#jake lockley fanfics

[traveller-of-the-knight]

I POSTED A NEW FIC ON MY INTERNET FAMOUS AU!!!

It is Moon Knight's TikTok account bitch!

Here it is!!

Sneek peak:

Jake films in an alleyway where some cats are hanging out.

"People belive that this music can remind cats that they were worshipped in ancient Egypt, let's test it out!" He puts on a kind of generic ancient Egyptian song that sounds kind of spooky. The cats stop what they are doing and all look at Jake "¡a la mierda!" (Oh, shit!). The cats move very slowly and take a defensive position, arching their backs. "¿?Gatitas?" (Kitties?). One of them does a very deep and very angry and very long meow, he is probably the leader. Then all the cats meow together, maniacally and jump to attack Jake. "¡Ay no! ¡Ay no! ¡Gatitas!". The cats keep screaming, some of them have attached themselves on Jake's clothes with their nails and bite and scratch him. "¡Ay! ¡Ay! ¡Bastardo!" (Ouch! Ouch! Bastard!). Jake starts running on the main street and everybody looks at him, taking photos and videos. The video cuts.

Jake films himself out of breath showing us his destroyed clothes. His hat is also not quite in place. As he does that he looks like he is in pain again. He puts his hand on his back and grabs something. He shows his hand on the camera we can see him holding a small kitten by the back of it's neck. The kitten meows angrily on camera. Jake looks totally done with it and he puts it on the ground. The cat tries to attack him again so Jake hisses it to assest dominance. The cat leaves. Jake turns the camera back to his face, looking surprisingly, even more done. He looks like he is trying to put together something to say but he really can't figure out what so he ends the video.

[theshamelesssimp]

When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly the reader has a name

[baconkath]

to all non spanish speaking content creators out there, I beg you:

do not use the term “mija”

“Mija“ is a term your mom uses

“Mija“ is a term your grandma probably uses 

why? because it is “mi hija” shortened, as in “my daughter”. It is not really a term your romantic partner would use when referring to you. In my opinion, it´s kinda cringy and a turn off

remember, just because you saw an endearment in another language it doesn’t mean it can be applied to all situations

it’s a little deppressing when there are a lot of prettier endearments out there:

amor, mi amor = love, my love

cielo, mi cielo = heaven, my heaven (?) or a placeholder for darling

corazón = heart

tesoro = treasure

vida, mi vida = life, my life

[sarahghetti]

can you pretend to be my boyfriend?; m.k.

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

summary: the boys pretend to be your boyfriend in order to save you from a creepy stranger.

warnings: inappropriate behaviour towards the reader, female!reader.

moon knight masterlist | all masterlists

steven

you lean over the gift shop counter, eyes wide as you ask, “can you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

poor steven is just confused at first.

“pretend to be—wait, what do you mean—?”

he doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought because the man who’s been trying to flirt with you all day suddenly rounds the corner, and you’re out of time.

“there you are!” a smarmy grin, eyes looking you up and down. it makes your skin crawl. “I was worried that you might’ve left before I could get a chance to talk to you again.”

“yeah, wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” you mutter.

it clicks in steven’s brain then, though not exactly fast enough for him to come up with a retort other than, “right, yeah, right.”

the man’s attention doesn’t waver from you, however, and you squirm on the spot. time for a hail mary, you suppose, turning back to steven. “are we still good for lunch, babe?”

“oh, yes, lunch—right, of course, love,” steven nods, more confident. “I just need to finish up some last things here, if you’re willing to wait a bit?”

you’re ready to say no worries, take all the time you need when the guy scoffs, barely sparing steven a glance. “a sales clerk? really?”

“better than the wet tissue you are, bruv,” steven snaps back, so fast that he surprises himself a little. something simmers under the man’s expression, but steven’s faster. “do I need to call security?”

that finally gets to the guy, who just mutters curses under his breath before finally pissing off. your smile is genuine now when you look at steven. “thanks for that.”

“no worries—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you nod. “don’t suppose you’re actually free right now, are you? the least I could do is buy you lunch as thanks.”

luckily for the both of you, he is, and he rounds the counter with a wide smile on his face before you lead the two of you out.

marc

he’s just waiting to place his order at a coffee shop when you walk in, some guy hot on your heels and prattling on despite your obvious discomfort.

“oh, hey, babe!” he doesn’t even realize you’re calling out to him until he meets your gaze, and the pleading look in your eyes is all he needs to understand what’s going on. “sorry I’m late.”

“it’s all good.” marc knows the drill, injecting warmth into his smile as he walks up to greet you. he gives you a small nod, letting you know that he’s got your back as he slips his hand into yours. “was worried about you for a minute there.”

“wait, are you two…?” the man looks between you, eyebrows furrowed.

“mhm.” he keeps his tone light, but is secretly watching like a hawk for any signs of escalation. when the guy’s mouth twists into a scowl, marc subtly tugs you behind him.

“you never said you had a boyfriend.” the venom in the words is terrifying, but marc doesn’t flinch.

“no need to cause a scene, man,” he says, tone amicable, but you take a peek at his face and his expression is as hard as stone. “now, if you’ll excuse us.”

marc leads you back into the line to order, squeezing your hand gently to stop you from looking over your shoulder. there’s the heavy stomping of feet before you hear the bell ring over the door as the guy leaves.

the relief is palpable. you finally let go of marc’s hand, face warm as you smile sheepishly at him. “thanks for the help. let me buy you a coffee?”

“don’t worry about it.” he shakes his head, but you offer again and, well, if you insist. he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his afternoon with you at all.

jake

he’s the one to notice your discomfort from across the pub, how you subtly shift away from the man leaning in close to speak directly into your ear.

when you meet his eyes, you mouth, help? and jake doesn’t even think twice before downing the rest of his drink and making his way to your table. he slaps a hand down onto the guy’s shoulder, making him jump. “think you’re in my seat, hombre.”

the man’s greasy smirk twitches, obviously thinking that jake is interrupting his ‘game’ or whatever the fuck. “nah, man, I’m just—”

“trying to hit on my girl, yeah, I can see that.” jake grins at him, but you get the impression that he’s baring his teeth more than anything. he looks to you, and his gaze softens. “you okay, there, baby?”

