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m00nsbaby · 1 year ago

Note

Hello :3

I hope I'm not bothering you and I hope this is okay to request, I don't want to push boundaries and make you uncomfortable because I know that I'm asking for a lot right now, but I was listening to Spotify and the song "We'll Never Have Sex" by Lieth Ross came on (it's a very good song and it really gets me in my feels, I really recommend listening to it) and my first thought was the Moon boys with reader who struggles with past SA and thinks of themselves a ruthless monster since the reader is an active mercenary (I don't know if you write for male readers or not but I'm politely asking if you can make the reader male please and thank you 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 it's okay if not)

Sorry for rambling so much and asking for a lot of things from you, please don't feel rushed to make this and be sure to take care of yourself

The Nerve.

Moon system x M! Reader.

Tags & warnings. Mentions of death, hints of SA, violence, blood, abuse, inaccurate representation of DID.

Sorry for the amount of text on this writers note, lol: Hi!!! So, this is my first request!! :) And I have a lot to say lol.

To whoever sent me this request I want to thank them for trusting in me and my writing to make something that feels somehow personal and for being the nicest ever! <3 Don't say sorry for asking for certain stuff, I really from the bottom of my heart hope that this fulfills what you wanted to read <3

Word count. 2.9k

Summary.

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me, Not to take me home. It was simple, it was sweetness, It was good to know.

It had been a long time since the idea of death had ceased to matter to you.

When Bushman took everything from you and slowly immersed you in a world you never wanted to be a part of in the first place, you began to understand that perhaps whoever ended your life would be doing you a favor.

So when your mission turned into breaking into one of the neighborhoods protected by the vigilante in white to 'dispose of' some random person, you accepted without protest.

And that was basically the context of how you ended up like this, underneath him with his hands on your neck. You had put up a good fight; in fact, you could see how his chest rose and fell heavily with fatigue. In the end, your training was nothing compared to whatever was protecting him.

The air escaped from your lungs, your vision was blurry, and you heard him growl beneath the mask, your body was about to give in.

You were almost happy to know that this was finally the day. You stopped fighting, and in less than 10 seconds, the ceremonial white suit turned into an ordinary white and cream-toned tuxedo. The mask disappeared as well, and his startled expression filled your entire field of vision.

"Marc?" you whispered with a hoarse voice, and his orbs widened even more in surprise.

"Do you know him?" the vigilante murmured to himself, his hands trembling as he moved them away from your neck.

As much as you tried to hold on, your body gave in just a little while later, from exhaustion, shock, or perhaps the lack of oxygen in general.

The punishment for failing had been worse than you remembered.

It had been a long time since you had failed a mission.

Still, as you tended to your wounds, there wasn't much on your mind other than the encounter with Marc. Your Marc.

For several months now, you had come to accept the idea that he was dead, even if 'accept' for you meant crying in his name during the nights or using all your strength to pound your fists as a way to vent your anger for losing him.

Was it really him, or had your mind gone to him immediately when it thought you were about to die?

And if that was Marc, had he recognized you, or had the mask done its job well?

It was foolish of him to assume that you hadn't felt his footsteps behind you. He had been following you from at least four blocks away, and even though you knew it was him, you had no desire to confront him.

You were angry, of course, the rage at the thought of him trying to excuse his disappearance flooded you every time you stopped to think, but probably the word that would work best right now would be 'tired.' It was your day off, probably the only one in the week when you didn't stain yourself with blood and didn't have to deal with work.

And there he was, reminding you of every horrible detail of your life with his mere presence.

When your body pushed his against a wall in the nearest alley, both of you remembered that although he might be stronger, he would never be smarter.

He raised his hands in a sign of innocence, and you took the liberty to study his face in detail after so long. The same mischievous curl of hair always ran across his forehead, and his brow was furrowed, not out of annoyance or surprise, that had always been Marc's lifelong expression.

"What are you doing here?" You spat out the words with more bitterness than you would have liked.

He didn't respond. Apparently, he was still the same as always. When you let go of him, his body seemed even more tense.

"Oh, you're not going to answer, I get it," you nodded to yourself. You could swear you were going crazy. "If your plans don't involve killing me or attempting it like the other night, or maybe speaking and using your damn mouth for once, I want you to stay away from me."

He was not able to say anything or to follow you.

Unfortunately, what Marc didn't anticipate was that your encounters wouldn't be solely with him, as there were two other individuals in his head waiting to come out at the slightest provocation.

The second time around, Jake was in charge, and somehow, he had even less control over his punches.

"Who are you, niño bonito?" (Pretty boy.) You groaned in pain as his foot on your chest forced you to stay on the ground, catching your breath. "Why is Marc so interested in you, huh?"

