far too easy to track for your liking.

- You were sure it was a trap, some fucked up game Marc was playing with you, but that didn't stop you deciding enough was enough and confronting him one night. He'd just finished his shift at the museum, leaving late after being punished with inventory, and as always got the bus back to his side of town. You were sure he'd noticed you sat with your back to him on the bus, but he chose not to say a word which only left you feeling more confused about this game of cat and mouse.

- Finally he slipped down the dimly lit alley that took him almost all the way home, footsteps speeding up slightly, like subconsciously he could sense that he wasn't alone on his journey.

"Marc!" You called out, stepping into the alleyway and blocking his path, his strict daily pattern making him just too easy to intercept. You expected him to start running, to scale the walls beside you, but instead you just heard a quivering voice, with a slightly unplaceable accent, reply,

"Umm, my name's Steven. With a v."

- As you strode closer the cowering man didn't back away, or even try to move a muscle, his wide eyes tracing over your silhouette as he took you in, surprised by the colour flushing to his cheeks and his rumbled brain choosing your beauty to focus on above all else.

"Fuck off Marc, you don't think i'm falling for that do you? We have work to do." You sighed frustratedly, feeling a tinge of guilt as he shook his head vigorously, eyes apologetic and soft, the antithesis of every interaction you'd had with Marc Spector.

"I'm really sorry, I don't know who that is, but I promise I'm just Steven, and we've never met before. Except you were on the bus before right?"

"So you did notice me tailing you?" You countered quickly, trying to get the truth behind the spark of recognition in his eyes. He gulped and nodded, suddenly very self conscious,

"It's hard not to notice a woman as pretty as you."

- His gentle smile, the warmth in his words, the slight hint of both fear and excitement in his eyes, this was definitely not Marc - and you were starting to feel more and more pleased with that fact as you let a smile creep across your cheeks, like everything that bothered you about Marc was reversed here, but in same gorgeous muscled package that you'd wanted to get a better look at for years.

- You only had to take two steps forward before Steven backed himself against the wall, desperately confused by the overlapping feelings of intimidation and arousal building up inside him, sure no-one had ever looked at him quite this way before, the happiest a deer has ever been to be in headlights.

"You're not so bad yourself Steven with a v, and SO much more charming than the guy I was looking for." You purred, inching forward until your body brushed lightly against his, the contact enough to know he was just as interested as you are.

- He didn't know quite how he ended up here, but Steven's mentally cheering himself on for managing not to mess this up yet, confident that anything else he says might be the thing that scares you away - not that you seem like the kind of person who's ever scared really. So he decides not to open his lips again, and instead listens to the voice in his head that tells him to lean forwards, setting his lips lightly against yours, testing the tempting waters he'd let himself sink straight beneath.

- You're leaning into him in no time, fingers trailing through his hair as your lips part, tongue taking control of the kiss and showing him he really doesn't need to be gentle with you. It's been a long time since you'd been able to take a break from work to have a little fun, and even if you still have to hunt down Marc, you can take a night off to enjoy a sweet British guy who takes way too long to build up the nerve to put his hands on your waist.

- You use your arms looped around his neck to pull his body flush against yours, grinding your hips against him and swallowing the whimper he lets out in response. His eyes are clenched shut as he tries to keep some semblance of self-control, mortified by each of the soft moans that slip out at every brush of your hips, determined not to let this opportunity get away from him. He lets his hands drift down your hips, skimming over your thighs as one gingerly reaches under your skirt, stopping when it finds the wet patch starting to form on your panties in all the anticipation.

"Bloody hell love." He breathes out as he starts to toy with you through the slick fabric, the sweet noises his touch elicits emboldening him to apply more pressure, rubbing firm circles over your clit, feeling your breath falter against him. He captures your lips in a greedy kiss as slips his fingers inside the fabric, his thumb returning to your clit as two fingers slide inside you, the delicious stretch almost enough to buckle your knees. His free hand keeps you pinned to his chest as works you up, every touch leaving you panting against him, your kiss trailing to his neck, leaving a bruise he'll wear with endless pride tomorrow.

- As his relentless pace starts to build the pressure inside your core, your thighs tremble again, making it harder and harder for you to keep upright in his arms, his own aching need growing inside his straining trousers. When he hears you moan out his name, he decides it's now or never, taking his hand away just short of your bliss, the whine that escapes your throat entirely involuntary.

"Just a second love, I'll be all yours again soon." Despite his clear power over you, he still stumbles over the words as he glances over his shoulder before undoing his belt, slipping his trousers down just far enough for his throbbing manhood to spring free, the cold night air making him hiss through his teeth at the sensation. Dropping to his knees he places a constellation of gentle kisses on your inner thigh as he slides your soaked panties down your leg, handling you oh so delicately as he helps you step free of them, stuffing them in his pocket before bringing his lips to sensitive skin again.

"You really know how to make a girl weak in the knees." You praised, surprised by the sweet giggle your comment drew from the man. The comment spurred him on to pull your thighs around his waist, rising back to his feet and pressing you against the wall behind you, now face to face again with so little fabric between you.

- Reading the uncertainty on his face you quickly nodded, squeezing your legs around him until you felt him start to slide inside of you, his fingers barely doing his size justice. Pure elation flashed across his face as you moaned out his name, the way he filled you quickly bringing your building pleasure back to the brink again. His hands gripped your ass hard as his hips bucked against you, sharp thrusts fucking into you over and over, his lips hungrily swallowing yours like he'd been starved pf the sweet affections of a kiss for as long as he could remember.

You grabbed at his broad shoulders, struggling to stay upright as his pace quickened, holding off his own release with everything he had before he could give you everything you needed. You were grateful he lived a pretty quiet side of town, the noise of the two of you echoing through the alley, the danger of getting caught only heightening all your senses as Steven's needy whines grew with the frantic pace of his hips, fighting his release but losing the battle in such a salaciously hot situation. You couldn't help but think you might need to extend your time in London to find out what other talents this Steven held, all thoughts of Marc long gone as a his new heavy rhythm brushed just the right spot inside you to have your head rolling back against the cold brick wall as you clenched down around him, your release all the more satisfying for his immediately following it. He clung to you like you were the first life preserver he'd been thrown in a very long storm, panting and moaning as your waves of pleasure seemed to ripple straight through him too, his lips chasing yours even as he desperately struggled to fill his lungs.

- As you come down from your high you'd have to tap him on the shoulder,

"Steven, you can put me down now." Straight back to bashful and embarrassed he'd apologize and pull out of you, cursing the whimper he let out as he finally left your soft warm entrance, dropping to the floor to ensure you were safely back on your feet, and feeling his heart do a flip as he caught a glimpse of his cum starting to drip out of your pussy and onto your thigh.

- By the time he's started to redress himself you're halfway down the alley, disappearing into the dark, leaving him calling after you,

"Am I going to see you again?" He wants to shout your name, but realises he never found it out.

"Maybe. I know where to find you Steven with a v." You replied without looking back, smirking to yourself at the thought of showing up at his door any time you wanted. You only missed the proud smile he gave himself as he pulled your underwear out of his pocket, knowing he'll struggle to think of anything else on his lonely nights now, mumbling to himself 'more like Steven without a v.'

[astroboots]

Cherry Lips

Summary: Steven really likes your lipstick.

Content: Inappropriate use of lipstick, messy blowjobs because like L'oreal, Steven is worth it.

Word Count: 2.4k

Author's notes: Inspired by this beautiful piece of artwork by @guruan-is-not-here

ASTROBOOT’S MASTERLIST | MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST

The lipstick you're planning on wearing tonight is a striking shade of red. The shocking brightness of a stop traffic light. The bursting richness of pomegranates. Eye catching, alarming and dreamy all at once. It's your favourite and they stopped manufacturing it a while back.

Since you can't up and buy it anymore, you only pull it on special occasions. The last time you've worn it was at a close friend's wedding. You're not going to any churches or galas tonight, just the local cinema, which isn't an extraordinary occasion that justifies pulling out the old favourite shade. But it doesn't have to be the location that's special. Sometimes, what matters is the company you're with. And who is more special to you than Steven?

You're standing in front of the mirror that hangs over your hallway. On an ordinary day, when you're standing here on your own, the tiny hall can already feel a bit cramped, considering the size of your micro-studio of a London flat. Today though?

Today, the way that Steven is standing behind you, almost plastered to your back, you can barely maneouvre your hand far enough to apply the lipstick without jabbing your elbow into his eyesocket.

"Steven, shouldn't you be getting ready too?" you say, in a gentle attempt to goad him into moving into the main space of your flat. But Steven stays unmoving.

He can't hear you.

Mouth dropped open, jaw slack, he's staring at your mirrored reflection with wide-eyed attention.

You turn around and tilt your head in his direction to try to catch his attention. But even though he's staring right at you, he remains frozen. Trapped in some spell, his eyes are vacant. You have to repeat his name for a second and third time and even then the only physical reaction you get from him is a hard swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in the hollow of his throat. 

At this pace, you're going to have to break out the smelling salts to snap him out of it. 

"Steven, everything alright?"

"Red," he murmurs, and you squeeze your eyebrows in confusion at his lack of coherence. 

"Your lipstick..." he sounds almost dazed. "It's very... red–very pretty! It's very pretty I mean, it looks amazing on you."

You follow the line of his eyes and the way he's staring at your lips. His tongue darts out to swipe across his own bottom one, leaving it glistening in the dim light of your hallway. 

Steven is looking at you, like you hung each individual star in the galaxy and created every constellation discovered by NASA. 

You can't help but smile as lean up and press your red lips against his. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you pull him down closer until you hear that breathless little gasp you love so much escape between his lips. Until that soft noise melts into a deep moan that you can practically taste on your tongue. 

It tastes like hunger. 

It's wonderful to feel so deeply wanted by someone. 

You pull away, leaning back and Steven looks like he's been knocked senseless. Eyes shiny like glass. Kiss swollen lips made more prominent from the red of your lipsticks smudged on him. He's drawing up his hand, thumb brushing against the red. 

Whipping around, you realise that he's staring at himself in the mirror. He looks enamoured with it, the smears of red that are on him like a mark seared into his skin of where you've touched him. 

It becomes something of a thing between you two. 

Before every date night, you'll apply a thick layer of red lipstick on your mouth, the kind that will smear at the slightest touch. 

Then you watch in amusement as Steven spends the whole of the evening trying to act discreet (and failing) as his eyes will unfailingly find themselves flickering back to your lips. 

You'll watch as he tries to steady himself at a dining table at the small intimate and cozy restaurant sat across from you, hand gripping on top of his knee as you lift your glass and leaves a clear imprint of your lips on the glass. 

Hear the small little gasp that escapes from his throat when you lean close to his ear to ask him what he's ordering. 

Feel the whole bodyshiver of his as you press your lips to his cheek sometime between dessert and the bill. 

Sometimes you even wear it on your lunchdates between work shifts when you know he's having a rough day. Because Steven likes the attention and you like to give it to him. Love the way that fascinating blush blossoms across his chest, travelling up his throat and adorns his cheeks as you pull him into an unoccupied bathroom of your favourite cafe and you leave soft kisses like stamps on a love letter on his skin. Ink of red, pressed into his chest and collarbone and the corner of his mouth. 

He doesn't wash it off after either. Wants it to linger for as long as it possibly can. It's why you start to leave the lip stains where his clothes will cover them. Can't have Steven looking like a crime scene when he gets back to work at the museum. 

You'll wear it when he comes to pick you home from work. Watch the way his whole body is thrumming with excitement on the tube ride back to his flat. Eyes never leaving your lips.

Those are your favourite special occassions. When you get to leave your mark on him uninterrupted in the dim lighting of his home in privacy. When you get to take your time to peel off his tie like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present adorned with a silk bow and glossy wrapping paper.

You'l leave kisses on the softness of his stomach that has his hips hitching upwards. The insides of his thighs, that will has his legs shaking and trembling and gasping.

Tonight, you have him seated on his armchair,  trousers pulled down to his ankles, while you're down on your knees, caged in by his thick thighs. 

You press your lips to his soft skin, feeling him tense and rigid above you. Knees trembling next to you, and you pull back to admire your work, the perfect imprint of your lips on his golden skin. 

"Love, love -- I, please..." 

He's a shivering mess. Soft curls plastered to his forehead, white teeth biting into his full bottom lip as he watches you through half-lidded eyes. 

So fucking pretty this one.

You press another kiss, this time on the inside of his thigh and you smile to yourself as his hips hitch up, chasing after your mouth with a choked gasp.

"Please, what, Steven?"

Flicking your eyes to his face, Steven is struggling to verbalise much of anything right now. Maybe you're not being very nice, because you know exactly what he wants.

He's hard. You can see the hardened outline of his excitement straining the front of his jeans. If you leave him hanging much longer, you swear that the seams are going to split open.

"Yo--your mouth, I--I--" he manages to finally stutter out. "Please, please."

God, he even begs pretty. For all that you would love to tease him more, have him tremble, begging and crying underneath you until tears are running down that gorgeous face, you find that it's impossible to deny Steven.

Your hand comes to the rivet of his jeans, popping it open and before you even have the chance to ask him to lift so you can pull them down, Steven's hips are bouncing off the chair so fast and so hard you nearly tumble backwards on your arse from the force of it. Luckily you recover fast enough, steadying your balance with both your hands on his hips. Then you pull the restricting garment down his thighs, far enough that you can free his cock from the barrier of his boxers.

His cock springs up and bobs and nearly slaps your cheek with the momentum, and he's already repeatedly murmuring embarrassed apologies as he forces himself to sit back down into the chair. "Sorry, sorry! Did I--Did I hit you?"

The concern in his voice makes you want to snort with laughter. But whatever laughter you had in your throat dies as you see him. All brain capacity is rerouted to the sight of his cock standing up in full attention between his legs. Eager and twitching, in a deep ruddy dark pink. The tip of his cock practically glistens under the dim light as precome oozes down the length. It makes your tongue salivate. Makes you want to take him into your mouth and try to swallow as much of him as your gag reflex will allow.

Before your brain fully finishes that thought, you lean down, parting your lips and do. Everything inside you aches and burns as you taste him. He's so fucking thick, heavy and absolutely perfect as the weight of his cock throbs on your tongue.

But you'd be lying if you said it wasn't a struggle to fit all of him, can wrap your lips down halfway before you feel your throat protesting, lungs burning, and tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Underneath you, Steven is having a hard time keeping still. Hips stuttering into your mouth as you try to adjust and swallow around him. He's trembling so hard he's vibrating against you.

"Oh god, oh god, love, I--I-- fuuuck," the last word comes out as a broken moan as he he slides up and deeper into your mouth. Not a shred of restraint or control left in him. You're sputtering, your own saliva escaping from your lips that are wrapped tightly around him and dribbling down your chin, making an absolute mess of both of you.

And god, it's intoxicating to have him this way, you think it'd be worth the asphyxiation and lack of oxygen to your brain and whatever semi-permanent damage it would cause to your brain functions to just keep going, if it mean you can prolong this perfect moment.

The air around you thins, your chest feels tight and despite your hesitance and your desire to keep going, you pull off, gasping for air as the hard girth of him no longer blocks your airways.

You swallow down oxygen, as fast and deep as your lungs will allow, as you try to catch your breath, feeling more than a little bit lightheaded as you do so. Your chin is sticky, and as you bring the back of your hand to wipe it off, there's a residue of spit, precome and bright red smeared all over.

Fuck, your lipstick.

You grumble as you stare at your hand, you instinctively want to wipe it off on your clothes, but if you do, it'll never come out no matter how much Vanish stain remover you rub into it.

"Sorry, sorry," Steven's voice comes to you from somewhere above, and you tilt your head up to him. Hands hovering nervously as he's reaching over the side table for a wad of tissue. "I made a mess of you, didn't I?" he continues. Then he's leaning over, his hand gently cupping your jaw to tilt you up so he can clean you up.

You're almost giggling at how genuinely sorry he sounds, even as his cock, as hard as ever, is nestled between his thighs, twitching and jerking as if to protest the temporary lack of attention.

Steven's eyes follow yours, ducking his head until you're both staring at his cock. Smeared with the red stains and imprints of your lips on him.

An absolute fucking mess.

Leaning up on your knees, you grab the tissues from Steven and move towards him to repay the favour, but he stops you.

"Leave it," he says abruptly. No stuttering this time. No longer the sweet apologetic tone he held before. It sends a thrill across your nerves to hear him like this. Curt, demanding... greedy.

Tilting your head up, you observe him. The darkened eyes blown wide as he stares down at the red smears you've left on his cock. He looks enthralled by it. It's that same look as that evening by the hallway. Dazed like you've cast some witches' spell on him.

It makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest as you watch him. Emotions swelling and expanding until it even blots out the throbbing heat between your legs.

God you want to indulge him. Give him everything.

"Steven, get my lipstick from my bag."

He blinks up at you, until you're jutting your chin in the direction of your purse behind him. Even in his daze, obedient as he always is, Steven scrambles quickly to comply and starts rifling through your handbag before he finally finds the prize and hands the shiny tube to you with shaky fingers.

You smile to yourself as you pull of the cap and twist the tube. Before Steven, you'd barely used an inch of it, having been so careful to savour it and make it last. Now the lipstick is down to its last gasping breath depleted almost all the way down to the base, and with what you have in mind, it's going to completely run out by this evening.

Bringing it to your bottom lip, you look up at Steven who's watching you attentively, as you drag it slowly and decadently across your lip. An unnecessarily thick layer, as you see his mouth drop open.

Worth it, you think to yourself. Definitely worth it for that look on his face alone.

You pull the cap back on, then set it down on the floor next to you, as you scoot closer to Steven, pressing your lips to the base of his cock and watch the length of of it twitch and jump at your touch.

Then you lean back to observe your work. The perfect imprint of your lips marked in a striking shade of red. The red signal of a stop sign at a traffic crossing, except you have no intention of stopping.

Your lips part, wrapping your mouth around the flushed tip of Steven's cock as he throws his head back with a torn gasp, hands cupping the back of your head as he pulls you down deeper on him. Your face tingling with the warmth of his hand on you, as you try to swallow him down deeper.

You must be smearing the perfect imprint of lipstick all over the length of his cock. But that's okay. It just means you have to do it all over again. And that's okay too.

After all, you only use this lipstick on special occasions and who is more special to you than Steven.

Dedications and credit:

Wrote this in honour of @guruan-is-not-here gorgeous, beautiful and insanely horny thot sketches-- in particular the one where she had covered Steven with lipstick stains and my brain just did that funny thing where it imploded and turned into this fic. You can find more of her artwork here and her SFW account at @guruan where you'll be treated to some of the most beautiful Moon Knight fandom you'll see. Also do drop by her ko-fi. A single art piece can take hours and days and weeks for artists to do, and this amazingly talented genius is sharing her work with us all for free!

As always, this is also dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss because she had to listen to my insanity, but also also ALSO!!! This insane clown has written the most horny-beautiful-angst-smutty goodness fic of what happens when Marc sees those very same lipstick stains and I may or may not have written this for the sole purpose so that you good people can see the mindblowing excellence that is that fic. ILUUUUUUU TWP.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[sarahghetti]

absolutely purr-fect; m.k. x reader

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

summary: you and the boys adopt a cat.

warnings: none! only fluff 'round here, folks.

word count: 2.4k

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

if there’s one thing the boys all have in common, it’s that they’re all cat people.

steven thinks they’re particularly cute, and has always liked the idea of having a cat curled up beside him as he reads.

jake got attacked by a dog during a mission once and has been wary of them ever since.

marc just appreciates their independence—the fact that their trust needs to be earned with a little more effort, a little more patience.

(you give him this look when he says that, and steven snorts from inside their headspace. marc pointedly ignores you both.)

they’ve always wanted a cat, but the logistics of it never worked out given their vigilante schedule.

getting someone to drop by and feed gus the ii and his friend once a day? no problem. but leaving a cat at the flat? even if it were in the care of one of their neighbours, the idea makes them uneasy.

but then they met you. and since you’ve moved in with them, the opportunity has become much, much more feasible.

steven often looks through listings from the nearby adoption centres, cooing over the cats they have available.

steven lets out the most precious little gasp, excitement illuminated by his laptop, and you can’t help but lean over to see what he’s looking at. a picture of a scrawny-looking shorthair with a pronounced snout is pulled up on the screen.

“his name is scream,” steven supplies, utterly enamoured.

“scream,” you repeat, and he nods. “well, the flat does have good soundproofing.”

he scrolls down some more and almost instantly, there’s a fluffy mess lounging on the back of a couch that catches your eye. your hand falls on steven’s to stop him from going down any further.

“kit kat!” you take control of the trackpad to circle kit kat’s adorable face. steven shakes his head, raising an eyebrow.

“oh, but does kit kat hold a candle to margarine?” margarine is a kitten so small that she looks like she’d immediately get lost in the mess of books and knickknacks strewn about the apartment.

steven’s posed an impossible question. you pout a little. “I want both.”

he sighs. “me too, love.”

jake sends you a picture of every single cat he spots on the street. they vary in quality—some are so close that you can count each whisker while others are nothing more than a fuzzy blob in the night.

the utter quantity is enviable. you have half a mind to think that they just spend their entire night patrol looking for cats around the city.

that said, if you ask, “did you get to pet it?” the answer is almost always no.

for all of yours and steven’s window adopting online, marc is the one who ends up bringing a cat home.

not even an hour after marc left to patrol, you stir awake to the sound of the front door banging against the adjacent wall. your boyfriend’s quiet voice hisses, “shit.”

“marc?” you yawn, rubbing your eyes as you sit up. usually, he’s mum as a mouse when he comes back, cautious not to disturb you. you squint at him in the dark. “are you okay?”

“’m fine.” his silhouette moves into the living room, and one of the softer lamps is clicked on. “just—”

a sharp little mrow interrupts him, and you both fall silent as it rings out in the flat. was… was that—?

mreo-o-o-ow!

“marc!” you throw the blankets to the side as you jump out of bed, scurrying so fast to his side that you nearly trip over your own feet.

he’s still in the suit, mask and hood retracted, and held gingerly in his gloved hands is a dirty bundle of orange fur. the little guy is dwarfed against marc’s broad chest; narrowed green eyes watch your movements suspiciously. you bring your hand up to let the kitten sniff you, but marc leans away. “careful—he’s a bit touchy.”

“you’re holding him fine,” you point out, and he snorts.

“hardly.” as if on cue, the kitten lets out another piercing cry, squirming and scratching so fiercely that you’re sure it would leave some marks if not for the suit. marc grimaces as he tries to maintain his grip without hurting him, but his eyes widen when you sigh endearingly. “oh, no, don’t you dare—”

“can we keep him?”

while marc knows that he can’t say no to you for very long—a fact that’s going to be the end of him someday, he swears—he does effectively put that conversation on hold until the kitten can see a veterinarian in the morning.

trying to convince you to go back to sleep is a lost cause. you’ve brought home a stray kitten, marc—there’s no way you’re leaving him to try and figure out what to do on his own.

the commotion also wakes up steven and jake. you can only hear marc’s side of the conversation, but it’s clear that they’re as excited as you are for your new guest.

marc’s staring down the mirror, brow furrowed at whatever his alters are telling him through the reflection. the kitten is nonplussed by the argument happening over its head, only sinking further into marc’s arms.

“no, we can’t keep him—”

“aw, come on!” you interject. marc, unable to do anything that could bring you down when there’s that much excitement in your voice, only responds with a restless noise.

“he could already have an owner somewhere,” he reasons. one of them must offer to take over, because his mouth twists into a stubborn scowl soon after. “I’m fine.”

getting marc to take care of himself is a herculean feat, so you switch tactics, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think they just wanna meet the kitty.”

still, he bristles, and holds the kitten almost protectively against his chest. “the meet and greet can happen after we figure out what we’re doing.”

he steps away from the mirror then, and you pump your fist when his back is turned.

there’s a chance.

it’s the most intense googling research session you’ve ever been a part of.

marc gets most of the grime off its fur with a damp cloth, handling the kitten so gently that it might as well be made of glass. he still won’t let you touch it—too worried that it’ll hurt you somehow.

(you go along with it because yeah, if it does bite you, there’s no way marc’s letting you guys keep it.)

an old cardboard box is pulled out of recycling to serve as a makeshift bed, and some spare towels are neatly spread out on the bottom to provide some bedding.

you watch marc have a staring contest with the kitten as it sits inside, every muscle in his body tensed and ready as if anticipating a fight. the kitten, a valiant opponent, doesn’t seem to show any fear at the sight of your boyfriend, ancient ceremonial armor be damned.

it’s not until it’s contentedly chomping down on some boiled chicken you prepared that marc finally gives up the driver’s seat, getting some rest at yours and the others’ insistence.

jake comes in with a wide, wide grin, immediately crouching beside the box with a disbelieving sound.

“so small,” he comments, twiddling his fingers in a way to entice the little guy. the spark in jake’s eye is enough to know that he’s on your side in the keep-him-or-don’t conversation.

which means that finally, you can ask the question that’s been on the tip of your tongue all night.

“what should we name him?” after the impromptu bath, the orange of its fur gleams a little warmer in the low light of the flat, but you wait patiently as you let kitten sniff you. you bite back a giggle when its whiskers brush against your hand.

jake winces in a way that tells you that he must be getting an earful from inside the headspace, but presses on. “juice? naranja? OJ?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you really want to name him after orange juice, huh.”

“yeah well, steven says some egyptian god.” he rolls his eyes. typical.

“and what does marc say?”

“marc says—” his voice shifts to a monotone drone “’—oh my god stop trying to pet the cat it’s still dirty and hostile and why are we trying to name the damn thing it’s only been here for like an hour it’s not staying jake shut your mouth you’re not funny—’”

your laugh startles the kitten but you can’t help it, burying your head in your arms to muffle the sound to no avail. if you looked up, you’d see the smug look jake is pointing at his nearest reflection.

there’s a nudge at your side as you quiet down. “and what about you, carino? what do you think?”

“hmm.” you tilt your head. “where did marc find him?”

a pause as he listens, then, “in a dumpster. behind that chinese place we like.”

your mind whirs, and you can see that jake is following the same train of thought. egg tart. chicken chow mein. mapo tofu.

you gasp, “dumpling.”

the look on marc’s face when you put ‘dumpling’ on the forms at the veterinarian’s office is priceless.

for what it’s worth, the kitten is in surprisingly good shape. some washing up, a round of vaccinations, and one microchip later, he’s released back into your care with little fanfare, but you’re positively buzzing.

you guys go a little overboard at the pet shop. jake fills the handbasket with an assortment of toys while steven and marc argue incessantly about the best food to buy, which bed he’d prefer.

“thought you didn’t even want to keep him!” steven snarks into the gleam of a metal shelf at some point, and you can practically hear marc’s ensuing scoff.

when you guys get home, jake dumps all the toys on the ground at once, a colourful mess of bells and feathers that almost blend into steven’s existing mess.

to no one’s surprise, dumpling plays more with the disposable plastic bag than the toys themselves. still, that doesn’t matter—jake can lay on his stomach and play with him for hours.

steven, mediocre human food chef, becomes a master cat food chef.

“good god,” you comment as he comes back from the store with his arms full of fancy looking packages. what started as mixing wet food in with the dry has seemingly become a new pinpoint of steven’s focus, and your eyebrows raise a little more with each label you read.

chicken liver, mussels, duck egg—all freeze dried and decked out in cartoony illustrations. dumpling jumps up to take a look, sniffing inquisitively at each bag.

“you’re gonna be eating better than us,” you quip. he’s still a little cautious, shying from sudden movements, so you just let him explore and don’t push when he slinks away.

“little guy only deserves the best, doesn’t he?” steven pulls out dumpling’s fish-shaped dish. you watch, mesmerized as he carefully begins to put food on it; he’s even pulled out the kitchen scale to properly measure everything.

steven talks as he goes, telling you (and dumpling) about each element with the same vigor he would apply to egyptology. organ meats for nutrients, bone broth for hydration, oils for a shiny coat—dumpling looks as baffled as you are.

although—he also looks quite impatient. steven keeps having to push him back to keep him from the dish before it’s ready. his little paws slide on the counter each time.

“ta-da!” steven presents the finished product to you with a flourish. it’s surprisingly well-plated for someone who sometimes eats straight from the pan.

though it doesn’t last long. the second he places it down, dumpling is ravenous. broth is splashed onto the ground. bits of dehydrated powder get caught in his chin. you worry a little that he’s gonna choke somehow.

steven manages to pull his attention away from the scene for a second, turning to you. a proud smile pulls at his lips. “think he likes it?”

with all your efforts, it doesn’t take very long for dumpling to get comfortable; the flat becomes his kingdom.

you find him lounging on the top shelves of steven’s bookcases and leaving stapler-like holes in marc’s research notes with his teeth.

jake is constantly running around looking for his driving gloves because dumpling always manages to get his paws on them and always squirrels them away in separate locations, somehow.

you wake up more often than not to a mouthful of fur—he loves to sleep on your pillow, regardless of whether or not your head is already on it.

“why. why.” marc dangles dumpling in the air by his front legs. an entire piece of sushi—swiped from marc’s plate on the coffee table—hangs from the kitten’s mouth, nearly the size of his head. there is not a hint of remorse. “steven’s putting a dent in our finances to buy you organic beef hearts or whatever-the-hell and you come over here to steal my food?”

the defendant remains silent. marc lets out a low grumble and deposits dumpling onto his lap, sushi and all, keeping his hand on him to stop him from taking anything else.

you lean into his side. “thought you said we shouldn’t give him any scraps, hm?”

it’s true—while jake folded immediately, often sneaking bites to dumpling under the table, and steven excuses a bit here and there just as a treat, love—marc is the strict cat-dad who stubbornly ignores those big, begging green eyes whenever they pop up during a meal.

or at least, he was. marc chews slowly, an obvious delay to answering your question, and so you hum again, prodding. it’s not that he’s hated having the cat around, but for a while it was clear that he was the sole holdout to keeping him.

finally, he swallows. you wait with bated breath as he sighs. “he can have a little bit. just this once, though.”

the last part is said directly to the culprit, who’s purring like a motor with the soils of his hunt. your grin is blinding. marc goes back to eating, but you and dumpling come to the same delightful conclusion—

yeah, it’s not going to be just this once.

[mundivagantsoul]

✩ Bookshopist Moonboys✩

Part 1: Nerds, Dead Trees and Dust

Moon Knight System x Reader

A/N: Hi all! This is my first time posting my writing. I apologies for poor grammar and spelling, my only excuse is daydreaming throughout school when I was was supposed to be learning this stuff. If you have any feedback or comments please let me know, I'd love to hear from you! Hope you enjoy ♡

Warnings: mentions of violence (nature documentaries), coarse language, British lingo?

Word Count: 1K

Masterlist | Next ->

-------------------- ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ---------------------

Seated in the dim living room light with tea-steamed glasses, a certain chocolate-curled Brit scrolls aimlessly through job adverts until a particular post catches his attention

Full-time bookseller- The Old Town Bookshop

Taking a sip of his Earl Grey, Steven opens the listing, greeted with the classic rhetorical questions and enthusiasm only found in job adverts.

Love books? Are you a passionate reader who wishes to share your enthusiasm for literature with others? Come work at “The Old Town Bookshop”, where you can expand your literary knowledge and create a meaningful career with fellow book lovers!

“Living amongst books isn’t enough for you?” Marc quips from a small mirror placed deliberately on the desk's corner.

“I thought you cared about animals and the environment, and yet here you are, further supporting an industry that indoctrinates the destruction of their homes?” Jake nonchalantly adds from an adjacent mirror, oblivious to the surprised faces of his headmates.

Marc raises a brow, “Since when did you become an animal rights advocate?”

Jake shrugs, gaze subconsciously finding Viejita lazing on the lounge before returning back to Marc. “Dunno. Guess I actually pay attention when Steven puts on his nature documentaries”.

Marc mocks being insulted. “Oh I’m sorry, I just don’t find watching baby antelopes getting mauled to death entertaining”.

“Of course, you much rather maul people to death yourself”, Jake's voice mimics Marc’s, enticing a scoff from the latter.

“You’re one to talk Mr. I abuse wheelchairs and kidnap patients from psych wards and then murder them in the back of my fancy car”. 

Steven interrupts the dispute before it can get out of hand. 

“Bloody hell, Lads’ shut it! Look, if I’m being honest, I’m not gonna take animal ethics from either of you carnivores”, then adding, “And need I remind you two, you’re the reason we’re in this dire situation”.

It’s true, between Marc, Jake and Khonshu’s shenanigans, they’d managed to lose their only legal job, and unfortunately, being an ancient Egyptian deity’s ‘fist of vengeance’ doesn’t pay well.

Marc begins to grasp at any logic that means they don’t have to work amongst nerds, dead trees and dust. “Well… Jake and I aren’t avid readers, and the job description says we must be ‘passionate readers’”. 

“Well… I’d say with the number of ‘adult’ novels you read, you’d be classified as a passionate reader”. Steven states matter-of-factly, earning a snort from Jake and a finger from Marc.