“better now,” you say, and it’s not a lie.

the guy turns to jake fully, sizing him up. “you think you’re so tough, huh?”

jake doesn’t even blink, just raises a single eyebrow as if daring for him to suggest taking the matter outside. it’s not even a competition, because the man backs off a moment later, angrily slipping out of the booth without looking back.

you don’t breathe until the guy finally leaves the building, at which point a heavy sigh falls from your lips.

“the nerve of that guy,” jake mutters, clicking his tongue.

“right?” you shake your head, then gesture to the now-vacant seat beside you. “care for a drink? I think I owe you after your help back there.”

“you owe me nothing,” he corrects, but slides in beside you anyways, taking your offer with a smile.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Moon Boys Sleeping Headcanons

Rating: PG •  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged? • ko-fi •

Warnings: some fluffy fluff, mentions of reader, not beta read

Word count: 861

Steven:

I firmly believe that this man constantly moves in his sleep.

He’s rolling around all over the place.

One of those people that hold their arms/legs up in their sleep in the most uncomfortably looking positions. 

There has been more than one occasion where you wake up and see Steven sitting up in bed, fully asleep, and you have to coax him back into lying down.

He is taking up all of the space, then hardly any. 

He’s got all the covers and then none. 

Side and back sleeper, for sure. Loves to be the big or little spoon when going to bed and will twist himself into the most uncomfortable positions for himself if it means you're comfy. 

There is normally at least some part of him touching you, even if he is out of it. 

You have woken up to him holding your hand or your arm in his sleep. Or curled up into a ball and snuggled into your side. 

His feet are always warm, no matter how cold it is.

Delights in eating in bed, watching TV cuddling with you. (Will tell Marc he never eats in bed with a completely straight face.) 

Once he knows about Marc and doesn’t worry so much about sleepwalking he has the ability to fall asleep anywhere and anytime. Literally his eyes are closed and a second later it’s lights out. 

Mumbles in his sleep. It’s never actual words, just little sounds. You video him sometimes to show him in the morning. 

He laughs about it for ages. 

Remembers his dreams in vivid detail. 

Always wakes up with messy hair, no matter how hard he tries or what material his pillow is. 

Prefers to sleep in pyjamas even when it’s burning hot, because it doesn’t feel right otherwise.

Marc:

Back sleeper. Literally lays down like he’s going into his coffin, so stiff it should be uncomfortable. 

However if you’re in bed with him he will snuggle up and lay all over your chest and tummy, and please play with his hair while he goes to sleep. He needs it. 

Doesn’t talk in his sleep, but flinches and twitches. The movements are usually small, like a mini electric current runs through his nerves. 

Pulls a face at eating in bed, will get the handheld vacuum cleaner out and hoover the sheets. “Steven, why are there crumbs here?” 

“I don’t know mate, don’t ask me.” 

“They're those stupid seaweed chip things you eat, you’re the only one of us that eats them.”

“First, they're crisps Marc, say it with me crisps.”

“Steven-”

“Secondly, Jake eats them too.” 

“I know it was you Steven, you always eat in the bed-”

“I’m the only one who changes the bloody covers, aren’t I? I think I’ve earned it.”

“That’s not-”

“I changed the covers last week.” Jake chimes in. 

“You’re right, you did mate, sorry about that.” 

“No problem.” Jake gives him a mental thumbs up.

Marc is just like !!! Where is my apology for eating in the bed? !!!

However, if Marc wakes up before you he will bring you breakfast in bed and purposefully ignore Steven when he playfully calls him a hypocrite.

Sleeps in pyjamas if it’s cooler, but will also sleep naked if it’s hot. 

Falls asleep quickly and doesn’t remember his dreams at all. (He prefers it that way.)

Deep, but light sleeper. Goes into a deep sleep very quickly, but is awake and alert if something sounds ‘wrong’. You once stubbed your toe on the bathroom door and let out a little yelp and he was up and by your side before you’d even realised.

Likes to put lavender and eucalyptus sprays and oils on his pillow. 

Jake: 

Very good at sleeping sitting up and power naps, but prefers you to be laying on top of him if you're in bed. 

It makes him feel grounded to have your weight on him. If you’re happy to lay completely on him he is so content, it doesn’t matter what weight you are, he just loves wrapping his arms around you like you’re his own weighted blanket. 

You buy him a weighted blanket for a gift and he wraps himself up in it constantly. 

Often complains about the cold when sleeping, even when it’s hot his feet are still freezing. He has taken to always wearing socks in bed.

Which leads to a rather amusing sight in August when it is boiling hot, so he’s sleeping naked, but his feet are still covered in fluffy socks. 

He calls them his ‘sexy socks’, and has pairs in a variety of colours. He prefers ones that have loud patterns and colours. 

(I headcanon Jake as a kniter, so I think he would definitely make some for himself as well.) 

Doesn’t usually eat in bed, but does on occasion to affectionately annoy Marc. 

Remembers his dreams, and remembers Steven’s and Marc’s as well. 

Likes to dramatically push you into bed, and throw himself in after. 

Doesn’t move around a lot in the night, but occasionally talks. 

Never wakes up first if he can help it, usually stays asleep while Marc and Steven are up. 

Thank you for reading!

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@novarosewood @pygmi-cygni

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

[pygmi-cygni]

All better now - moon boys

summary: I just think Marc needs a back massage, okay? That would fix him.

Marc needs a back massage so badly.

I mean probably all of them do, but Marc feels it more than Steven or Jake. Moon magic or something, idk.

You'd beg him to schedule some kind of appointment. It pained you to watch him wince and stumble when his back twinged. Steven complained occasionally when it got really bad.