You didn't respond; in fact, you didn't even believe you had processed his questions. Instead, you pulled on his foot, the same one that was on top of you, and brought him down in a thud. You felt the hint of a smile on your face.

"Mierda." he muttered under his breath, and without giving him a chance, you escaped from him.

You had a million theories in your mind. With all your time in that world, you knew inside and out every kind of torture imaginable, and the idea that Marc's memory was failing didn't seem so far-fetched.

That, or he simply wanted to pretend he didn't know you, although that made much less sense. Either way, he was an idiot for injuring your shoulder tonight.

Then you had an encounter with Steven, and it was much more enlightening than the previous three. You almost killed him when you saw him in front of your apartment, with those puppy-dog eyes and soothing himself with a hand game. You noticed that his sleeves were longer than his arms.

Hah.

"What do you want, Marc?"

"I don't…" A funny accent. You caught it in the first few seconds. "I'm not Marc."

That led to a conversation that the mentioned one probably wouldn't have enjoyed because Steven took it upon himself to tell you in detail everything that had happened in the months when you hadn't been in contact with your ex-best friend and former mission partner.

You knew about his mother, you knew Marc's tumultuous past and how all of that had led him to belong to one of the largest and most terrible groups of mercenaries and thieves on the continent, but it turns out the idiot never told you another result of the trauma.

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

You had a faint understanding of how it worked, and Steven seemed so nervous that you were afraid to ask for a deeper explanation. The whole situation gave you an exceptional headache, but the real story was nowhere near as crazy as half of the theories you had in mind for days.

Oh, and you also understood that he didn't seek you out by his own choice.

"I can understand why he can't stop thinking about you," Steven said as gently as he could after a few prolonged minutes of silence.

It was surprising how he managed to make his voice not sound like he was flirting with you, just a sweet confession, accompanied by a nervous smile.

"He wants to talk to you but doesn't know how." It was the next thing he said, understanding that it was time to leave and leave you alone; you had a lot to think about.

Your feet dangled at the edge of a building's ledge as you sipped your beer as if you'd been thirsty for days, Marc was doing the same beside you. Both of you laughed at nonsense, so close that your shoulders brushed against each other. "We're heading back home," you murmured with your eyes closed as you enjoyed the cold breeze hitting your body. Marc was looking at you, he always did. Over time, you understood that returning from your missions was never really coming home; Marc was your home. "If you let yourself get shot again, I'm going to kill you myself." You laughed with your eyes closed; your leg still hurt. After long minutes of silence, the other's hand found its way to your chin. And you opened your eyes, looking at him with confusion. His fingers gently pressed against your skin, and you obediently leaned in. He was so close. You could smell mint and beer on his breath, his eyes seemed to shine brighter than the stars that night. The daydream lasted briefly, before you could react, your entire body was pulling back, rejecting him in the full meaning of the word. Marc didn't insist after that day; he understood well what your expression of fear meant.

You woke up drenched in sweat, your breath ragged as if you had run a marathon. You no longer had to bear the idea that Marc had left without knowing that you felt the same way he did, but things had changed so much that you weren't even sure if he had come back.

Marc began to let Jake take charge when you played this little game of the cat and the mouse.

You weren't going to yield, and it wasn't out of a passion for the job; you knew what failing meant to Bushman. You had experienced it more times than you would have liked since Marc had disappeared that night in Cairo.

Jake was more… aggressive than usual; you could feel it in the force with which he struck.

In a moment of distraction, you stopped his fist with your hand, and although you couldn't see his face, you knew you had taken him by surprise.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" He growled. His accent allowed you to recognize him, just like with Steven, who had told you all about the two of them.

"Until you give up," you squeezed his fist between your fingers, "or kill me."

You felt him suddenly stop pressing when you said that. The mask disappeared in front of your eyes, and he tilted his head slightly to the side as he examined you with his eyes.

You rewarded him by removing your mask, letting him see your face. You heard him gulp.

"¿Quién eres?" (Who are you?) He whispered, and both of you let your guard down in seconds.

You didn't answer, just as Marc would've done, and the truth was, you didn't even know who you were. His now-enemy? An old friend of Marc? Now a stranger?

It turns out that one of the many nights you crossed paths, Jake and you were able to talk. In some other circumstance, you would have joked about how you liked him better than Marc.

He was more friendly when he wasn't trying to break your ribs.

"What happened?" You feared the question, but maybe it would be fair to let it out for once in your life.

"He was…" You cleared your throat, searching for what to say. "He was very special to me." You didn't have the strength to say he was your everything. "My best friend."

Both of you had met while working for Bushman, and the connection was undeniable for both.

And although you adored him, you thought you were crazy when you felt him brush his hand against yours, or when he hugged you as if he wanted to squeeze the oxygen out of your lungs when he found you alive at the end of a mission.