“Look, capitalism exists, fish need feeding, and it’s either this, working at the laundromat on 6th, or grovelling for my old job back. You pick”.

Sharing a glance, they sigh, “Fine, we’ll work at your nerd hub”.

Triumphantly, Steven opens the application form.

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A weathered sign inscribed with “The Old Town Bookshop” hangs atop the quaint corner store. Parallel white arches and a broad window decorate its petite structure with morning sunlight reflecting off the seemingly fresh coat of indigo, enriching the buildings' otherwise aged aesthetic.

Breathing out a puff of warm air, Steven adjusts the strap of his shoulder bag, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years. Peering at the lit window, he opens the door. Greeted by the homely smell of paper and ink, Steven gazes around at the array of books and colours, marvelling at the unexpectedly large floor plan. 

"Like the Tardis". Marc hums from the window reflection whilst Jake observes their surroundings, habitually checking for threats.

Strolling further into the store, a warm pressure rubs itself along his calf. Peering down, Steven’s met with honey eyes and golden fur.

“¿Gatito?” Jake chirps, seemingly forgetting about surveying the area.

The cat meows in return as if replying to Jake’s comment. 

“Great, now we’ll be covered in dust and cat hair”. Marc comments, trying to remain apathetic about their adorable feline coworker.

Kneeing down, Steven scratches the tabby’s head, earning a delightful purr from their new acquaintance. Checking the collar, ‘Dorian’ is engraved on a fish-shaped name tag. 

Dorian huh? Makes sense, you’re a pretty lookin’ fella. Steven observes before returning to the task at hand. 

Following the familiar monotonous sound of a sticker gun, the Brit finds himself walking towards the counter where, surrounded by a pile of new releases, you are busy at work. The boys take in your features, entranced as the morning light caresses your face, highlighting the soft beauty that adorns your profile. Eyes roaming over your features, they notice your slight frown of concentration and inaudible movements of your mouth. 

As Steven approaches the counter, your words become interpretable.

“How are we already getting Christmas and holiday content when it hasn’t even been Halloween yet?” you grumble, condemning whoever decided it was a suitable practice. “I swear if I start hearing Mariah Carey, I’m gonna…”.

Someone clearing their throat interrupts your malicious thoughts. As your head shoots up, you notice the fidgeting man in front of the counter. Shit. How long has he been standing there?  You think, face heating up at the possibility of him witnessing your moral decadence.

“So sorry to bother you love. I’m here for my shift? I was supposed to start today… I’m Steven, by the way”.

The realisation smacks you in the face like a flying stop sign. Crap, it is already 8 o'clock? Internally criticising yourself for losing track of time, you scramble for an apology. “Right- yes, Steven, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise the time”. Sticking out your hand, you introduce yourself. 

God, your name sounds as beautiful as you look, They simultaneously think.

A warm, calloused hand engulfs your own as Steven rolls your name over his tongue. “All good love happens to the best of us”.

You smile warmly, and suddenly, the prospect of spending 9 hours a day surrounded by nerds, dead trees and dust doesn't seem too bad.

Thank you for reading ♡

Also please go check out the fabulous @viejita-n-co who created Viejita! You’ll find a bunch of fanart and pictures of the boys too ♡

[melodygatesauthor]

What are your headcannons for a reader who is like super touch deprived and finds comfort In hooking their arm with the moonboys' in public and just hugging their arm like that. (I feel like marc is equally as touch deprived lol)

Hi Nonnie! I love this question because I think all the Moon Boys are a bit touch deprived. I personally struggle with touching as a form of affection, but I'm going to do my best (and I would do my best for them, knowing that they need it). - I can imagine we're heading up to a store of some kind, a cesspool for social anxiety and need for touch and comfort.

Moon Boys w/ Touch Starved gn!Reader Headcanons

Steven

Steven's going to freeze the first time you grab his arm out in public for comfort.

"Oh!" He'd say in surprise, looking over at you. You're not even looking at him as you approach the store. "You alright, love?"

You'd nod and just keep your arm hooked in his, maybe snaking your hand up around his bicep and gripping tightly.

Steven would pat your fingers, a silent way of saying, "it's alright."

If you try to pull away because you think you're being silly or making him uncomfortable, he's going to reach his hand up and hold yours tightly for reassurance.

The truth is, Steven's just as happy to know he's needed as you are to have your arm around him. He doesn't have a lot of friends, so having someone to hold him that way is very comforting.

Marc

Marc's stiff as a board when you wrap your arm around him. He's tempted to pull away, but he can sense that you're holding on so tight for a reason.

"You ok?" He'll ask, stopping before you get into the store.

He doesn't want to admit that he really likes having you there holding him so tightly.

You'll tell him you're ok, that you just get uncomfortable in social situations sometimes, and inside he's just...through the moon.

You need him? That's all he needs to hear to get him through ten lifetimes.

He finds that as you go through the store and you become more comfortable and start to loosen your grip, that he doesn't like the feeling of not having your warmth around his arm.

He leans over and says, "please don't let go."

You don't question it.

Jake

Jake's thrilled any time you touch him and a little bit just isn't enough.

He wants his arm over your shoulder and yours around his waist.

"Bebita, hold me as tight as you need, like feeling your hand on my waist."

Jake won't want to make you uncomfortable, but he's getting away with touching you as much as you'll let him. His preference is to have his hand in your back pocket while you walk around.

As the one who usually gets pegged as the bad guy, he doesn't get to front as often as the other two, so when he has the chance to hold you in any capacity, he will.

He loves that you look to him for comfort, considering he often feels monstrous.

Thanks for the prompt! I thought this was adorable.

Moon Knight Masterlist

[ivystoryweaver]

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #3: Soul Survivors

prev | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #3 Summary: Marc sees you. And sees you again. Which one was real? Steven enters the chat. "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties" makes another appearance.

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector, Steven Grant x f!reader (Jake mentioned)

Word count: 3.3k

Content: nsfw, 18+, angst, bit of fluff (more below the cut - read the warnings and be responsible for triggering content)

Warnings/Notables: violence, drinking, nudity, masturbation, cursing, mental health concerns, coping with death, mentions of food, grieving, longing, mild bickering, a few tears, not beta'd

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PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

Marc rushed blindly toward the window, yanking open the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the bedroom, granting him the slightest ability to see.

"It's not too late," the whisper echoed, right beside his ear...but you were nowhere to be seen.

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Brisk, autumn wind swept the heavy cape of Moon Knight aside as he stood overlooking the city below.

Khonshu didn't even need to point out who needed protecting, nor who needed punishing this night.

Marc Spector reached for the ancient crescent daggers mystically stashed in the armor at the center of his chest.

His glowing eyes zeroed in on a vagrant roaming below. But this dingy man wasn't the object of his ire - he was recently the victim of a crime, and was about to be the victim once more.

With a dramatic whoosh, Moon Knight swept down from the night sky, his dramatic white suit announcing his coming in a far more glaring way than Jake's pitch black body armor.

The vagrant gasped in terror, but Marc sailed past the man who was about to be violated and murdered...

...and plunged two crescent daggers into the chest of his would-be attacker. The perpetrator had now become his victim.

"You're safe now," Marc assured the homeless man, who scurried off, crying out in fear.

Fair enough. Marc wasn't exactly a friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. Jake had the night off, at Marc's insistence, but he realized that delivering Khonshu's justice with daggers just wasn't...satisfying.

The next vile thing who needed punishing would meet the wrath of Marc's fists.

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Marc's stark white suit was littered with spatters of red by the time he made it back to Elm Street. He willed the suit to disappear, walking back toward his house under the cover of night.

Then he drank some whiskey and fell asleep in his favorite chair, mumbling out an apology to Steven as he slipped into oblivion.

He awoke to the sound of the old cherry wood clock in the hall striking three.

The broken clock in the hall.

It stopped working the day you died.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Marc sat upright, immediately flopping back down as his head swirled. Too much violence and blood followed by too much whiskey.

"Marc..."

Your voice echoed off the walls, but only a whisper. No other sights or sounds were available to him in the darkened house.

"Go away!" Marc slurred, swatting his hand at nothing but air.

He tried to settle back down, and managed to approach the edge of drowsiness when you appeared right in front of him, almost as if you were straddling his lap.

You breathed his name, draping your body over his.

"You're not real," Marc murmured, even as he desperately wished it was you crawling on top of his body. The image of you was nothing more than a mirage but you would not let him be.

You spoke his name again, and when he forced his eyes open, you were stretched out across him, naked.

He couldn't touch you but he could swear the heat of your breath tickled his ear.

"Need you," your voice begged. Your ghostly body writhed on top of his.

He felt the weight of his arousal straining against his jeans. It wouldn't be the first time he imagined you as he gave himself some relief. He quickly undid his jeans and shoved his hand inside, groaning at how hard he felt.

"Be with me," you panted, your naked body on display for him. You sat astride his lap, rolling your hips over his. Your breasts bounced in a delicious rhythm as your nipples grew hard.

"Don't you want me?" You pouted, twisting your body deliciously down on him. He could feel nothing - you weren't even really there. But the show you were putting on was more than enough.

"I only want you," he gasped, gripping himself and thrusting desperately into his fist. “You're so beautiful...don't stop."

It was almost as if you were there with him. He could see you - he could hear your gasps of pleasure. But you were a vapor. He couldn't feel you.

The release he found gave him a brief reprieve. He passed out again.

Then the clock struck four.

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Marc struggled to climb out of the chair and haul himself upstairs. He just wanted his bed and he really, really needed Steven to take the body tomorrow. But his alter was still quiet. No lectures or questions or anything.

Marc used the stair rail for all it was worth, pulling himself upward like he was a hiker on an Everest expedition. No one would ever believe he was the mighty Moon Knight in this moment.

Finally, he darkened the door of his room.

And you were there. But not like downstairs. You wore the hoodie he'd seen before.

Sinking down to his knees, Marc felt hot tears sting his eyes. "You're not real," he whimpered, remembering your naked visage all over him downstairs. "I'm fucking insane."

He fully expected you to dash away from him or simply vaporize. But you inched closer.

"Marc?" You whispered his name with a sense of urgent awe. "C-can you see me?"

His heart surged with terror. He had just managed to convince himself that he was imagining you, but now...

You knelt down on the floor with him, directly in front of him. Your gaze sought out his own, bleary eyes. "Marc?"

"I'm drunk," he murmured, shaking his head adamantly, refusing to meet your ghostly gaze. "I'm drunk and I'm hallucinating and I'm fucking crazy."

"We don't use that word in this house," You said calmly, but firmly. In your voice. Those were your words. The real you.

Lifting his wet eyes, he looked right at you, but couldn't think of anything to say.

You peered so intently at him, he thought your gaze might just bore a hole through him.

"God, I wish you could see me, Marc. Sometimes I swear you can," you voiced, rising to your feet. The hood covering your hair fell back as you did.

As you started to back away, the words you had just spoken finally started to register in his inebriated brain. As you eased toward the window, he panicked, climbing off his feet to stop you.

"No, wait!" He gasped out, the interaction sobering him a little. "Wait...baby...it's me. I-I can see you. I see you. Don't go."

You halted, turning back to face him, your eyes wide with wonder. "Marc?"

"Yeah," he quickly nodded. "I'm here. It's okay."

Your eyes scanned the room quickly. "A-are we home?"

He melted. "Yeah, sweetheart. We're home. This is home. You were with me before, downstairs. And last night.”

“I was?”

Oh god. That wasn’t you downstairs? He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I-I’ve been seeing you. A lot.”

Your face crumpled with sadness - your lip trembling. "But…are you...dead?"

Marc touched his own chest, shaking his head. "No. I'm here. I'm okay."

Your eyebrows knit in concentration as you bounced on your toes. "Sorry, I get confused. Sometimes, I'm here, then sometimes, I'm...in a dark place."

His beautiful eyes shifted sympathetically. “A dark place?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes drifted aimlessly around you, as if you were trying to get your bearings. “When…when are we? When is this?”

“Uh, it’s October,” he rasped, his voice choked with emotion. Was this really happening? It had to be the whiskey. Or something much worse. Something broken in his mind, more than ever before.

“October,” you repeated slowly, as if trying the word out for the first time. You seemed to be shrinking in on yourself - the dark hoodie swallowing you completely as you inched away from your partner. “I…don’t understand. We’re home?”

Marc’s heart slammed against his ribcage. He whispered your name, stretching his hand out for you.

You had died. That was horrifying enough, but this? The thought of you confused or afraid? He couldn’t bear it.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’m here. Just don’t go. Try to talk to me,” he pleaded.

But still you withdrew. “It’s not too late,” you sullenly whispered, in the ghostly voice he’d heard before. “Not too late. Tell Marc…tell him…”

And you vanished.

Marc sank back to the ground and cried so hard that Steven woke up on the floor with one hell of a headache.

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Steven Grant bustled along the small town street, eagerly awaiting the smell of library books. After finishing his vegan breakfast burrito and black tea with almond milk from Triple B's (plus four painkillers), he was ready for a change of pace.

Hangover be damned.

Marc had been a bit Eeyore lately, more than usual since you passed. Steven understood his grief - of course he did - but Marc's coping mechanisms differed so greatly from Steven's.

With a sigh, he finished his tea, tossing the cup into the nearest rubbish bin and wishing Marc would leave the whiskey alone. Drinking and punching the hell out of criminals wouldn't bring you back. And it ultimately wouldn't bring any lasting relief.

The library door creaked out a familiar greeting, welcoming Steven to his daily haven. He was the first one in today, so he made sure to tidy up before handling some paperwork at his desk.

Easing down into what was now considered a vintage rolling chair, he put his lunchbox away and located his glasses. Just as he started to put them on, his eye caught the small, framed picture of you he kept on his desk.

"Morning, my love," he whispered, touching your face with his fingertip.

Marc didn't want pictures of you in the house - just the one of you on the porch, which hung in the hallway right outside the bedroom. But this was Steven's job and he wanted to see your face every time he worked a shift.

He couldn't bear the thought of starting to forget you. He'd heard that usually happened - that over time, you would forget the details of your loved one's face. That thought was unacceptable to Steven.

He wanted to be able to move on with life - to find a way to somehow let you go, but he simply needed to remember the face of the only person who ever truly loved him.

"Miss you all the time," he told you, feeling a familiar wetness sting his eyes.

Maybe he shouldn't be so hard on Marc.

The day passed as any normal day would at a small town library: slowly. Steven didn't mind. Gave him time to read, research and organize. Might be his own little corner of heaven, this.

As he strolled back through town, he noticed Marc was accompanying him, appearing, as he was prone to do, in various shop windows.

"I'm sorry about the whiskey," Marc voiced. "Shouldn't have done that, buddy."

Steven nodded, reaching for his wireless earbuds. It allowed him to talk freely with his alters, from time to time, without making onlookers think he was talking to himself.

"You alright, mate?" He asked Marc, hoping for an explanation to go with that apology.

"No," Marc flatly returned. "But we don't have to talk about it. Just enjoy your night. I'll try not to drink so much again."

"You can talk to me," Steven reasoned, repositioning his messenger bag on his shoulder as he shuffled along the sidewalk. "I miss her too."

Steven passed a boarded up shop, so Marc was gone fore a few moments. He was still there, of course, but remained quiet. Finally, he appeared again, in the hardware store window. His domain.

"I saw her," Marc confessed.

"Saw her?" Steven returned. "Like imagined her?"

"No. I saw her. Talked to her too."

"After that much whiskey?" Steven rebuked. "I'm sure you did."

Marc huffed. "I've seen her a few times now. I'm worried about her."

"Worried? What are you on about?" Steven scoffed, disbelievingly. "What more can happen to her now?" He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

“I don’t know…” Marc trailed off. “Something’s not right.”

Steven let out a long sigh. Everyone was entitled to their grief but seriously. “She’s gone, mate. What you’re suggesting’s not even possible.”

“Are you serious? We serve an ancient Egyptian deity who’s a 10-foot-tall fucking bird skeleton,” Marc challenged. “We died and came back to life and had face to face conversations with each other…but you don’t think a ghost could be real?”

“She’s not a ghost!” Steven snapped, glaring at a shop window, drawing the attention of a few townspeople passing by.

A mysterious gust of wind swirled around Steven's body, stirring brown leaves into a mini tornado - a tempest to match the ache in his heart.

"What seems to be the trouble?" A kind, elderly voice chimed from the doorway of her shop.

It was her window Steven had shouted into moments before. Taking a step back, his eyes drifted up to the hand painted sign above the door. "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties."

"Sorry. So Sorry," Steven hurriedly apologized, holding his hands up in supplicating fashion. "Bloody phone call." He pointed to his earbud.