The circles under his eyes grew darker and darker and the wincing got more pained.

None of them could sleep. Marc tried to trick you, knowing you were keeping your eye out. But the third time you heard him roll over, you dragged him out of bed and onto the sofa.

Lay down, you sighed, rubbing your tired eyes. Marc fidgeted for a minute then relented, stubbornly avoiding your eyes.

Your hands were warm and soft as they prodded and felt around for knots. He shivered, pleasant goosebumps trailing under your fingers. The dark, warm flat was comforting, and he felt the tension ease just slightly.

The peace was broken when you dug your palm into his neck. Marc let out a high-pitched wheeze. His right leg shot out as rods of steel shot down his spine. You apologized hurriedly, soothing over the spot with a kiss.

You adjusted your position, deciding to straddle his lower back.

Marc relaxed again. The warm plushness of you sat heavy on his back, kind of like a weighted blanket.

Just relax, it'll feel good, promise.

You began around his neck, kneading and pulling with gentle firmness. Marc bit into the cushions to keep from groaning. Burning relief rolled in waves over him, reducing his bones to syrup. Even his headmates roused from sleep to exclaim at the feeling.

The density of his muscles made your forearms burn from the effort of de-knotting his back. You dug your elbow into a particularly rough spot and he shuddered. A muffled moan made you scratch his head affectionately.

See? Steven was right.

A broken "shut up" made you giggle.

Your wrists were numb by the time his shoulders felt anything close to normal. Breathing hard, you sat back and stretched your hands, letting him adjust for a moment.

Marc?

Nothing.

Leaning down, you brushed a strand of hair away from his ear and gently kissed his cheek. Marc, honey, you can go back to bed now.

A snuffling snore twinged your heartstrings. You didn't want to wake him, but the hard work you'd just done would be ruined if he slept like this. It took a few nudges but he eventually sat up, blearily mumbling complaints while you led him to the bed.

Marc slept on top of you, heavy and warm as a bear. You rubbed his back while he dozed, preening at the sound of his occasional groans.

He slept hard, waking groggily around noon. A plate of eggs and bacon was warming in the oven, said your sticky note on the fridge. You'd gone out for groceries.

Marc rolled his shoulders and moaned at the feeling of looseness. The overworked joints popped in relief. Jake exclaimed from the headspace, jockeying for an opportunity to feel the bliss.

Now you can sleep without waking me up with a migraine, eh, cabron? Took you long enough.

Marc relaxed back into the pillows. Maybe he could persuade you into giving him another one tonight. He hadn't felt this good since....a while.

Your knowing smile when you saw him flexing in the mirror made him scoff.

It's fine, he shrugged. Didn't help that much. You hummed and continued stirring the soup.

Steven was fronting that night. You could barely get through a few kneads before he was squirming and groaning. The intensity of your hands made him grip onto the couch for dear life, choking out swears around a clenched jaw.

Feel okay, Steven?

He whimpered a response and tried to calm down. You made it quicker than the night before and spent a little more time scratching round his ears, which calmed him plenty. Steven heard Marc's grumpy muttering from deep in the headspace.

I didn't get a head rub, he groused. Steven couldn't dream up a response - too distracted by you snuggling in next to him. He pulled you tight, burrowing into the junction of your neck.

You prodded around his back, pleased at the feeling of supple flesh instead of twisted knots.

Steven stayed curled around you for hours, but it was Jake who greeted you in the morning. You felt him pecking your cheek and initially assumed it was Steven, but when his coffee breath brushed over your cheek you opened your eyes in bewilderment.

Jake? Are you oka-

He crushed you into a hug, murmuring thank you into your neck. The open display of affection threw you for a loop, but you managed to return the hug around his brawny grip.

You raked your hands through his bedhead, trying to tame the rakish curls. His eyes fluttered and he nudged closer. Squirming to avoid being crushed in the all-consuming sofa, you moved to curl in his lap.

Jake drooped in your arms, humming contentedly as you stroked and kissed his hair. The stubble on his cheeks rasped pleasantly on your hands while you stroked his face.

Maybe next time you won't wait so long to get your shit fixed, huh?

Less talking, more scratching, bebita.

*vomits this in your lap and leaves*

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma

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@unear7hly @chaithetics @ominoose @purple-amaranthe @buckyssugarchick

[spicyllewyn]

Kinktober 6. - Mirror sex.

Moon system x F!Reader

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

Word count. 2.8k

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

Kinktober masterlist.

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

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

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

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

Well, the boundaries that Marc set.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Darling?"

Your eyes traveled to him.

"Mhm?"

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

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

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

"Sit on the bed."

"Am I...?"

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

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

You immediately understood who he was talking to.

Or whom.

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

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

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

Raising an eyebrow, Marc released your hair.

"Stand up, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Were you supposed to not enjoy that?

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

Marc looked at the mirror with a frown.

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

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

Still distracted, he nodded quickly.

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

You didn't complain, though.

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

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

You sniffed, looking up before giving Marc a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he obeyed.

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

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

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

He immediately felt your little hole tighten around him.

“Circles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[moonknightly]

i've gotten used to sleeping here without you—

pairing: marc spector x reader

wc: 2.1k

warnings: pulling an ao3 and giving you a no archive warnings apply tag

except: marc has settled down a lot in recent years, ever since your daughter was born. he’d bought your family the apartment you’re still living in without him, landed a military operations consulting job that doesn’t involve him leaving for weeks or months at a time. he stopped drinking every night. 

thank you @poetic-solo for beta reading bb ahhhh i'm nervous

Your apartment is quiet when you walk in. You kick your shoes off by the door and abandon your bag on the floor, forgoing your usual routine of putting each item away where it belongs and opting to cut any and all corners necessary to get into your pajamas quicker instead. The sigh that leaves your lips as you trudge down the hallway hardly conveys how tired you feel, in fact it comes nowhere close. All you can think about is getting out of this stupid dress and crawling between your fluffy blankets. 