Jake understood why he felt so drawn to you, where that strange feeling of nostalgia came from when he saw you.

"Do you miss him?" The question hurt more than the blows, and you realized that you had never talked about this with anyone, as if Marc were only a product of your solitary imagination.

Of the three, Jake was the one who had lived through and seen the worst things as Marc and Steven's protector, so it wasn't hard for him to understand what you had faced throughout your life.

And the truth was, he was afraid to ask. He was afraid to go too far because his mind sent him to something as personal as it was terrifying.

He realized it in probably the least reasonable way for both when your late-night conversations gave him the idea that maybe you felt the same way he did, even though he wasn't Marc. He leaned forward, and his lips collided with yours. It felt right, a strange feeling of 'finally.' You reciprocated, your lips gently brushing against his in a gesture as intimate as it was delicate.

The problem came when he rested a hand on your thigh for stability as he leaned forward. Your heart stopped.

The fear was almost paralyzing, almost. Not enough for you not to push him away, and Jake obeyed without exerting force, although he did look at you confused, worried.

You had to blink many times to try to clear your vision. momentarily, it was as if Jake's face merged with someone else's. Your eyes filled with tears, your body suddenly rejecting his before running away.

You didn't see them for the next two weeks, and you continued to move in the shadows, this time without interruption. At least they wouldn't get you into trouble.

Although the rule didn't apply to Steven Grant, who was trying to get your attention with his ridiculous white tuxedo while you cleaned a wound on your cheek.

"What's up, Steven?" Your voice was so soft that even he was surprised. To Jake's panic, he could swear you were disgustingly upset with them.

"Jake feels sorry." That was the first thing he said.

And you laughed.

"Why?"

"For not asking for your permission." Well, that was new.

Did anyone ask for it?

You took longer than you would have liked to confront Marc, he was probably as reluctant to these encounters as you were. He visited your apartment and didn't even greet you.

But you understood. You understood as you had been understanding for a long time, and you let it pass.

You spent the evening with your head in his lap, and he touched your hair delicately as if he were going to hurt you. Quite ironic after the number of blows you had received from him.

Or from his body, rather.

You had never been with him… like this. The closest had been that night on the rooftop.

Marc ran his hands through your hair as much as he wanted to, but he never went beyond your neck; he could feel your body tense when his fingers grazed your skin. He understood it, and from the darkness, Jake did too.

The issue wasn't him, and it wasn't you either.

Do you ever think about them?" Jake looked at you, curious.

"Them?"

"The ones affected."

Ah, them. He pressed his lips together as he thought about what to say; if Marc was bad with words, he somehow was even worse.

"I try not to."

You nodded slowly, satisfied with the answer. He had stopped chasing you a while ago; he had other methods to distract you from your missions, although you never told him what that resulted in. Maybe he already imagined it, or he was so focused on you that he never noticed.

He placed his hand over yours and looked at you intently for a brief moment, as if confirming that you were okay with it. You moved your hand to entwine your fingers together.

He gave you a squeeze, catching your attention.

When you looked at him, he gave you a smile.

"I'm here." Just what you wanted to hear.

Your invitation surprised Steven, who, although he understood that there was something between you, didn't know to what extent because of how volatile you were.

Thankfully, Steven was the most careful and innocent person you could know, so your invitation to sleep together was taken just as that, with no jokes involved.

You spent the early hours talking about everything, and somehow, although the four of you spent more time talking than you thought, the conversation never seemed to end. And as expected, you got to that topic.

You were crying, as you had started doing for some time now.

"I don't deserve you."

"What are you talking about, love?" He laughed in genuine confusion. One of his arms was around you, and you felt his warm breath on your neck.

"I'm not… I…" You mumbled, taking a breath. "I'm a bad person."

You felt him tense behind you; suddenly, he was holding you tighter against his chest, and you didn't feel fear. In fact, you could swear you felt a deep need for more contact from him.

"M-Marc, he's…" Another sob from you, why was it physically painful to express your feelings? "He's fixing the things he's done, you know?" You had to take a breath to continue. "The people I've hurt, the things I've done…"

Steven moved his hand up your body, and his hand pressed against your chest as if he needed to feel the beats of your heart for comfort. He didn't know what to say.

"You're not a bad person." He made you cry even more, if that was possible.

"I, I don't…"

"Shhh." He exerted more pressure on your chest to make you feel your own ragged breathing. "You're not a monster."

Steven had thought something similar about himself; he knew well what you were feeling.

And Marc, and Jake.

That's all you needed to hear to know that you were in good hands, even in this moment when you felt nothing but the urge to cry.

He got you.

The number of scars on your body already exceeded the space you had in your memory to remember all the horrible stories they told. And yet, Steven kissed them all.

Hii, i'm not doing tag list on this one because of the themes I talked about :)

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