"Understood," the old woman returned, but her gaze lingered.

So did Steven.

"This shop...it's new, yeah?" He inquired, brown eyes narrowing inquisitively, pulling out his earbuds ands stashing them in his bag.

"In a manner of speaking," the kindly old woman returned, her eyes disappearing into the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. "You're British," she commented.

"Guilty," Steven chuckled, holding up his hand like a child would in school.

She nodded inside the shop. "Just put the kettle on. Care for a cuppa?"

Somehow Steven felt himself drawn to the shop - its twinkling lights in the window illuminating antique treasures. You would have loved a place like this.

"I...I really should..." he trailed off, unable to think of a reason to decline her kind invitation. What was waiting for him at home? Arguing with Marc? Passing out asleep so Jake could roam around the city all night? Reading?

Reading was tempting but...

"Got biscuits too," the old lady offered, "'though it's a bit past tea time."

"Thank you," Steven smiled warmly, following her inside. "You're not British...are you? You sound American."

"My mum was, God rest her," she replied, leading Steven past a few rows of adorably arranged antiques to what was the store's back room or break room. It contained a kitchenette and a cozy table for two.

"Sit," she gestured to the closest chair. "Mr. Spector, is it?"

"Ahh, uh...Mr. Grant, actually," Steven answered. A long while ago, the four of you: Marc, Steven, Jake and yourself decided to be upfront and candid when necessary or possible. This town was your home - might as well be yourselves.

"I see," the lady returned. "Mr. Spector's the American, then. Who works at the hardware store?" The old lady busied herself, collecting a tray with proper teacups, saucers, dainty silver spoons, cloth napkins and a tin of biscuits.

"That's right," Steven confirmed. "Bit odd, I s'ppose. But I'm Steven Grant. Library assistant."

She nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the stovetop. "Mr. Grant, I'm Ms. Marjorie. Not odd at all. Souls do what they will, you see."

Before Steven could question that peculiar phrase, Ms. Marjorie set the tray down in front of Steven. "You have a biscuit while I steep the tea."

He nodded, reaching for the treat. "This tea set is lovely. Do you mind my asking if it belonged to your mum?"

"It did," she confirmed, her eyes twinkling. "It's as English as you are, my dear."

Steven chuckled. "Don't know if I'm proper British. We're from Chicago, actually."

Ms. Marjoire set the kettle down on the table and took her seat across from Steven, but not before grabbing a small plate of veggie sandwiches from the fridge.

"Nonsense. You're as British as my mum, or this tea set, or the King." She reached for a biscuit.

"You're very kind," Steven observed, "inviting a stranger in like this."

"Not strangers anymore," she corrected, her eyes full of mirth.

Steven nodded, enjoying his snack for a moment, settling a little further into his chair. He took a moment to enjoy the jazz piano ringing from the record player in the corner.

Ms. Marjorie hummed along, pouring two cups of tea. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Eh, I'm vegan - "

"I have oat milk," she responded, rising to retrieve it before Steven could protest.

"What did you mean before, when you said, 'souls do what they will'?"

Ms. Marjorie smiled knowingly to herself, pouring a little oat milk into each teacup.

"Just what I said," she returned. "Take you, for example. One body, but I suppose there may have been too much goodness to fit into one soul. So you have your own and so does Mr. Spector.

"Then there are soulmates, of course," she went on. "One soul, two bodies."

Steven's gaze dropped at the mention of soulmates. He assumed you were his. Maybe not, according to Ms. Marjoire's theory.

"I sense the idea of soulmates is a tender subject for your soul," she carefully observed, bringing her teacup to her lips for a sip. "You don't have to say anything. I have a sense about these things."

This is how Steven met Ms. Marjorie and told her practically everything about you. How kind, warm and beautiful you were. How you wrote children's stories - how much you would love this little shop. He told her your favorite foods and how you liked to steal Marc's jackets. He told her about Jake too.

Before he left, around an hour later, she patted his forearm, granting him that kindly smile he'd already come to know.

"Souls are eternal, you know. Even hers. You give that a good think and maybe we'll have tea some other time?"

"Yes, that sounds wonderful," Steven whispered sincerely. "Thank you - you've been absolutely lovely. My girlfriend would have loved to meet you and see your shop." He glanced around at the treasures you would have insisted the house needed.

"I'm sorry she's gone, my dear. Stop by any time," she sweetly responded. "And you tell Mr. Spector he's welcome anytime as well. And ah...what was the other gentleman's name?"

"Lockley," he laughed.

Steven thanked her again and started his walk home. Once he was just out of sight, he could have sworn Ms. Marjorie faintly called after him, "It's not too late."

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Steven shuffled home, waving cheerfully to his neightbor Mrs. Nockles, who attempted to invite him in for some cider.

"Just had tea and sandwiches with Ms. Marjorie downtown," Steven called back. "Positively stuffed. Next time!"

He could hear Marc groaning in his mind.

"Don't know a Ms. Marjorie," Ms. Nockles returned. "But happy to see you boys fed. Have a good night, love!"

Steven warmly smiled, finishing his day a little lighter than he began it. Anything was better than a whiskey hangover of Marc's.

As he turned up the pathway to your front door, a rustling of the bedroom curtain upstairs caught his eye, giving him pause.

Was that... He stared for a long moment, but finally decided to go inside.

Steven read for a while downstairs before washing up and getting ready for bed. He paused, as Marc was prone to do, at your picture hanging right outside the bedroom.

"Goodnight, my darling," he whispered. "I met the most charming lady today. You would have positively loved her. And her shop. God, I wish you could see..."

He exhaled a weary sigh, pressing a kiss to the picture. "She had a lot to say about souls and soulmates. Said souls are eternal."

He shook his head at himself. Why was he talking to a picture? Oh well.

"If that's true, I hope you're happy, love. And at peace."

With that, he sauntered back into the bedroom, never noticing where you sat perched on the end of the bed.

next

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[ithebookhoarder]

Marc and Steven with a Murdock? Like Daredevil?? If you want, of course ❤️🖤

The Moon Boys with a Murdock!Reader

A/N: Of course I want to! 😆 I'm only sorry it took me so long to answer this. However, I seem to be on a roll today - I can't believe I've got two requests out?! Like, who even am I?

Masterlist

As you said with a Murdock, I’m going with a sibling vibe here which would be pretty adorable anyway as Matt would be such a good brother if he’d ever had the chance.

He would be incredibly close with you and take his role as your protector as seriously as he takes his role as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

You’re the only one he lets know his true self as you’ve been through everything he has. You’ve shared the happiest and saddest moments of your lives together and the bond it forged is as strong as vibranium.

It holds you both together, not matter what you go through or where you end up - including when you both end up at colleges on opposite sides of the country. 

You’re extremely careful to never let him pull too far away from you, even when he gets in one of his moods. In fact, you’re sure to turn up and let yourself in to his apartment when he goes too quiet and even Foggy can’t seem to pull him out of the darkness that haunts him. 

It’s why you don’t run away when the Moon Boys come crashing in to your lives. The chaos that seems to follow them and their fears that they are too much for you is honestly familiar. Every attempt to push you away only makes you draw nearer - first as a friend, later as something more. 

You’d probably meet Moon Knight first around New York. I mean, it's kind of hard not to come across him, given what Matt does and how chaos seems to find its way into your lives.

He'd be the latest adoptee into the Defenders / New York 'Avengers reject club' (your name for the gang, not theirs...) so you'd quickly end up involved in each other's lives.

You'd bond pretty quickly, once you get to know one another without the personas and danger. After all, I think Steven would be eager to find friends who aren't necessarily supers and just like to drink coffee, read novels and go to the dog park at the weekend.

He'd be super keen to get to know you. You're one of the only people who get what their life is like, but also have a foot in the real world.

You'd win over Marc later on, wearing him down with your positivity and unwavering optimism (and also Steven will not shut up about you).

You're not afraid of the darker parts of their world, and become a much needed safe space for Marc, once he lets his guard down.

For instance, you'd be great at patching him up - having had enough practise on Matt over the years. You're also used to having someone nocturnal in the house, coming and going at all hours of the night. Plus, you can obviously be trusted to keep a secret or two.

If anything, Marc's only reluctant to let you get close to him as he doesn't want to taint you. To ruin something so bright and wonderful by dragging you into his darkness.

If Matt's ok with putting you in danger, then that's up to him as your brother. You're family. But for Marc and Steven to do that? It's a line they're unwilling to cross... until you prove to them you aren't going anywhere. That you can handle yourself and that you're already in this mess anyway, so why shouldn't you both be happy?

From that moment on, there's no looking back for any of you. You're leaping in to this together head first, and soon enough you can't imagine life any other way.

Matt, however, can.

Let's be real, he wouldn’t be the biggest fan of Steven and Marc. In fact, he’d be pretty against your relationship the minute he finds out about it. 

One, because he thinks no one is worthy of you.

Two, because he hates the idea of you getting hurt or being in danger and being in a relationship with multiple people who all serve an ancient Egyptian deity as his personal vigilante is the very definition of dangerous. 

"I... I can't even begin to understand how you could possibly think this is a good idea? At all? He - they - are literally the puppets of an Egyptian god - a GOD, Y/N. You don't want to get in the middle of all that?"

You quickly remind him how he gave a similar speech to Karen when he found out about her and Frank Castle seeing each other, and that didn't work. Last time you checked, they're still blissfully in love.

"Besides, Matthew! You're the one who goes running around at night, getting in fights, wearing a glorified halloween costume. Like, I am the SANE sibling here. ALSO! Marc and Steven were forced into their situation. They didn't go looking for it like a crazy nut job. So, yeah. I think if anything, you don't have a leg to stand on here!"

Matt would be able to sense who was fronting the moment they appeared. He’d be able to recognise them from the way their heart is beating and their mannerisms the second they stepped through the door, which is helpful but also incredibly unsettling. 

Steven would brush it off, seeing it as Matt just being a kind brother to you. However, I think Marc would have more of a problem with Matt’s hostility, and enhanced senses. It puts him on edge to know they are being so closely scrutinised. 

They also have the same temperament so I can imagine there will be more than a few clashes in the beginning, their similar brusque natures making it hard for them to not bump heads. 

However, after Matt learns about Marc’s DID and his childhood trauma I think he’d be more sympathetic. After all, you both didn’t have the easiest childhood either. 

He also knows what it’s like to live with a condition that can make your life harder but also makes you unique. 

According to the comics, both of them are known to be good detectives and also keen boxers. I can totally see them building a reluctant respect for one another after they realise they have more in common than just their love for you. 

In fact, I know you’d have to pull them out of the ring after Marc agrees to a sparring match with the famous ‘Devil’. The pair of them would get a weird pleasure from trying to beat the other to a pulp - they don’t often find someone evenly matched to have a friendly bout or two with. 

At least it would once again prove to Matt that your boys could definitely take care of you if you ever needed it. 

Matt would definitely be sure to offer his legal advice whenever he’s concerned you both might be skating on thin ice with the law. Apparently, ‘I’m being controlled by an Ancient Egyptian God’ hasn’t ever been tried as a legal defence in the American justice system before… and Matt is oddly willing to try it. 

[m00nsbaby]

Violent things.

Steven Grant + Marc Spector + Jake Lockley x F! reader. Part I. (Out of 3.)

Tags & warnings. Lots of talks about death, violence, abuse. Inspired by Moon Knight's 5 episode x Corpse Bride. (+ this one is for my delulu girls since the reader is a bit delulu lol.)

Word count. 6.2k

Summary.

"Oh man!" What an interesting accent. "Wow, these meds are really amazing," he whispered as he tried to catch his breath. Hah, he did that too. "I thought I was dead." He hadn't even looked at you properly; he was just suddenly relieved to be in the presence of someone else. "Oh, no," you cleared your throat. "You are dead."

Each person had a different 'other side.'

Except you. Or well, technically, you had it, but it had been a long time since you'd been in it. In fact, apart from the bright colors, you couldn't remember much of it.

You'd been in excessively bright representations of what people imagine as 'heaven,' parties with mead, and you'd even tried candies that would have turned your tongue green if you'd eaten them in life.

Although, of course, that's how the most common ones looked; there were stranger ones too. People seeing themselves in their tiny cat-filled apartment or wandering the halls of their old school. Either way, it was fine because it was only temporary while they reached their destination.

Everyone except you.

And a few others who had the misfortune of lacking emotional intelligence even in death.

Literally.

It's okay, though. Over the years, you got used to this 'life' and the idea that you would never see him again, although getting used to it didn't mean you stopped missing him.

Stopped thinking about him.

Stopped wanting him back.

Anyway, work kept you busy because, yes, even in death, you couldn't escape the damn bureaucracy. You didn't have a real name for your boss because she also looked different to each person; to you, her face was very similar to that of an old friend, even though you couldn't specify which one.

She took pity on you somehow. She explained your situation, although it took you a lot of energy and time to understand it. She did everything possible to keep you from becoming one of those lost souls who simply roamed around here. She also pulled you back onto the path when you began to stray.

"There are 3."

You frowned.

"What do you mean, there are 3?"

"There are 3." she shrugged as you walked through the corridors of the psychiatric void. This was a new scenario, and your clothes were different too. Something more modern, you didn't recognize it as something from your time.

Yes, a few years weren't that long, but fashion moved disgustingly fast in the world of the living.

"Do you think you can handle them?" Should you mention to the boss that she looks like a chatty hippo, or is that the kind of thing you keep quiet to maintain good working relations?

You bit your lip and then nodded.

"Good luck." Her mocking smile was never a good sign.

Before you could object, she had disappeared. You took a deep breath; those were funny expressions that had stuck with you even now that you didn't have to breathe for real.

Your shoes echoed in the empty halls as you headed for what you assumed was the main entrance.

The door opened by itself.

Or rather, it opened before you even extended your hand.

"Whoa." You muttered, your eyes widening at the guy in front of you.

A rebellious curl fell over his forehead, and his huge brown eyes were even wider in surprise. He was dressed appropriately for the situation; it looked like a uniform for a psychiatric ward patient, and although it was loose-fitting, you would swear you could see his muscles from miles away.

And he, on the other hand, practically screamed in your face.

"Shit!" He jumped in place, bringing a hand to his chest as he laughed in disbelief.

Oh yeah, there was a bloodstain right on his chest. Nothing to worry about, not anymore at least; once you died, you technically couldn't die twice.

Although finding a functional washing machine in any of the many 'beyonds' was trickier than it seemed. If this Marc Spector guy was in the same situation as you, it was quite likely that he would spend the rest of eternity with that stain on his clothes.

Unless the boss offered him a job.

It would be wonderful to have him here forever.

Were you overthinking? Probably.

"Oh man!" What an interesting accent. "Wow, these meds are really amazing," he whispered as he tried to catch his breath.

Hah, he did that too.

"I thought I was dead." He hadn't even looked at you properly; he was just suddenly relieved to be in the presence of someone else.

"Oh, no," you cleared your throat. "You are dead."

Your voice sent shivers down his spine, and when he finally bothered to look at you more closely, you could see a touch of fear in his expression.

You were used to it by now, so why did it hurt this time?

"You're joking."

"Maybe if there was someone else to see me lying to you, it would be more fun, don't you think?" You tried to joke, but the poor guy seemed on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

That was a good sign; maybe you could keep him after all.

Marc pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as he tried to regain his composure.

"Do you expect me to believe this is the afterlife?"

"No, not the afterlife, an afterlife. This one is yours, well, for now, this is the path."

He fell silent, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as if his body still needed oxygen.

You waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But he never said anything, so you caught his attention by clearing your throat.

"Welcome, dear… traveler," you murmured as you clumsily searched for your notes in your pockets.

Ah, there they are.

"I will be in charge of…" You continued reading. "Guiding you on your way to…" How could you call this? Heaven? Valhalla? Mictlan? "What comes next."

Marc looked at you as if you were crazy, and you had no choice but to continue.

"It's a place that's difficult for the human mind to comprehend, so for you, it's something more…" You looked around with a furrowed brow. "Familiar."

He scoffed, his tone full of irony.

"I really am crazy," he muttered in a whisper.

"Together, we will traverse the 10 steps that will lead you to eternal rest." Your arm moved awkwardly up and down. What a stupid choreography your boss had given you. "Although," you stepped out of character. "Sometimes they are doors, and it seems that will be the case this time."

"Who are you?" He asked out of nowhere, and you swallowed hard.

"Your guide."

"Are you some kind of… Goddess? Are you God?"

You laughed, partly embarrassed, partly genuinely amused.

"I'm just your guide."

Marc had to settle for your answer.

"Are you ready?"