You sigh a second time as you push open your bedroom door, heading straight for your closet. You’re not even halfway across the dark room before your dress is discarded on the floor, left in a heap for you to deal with the next day. Your bra comes next, and then your panties and you’re so glad that you’d thought to lay a change on top of your drawers so all you have to do is slip into the new ones. You automatically reach for a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, not caring if they’re a perfect match, just wanting to be cozy and knowing the combo you’d grabbed was perfect for comfort. 

The makeup on your face feels sticky and cake-like, so you decide that’s one corner you don’t want to cut as you exit your closet and walk towards the en-suite instead of towards the mattress. You take a disposable cloth and remove the mascara and concealer from your face with a cleanser, tossing your hair up before you get started to keep it dry and out of the way. Once your face is clean and makeup free, you opt to brush your teeth, reminding yourself that no matter how badly you want to climb into bed, you need to take care of these few things first. 

Finally, you’re ready for bed. You allow your shoulders to sag as you walk back into your room, almost missing the soft light now illuminating the space. You’re sure it would’ve been easy to convince yourself that you turned on the lamp and just forgot you did so, and you were so tired you probably wouldn’t have thought much about your decorative pillows now being discarded on the floor and your duvet pulled back either, if it wasn’t for the familiar body sitting on the edge of your sheets. 

“Marc,” you sigh, gesturing for him to scoot over, past your ability to ask questions, yet. “Come on, move.”

The man so unexpectedly in front of you snorts but does as he’s instructed, giving you enough space to finally crawl between the sheets, which you do without another glance his way meanwhile he’s watching you the whole time.

He’s quiet while you start to settle in, but so are you - you think you might be past your ability to talk at all. You weren’t expecting to see him in your bedroom, let alone in your apartment, and honestly? It’s a little jarring, a little too close. It takes a few more seconds for you to finally shake yourself and speak up.

“Thank you for watching her,” you say, voice quiet as you situate yourself upon your pillows, finally looking towards your ex-husband once you find a comfortable position. “I wasn’t expecting anyone home, I thought you would’ve taken her back to your place.”

Marc hums, and for a second you don’t think he’s going to say anything in response but he eventually finds his own voice. 

“Of course,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders back to stretch them out. “She’s my kid too.” 

He skips over why he’d brought her home and not to his apartment.

“I know. But it isn’t your night and I didn’t expect to get stuck at work.” 

“So?”

“So…” You try to think of your words carefully, wondering if he’d brought your daughter home because maybe... “I didn’t ruin your plans or anything?”

He furrows his eyebrows, a soft snort following, absolutely catching the duality of your question. “My plans involved takeout for one and my TV.”

Marc has settled down a lot in recent years, ever since your daughter was born. He’d bought your family the apartment you’re still living in without him, landed a military operations consulting job that doesn’t involve him leaving for weeks or months at a time. He stopped drinking every night. 

You nod slowly, trying not to show that his answer secretly pleases you - he didn’t have plans with a girl. You try to push that thought away quickly, it wasn’t healthy for you to think that way and you know it, remind yourself of it. You’re divorced, have been for over a year by this point. He can spend his time with other women if he wants.

“Still,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. “Thank you for picking her up and bringing her home.” 

Marc nods, and you thought maybe, he’d take that as his cue to leave, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even speak up again. You just look back and forth towards each other in silence, stealing glances, sometimes locking eyes and quickly looking away. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and you find it just a little bit startling. It feels so natural, like he was simply saying goodnight, that he was going to stay up for a while longer before he comes to bed but this isn’t his bed anymore. You don’t share it with him like you once did.

You’re the first to break the silence again. 

“It’s late,” you mumble finally, catching the subtle way he seems to deflate at your attempt to get him to leave. 

He nods again, but doesn’t make any move to get up. Not really. 

You give him another moment or two before you speak up again. “Marc what's going on?” you ask softly, voice gentle like it always is with him. Even in the worst of arguments, he’s not sure you ever spoke to him in a way that wasn’t kind. 

Marc rubs the top of his thighs, something you know he’s doing just to keep his hands busy. He doesn’t want to say what’s on his mind, he never does. It was the cause of so many of your fights.

And you’re not doing it again. You can’t.

“If you’re not going to talk to me, I think you should leave. It’s late.”

His eyes meet yours again and you watch something flicker, so subtle and quick you would’ve missed it if you didn’t know him so well - you’d sparked his anger, but he’d been able to bring himself back down quickly, before he snapped.

You look at him expectantly. He must really have something weighing on his shoulders because he hasn’t bolted yet. 

He finally gives you something. 

“Being here tonight felt normal.” 

His confession makes your eyebrows furrow, and you understand without him needing to elaborate - you’d felt the same when you’d seen him sitting on your bed, but you hadn’t let yourself think about it for too long until now. You push it away again quickly though. 

And while you don’t need him to elaborate, you want him to.

“What do you mean?”

He knows you’re asking him just because you want to hear him say it, and he gives you a stern look that you ignore. 

“I mean it felt…normal. Watchin’ her while waiting for you to come home. Coming to bed and waiting for you…seeing you in my clothes.”

You break eye contact, cheeks turning hot at the realization that you’d subconsciously picked out his hoodie and his flannel pants to sleep in because they were the most comforting combination you could find, picking a random spot on the wall to stare at because his brown eyes made you weak and now wasn’t the time to let your guard down. Something somewhere slips though, and Marc catches the moment it does. 

“I mean, it was our routine. When I would work late and couldn’t get her after school.” 

“Yeah, it was,” he mumbles, more like whispers. He clears his throat. “And then we’d get in bed and you’d let me kiss you until you fell asleep.”

“Which was as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

He chuckles, forcing air out of his nose in a rush. “Yeah, I’d only get a couple in. Maybe that’s what put you to sleep.”

There’s another lull in conversation as you chuckle - the silence doesn’t last very long, and Marc is the first to break it. 

“Do you need help falling asleep tonight?”

You pause, taken aback by his question, his offer - honestly, it stuns you into silence but fills your stomach with annoying butterflies at the same time.

Marc is your ex husband, you remind yourself. You shouldn’t get butterflies around him anymore.

He doesn’t give you the time to expel them from your belly.

“We can just sleep,” he says quickly, a hint of pink tinging his cheeks. “We don’t have to, I mean I wasn’t- I,” he stutters, trying to cover himself, a rare nervousness and maybe a hint of embarrassment tainting his words. 

Stuttering. So uncharacteristic of him. You take him out of his misery pretty quickly.

Sort of.

“You want to sleep together?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow as Marc continues to splutter.

“Not like that, I mean not that I wouldn’t want to but I, uh…shit.”

He’s really embarrassed, you can tell. You’ve always been so good at reading him, even now.

You’re not sure that sharing a bed with Marc is the best idea. You don’t want to get his hopes up, because you can tell that he’s eager for…something. Something to happen, something to fill the gaps, maybe. You’re not sure what exactly. 

But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hoping for the same something. 

“So you want to sleep together, but not sleep together, but maybe sleep together?”

“Yes,” Marc deadpans, just glad that you hadn’t thrown him out yet. 

You’re still apprehensive, still on the fence. You can think of a million reasons why you shouldn’t sleep next to him again but God, you want to ignore every single one of them.

Just for tonight. Just one night. 

“Get in bed, Spector,” you sigh finally, starting to adjust and situate yourself into the blankets, hoping you can get comfortable and drift off before you have time to realize that his head is on the pillow beside yours.

But the clank of his belt coming undone, the thud of his jeans hitting the floor - that distracts you from your dreams, for sure. 

He’d always slept in his boxers when you were together though. This isn’t anything new, you suppose. 

Hell, you’d made a kid together. You can handle sleeping next to him in his boxers and his stupid hair a mess and oh fuck he took his shirt off too-

He can feel your eyes as he lays down, but you miss the way he bites his lip, because that’s not where you’re looking. “Is this okay?” he asks.

It’s weird, hearing him ask if he can have his shirt off around you - he never needed to ask before. 

That’s right, before, you remind yourself. 

“It’s okay.”

Marc lays down next to you, so close you can feel the warmth off his skin and you think you might be able to feel his heart pounding but maybe that’s just your own. It’s quiet again, and maybe a little sad, a little weird, maybe a little something you can’t quite put your finger on.

There’s something off. Something that just isn’t right. And it’s not the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings anymore, even though that is weird. 

“Can you-”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he’s dragging you closer, draping his arm around you like you had wanted, the way he used to.

He takes your leg and hikes it over his hip. He’d told you once that the pressure, the reminder that you’re asleep next to him makes him feel safe. He’d actually admitted that to you, the man who never touched his emotions. 

Marc was right - it feels normal. It’s just the way it was before. 

Except it isn’t. Except it never will be again. 

Except you want it to be. 

Neither of you say anything for the rest of the night, and you both drift off eventually, sleeping better in those few hours than you had in months.

[eyelessfaces]

pov: you're dating firefighter poe dameron<3

check this if you're interested in reading this<3

[traveller-of-the-knight]

I accidentally made the moon boys have adhd in "Only a Paper Moon" because I thought that's how normal people think but turns out I have adhd too.

Have a nice day and comment if you want to be tagged in chapter one the prologue is out here

[theshamelesssimp]

Me when I get to the part of a fanfic that has me giggling and kicking my feet

[nolovelingers]

PLEASE DONT LEAVE ME ⋆ ˚｡ ୨୧ steven grant

⋆ ★ a desperate, emotionally charged steven, who is not ready to let go of you after you decide to leave him, realizing he's been hiding many secrets — short blurb !!

cw ᝰ.ᐟ use of y/n ,, gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, angst ,, break up ,, desperate steven

(y/n) stood in the small hallway, their heart pounding in their chest as they gazed at the neatly packed suitcases by the door. they had been living with steven for nearly a year now, and while the beginning had been a whirlwind of excitement, the novelty had long since worn off. beneath the surface, a gnawing sense of unease had taken root, growing stronger with each passing week.

it wasn't until recently that (y/n) had begun to realize the true extent of steven's secrets. at first, you had brushed off the odd comments and strange behavior as quirks, the result of a stressful job at the art gallery. but as the months went by, the cracks in his facade became impossible to ignore.

late night phone calls in a language you didn't understand, whispered arguments with an unseen presence, and the occasional lapses in memory that left him disoriented and confused, even acting like a completely different person at times. (y/n) had tried to be patient, to give him the time and space he needed to open up to them. but as the months went by and the secrets only seemed to multiply, they knew that they could no longer go on living in the dark.

just as you were about to make your way to the bedroom to confront him, steven appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and fear. he looked disheveled, probably haven just woken up, his hair a mess of tangled curls, and his shirt partially unbuttoned, exposing a glimpse of his toned chest.

"right, what’s this then?" he asked, his voice tight with anxiety as his gaze flicked from your face to the packed suitcases. "youre not leaving, are you?" there was still an edge of playfulness in his voice, like he was trying to diffuse the situation.

there was a beat. a second of stilled silence filling the air like static as you took a moment to compose yourself. only then did he realize this was no joking matter.

"i can't do this anymore, steven," your voice was soft, trembling with a cocktail of sadness and frustration. "not when you're still hiding so many secrets from me."

stevens brow furrowed, and he took a step closer to you, his hand reaching out to grasp your arm. his fingers were warm and gentle, a pleading resonating in his eyes. "wha’dya’mean, love? what secrets?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch as the realization of what was happening began to sink in.

you pulled away from his touch, unable to bear the weight of the lies that still lingered between them. "don’t play dumb," you said, voice hardening with a mix of anger and sadness. "you know exactly what i mean." you shook your head, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over.

steven's face paled, and he leaned against the wall for support, his body trembling slightly as he tried to process your words.