"Can one be ready for something like this?"

You shook your head but gave him a resigned smile. You felt sorry for him, as well as for all those who passed through your hands, but at least you did your part by taking them to what you would never know.

You offered him your hand, and hesitantly, he took it.

The contact with his skin made you swear that your heart was beating again.

You took a slow step through the corridors of the psychiatric ward with him behind you, his fingers gradually clinging to you. This was the first time in a long time that Marc allowed himself to be afraid, even when his thoughts were divided between his desire to cling to life and, on the other hand, that 'finally' feeling that had been intoxicating him for the past 10 years, ever since Roro left.

A few minutes of walking, and you knew by pure intuition which was the first door.

Unfinished business.

The first scene was… Something.

No one likes to witness the way they died, but much less what happens afterward. Have you ever heard that the last sense you lose is your hearing? Marc could clearly hear Layla scream his name just after the gunshot.

Or at least, his body managed to register the sound because he didn't remember it, but you could clearly see the scene at this moment.

"You left something unfinished." Your voice was as gentle as you could make it as you surrounded his body on the ground.

A strange feeling overcame you as you watched the curly-haired girl kneel beside him.

Holding him, begging him to come back.

Not sadness or pity, as it usually happened; you felt… uncomfortable? Annoyed?

Marc released your hand to get closer, appreciating the scene up close, and you knew how much he wished to touch Layla when his hand moved in her direction, trying to get her attention.

"Layla?" He whispered, his voice broken, his attention focused solely on her. He didn't even look at his body, which was slowly giving in. He didn't realize how she cradled him between her cheeks and kissed his lips one last time just now.

Your stomach churned; fortunately, you had already forgotten when was the last time you had ingested something.

"Baby?" He asked louder, and you knew it was time to intervene.

"She can't hear you," you whispered from behind, only able to observe Marc's back. The way his body contracted and suffered from small spasms due to crying.

Isn't it curious how all those things become muscle memory? Your breathing shouldn't be a problem when you weren't in your physical body, yet these things still happened.

"What were you doing here?" Your gaze wandered through the darkness inside the pyramid, your steps careful as you approached the open tomb of God knows who. A disgusted expression appeared on your lips at the sight of the mummified corpse.

Everything was better when you pretended that maybe you didn't really look like this.

Marc gave an ironic laugh, still crying, but you decided to give him space.

"I was trying to save the world."

You scoffed. 'Well, to each their own,' you thought as your fingers traced the edge of the tomb.

Hopefully, they buried you in something nice and expensive too.

"This might hold you here; we still don't know what will happen next because it's very recent."

"No." He interrupted, still kneeling in front of himself.

It turns out that the last thing his body registered was the way Layla grabbed his chest, taking something that rested on it afterward. The girl stood up, still with a broken heart but doing her best not to collapse.

You recognized that expression quite well.

"She'll take care of it."

Everything around him became blurry, apparently, that was the point at which he stopped fighting.

Marc slowly got to his feet, his eyes red, and he sniffed repeatedly. If you had the chance, maybe you'd tell him that he didn't need to do that, nothing would come out of his nose.

He looked good, though, even after getting shot, he still seemed attractive.

The good thing is that you still had 9 different opportunities to make him stay with you, but there was still one question. What did the boss mean when she said there were 3? An administrative error or something like that?

"She'll figure it out," he sounded sure as he pressed his nose bridge and took deep breaths. "She'll fix it."

"Then this is closed." You shrugged. Over time, you learned which dead ones to trust and which not to. Maybe Marc wasn't so wrong.

Nine opportunities.

"Congratulations." You offered him your hand, and he took it again.

That had to mean something, right?

You didn't pay much attention to the way he looked back, as if that would give him one last look at Layla. She had been gone for a while now. In fact, in the world of the living, this had probably happened hours ago.

The good thing (for him) is that apparently, she hadn't died yet.

Well, for you too, so you wouldn't find her wandering around. Romances that not even death could separate were the worst.

No more was said as you guided him through the passageways of the old pyramids as if you were an expert archaeologist, or perhaps an amateur with a lot of free time. One step forward from both of you, and everything around him looked different.

Vengeance.

"I have to tell you now." The cold streets of New York made you feel alive, especially in the short skirt you were wearing. The breeze cooled your legs and tousled your hair.

This seemed more common, even in the seedy side of the city. Apparently, Marc had been a normal person occasionally in his life, not someone who went on pyramid expeditions for fun.

"You won't be able to get revenge on anyone by being here." You walked ahead, trying to find the next door. It wasn't worth wasting time on this. "Sometimes divine justice serves in your favor and takes care of them, but it's not worth staying for a trivial matter."

And you knew it well.

When Marc's silence seemed suspicious, you looked back.

His clothes had also changed; he was wearing a leather jacket and a rather peculiar cap. It was gray, and it fit him ridiculously well.

He looked at you with wide eyes, his hand still holding yours.

"Cariño?" That accent was new. Did Marc like to play someone else occasionally at night? It wouldn't surprise you from someone like him.

Weird, like you.

Different, perhaps.

"What am I doing here?"

"Oh no, are you one of those?" You confronted him, one hand still holding his, and the other going straight to his face. You opened one of his eyes wider with your fingers, and he stayed still.

Had he drunk too much the night before or something? Jake didn't experience these things, never.

He didn't lose track of time; he didn't dissociate or lose control of his body; he didn't forget, and he didn't sleep.

This didn't make sense, at least not for him.

"You are dead, Marc," your words made his stomach churn. "I'm guiding you, we're only on the second level." Vapor came out of your mouth as if it were freezing, and your body still had that natural warmth that one emits when they are alive.

He furrowed his brow, looking at you as if he were seeing a ghost.

Well, that's what he was doing, but when you're dead, you don't have the right to see other dead people like this.

"I'm not… I'm not Marc."

Oh.

The boss's words made a bit more sense now. So, were they really brothers? Twins perhaps? Or whatever they were called when they were three.

The poor guy seemed about to have a crisis, very similar to Marc when you first found him.

"Jake Lockley." Your mind clicked, as it always did when you had these encounters with the souls you guided. A hazard of the job, there were things you knew and things you didn't.

He nodded slowly.

"Listen, sweetheart." He slowly released your hand, and the gesture didn't please you. I mean, if you couldn't keep Marc, maybe it could be one of the other two.

"I don't know what kind of joke you're playing," he walked past you while searching in his pocket for what seemed to be keys. "You're beautiful, and maybe we had a pretty fun night, but it's likely that what we have won't work, especially when you're calling me by another name and trying to play those little mind games with me, which, by the way, don't affect me in the least…"

Jake bumped into someone as he moved away from you clumsily.

"Sorry," he muttered, still confused. The other person ignored him, but when he looked back, his eyes widened in surprise. "¿Qué mierda?" You heard him mumble as he stumbled, sitting on the pavement.

Turns out Jake had bumped into himself.

And you suppressed the 'I told you so' smile.

"See?" You watched him pass you as well, and after a few seconds, you decided to approach him, extending your hand.

He looked at it in silence before taking it and getting to his feet.

"You're not playing, right?"

"Nope," you let go of his hand as you inspected his face. He looked so similar to Marc, yet so different at the same time.

"Are we dead?"

"I'm a little deader than you, but yes."

He bit his lower lip, and you saw him take off his cap and run a hand through his disheveled curls, more out of desperation than aesthetics.

He took a deep breath several times, more than you could count, and looked back. You saw the other Jake moving away in the crowd, and without saying anything, you turned to follow him without losing track.

Jake had to snap out of his crisis to follow you.

And him.

"Is that it? Are you not going to give me an explanation?" He hurriedly walked, doing his best not to bump into anyone until he realized that no one seemed to be affected by his shoves, not even moving them.

"We can't lose sight of you."

"This has to be a bad dream."

Maybe you liked Marc more than him.

"It's not a dream, Jake." You let out a deep sigh as you continued walking behind him. "You died, Marc did too, and…"

"Steven?"

"Right."

You finally turned to look at him when Jake from his memory stopped in front of a car.

It was a nice car.

"I still don't know what happened to you and Steven, but Marc got shot right…" You touched the center of his chest, and he didn't show how your touch made him shiver. "Here."

He wasn't sure if it was worth explaining to you right now that if Marc died, he would drag them both down with him.

"And who are you?"

"Your guide." You gave up; you would have to go through this again.

"Are you a product of my imagination?"

"Unfortunately not."

"Why do you look like one of my one-night stands?"

"I look like this all the time, actually," you looked down; this outfit was terribly uncomfortable. "Except for the criminally short skirt."

The sound of the door made you look forward. Apparently, the other Jake got into the car when you were distracted.

You opened the rear door of the car and looked at the confused guy in front of you.

"Get in."

And he obeyed; you got in afterward.

They were silent for most of the way, neither of you knew exactly where you were going because Jake had vague memories of this particular memory, if that made sense.

He had traveled this same road so many times for the same purpose that this could be any day of his life.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Your voice broke the silence, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"I was interrogating some guys in Cairo."

Ah, well, it seemed that he was just as strange as Marc.

"I see."

Jake somehow saw himself as the most stable of the three; he had learned to deal with the blows of life that he was forced to take to protect Marc and Steven from them.

But nothing had prepared him for the idea of failing them.

For failing them so horribly.

If he kept thinking, he'd go crazy. Even more.

You didn't know how long you had been here; everything seemed more tedious when Jake decided he didn't want to chat with you, or anyone, for that matter.

You assumed it was shock or something similar, and as for what this scenario meant, you understood why revenge wouldn't retain him.

Because Jake got rid of everyone who got in his way. To him or to Marc.

Both of you watched him drive, dispose of bodies, clean his clothes, and repeat as many times as necessary.

Well, he observed with a disgusted expression, and he took the liberty of covering your eyes with his hand. Well, it wasn't anything you hadn't seen before; apparently, the innocent face always gave the wrong impression.

The night ended with him crawling heavily to his apartment, tired, regretful, and often injured.

You looked at him beside you. Why did he seem so distraught by his own actions?

"So, can we cross revenge off your list?" You tried to joke when the expression on his face weighed on your chest. He didn't hear you; he kept looking at the path he had taken to the apartment.

If this was a divine way to make him regret his actions in life, it was quite functional, to be honest.

"And now?" His eyes fixed on you.

And you looked back at him.

"Do you still have the keys?" You pointed to the car.

He searched his pockets, and the keys jingled. Without saying anything, he opened the front passenger door for you to get in.

The gesture made you bite your lower lip to avoid smiling.

He got in afterward.

"Where are we going?" He started the car, and the roar of the engine added an extra note to the pain he was carrying at the moment.

He wasn't going to drive his car ever again?

Driving was the only thing that brought him peace, and the car was the only thing that belonged to him and only him. In fact, the vehicle was in his name, as was his driver's license. They were the only legal documents with Jake's name on them, even if it had cost him a fortune to bribe those in charge to get them without having to present any other proof that there was nothing suspicious behind them.

They were the only proof that Jake was real.

"I don't know, you'll feel it when we get there," you murmured without bothering to roll up the window; you just let the breeze hit you as the car started moving.

He didn't believe you, but apparently you weren't lying, his instinct was guiding him through the empty and dark streets of New York.

His home.

After a few minutes, Jake took a moment to look at you while you seemed completely absorbed in the detailed memories of Jake, who seemed to have even memorized the signs that adorned the streets he was driving through.

"What are you?" The question sounded a bit more offensive than he would have liked.

"Your guide."

"Are you sure you're not some kind of fantasy of mine?"

Was he flirting with you or insulting you? Either way, you smiled.

"None of that," you cleared your throat and finally looked at him. "I'm at the point where you are right now, and I'm staying here."

Should he inquire further, or were manners no longer as necessary when you were dead?

"For how long?"

"Huh?"

"You seem to know a lot about this; how long have you been like this?"

The way you shrugged was enough of an answer for him.

You had to close your eyes for a few seconds when you realized the effect the question had on you. You usually didn't talk about yourself, especially not with the people you guided. They were always more concerned about themselves, and with good reason; the boss knew well what had happened to you, but having someone directly ask about the situation left a disgusting taste in your mouth.

"My dear."

"Huh?" You looked at him immediately, furrowing your brow.

"What?"

"Did you say something?"

"I didn't say anything." The most similar you came to a normal conversation began when Jake released the wheel for a few seconds, raising both hands to declare himself innocent of whatever you were accusing him of.

"I heard you."

"I didn't say anything, I swear on my… death, I guess." He ran a hand through his chest, furrowing his brow.

Even with a bad feeling, you smiled.

And he did too.

Things were more fun when you collected as many jokes as you could about being dead.

"Alright." Your head returned to its position against the seat, and your gaze returned to the outside.

Jake looked at you for a few extra seconds; he knew that smile well.

"I think I can get us out of here," he thought, hoping that Marc and Steven could hear him.

Strong emotions or feelings.

The movement of the car eventually stopped, and you could no longer feel the leather under your fingers; you recognized the grass immediately.

Your eyes were forced open when a couple of children ran past you, laughing and pushing each other. You were beginning to feel tired, even though you were less than halfway there.

You sighed, your body feeling heavy as you stood up.

A couple was enjoying a homemade BBQ, even though the clouds seemed threatening to ruin it.

"Jake? Marc?" You looked around.

Ah, there he was.

Near the children's mother, looking closely at her with a radiant smile. It wasn't difficult to guess that he was Steven; his messy hair and tired eyes didn't resemble the features of Marc or Jake. Well, they did, but not really. Does that make sense?

Finally, one of the three didn't look at you in fear or confusion.

"Oh Gods, hiya!" His accent made you smile, and you waved back in greeting, approaching him as he was only a few steps away.

"You must be Steven."

"And you must be my guide." As if it were a friendly arrangement, he extended his hand, and you shook it gently, enjoying the contact. "Jake explained to me."

Was there a gap between door and door that you didn't witness for them to have a chance to talk? Well, you'd ask later.

"You seem calm."

"I'm totally freaking out on the inside."

You laughed again and nodded. You liked Steven, you liked him more than the other two.

"What level is this?"

"Third." Your attention shifted to the couple next to you, the woman's huge brown eyes told you in seconds that she was the mother of the three.

That was something they had in common, those lost-puppy eyes.

"Strong emotions or feelings." You took a step closer to her, your eyes scanning her face for more familiarities among the triplets and her.

The little wrinkles at the edges of their eyes when they smiled also seemed to come from her. And the curls definitely came from their father.

"Well, I love my mom." He seemed just as distracted by the scene as you were.

You didn't mention that love, at this point, wasn't one of the emotions that could retain you.

The situation wasn't new to you; there was almost always a familiar memory here. You didn't count friends separately because time had shown you that friends were the family you chose; the lines blended easily in those cases.

Maybe this was the reason why you would stay with one of them, and with just 5 minutes exchanged, Steven seemed like a good choice.

The children ran by your side again, and Steven's attention was completely stolen by them. You tilted your head to the side with tenderness and a slight curiosity.

"They're not ready yet; you can go play for a while, understood?" The taller boy nodded, stopping right in front of his brother, who ended up crashing into him.

Both laughed.

"Is it you?" You pointed to the younger one.

Steven seemed as distant from the situation as you. He shook his head slowly before looking at you as if he wanted an explanation. It took him a few seconds to be able to murmur.

"I don't… I don't remember."

"Marc?" The woman called, causing an amusing scene between the two children, Steven, and you since everyone turned to look at her expectantly. "Take care of Roro, please."

Roro?

"Do you have another brother?" Your voice came out so low that not even poor Steven could hear it.

It was a silent agreement in the way you followed him while he continued to follow the children with his mind in a tangle of thoughts. Was this what Marc had been hiding so eagerly?

You could swear a shiver ran through you from head to toe when your eyes settled on the cave the two children were heading towards, and the thunderclap sealed the deal on the bad omens.

You had witnessed these scenes before. When someone was about to die, it always felt like this. Being sensitive to death was one of the quirks that came with the job.

"Steven?"

He didn't even look at you.

"Lads?"

No answer, obviously.

"It's… It's dangerous, they shouldn't…" He seemed to have lost his breath. "They are going to..."

And you nodded slowly.

"I know."

The small steps were only a few meters away from you as the rain intensified. Both you and Steven were getting wet.

"Let me…" He was never able to form a complete sentence. "I know I can…"

You knew he couldn't, but you still followed him into the cave.

You walked in darkness for a very short time, with "I want my mommy" echoing in your ears over and over again.

The cave seemed to end in the living room of what you guessed was their house. Both of you arrived dripping wet, Steven with red eyes after what he had just witnessed.

You were still wondering what role he played in all of this.

Had Marc's emotional burden somehow reached him? After all, he was also their brother, or at least it seemed like it.

You stopped abruptly when both encountered Steven's mother, hands on her hips, her cheeks red with anger. Steven jerked when she yelled the words, "This is all your fault."

Everything was happening too fast, even for you, who had learned the art of controlling the emotions of the moment. It was usually the boss who handled these kinds of situations.

You were never strong enough.

You moved past the scene, your hand learned to Steven's wrist as you directed him upstairs. He couldn't stop looking as he moved awkwardly, stumbling over his own feet.

"It's this way," you whispered, leading him into the room.

You sighed calmly when finally the silence enveloped you. Inside, one of the children was playing alone. The scene tugged at your heartstrings a little more, but hey, at least there was no one screaming.

"I must be remembering wrong," he whispered as a last hope while he sat on the floor, defeated. He took a seat in front of the child. "It must be Marc's doing."

You pursed your lips, deciding not to say anything as you watched his hands tremble. This kind of thing wasn't in the manual.

"Maybe so," you gave him false hope before knocks on the door diverted both of your attention.

"Open the damn door, Marc!"

Another shiver, as horrible as the first one.

"It's not my mom, it's not my mom," the child whispered, covering his hands. Steven and you could do nothing but watch.

"Open this door!" More loud pounding.

More knocks, more panic, more fear.

Until the voice of the kid made you look again.

"Bloody hell! Look at the state of this place." His little eyes focused on a bunch of Legos in front of him. They weren't even scattered. "Better sort it out before mum sees it." His accent was the same as… Steven's.

"Marc! Open this door right now!"

Witnessing that was enough to clear your doubts; you weren't foolish. After your death, no one could really receit you. Your brain easily connected the dots, and apparently, Steven's did too; he had more clues than you did up to that point.

They weren't brothers.

Marc, Steven, and Jake shared the same body.

"When danger is near," Steven narrowed his eyes as he read from the poster on the wall above the child, "Steven Grant has no fear."

He took a deep breath through his mouth with heaviness.

"He made me up." That was the next thing he said, and you couldn't help but watch the child as he organized his Legos.

The door burst open with a shove, and that was your next cue; it was time to get out of there.

"Steven?"

Wendy, whom you had been referring to as 'the mother,' entered the room, her eyes red, and an aroma of alcohol that even you could sense.

"You are going to learn…" She took Marc's belt, the one that hung next to his toys. It was a horrible parallel, and you could swear your chest hurt. "to listen."

Her steps were slow as she coiled the belt in her hand.

"Steven?" You whispered, pushing him in the chest. He stood on tiptoe to get a better view of the scene.

"I wanna see what she did." He mumbled with difficulty.

You gave him another push with all your might.

"Steven, we have to go."

"Let me see what she did." That was the last thing he said before you slammed the door shut, muffling the poor child's cries of pain inside the room.

"I don't hate her." It was the only thing he could say after what seemed like hours. The sun seemed to have set.

You nodded slowly, your head resting against the door just like his.

"I know."

"She was sad."

You had to swallow the urge to tell him that it didn't justify what she did, but you chose to nod and offer him some peace.

"She was."

There were a few more seconds of silence before you murmured, "We have to go."

He nodded and was the first to stand up, intending to offer you his hand, just as you had done with Jake a while ago. You took his hand and stood up, but you didn't let go of his hand.

You descended the stairs slowly; the house suddenly seemed filled with people. Apparently, this wasn't over yet, and you started to seriously think that Steven wouldn't get out of here. How much more could his heart take?

Everything seemed blurry, although of course, you didn't know that the reason behind it was that Marc had never entered the house that day; the memory was clouded by a window in between.

"What happened here?" He whispered behind you.

"Your mom, Steven."

Her photo was on one of the tables, behind two long candles.

"Don't talk nonsense." He took a few steps forward to see what you were seeing. "My mom and I already sorted this out; it must have been something that ha- happened." They were all wearing black clothes around him. "in the past." He completed in a whisper.

You looked at him again, his eyes filled with tears as he shook his head.

"No, no, this can't…" He swallowed hard, making your own throat ache in response. "Marc would have told me."

You doubted it, but it wasn't the time to remind him that Marc seemed to be hiding many things from him.

"No, this can't be happening." He mumbled, again losing his ability to string sentences together.

Breaking your heart once again. The front door of the house opened in front of both of you, and you understood that it was time to move on.

Without saying anything, you tapped his shoulder, getting his attention. You pointed to Marc outside the house, just a few meters away, drinking from his flask with teary eyes.

"Marc?" He whispered to himself as he moved awkwardly and quickly towards him, leaving the house with you behind.

You decided to give him space; his memory allowed you to stroll through a couple of nearby gardens, and you waited on the grass while Steven processed the moment when Marc finally broke down.

Kneeling on the pavement, his body tense until the English accent of the other became noticeable in the way he spoke to himself.

The place was getting darker, and after a few hours, you sat on the sidewalk, watching the scene from afar. Steven had the opportunity to digest the situation as much as he could, and although for any normal person this would have been the end, you knew this wasn't the point for Steven.

He was understanding, strong within his sensitivity, and he knew how to deal with things that Marc couldn't.

You finally understood the feeling he was facing and what he was releasing.

Grief.

The grief of losing his mother as a child, and the grief of losing her again as an adult. His brother, his father.

The grief of losing himself while trying to understand that he wasn't 'the original' but Marc.

Meanwhile, as the crying finally subsided, Steven was talking to himself. Or so it seemed, because no one else (meaning you) could hear the voices of Jake and Marc arguing with him. "I know how to get us out of here." "Jake, we're not going to harm her." They didn't have to say more for Steven to understand that they were referring to you. "I'm just saying it might be an easy job." "Are you suggesting we kill someone who's already dead? You've truly outdone yourself." "At least I'm looking for a solution, unlike you, Mr. 'resigned.'" "We can't leave Layla alone," Steven whispered, his gaze fixed on you in the distance. "See? Steven's on my side." Marc rolled his eyes. "And what do you want to do?" "I'm just saying… if there's a way out of here, she's the one who knows it."

Meanwhile, when the imaginary crickets began to resonate through Marc's blurry memory, Steven returned to you.

"Hey?" You looked at him, who knows how long you had had your eyes closed. "Can we continue?"

You nodded and gave him a small smile.

"Let's move on."

Mk's tag list :)@ninebluehearts @icreatedthisat317am @onefinnedwonder-fm @shousha133

[angel-of-the-moons]

Running With The Wolves

Wolfwalker!Moon Knight (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You're on the verge of being labeled a witch, but can one handsome stranger (and his two "brothers") save you from the same cruel fate as your mother, who was labeled as one and burned at the stake?

Can you handle the truth about your heroes identities, despite it all? Would you find out who your masked savior truly was beneath his cloak?

Only you could answer that.

TW/CW: Witch hunts, violence, graphic violence, graphic death, blood, public execution, parental death, persecution, grief, depression, Wolfwalkers AU, Moon Knight AU, incorrect lore

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I was watching Wolfwalkers and it gave me the idea for the boys. I did a little research into the lore, so some will be inaccurate (my pagan ancestors would frown upon me lmao) as well as historically inaccurate; so what is in this fic is largely based on the film. It will be especially inaccurate because y'know, Marc is American and Jake is Spanish and Steven is English etc, as well as Khonshu being around (but in the comics he's had a Viking Moon Knight so this isn't too far fetched he'd be in a place like Ireland) so please bear with me, my poor mind has been going through it lately and I wanted to write somethin' pointless, so enjoy this weird ass AU I came up with! (Header does not indicate the reader's race!)

Taglist: @enheduannasposts

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PT. 1

"I heard tha's the girl who lives on the outskirts." You heard a young woman whisper to her friend. Her accent was clearly not from Ireland. She sounded like one of the people from England. They'd been arriving slowly but surely, like a trickle from a leaky bucket, since you were a child.

Your skin prickled as you looked over the vegetables in the market stall, tended to by an old woman who was blind in one eye. Mary, her name was. Mary was probably one of the only around here who was kind to everyone, unless they gave her a reason not to. And those two English girls certainly gave her a reason...

"Aye, ye two hussies best be leav'n this girl be!" She spat, waving her old wooden stick around. "She 'ent done nothin' to ye!"

The two women jumped back with a yelp and scurried off, an armored guard eyeing you and Mary warily.

Your nose crinkled at him and you turned your nose up as you looked back at the crop Mary was selling.

"I'm sorry, lass. I don't like 'em either." Mary said, winking her blind eye at you.

You can't help but smile as you trade some herbs for the vegetables, placing the juicy morsels into your basket. "I just would like for things to go back to the way they were." You sighed.

"Like when I was a girl, before they came to our town. Things were fine, everything was in balance."

Mary leaned in, holding a finger to the sky as she spoke quietly to you.

"Aye, lass. But don't worry. The crimes these English folk are doin' to us? They'll be payin', mark my words! The land, the very sky itself is angry because we can't honor the promises we made so long ago." She grinned, half her teeth missing from old age. "Then, maybe we'll be forgiven."

"Aye, or maybe be consumed by the wolves and the forest while we're at it." You smile sadly. You remembered being safe in those woods as a girl, playing in the creeks, chasing birds and hares, the wolves singing on the breeze...

But the wolf attacks have become ever so common, now. None had been bitten, but their homes had been trashed, their livestock spirited away into the cover of night, wolf tracks everywhere. You were the only one whose homestead was spared. You often wondered why. The only thing different between your little plot and the rest of the homes that were driven empty was... wait.

They were all English.

You weren't. That house you lived in had belonged to your family for nearly half a century. The English farmsteads were placed on the grounds that were cleared by the King's woodcutters and soldiers, they were the ones being attacked. Not you.

But lately, you've heard other tales as well. A "devil in white" the King's men would ramble, their voices shrill with fear. A man in white armor who moved like a ghost, and fought like hell itself. You paid no mind, figuring it may be some hermetic hunter who called the forest home, who simply didn't want to have them invade his solitude.

Maybe--

"Lass, you should get home." Mary said, looking at you with worry as a small gaggle of women whispered and pointed at you. You were used to the stares, you'd been getting them as a child. But since the English arrived, those whispers became accusations.

"Witch."

Your mother had faced a similar accusation, given her odd habits and ways of whispering to the wind.

Some considered her addled, even moreso when she began raving of spirits and the voices she said came from the ground.

You remembered the night that she died, the horrible, evil way that she left this world.

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You were only twelve years old, gripped hard by the local men as the bishop to your village spoke from the Bible, quoting things about the crimes of witchcraft and how your mother could only be cleansed by fire.

You screamed, and kicked, and cried and cursed, but all that earned you was a punch to the gut as they lit the kindling beneath your mother's feet.

You'd heard tales of witch burnings, but you'd never ever thought such horrible deeds would come to your town; your safe, warm little home.

Your mother was strange, yes, but she taught you many things that had proven useful. The best herbs to cure the worst fever, the best tonics to drink to cure an ailing cough, how to track in the woods, how to trust the forest to show you the way home; but only if you respected it as a living being, and respected the souls who lived within.

She wasn't a "witch" to you.

She was your mother.

And she was right in front of you, burning.

"Mummy!" You screamed, your voice sounding as though you swallowed shards of pottery.

She looked at you, and smiled, crying and struggling against the ropes that bound her to the stake.

The fire crept up, up, until it reached her feet.

You could smell it--the acrid, disgusting stench of oil and burning flesh. You could see her skin blister, peel, and burn away as she screamed, begged for mercy. Mercy that the church was not willing to grant her.

You screamed and cried until your throat was raw and bloody, struggling until you broke free of the men's arms.

You didn't think twice on it--you leapt towards the pyre.

Your mother was dead. You knew this. But all you wanted was to hold her one last time, even if all that was left now was blackened, charred flesh.

Your soft, delicate hands burned, your dress beginning to catch aflame as you desperately tried to reach for what little remained of the woman you loved most in the world.

The pain was so blinding, so debilitating that your vision went white around the edges, and you saw the world begin to go dark.

"Damn it--put the girl out!" Was the last thing that you heard before you lost consciousness.

When you'd awoke, it had been two whole days since your mother's trial and burning. Two days since she plead to the "court" about how they were treating the land; that if they didn't change their ways they would all suffer for it.

The first face you saw was the bishop looking down at you with a solemn and sad expression, completely different from the way his eyes had gleamed maniacally as he cheered the death of your mother.

"I'm sorry, dear girl." He said kindly, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your arms and hands were wrapped in clean linen--or, well, as clean as they could get it, anyway--your burns itching and painful.

You gritted your teeth, feeling hot tears burn as you glared at him, your throat still raw and aching.

"You killed her!" You meant to yell, but it only came out a hoarse croak.

"Aye, girl, I did. But I took no pleasure in it."

Liar. Filthy, disgusting liar! You wanted to shout, You smiled when she screamed!

"Your mother was bewitched by the devil, don't you see? The only way to ensure she could make it to heaven was if she was cleansed by fire." He told you, his wrinkled eyes looking at you with such gentleness you could almost scarcely believe this was your beloved mother's executioner.

"At least now, you know your mother made it to the gates of heaven. And hopefully God finds it in Him to grant your mother eternal peace." He continued, "After all, she loved you greatly, and there is nothing more pure than a mother's love. Even if it was the love of a witch."

You bite back bile that wanted to rise--partly from the pain, partly from disgust--and turned your head away, your tears heavy like chains that hung from your lashes and held your eyes closed.

"So hopefully, we can pray she found salvation and forgiveness in the fact she loved you so."

His hand brushed a lock of burnt hair from your face.

"Don't worry, girl... You can go home. But I must implore you not to give in to the teachings your mother no doubt gave you. None of that talking trees or animals nonsense, you hear?"

You wanted to kick him, to bite his disgusting fingers off and pluck out his eyes. But... all you did was nod, and say:

"I understand."

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Later that night, barring the English women's gossip, you'd had a fairly decent day. Your snare on the edge of the forest had gotten a nice hare; providing you with some nice soft fur and meat and bone.

You'd spent your days thereafter doing much of the same work you'd done since you returned to your empty home the week your mother died. You gardened, placed more snares, cleaned the house, worked the loom, began weaving a small tapestry.

One night, you were broken from your tedium by heavy hands on your door, making you yelp and prick yourself with a needle.

You stuck your bloody fingertip in your mouth and stuffed the tapestry into your heavy wooden chest, rushing to your front door to see what was the trouble.

When you opened it, there was the bishop, flanked by two men in heavy plate armor. You felt a shiver creep up your spine; the sight was eerily similar to the night your mother was taken away, only this time the bishop looked so ancient he looked like a piece of dried, brittle leather.

"Dear girl, thank God you're alright." The bishop breathed, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder.

Your brow creased, and you opened your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off.

"That... That man, that devil whom the townsfolk here and elsewhere have been seeing--he was here. Tonight! He killed four of the King's finest men!" He said, panicked, his touch cold and clammy.

"And earlier in the day... wolves. A pack of white wolves! I feared for you, girl. I know that you're alone and so far from town." He shuddered a breath. His lungs sounded awful, even to your ears. Honestly... If the man had allowed it, you could have fixed his long coughing illness. He's been suffering for years with it, sometimes to the point where his surmons had to be delivered by proxy.

He was suffering... but so had your mother, whom he murdered in the name of his god.

Your jaw was tight, and you nodded. "I... I see. I haven't been attacked yet, sir. B-but I will keep an eye out and alert you if I see anything strange."

You wouldn't.

"I don't want that devil to hurt anyone else."

You hoped he chased them all away.

He mistook your shaky voice for one of mutual fear for the man that haunted the nights, like the dreaded vampires back in England and the smaller towns and villages.

"Yes, dear girl." He put his hand to your cheek and smiled, his aged features twisting in agony. "A good girl. May God protect you."

"And He, you." You replied, the words tasting like rotten meat on your tongue.

"Such a good girl." He turned, coughing into his hand. "May God help civilise this land..."

Thunder boomed in the distance, almost as if the very sky itself was urging the cruel men on their way, to leave you be.

As soon as your door was closed, you grabbed a nearby cauldron and heaved it over to your hearth, hanging it from the iron hook and dumping the pail of water into it to boil.

You hastily stripped your clothes free and dumped them into the cauldron, rushing to find your small bottles of tonics.

When you'd found the ones you needed, you dumped them, alongside fresh herbs, into the pot with your soaking clothes.

You knew, based on your own observations, that those who coughed often spread it through touch or spit. And he had coughed into his hands and touched you; you simply don't want to take the risk.

You had to start selling your healing tonics "under the table" as Mary said, as cleaning agents for clothes and blankets just so you could pass it to the townsfolk with sick family. You hated doing that, but seeing a sickly child able to run around with her siblings again without fear of that wretched cough was worth the pain of lying.