"(y/n), I... I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but there was a hollow quality to his voice, a sense of desperation that belied his words.

your heart clenched at the anguish in his eyes, the raw desperation that clung to his words like a second skin. you wanted to reach out, to pull him close and promise that everything would be alright, that you would never leave his side. but the weight of his secrets, the knowledge that he could never truly be open with you, held you back.

taking a step closer to him, your eyes searching his face, seeing the fear, the panic that gripped him like a vice.

"I've tried to be patient, I've tried to give you the time and space you needed to open up to me. But it's been nearly a year, and nothing has changed."

your voice rose with each word, the emotion you had been holding back for so long pouring out like a flood. you could feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the ache in your chest growing more intense with each passing second.

"i love you, stevie. god knows I do. but I can't be with someone who won't let me in."

you paused, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to steady yourself. you knew that the next words you spoke would change everything.

"im breaking up with you. im sorry”

“no…”

desperation, raw and all-consuming, gripped steven like a merciless tide. It crashed over him in waves, threatening to drown him in its icy depths. his heart raced, pounding against his ribcage like a caged animal desperate to break free. the blood rushed to his ears, a deafening roar that drowned out the sound of your voice, your words lost in the cacophony of his own panicked thoughts.

fear, primordial and bone-deep, coiled around his spine like a serpent. it squeezed the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath. the terror of losing you, of watching you walk out of his life and out of his reach, filled him with a horrifying clarity.

stevens mind reeled, a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts and half-remembered memories. the weight of his secrets pressed down on him, a physical burden that threatened to crush him beneath its immensity. the truth of his fractured psyche, the ancient curse that bound him to the will of a long-dead god, clawed at the edges of his consciousness, desperate to be unleashed.

a flicker of defiance sparked to life in the depths of his eyes. It was a stubborn, unyielding flame that refused to be extinguished, no matter how hard the tide of emotion threatened to snuff it out. he let out a dry, bitter laugh. shaking his head like he was trying to convince himself this was all fake. “no…” he repeated.

steven reached out to you, his hand outstretched and trembling, his fingers aching to feel the softness of your skin against his own. he tried to speak, to form the words that would keep you by his side, but his throat constricted, the muscles seizing up in a spasm of fear and desperation.

"love, please," he choked out, his voice a broken, jagged thing. "please, don't say a thing like that. lets not be rash.”

“steven…” you try to object, but he cuts you off, seemingly in denial.

steven stumbled forward, closing the distance between them in a desperate lunge. his hands gripped your shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your arms as he clung to you like a man drowning and you were his only hope of salvation.

"im begging you," he rasped, his voice ragged and hoarse with emotion. "please, don't go."

he paused, swallowing hard as he fought to regain some semblance of control. but the panic was winning, the terror of a life without you clawing at his insides like a wild beast.

"i know ive been a right bastard, keeping things from you. but it's not because i don't trust you. im terrified of losing you."

his breath hitched in his throat, a sob threatening to tear its way free. he blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears that burned behind his eyelids, but it was a losing battle. they spilled down his cheeks in hot, stinging rivulets, cutting trails through the stubble on his jaw.

his head dropped to your shoulder, his face burying itself in the warm, soft crook of your neck. his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you against him, as if he could somehow fuse your bodies together and keep you from leaving him. the desperate, broken plea spilled from his lips like a prayer.

"you can't bloody do this to me," he gasped out between shuddering breaths, his voice muffled against your skin. "pleasepleasepleaseplease. dont do this to me. im begging you, love, im bloody begging you."

his tears soaked into the fabric of your shirt, leaving damp patches that spread like spilled ink on parchment. the heat of his breath, ragged and desperate, seared the sensitive skin on your neck, raising goosebumps in its wake. his fingers tangled in the silky strands of your hair, fisting the locks gently and using them to anchor himself to you.

"you’re the only thing that keeps me sane. without you, im lost. nothing. i’ll bloody fall apart, (y/n). i swear i will." he choked out, the words vibrating against your collarbone.

stevens body shook with the force of his emotion, the vibrations racking his lean frame.

despite his fervent pleas and the desperate, almost violent way he clung to you, (y/n) remained unmoved. your expression softened with sympathy and regret, but the resolve in your eyes never wavered. you could feel the hammering of his heart against your chest, the tremors that wracked his lean, muscular frame. yet, you could not bring yourself to succumb to his pleas, not when you knew the truth of what lay beneath the surface.

gently but firmly you pried at his fingers, unwrapping his arms from around your waist. you eased his head back from your shoulder, cupping his face in your hands. his eyes were wild, the irises nearly swallowed by the black of his dilated pupils. tears clung to his long, dark lashes, and his cheeks were flushed a blotchy, agonized red. the sight of him reduced to this desperate, begging wreck, made your heart ache with a sorrow that threatened to consume you.

still, you held fast to your decision. you couldn't build a life with a man who kept you in the dark.

as you spoke, your voice was soft but unwavering, a gentle but unyielding reminder of the boundaries you had to maintain. "im sorry, steven."

you brushed a tear from his cheek with your thumb, a tender, almost loving gesture. but really it was a farewell caress and steven could tell by the lingering of your touch.

he shuddered as your thumb brushed away a tear, leaning into the tender touch like a flower turning towards the sun. his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a pained expression flickering across his face as he registered the unspoken goodbye hidden beneath the gentle gesture. a stronger sense of desperation surged through him.

his hands flew up to grasp your wrists, his fingers curling around them, touch soft as ever, careful not to hurt or scare you. he pulled you closer, as if he could make you a part of his very being. all the while, he shook his head in violent negation, dark curls whipping around his face as he repeated the word like a mantra.

"no, no, no," he gasped out, his voice raw and ragged. "no, sweetheart, please. dont say it like that. please dont say it in that tone."

hysteria edged his words, a thread of madness that spoke of a man teetering on the brink of a abyss. his eyes, when they opened, were wild and haunted.