You watched as the water bubbled, standing naked as you poked at the fabric with your long wooden spoon, swirling it around and around.

Once you deemed it hot enough, you carefully picked up the cauldron and set it on your stone slab at the mouth of your hearth, you scooped some of the herbal water into your wash bucket and began scrubbing at your clothes mercilessly to rid it of any possible sickness.

Once they were clean enough, you hung them near the fire to dry (but not close enough to catch fire while you were asleep).

You felt goosebumps chill your skin as the wind rattled your shutters, so you grabbed a heavy woolen blanket to wrap yourself up in while you dug around for a new linen dress to put on.

It was a small comfort, given how early in the year it was, and these certain storms always brought unseasonably cold weather in their shadow, but you accepted it nonetheless.

You walked over to your wooden chest and pulled out your half-finished tapestry. It was one your mother started when you were barely hip-height; your father, strong and large, next to your mother, petite and soft. Interconnecting between them was you, holding their larger hands in your tiny ones.

Much of it was unfinished, and only within the last year did your grief finally allow you to finish what she started, as this was the only thing left that you had of her. When the church took her away, your mother knew they were coming, so she hid certain things out in the woods for safekeeping, only telling you their whereabouts. Once the church lifted it's eye from you one autumn day, you finally ran out into the clearing your mother hid her things in.

Being able to have something to visually remember your parents by wrenched your heart in a bittersweet way, but it was all you had of them, other than their rings you wore, hidden and slung low beneath your bodice so nobody would see.

You knew if the bishop found out... He would have them all destroyed, burned like your mother; and he would likely have you thrown into the stocks and publicly lashed as punishment.

In a twisted way, the bishop cared for you. He saw you as an innocent, God-fearing girl who had been brainwashed by your witch mother, whom only acknowledged the paganistic "Old Ways".

You hated having to keep up the act, but you didn't want to die. You owed it to your mother and father, wherever their souls were together, to live on.

You blinked, and a heavy teardrop splashed down onto the tapestry.

Your body jolted with the clap of thunder. How long had you been crying? Had you been crying this whole time, but didn't realize it? Oh, you hated how often these crying fits would strike you.

All you wanted to do was think of the happy times with your family, but it always came back to the fact that they were dead and you were alone.

You dropped back onto your bed, the old, dried wood creaking beneath your weight, the smell of the straw mattress stuffed with dried flowers and clovers soothing to your senses.

Your eyes felt heavy, weighted down from your painful thoughts, and you turned your head to look at the wreath above your bed, shamrocks with dried berries carefully strung together; it was something your mother taught you. You couldn't remember the significance of the thing, but making them when you were bored became a mundane comfort.

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily.

You would need to check your snares in the morning.

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Your leather shoes squelched in the mud as you carefully made your way to the treeline early that next morning. You nervously chewed the inside of your cheek to check if the coast was clear before venturing into the bushes.

It was early enough none had arisen yet to start the day, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon as you set off into the forest.

Yes, setting your traps beyond the treeline was dangerous, as they would tell you, but you knew the game in the woods was fat and ripe, perfectly full of meat. If you could hunt at all, you would try your aim at shooting one of those slovenly bucks with a bow and arrow.

But a hunter you were not. Trap-maker, yes. But no hunter.

Your tiny iron dagger was slung low on your hip, your mostly-empty wooden sack carrying fresh bait for any snares that were sprung, or if the bait had been snatched.

The first two traps hadn't been sprung, but picked clean, most likely by birds and quick-witted squirrels. No luck in catching anything.

But as you neared your final trap, you heard an odd noise. A wheezing sound, almost, followed by heavy pants and a whimper.

Your footsteps stopped as you peered around the thick trunk of an ancient tree, your breath catching in your throat as you looked at the sight in front of you.

It was your last snare, set up with some bread and berries to lure in a rabbit or squirrel (as was your typical game) but it seems that this time, somehow... you snagged a wolf.

And this was not a normal wolf; it was one with fur as white as the coldest snow, now muddied and stained from the soggy ground it flailed around in; your snare secured firmly around its neck and front paw, cinching the two together in a painful manner.

Your heart broke as you saw the creature struggle and wheeze, choking out quiet howls that couldn't be heard through the underbrush.

With your jaw set tight, you stepped out of the clearing, and the wolf turned to you, trying to limp away.

"Shhh, hush, now." You soothe the animal, your hands out in front of you as you got lower, trying to seem less threatening.

Yes, the townsfolk feared wolves, but you wouldn't just leave this beautiful creature to slowly strangle to death on one of your own traps; your soul wouldn't be able to handle the weight of guilt.

"I won't hurt you, sweetie." You say, your voice calm and soft as you reached out.

The wolf snapped tentatively at you, whimpering as the pain of the cord dug further into its throat and paw, red stains now blotching the white fur.

"It's all right. I won't hurt you..." You urge the panicked animal. Your own eyes locked with its dark brown ones, and you could almost hear its thoughts plead:

Help me. Please. It hurts. Please!

You wait for the wolf to still, and sit its haunches on the ground, those big, pained eyes staring right through to your very soul.

Once the wolf is calm, you hook your fingers through the snare, reaching for the part of it that looped around, and try to loosen it enough for it to slip free.

But to no avail, the amount of flailing the wolf had done had twisted and cinched it to the point you couldn't. Your brow pinched and you nervously chewed the inside of your cheek before unsheathing your dagger.

Upon seeing the glint of the blade, the wolf whimpered and panicked again, beginning to flail once more as you reached for it.

"No!" You say, frantically trying to calm the beast. "Stop! You're making it worse! Please--I'm not going to hurt you."

You grunt as you leap forward, crushing the wolf against you in a bear hug, trying to calm its thrashing body as you swing your sharpened blade through the cord, severing it from the branch it was tethered to.

You sliced your thumb in an attempt to cut the cord around its throat, but you somehow managed it, your blood leaving fresh streaks of red and pink through the wolf's surprisingly soft fur.

You drop your dagger and release the animal, falling back on your bum as you carefully crawl away as the canine heaved for uninhibited air, its barreled chest shaking with effort.

Once it had collected itself, it limped up to you, it cut paw hanging an inch or two above the ground as its wet, charcoal black nose sniffed at your wounded thumb.

Its pink tongue laved out and lapped up your blood, as if to say "sorry" for causing you to injure yourself for trying to aid it.

Your eyes however, were drawn to the cuts into the wolf's throat and paw, oozing small rivulets of blood as it stared at you.

"Oh... You poor..." You breathed, rising to kneel on your knees, dirtying your skirt even more.

"I... Those can get infected. Please. I... I can help you..."

You don't know why you were trying to bargain with an animal, but somehow it paid off. The wolf nosed its way into your lap, ears flattened up and eyes pleading up at you.

"Okay..." You murmur, scratching behind one of its ears. "Let's get you home, boy. I have stuff there that can help ya."

The wolf whimpered.

"Er... Well, I assume you're male?" You chuckle awkwardly, trying to think of how to carry this large and hefty animal back home without being seen.

"I'm not gonna violate you by takin' a peek or anything." You clear your throat when one of the wolf's ears flop as "he" tilts his head at you.

"Er. Okay. Let's go..."

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It was easier than you thought, getting him back home. As the sun crept higher, the fog and mist were your ally as you smuggled the "dangerous" animal back to the safety of your home.

You had to haul him over your shoulders and beat feet through the underbrush. Once you were safely inside, you had to (with great difficulty) maneuver the wolf down onto your bed.

You chuckled when he rolled over--and he was most definitely a "he"--and began rolling this way and that into your blankets, making small huffs and growls.

"Ah-ah..." You murmur, reaching out to brush your hand through his muddy fur. "You might make your injuries worse, 'kay, m'love?"

That seems to get the wolf's attention. You weren't sure if he could understand you, which honestly had you thinking you were crazy, but the way he sat up and stared at you, one ear flopping down as he looked up into your eyes sent a strange feeling through your body.

"Hmm..." You murmur, brushing your fingers tentatively around his wounded throat. From his muddy thrashing he'd accumulated a fair amount of dirt, and that would lead to infection.

You hike your skirts up and tie them around your waist, and you could almost swear you saw a look of modesty cross the wolf's eyes as his ears slicked back against his head and he buried his muzzle into your warm blankets.

You scratch the back of your head, a little confused at his reaction as you adjust your knickers and rush to gather your herbs you'd need, plucking dried leaves and roots that hung above your hearth.

You set the herbs down into your mortar and pestle and begin to grind them down, mixing them evenly into a dissolvable mass that would melt in the water once you'd boiled it.

You crack your knuckles and grab a pail, untying your skirts and smoothing them out, frowning at the mud stains as you reach for your door, making a "shush" gesture to the wolf.

"Stay quiet and don't go near the windows! It's dangerous if you're seen." You gently urge him before slipping outside into the morning light once again.

The trek to the well was always annoying, but your neighbors never minded you coming to fetch water, knowing how dangerous it could possibly be for you to hike to the creek at the edge of the forest just to get yourself some of the life-giving liquid.

You inwardly cringed when the Kenny's daughter, Aisling, was already at the well; her belly already round with her unborn child. Barely 19 years of age and she was already with a babe; she was often sickly as a child, this you remembered, so her family (namely her husband) was very concerned about her well-being and that of her impending birth.

Upon seeing you approach, Aisling smiled widely and waved at you, saying your name chipperly, almost like an excited morning bird.

You were really hoping not to have a conversation so early, afraid someone would know you were harboring a wolf inside your home...

"Hello, Aisling. Feeling well this morning?" You hum innocently at her as you tie your pail up, before cranking the wench and lowering it down to the water below.

"Yes, surprisingly!" She giggled, patting her belly with a soft smile. "M' little one decided it was a good day to let mummy keep food down."

"That's good! I still recommend broths if you feel nauseous, however..."

"I know, I know. My mum is constantly making sure of that." She sighed with a roll of her eyes, hooking her own two pails of water onto her yoke.

Your hairs raised and you reached out, the wench slipping from your hands and your bucket dropping all the way back down into the water below the earth.

"No! You mustn't lift something that heavy." You caution. "It's not good for your baby."

"Ohhh! You sound like my father." She sighs, frowning deeply, her hands on her hips. "I'm not helpless, y'know!"

"Yes, I'm aware, but--"

"Aisling!" Her husband panted, trotting up to the both of you. He was at least a decade or so older than she was, but nonetheless it was a good match; he seemed to love her greatly. He was English, and one of the few kind ones you've known, in fact. A gentle giant.

This fact was emphasized when his large bulky hand reached down to touch her belly, sighing with relief. "No, no, you know that you can't be out here alone! The wolves!"

"I 'ent seen no wolves!" Aisling pouted up at him.

"That doesn't mean no wolves see you, m'love." He sighed dejectedly at her. He gives you a kind smile and a nod, hoisting the yoke over his own shoulders, "Aye, lass. Glad to see someone else talking some sense into my pretty little wife, here..."

"Bah!" Aisling scoffed, throwing her arms in the air as she waddled back down to their house.

He shook his head with a chuckle, "I swear, if we have a girl and she turns out like her..."

"You'll have your hands full, alright." You sigh, cranking the wench again.

"Aye." He says, giving you a cautious look. "But, I must warn you, the same way I did Aisling... with these wolves about, it's dangerous..."

"I know." You smile. "I'll be fine."

"Alright..." He replies, giving you one last look before going back home to his wife and family.

You on the other hand, rushed back home with your water to your waiting furry companion...

You almost dropped the pail of water when you saw what he was doing. Somehow he managed to nose open up the chest containing your mother's things, and was insistently sniffing the tapestry.

"Ah! No, no, no!" You frantically say, setting the water down to rush over, gently shoving his snout to the side to close the chest.

"Gah..." You sigh in relief, and smile softly at the wolf, reaching out to pinch and squish his cheek. And surprisingly, he took it well, making a little "whurf!" as you do.

"Don't go through my stuff, it's not very polite after I risked my arse you take care of you." You chuckle, setting yourself to task of boiling the water with the ground herbs. You kneel next to the remaining bit of water on the floor, dipping a rag into the pail and making a clicking noise with your teeth.

The wolf tipped his head to the side, ears pricking up at the noise as he slowly moseyed over to you shyly.

"Oh relax, I won't poison ya." You chuckle, dabbing the soaked cloth onto his fur, cleaning him of the muck.

He of course, did not like this. He whimpered and tucked his tail between his legs, his gorgeous brown eyes pleading with you.

"Ah! That won't work on me, Mister... You need to be clean before I can clean your wounds!" You cluck at him, not falling for his cute little attempt.

Thankfully, he sits there and lets you gently massage the mud away, carefully cleaning around his wound sites before hastily grabbing the pot of boiling water and pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You scratch behind one of his ears and say softly, "Now... I'm going to take care of you, okay? Now... just let me..."

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"No! Down! Bad wolf!" You groan, watching as his tail wagged happily, one of your kirdles firmly in his jaws, daring you to come get it.

"Ooooh! I should have left you in the woods!"

His ears flatten back and his eyes get big, giving you the sweetest, saddest look you've ever seen...

And it definitely broke you.

"Ah... You little... mouth off my clothes!" You grunt, tugging the garment from between his teeth, groaning at the sight of tears from his fangs.

He dropped down onto his front paws, wagging his tail happily as he makes a playful whine and yip.

"Oi! Ya seem just fine now!" You scold the animal, shaking the torn kirdle in front of him.

It was true. In just one day, your furry companion seemed to have healed miraculously faster than what was natural. It concerned you... but you didn't feel threatened by the creature's playful antics.

If anything, having him around made you feel less... lonely.

Dinner was almost ready, a simple stew with vegetables and salted meats tossed in. You weren't sure if wolves could eat such a meal, but you would feel awful if you were eating and your new friend merely had to sit and watch.

You sigh and toss your clothes aside, watching with a snort as the wolf playfully dove for it, rolling around and kicking it with his feet as you used your ladle to scoop two bowls.

You curled your feet beneath you as you plopped a spoon into your bowl before placing the spare on the floor. Your wolf's ears perked up and he sniffed the air, licking his chops as he abandoned your torn-up kirdle in favor of investigating the food you placed for him.

You smiled around your mouthful as he accidentally dipped his nose too deep into the broth, whipping his head around with a heavy snort.

"Ah, that's not how you eat, by the way..." You hum innocently, and again, your wolf gives you an almost human reaction, flattening his ears back as he seems to glare at you for a moment, before lapping at the food, curling his tongue around to eat the bits of veggies and meat.

"Oh, I'd love to keep you, but you don't belong here, fella." You say, scratching his ear softly in an affectionate way. Your skin crawls when you hear a mournful howl travel from the forest, across the fields, and into your house.

Your wolf whimpers and looks at you.

"As soon as you're ready, I'll sneak you back out to the woods." You promise him.

"I won't let anyone hurt you."

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He looked out from the treeline, his glowing white eyes staring out from the darkness.

A large, fluffy animal--a gorgeous white wolf, fur stained with mud--sidled up next to him, ears flattened back.

"Still no sign of him?" He sighed, frustrated.

The wolf whimpered, his tail tucking and nose dipping towards the ground in a response that seemed to say "no".

"Damn it!" The man roared, his fists balling tight as he began to pace angrily.

"Still no sign of your third?" A deep voice rumbled from the trees.

He lifted his gaze to spot him in all his imposing glory--Khonshu; god of the night sky, the moon, justice and many things in-between. His lithe frame ominously perched on the limb of an ancient, thick tree. One of his legs dangled down while the other supported his arm, his dominant hand clutching his staff in a tight-fisted grip as he stared down at him.

But mostly, he was his fist of vengeance. He was dispensing justice against those who imposed their will on the weak; like the other Englishmen who oppressed the local populace with their threats of jail, execution...

He also had to deal with bandits. Bandits, constantly seemed to prey upon travelers trying to find better places to live, to eke out a livelihood to support their families.

But right now, he was on edge.

He was incomplete. He was missing a vital part of himself. Someone he would not be able to fully function without.

Finally, his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth and allowed him to speak.

"No."

"He is alive. I can feel it." Khonshu sighed, almost sounding bored. "You and your wolves... Sometimes they are a gift... other times it is a curse."

It was true... there weren't many of his kind left, and they were useful as a commodity, but also a vast hindrance if they were separated. Very few were born after being hunted to near extinction, and even fewer still were bitten and turned.

He tipped his head to the side, "He will come back. But until then, we have work to do. There is a group of soldiers that have taken women and children from their homes. I'm sure you can deduce what it is that they intend to do to them. I want you to stop them and set their captives free." Khonshu tapped his staff against the thick bark of the tree, and in a sharp breeze, he vanished.

"Right..." He said, his throat tight; his body thrumming with anxiety, his hand shaking immensely at the strain of lacking such a vital part of himself. He wondered still, if he would be able to control himself, to hold himself back without him.

His wolf companion moved forward, nudging his snout into the palm of his hand, whimpering softly.

Sparing one last glance over the countryside, he made a hefty sigh.

"Where the hell are you?"

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Pt. 2: I will get to it eventually, I swear you guys

Extra super late author's note:

Yeah it's gonna be at least one or two more parts. I am gonna split it up to ease on the scrolling time for you guys! That and it feels neater than cramming so many lazy time skips into one post. I am going to get the rest of my drafts cleared (hopefully) and begin eating away some of those asks I have piled up in my inbox (that Tumblr didn't manage to delete by some miracle...)

My trip might be postponed, dealing with a lot at home, like me almost burning the house down today and almost passing out from the damn smoke because wooooo fire is bad

If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none whatsoever!

[thisisarcanereverie]

Cutting Ties (Dark! Moon Knight x Reader) Part 2

A/N: This is Part 2 of a 3 Part fic. (Here is Part 1!) This is also a dark fic so please DNI Minors and others. (I got a little carried away with this idea Anon so thank you for the suggestion)

Now if you can interact or want to, please do! Like, reblog, reply!

DISCLAIMERS/WARNINGS: kidnapping, angst (like a ridiculous amount of it), light cursing, I've never been to London or England in general so I'm going based off of what I've seen, English is my first language I just suck at it. I do not own the picture above but i DO own the header below, it's something that I made. I might make a few others idk. Enjoy!

Summary: You're a former Widow on the run, only in London for a year you meet Steven Grant, a goofy gift shoppist. But is there more that meets the eye?

For as long as you could remember you were not your own. Your name, your face, your mind, your body, even your own autonomy was not your own. It had always belonged to Dreykov and to his Red Room. Then, suddenly, the very color that controlled you, freed you. The red powder burned your eyes for a moment before suddenly it felt like you could breathe again. 

It was strange how one’s life can completely turn on its head in a matter of moments. 

One moment you were another Widow, easily expendable and replaced and the next you were…new. At least that’s what it felt like, you no longer existed at the whim of another. You weren’t a chess piece on the board, you were now a player. 

You remembered the day the Red Room fell as the best day of your life. 

There were so many things you could do, there were so many possibilities. 

You just weren’t prepared for the reality of it. 

That despite the mind control and the lack of autonomy, you still hurt people, at the end of the day it was your finger that pulled the trigger. You would wake in the middle of the night still haunted by those faces with a red mark between their eyes. It felt like you couldn’t escape from the Red Room you concocted in your mind, that no matter how hard you tried you will always be a Widow. So instead of fighting it, you gave in. 

You had offers, from SHIELD to Tony Stark himself. Which surprised you, but in the end you decided you didn’t want the spotlight on you and were a merc for a while. It was gritty, but it was work you knew well. You thought you could do it but the first time you were ordered to kill you couldn’t. They were innocent, they were just there at the wrong time. So you killed your boss instead, grabbed what you could, and left. You made enemies that day, one that would love to see your head gifted to them on a silver plate. 

You called Natasha after that, you weren’t sure what else to do. You didn’t know anyone else, you were completely alone. She gave you this guy's number, said that he would help you disappear and with whatever else you may need. You could feel her wink on the other end of the phone as you wrote down his information. 

Since then you’ve been running, changing addresses and identities every couple of years to stay ahead of people who may want you dead. Her friend would give you new identities and you would exchange with money that you earned at jobs you would work. For a while you were content with being alone, working everyday and coming back to your place to eat food you previously were never able to eat and watching tv. Then you met Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and Jake Lockley. Then suddenly you realized how gray your life had become, how long you had merely survived and what living actually meant—even if you were merely living a lie. All at once you were no longer alone, someone held you at night and kissed your blood-soaked hands. 

For the first time in your life…you felt clean. 

But that had all been a delusion. 

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You woke up in pain, your head throbbed and your limbs felt weighted down, as though someone had thrown two weighted blankets on top of you. You willed your eyes to open and was greeted with an unfamiliar ceiling. You squinted your eyes as you looked toward the open window, watched as the powder blue curtains danced gently as the breeze blew in. You weren’t sure how long you’ve been asleep, last time you remember it was nighttime and….

Rain

Pinching

Jake.

You took a sharp breath in and shot up from the bed as your hand went to the side of your neck, Jake had drugged you–and from the look of things–abducted you as well. Why would he do this? Did he act alone or did Steven and Marc help him? All these questions swarmed your mind but one question stood out. 

Have you been blind?

You shakily made your way to the open window, sure enough it was morning, and sure enough you weren’t in London. As far as you could tell you could be miles away from the nearest village let alone London. How long had they been planning this? To already have a second place squared away, ready, were you the first to be here or the latest addition. 

“You’re up.” 

You swerved your head as you looked beside you, your skin crawled and blood turned into ice as you looked at him. Upright posture, hair a little less unkempt, and a twinge of a chicago accent dripped in his voice. 

Marc. 

You opened your mouth to speak only for a small, pathetic squeak to sound instead of words. Your hand reached for your throat and realized for the first time how absolutely parched you were. Like you hadn’t had any water in days. 

“Here,” he handed you a glass of water which you greedily accepted, you didn’t bother breathing as you chugged the glass he gave. After the soreness in your throat subsided a little and hummed to warm up vocal cords that had not been used in a while. You put the glass on the window sill  and looked  at him and at the tray he was previously holding. Turkey Bacon and Eggs, it was Marc's favorite breakfast, one he had made you dozens of times whenever he was sorry for something. 

You were silent as you looked at him further, he wore sweatpants and a t- shirt, both clearly slept in. The tan of his skin glowed in the morning light and it looked like he ran his fingers through his dark curls once or twice. There was something unsettling about him though, one that made the hair on the back of your neck stand, something that wasn’t there before. 

Those eyes. 

You flinch a little as he raises a hand, only for him to retract it. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, his voice uncharacteristically small. You debated on what to say, what was there to say? You had so many questions and yet you could not speak. You weren’t even sure if you were just dreaming, it almost seems like a dream. A house far away from everything and everyone, and your boys were right there with you bringing you breakfast in bed. You were partially worried that you would wake up and find yourself sleeping in a plane seat millions of miles away from them, but the other part of you worried that you would never wake up. 

“How long?” you finally spoke, voice still hoarse. A moment of silence fell before he answered. 

“I can’t tell you.” Marc says lowering his eyes, something he does when he has something to hide. 

“Did Steven or Jake tell you that,” You fidgeted with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Neither.” 

“You have to let me go,” You finally said, voice getting a little less hoarse the more you speak. “Please.” 

“Stop,” He said looking at you finally with a hard look in his eyes, “Stop saying you have to leave. You don’t need to leave.”  

“Yes I do,” you emphasized, you held his face in order to hold his gaze, “there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, things that I’ve lied about. That person you fell in love with isn’t me, I’ve done horrible things-” 

“I know-” 

“No you don’t.” 

“Yes,” he said, grabbing your wrist with an intense look in his eyes, “I do.” 

It was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on you and stuck a fork in an outlet all at the same time. There was no way he could know, at least, not everything. 

“I know that you used to be a Black Widow,” he said, taking a step towards you, the grip on your wrist tightening, “you’ve killed, lied, and stole from many people including me.” his nose brushed with yours as you tried to steady your breathing. 

“How could you know all that?” You asked, whispered, your mind was pounding in time with your heart as he leaned closer to your ear. 

“I also know you used to be a mercenary,” you heard him whisper in your ear, his breath ghosting over the goosebumps that formed on your skin, “that’s how we met.” you stopped breathing as he leaned slightly away from you, far enough for you to look him in the eyes. Dark eyes that held the sun in them. 

Oh

Oh. 

The last job you went on you worked with a team, you never saw his face and he was never much of a talker. You just remember his eyes as he held a gun to you ready to shoot…only to lower the gun and let you get away. 

That had been Marc. 

Without a second thought you ripped your wrist from his grip and grabbed the glass laying on the nightstand throwing it at him. Your heart pounded as you made your way through the open door, sure to close and block it before he had time to reach it. You were sure by now you were on the verge of a heart attack with how loudly your heart was pounding. You could hear Marc on the other side banging the door with his fists. You had no plan, your heart was breaking all over again and your entire body has gone into a fight and flight zone. You made your way down the wooden stairs skipping every other step, unafraid of the small fall you have on the last step before you regained balance and ran straight through the front door. Even from outside you can still hear him banging and screaming, you tried to decide where the best place to run to when the banging stopped. It wasn’t in Marc's nature to give up so you look behind you, he wasn’t coming down the stairs either. What the hell? 

Then you heard a familiar grunt and footsteps above you. 

The open window. 

All at once it didn’t matter where you ran to as long as you ran. Your feet carried you swiftly into the tree lining of the woods surrounding the house. The adrenaline coursing through your veins hid the pain of the cuts and barbs that scratched you as you pushed them aside. Your goal was to run, or to find a pointy enough stick or a sharp enough stone to throw at him, but mainly run and hide. 

You weren’t sure how long you ran, all you knew was that your lungs were on fire and you couldn’t feel your limbs. You knew you couldn’t run much further, at least, not at full speed. So you went to the nearest, sturdy tree you could find and climbed, you grabbed one branch after another. The bark dug into sensitive parts of your hand but you didn’t care, you could see your arms shaking as they pulled you up to that final branch. It seemed strong enough to hold your weight and shielded enough to provide cover. 

One of the things the Red Room taught you was to assess weakness and who had the advantage. Marc had the advantage when it came to muscle mass, but you had experience–granted those were mainly espionage missions that required more brains than combat prowess. You always carried a gun on you,  but if he was smart (which you know he is) he took that away and was carrying it with him now.  

All this time, you thought he loved you and that you were protecting him. You never even suspected the truth, he seemed so familiar and you had that gut instinct that something was up but you ignored it. All this time everything had been a lie, he didn’t love you, he was finishing the job. How long did he have his eye on you before he made a move? 

Stop! You didn’t have time to mourn, you had to focus on surviving. 

You halted your greedy intakes of air as you heard rustling in the leaves. Careful not to make the slightest sound as you saw him run past, calling your name. You waited until you slowly couldn’t hear the crackling of the leaves before beginning your descent. Time was of the essence, at some point Marc will come back to retrace steps, so you had to make another break in a different direction he had gone. Maybe back to the house and hotwire the beat up jeep you saw in the driveway. Once there you would make it to the second nearest village because the nearest would be the first place he’ll look, use one of those grimy old payphones to call in your ID guy. 

Your feet had barely touched the ground before you felt the wind being knocked out of you as you tackled the ground. You were pinned before you could push Marc off of you, unable to do much but struggle in his grip. 

“Do it,” you growled while still fighting, “I’m not going to stop fighting but if you’re going to do it, do it now.” 

“Do what now?!” His eyes wide and intense, his grip becoming tighter on your wrists again. 

“Kill me!” You yell, “that’s what all this has been for, hasn’t it? I killed your boss and stole a lot of money and relics from the people who hired us. A lot of different people want me dead, a lot of powerful people who can make things happen want me dead for more than this. Once you kill me you’ll have your pick of the litter. Whatever you want.” You see his brows furrow as you feel his breath ghost over your lips. 

“Have you ever thought that maybe what I wanted was you?” He pecked your lips once before continuing, “that I intended to keep you for myself rather than sell you to the highest bidder.” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“Cause I love you,” Marc said, pinning your hands above your head with one hand while the other caressed your cheek, “I have since we met on those desolate dunes, that has never been a lie.” you can feel his heartbeat as he lays his weight down on top of you, like so many times before, as his words swirl around your head. Your first thought was that he was lying, how could he not be? Deep down, however, as you looked him in the eyes you were reminded that Marc was many things–but a good liar was not one of them. 

“You can love me,” you say, “and still betray me.” you hear him let out a frustrated groan as he drops his head to your shoulder. You can feel his grip tighten before he lets your wrist go, and his weight on you is gone leaving you strangely cold. For a moment you think he’s letting you go, a foolish thought, one full of hope. 

You were wrong. 

No sooner had you gotten off the ground yourself, your feet were dangling above the ground as you were swung over his shoulder like you weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Had this been ANY different situation your knees would be weak for a different reason. 

Once again you fought, kicking and screaming. He wasn’t going to kill you, not yet, but you were honest when you said you weren’t going down without a fight. You didn’t even register entering the house until he sat you on the couch with an unceremonious plop, his hands gripping your shoulders and a frustrated look in his eye. 

“What is it going to take to get you to believe me?” He said, voice low edging on a growl. 

“Give me one good reason to believe that you wouldn’t give me up.” You said, eyes narrowing, “a reason that I would believe.'' There was a beat of silence, you see his brows furrowed together as his brain itches for an answer that you know he wouldn’t have. He has betrayed you and has all the reasons in the world to sacrifice you to the altar. 

Then the lights starting flickering, 

The hairs on your neck stood on end as you felt a shift in the air, the lights flickering and a hum of something else. Something you’ve never encountered before. Then you see the bandages wrapping themselves around Marc like snakes and his eyes were no longer the dark color you used to adore. They glowed now like moonlight reflecting off of water. 

Of course. 

You’ve seen the small articles in the paper passing by or clickbait news in the media about London’s vigilante who called themselves Moon Knight. You usually never paid much attention to it, you rarely were out past dark anyway why would you? Maybe you should’ve. 

“If I wanted anything that they have,” You hear him say as the mask unbound itself to reveal his face, “I would’ve just taken it, and they couldn’t have stopped me.” 

“You’re moon knight.” Of course the first person you fall in love with is not only a mercenary, but also a superpowered vigilante. Your life hasn’t been ordinary, why would your love life be?! You groaned in frustration as you leaned your head back against the couch, “well that explains why you always look exhausted and always came back home at weird hours.” 

“You knew about that?” He asked, you gave him a deadpan look, “...of course you did.” You look at him for a moment and replayed every moment in your head leading up to this, he had a point. With these powers he really could have walked into any place, taken what he wanted, and left. He wouldn’t have needed you, but why keep you?

“Ok,” you start, “so you don’t intend to sell me or kill me or whatever.”

“I’ve been telling yo-” 

“But why keep me?” You ask, “Why bring me here? Based on this house and location it is-”

“Everything you ever wanted.” Marc finished, his grip softening on your shoulders, “a small house with a sunroom, far away from everyone, a place to plant flowers and a lot more sun than what you got in the city…A home.” 

“This would’ve taken at least half a year to build,” you say, “and another few weeks to a month to draft up the plans. So that means that you have been planning on bringing me here since-” 

“Since fate decided to give us a second chance,” he said, “I couldn’t follow you before and lost you, trust me I tried to follow you but you were so damn good at running and hiding that I couldn’t find you. Then, one day, I see you on the bus. I was a fly on the wall, Steven was in charge, but I saw you. You have no idea how badly I wanted to talk to you, but seeing how you fled before, I knew I had to be patient. I told Steven everyday to talk to you, building him up until he eventually sat next to you.” You see him laugh a little, “I really shouldn’t have kept him up the night before, but it all turned out alright.” 

He was sick, you knew this from the beginning, you just never looked below the surface of it. He needed help, something you couldn’t give him here. 

“Baby,” You said softly, holding his hands as he knelt down in front of you, kissing the tops of his still bandaged covered hands, before leaning your forehead against his, you had to be calm. You had to convince him with honey and not vinegar. “Thank you so much for doing this, it must have been so much work.” You start, lowering your voice to barely a whisper, already sensing the tension leaving his body, “you must be so tired.” 

“I am.” 

“I’m just worried for you,” you said brushing your nose against his, “maybe we should see someone hmm? Like a specialist or a doctor, get you some melatonin or some medicine to help you sleep.” You feel him shake his head before you gently shush him, bringing a hand to cup his stubbly cheek, “just to help you sleep.” 

“I don’t need them.” He says definitely, “I have you.”

“And you’ll always have me.” You promise, “let’s just call and make the appointment, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help.” 

“No,” he mumbles quietly at first, “no” a little louder, “I don’t-” 

“Do it for me?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and giving him a small smile, “please baby.” gently moving your hand to scratch the nape of his neck you knew he was putty. 

“Ok,” he agrees. 

“Ok,” you quietly repeat, trying to keep your tone even, “how about we call them right now and make an appointment?” 

“No.” 

“Ok,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck, “we don’t need to call them right now but in a short bit here, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

You breathe in, “yeah.”