"I swear, if you walk out that door... if you leave me..." he paused, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. his eyes bored into yours with a intensity that bordered on manic."...I'll be on your doorstep every damn day, begging you to take me back.”

a part of you wanted to give in, to take pity on his anguish and promise to stay, if only to spare him this agony.

but as you gazed into his eyes, seeing the secrets that lurked beneath the surface, you knew you could not. you had to be strong. to leave now.

drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, and straightening your shoulders, you shook your head slowly, as you spoke with a quiet but unwavering certainty.

"no, baby. no more." your voice was low, almost gentle, but with a steely undercurrent that brooked no argument. you took another step back, putting more distance between the two of you, as if physically severing the invisible bonds that had once tied you together.

"I love you." he tried, taking a step closer as you take a step back. you sigh, realizing hes unbudging, and continue to walk towards the door.

“i know.”

he stood frozen, watching helplessly as (y/n) took a final step back, then turned away from him. he opened his mouth to call out to you again, but the words died in his throat as the door clicked shut behind you. the sound an oppressive silence inside the flat, a grim reminder of the events unfolded.

steven stared at the closed door, his heart pounding a unsteady rhythm against his ribs. a part of him wanted to run after you, to throw open the door and beg and plead until you had no choice but to listen. but he remained rooted to the spot, held back by a grim realization. you had made your choice,

and it wasn't him.

` ੈ˚ ★ a / n : me after falling off the edge of the planet with writers block and not writing for an entire year then suddenly my reboot card got picked up and i have inspo again hiiii

started 1.14.2025. finished 1.14.2025.

©️ nolovelingers 2025

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

-

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

-

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

How would the OI characters react if the reader accidentally called them "husband" and was embarrassed after she realized her mistake?

This is so cute, oh my gosh! <3 Thank you so much for sending it!

OI Characters Called 'Husband' By Accident Headcanons

Steven: Absolutely giddy with joy! Yes, he is your husband. 100% heart eyes from him, he’ll grab your hand and squeeze it and smile. If you’re around other people he will call you ‘his wife’ straight away playfully and give you a sweet kiss on your cheek. 

Marc: Bless this man, he freezes. Error screen across his eyes and frantically inwardly asking Steven and Jake if they got married before he realises he’s being silly.

Jake: Without missing a beat, will ask, “Where is my ring?” And then will tease you about it playfully for ages until you're laughing.

Nathan: This idiot doesn’t even notice. You think, at first, it’s because he’s not paying attention. But when he sees you’re embarrassed he’s like, “why? What wrong? Why’s that bothering you? I basically am?”

Anselm: It doesn’t matter where you are because Anselm’s going down on you there and then.

Cecil: If he’s high it takes him a good fifteen minutes to register what you said. 

Club!Blue: He’s (unsurprisingly) a little shit about it. “Oh, you like me that much do you? You want to marry me?” Will smugly tell everyone. “They want to marry me.” 

Orderly!Blue: He’s going to tease you until you cry, I’m so sorry. (He’s then going to fuck your brains out).

Jack: Do NOT say this unless you want to end up tied up in his trailer.

Santiago: Will joke with you about it, “Oh, calling me that because I nag you too much, huh?” Is secretly very pleased, but doesn’t want you to feel embarrassed. 

Shimmer!Kane: Doesn’t quite get the implication, but he doesn’t like seeing you upset/embarrassed. Will give you a hug.

King John: Similar to Club!Blue, he’s going to be telling everyone and preening about it.

Rydal: Surprisingly gets all shy and blushes. 

Laurent: He’s already got the ring in his back pocket.

Poe: Giggles about it in a very ‘oh my gosh, hee hee hee, do you like me?’ way, even if you have been together for years.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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[avocadoart]

Give me a fic of moonknight boys hiding their DID while also working and maybe living with the avengers but it's that 2015 vibe where everyone is happy and living in avengers tower and eventually people start wondering why this new guy speaks with a British accent or cursed in Spanish randomly and it's a learning curve for all of them

And also Hawkeye has hearing aids

[jake-g-lockley]

Gentle Sutures (Marc Spector x reader) 

Masterlist | Spotify Playlist | Wanna be Tagged?

A/N: This story is for my dearest @softieekay thank you for being there for me <3 Warnings: slight hints of past abuse, but the rest is fluffly fluff flufffff

Word count: 1.4k ☾ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Marc Spector was head over heels in love. He had been standing in one spot for god knows how long, staring at you while you worked. Never in his life was he accustomed to so much calm. If his alter did not sign him up for volunteering, he would have just been sitting at home, sulking as usual. Now all he wanted to do is walk over to you and tuck the beautiful coil of hair that frames your face behind your ear, not that it bothered him, he just wanted to touch you, feel your skin under his fingertips. "It’ll only take a second, auntie." you said, the biggest, most purest smile gracing your face.

Marc grew to love that smile in the past few months travelling around with you. You are a junior resident, always keeping to yourself but you lit up the whole woom whenever you interacted with patients. In the times that he spoke to you, or gained the courage to approach you, he found out that all you wanted in this world was to help people in need. He knew from the way you would treat them, you would definitely become a world class doctor.

Marc watched as your dexterous hands drew blood as quick as ever, even before the patient got a chance to wince.

"Are you a nurse, my dear, your blood drawing technique is excellent! '' the patient exclaimed.

"Oh no, auntie, I am merely a doctor. "You smiled shyly.

"Well, coming from a former nurse, you make an amazing doctor, my dear!" the patient said, taking ahold of your hand.

Marc could tell that you had a faraway look in your eyes, just for a few seconds before snapping out of it and squeezing the patient's hand back. Your eyes suddenly met Marc's as if you knew he was watching and Marc swore his heart nearly stopped when you gave him a small smile.

"Marc, I think it's time for you to walk away and stop gawking at her like a lost pigeon, mate." Steven suddenly said, making Marc blink and turn on his heel comically, almost running into another volunteer.

“That one’s handsome.” your patient tells you as you snickered at the confused army man.

Your eyes widened and you covered it with a gentle scoff.

“I don't date who I work with, auntie." you say sticking a plaster on the patient's arm.

"But you're thinking about it." the patient says with a sing-songy voice. as she gets up and you roll your eyes playfully.

Truth be told, you thought Marc Spector was one of the most interesting human beings you're met. Whenever you had the chance to look into his eyes, you knew he had been through a lot. You felt like you wanted to unlock every single secret behind those eyes but at the same time you wanted to help him forget all of them.

You watched as Marc stumbled around for a while, mumbling to himself. You watched as a little boy toddled up to him and started pulling on his housers. Marc turned and startled himself but knelt down next to the boy and smiled.

You felt something pull at your heartstrings as you watched Marc interact with the boy. Your hand immediately found your necklace as your thoughts dived into your past. You strained hard to keep the thoughts at bay but it only made you tremble. you pulled the chair behind you and slumped on it, the horrible yelling filling your head and ears.

You didn't realise you had your head in your hands and that you were not breathing until you heard your name. You lifted your head and your eyes met big brown ones which were full of concern and worry.

Marc tucked your hair behind your ear and cupped your face in his hands. You found yourself mimicking the breathing he was making you do and soon your heart slowed and you calmed down. You closed your eyes and leaned into Marc's touch as his thumb stocked your cheekbone.

"Sorry, I don't know what came over me. '' You whispered, but Marc was already shaking his head gently.

"You have nothing," Marc's thumb wipes the tear dripping out of your eyes, " to be sorry about.

You sighed and nodded, your hand caressing Marc's hand  that was so ever gently cupping your face.

☾ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You looked up at the sky and sighed as you placed your kindle aside. You felt better now, but you kept imagining Marc's beautiful brown eyes calming you down. You breathed in, the salt in the air filling your lungs with warmth. The rhythmic cadence of the waves echoed like gentle sutures, delicately mending the fractures in your tender heart.

"You don't look like the beach kind of person, you know. "A deep Chicago drawl suddenly interrupted your thoughts.

You gasped as you turned to your left, big brown eyes and tanned skin meeting your sight. The eyes widened slightly and the person moved back slightly.

“Sorry, sorry, you scared me for a second. Too stealthy dude!” you chuckled, clutching your chest.

"Force of habit." the army man gives you a gentle smile and scooches closer.

The both of you sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the waves and watching the sky print its own masterpiece as the sun sets over the horizon. The silence was comforting, and Marc's presence was more than a warm blanket that you had been expecting all your life.

You were the first to look away from the sunset.

Marc was absolutely stunning in the evening glow. You found yourself smiling at the way the corners of his eyes pinched as he gazed at the view before him. The hook of his nose and his plump lips made the blood rush to your face.

“You done gawking yet, doctor?” Marc smiled and turned to you.

“I was not gawking” you scoff, which made Marc belt out a laugh.

Suddenly, Marc’s hand was on your face. He plucks something from your face and shows it to you.

“Eyelash.” Marc turns his whole body towards you and looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “Make a wish, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip and closed your eyes. You wanted nothing more than to just have peace and quiet. Your life has been loud and scary, a little quiet would be all you need to heal. Peace would mend your heart and god knows where you would ever find it, but you wished with all your heart.

With that, you blew and felt warmth fill your heart.

“Hey.” Marc whispered .

You slowly open your eyes to see Marc looking at you with a dopey, boyish look on his face.

“You are an amazing door, you know that?” He says, cupping your face with his left hand, his right reaching for yours that were on your lap. 

“And you're gorgeous.” you swoon, your brain misfiring the second you leaned into his touch.

“Woah, where did that come from?” you say, pulling slightly back, but Marc held you in place.

“You are exceptionally gorgeous too, sweetheart.” Marc quips and gives you the most dazzling smile.

Nothing could have prepared you or Marc for how you reacted next. You leaned in and placed the softest kiss you've given anyone on Marc's lips. You pulled yourself back almost immediately, your hand flying to your lips as you watched a bewildered expression creep up Marc's face. “Oh god Marc, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did that, don’t know what’s happening-”

“Shut up and let me do that again” Marc cut your jabbering off instantly.

With a lurch, Marc pressed his lips to yours and you felt your body give way as your hands gripped at his shirt, falling and pulling him down with you. You deepened the kiss and Marc groaned into your mouth. When you both finally broke apart, you were out of breath and Marc pressed soft kisses on your neck until you came to.

“That was …” “Absolutely amazing, just like you.” Marc gazes down at you, admiring the way your hair is splayed around you like a halo and the light of the sunset making your skin glow. Marc lays down next to you pulling you closer to him as the both of you stare into each other’s eyes as if you were searching for something. “What now?” you whispered, your heart preparing itself to hear the worse from Marc. “You don’t need to worry about what is next, my angel, just be in the moment.” Marc’s words curled around your scared heart, encasing it in peace like no other. “I’m glad I found you.” you say, tears forming in your eyes.” “I’m glad I found you too sweetheart.” Reblogs are appreciated ~~ Tagging: @fandxmslxt69 @randomnessfangirl @bodhisattva11 @marc-spectors-wife @nyotamalfoy @steven-grants-world @whatsliferightnow @minigirl87 @wonderfulboiledcoldpotato @alexxavicry @autismsupermusicalassassin @flordelalunas  @euphoricosmo  @sky-robin @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @sugarpunch-princess @violet-19999 @swiggy-needs-mental-help @ghostheartbeat @kierramofficial @ryebreadsworld @your-voice-is-mellifluous @absolutelybloodyhopeless @mintpurplemnm @britishscum @spookyysilverr @bubblezuku @cookielovesbook-akie @mandoloriancookie @pimosworld @thewintervalkyrie @anonymously35 @nerdreader @marylovesdilfs @jakelockleysdoll @pigeonmama @sarveshishwarishsuta