#winder wonderland fluff ficlets
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ivystoryweaver · 14 days ago
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Let It Snow - Jake Lockley
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Jake + Baking for @campingwiththecharmings
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Jake Masterlist | Main Masterlist WC: 333, non-holiday, gn!reader, tw food, suggestive, not beta'd
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A sprinkling of white dusts Jake’s beard, beyond the delicious salt and pepper you’re used to feeling against your face as he kisses you.
Flour fills the air, falling silently like a blanket of snow, dusting his dark curls, long eyelashes, cheeks and mostly, his beard.
You’ve just started something he’s likely to finish.
A food fight.
No. It's more of an avalanche of ingredients that miss the mixing bowl and make a huge mess in your kitchen.
"We're gonna run out of flour," you pout, nodding toward the bowl.
He chuckles darkly, eyebrows shooting up as he swipes his thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip. "It's powdered sugar, mi amor. Here."
He pulls you close, arm winding around your waist, and crushes his mouth to yours in a delicious, confectionery kiss.
You melt against the warmth of his chest like butter on a skillet. He does make you sizzle.
But he is a man of vengeance and he’s gonna make a mess of you in one way or another, so you willingly accept the glob of shortening he sneaks across your cheek, breaking the heaven of your kiss.
“We better call a truce or we’ll never get these made,” you attempt, brandishing a spatula to defend yourself, your body nearly shaking with giggles.
Jake reaches for the chocolate chips, holding the open bag threateningly in the air.
“Don’t you dare, Jake Lockley,” you warn, lightly swatting his arm with the spatula. “That’s the only bag we have.”
He pours a few into his open palm, a taunting glint in his eyes. “Bet this would taste good on your skin.”
"Waste another one and I'm gonna smack your ass, Lockley." You pop the spatula teasingly on the counter for good measure.
He shrugs, stalking toward you, "Don't threaten me with a good time unless you're ready to bend me over."
It takes you until midnight to finish baking night with Jake, but the cookies aren't the only delicious treats you enjoy.
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Jake Masterlist | Main Masterlist
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ivystoryweaver · 20 days ago
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'Twas the Night Before - Marc Spector
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Marc + falling asleep together for @ladywynne
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Christmas night and Hanukkah 1st night are both Dec. 25 this year and I'm REAL excited!
Notes: Word Count 2.5k, Christmas & Hanukkah, gn!reader, kissing and flirting. Vague references to Marc's past but it's not angst. Marc is a flirty boy. He's younger than in the Moon Knight series (late 20s instead of late 30s). Just go with it. Overuse of italics, not beta'd.
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You don’t believe it.
Even though you see him with your own eyes, you can’t actually believe Marc Spector is standing in his childhood driveway, which sits directly across the street from your childhood driveway.
From your old bedroom window, you can see him pause as his hands land on his hips. He’s facing away from you, but you watch his head drop as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts or steel himself.
Resisting the urge to bang on the window, or open it and shout his name, you pause as his father, Elias throws open the front door.
Marc must hear his name, but not from you, because he finally looks up, waving halfheartedly before collecting a carryon size suitcase from the trunk of the car he drove up in. After grabbing a backpack from the passenger seat, he trudges up the walk, pausing momentarily before accepting his father’s handshake.
Even from your vantage point, you notice the tension he holds in his shoulders - broader and sturdier than they were the last time you saw him. When you were teenagers. Children, really.
His father claps him gently on the back before leading him inside.
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Quite nonchalantly dressed in the cutest outfit you brought with you on the trip (besides your Christmas attire), you march the distance to your neighbor’s house, armed with a paper invitation to your mom and step-dad’s Christmas Eve/holiday party.
Elias would have received an invitation a few weeks back, but you want to be sure that Marc knows he’s invited.
And you want to see him.
Elias graciously accepts your invitation, promising to pass it along to Marc, who is out at the market. You express your disappointment in missing him, and Elias remarks how grown-up you look, and how he agrees that Marc has to see you during his brief visit. Finally, Elias invites you over for the first night of Hanukkah.
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“Hey there, need some help?”
Yearning mingles with relief and excitement as you hear the soft tenor of Marc Spector’s voice later that afternoon.
Grocery bags in hand, you whirl around to see him - really, finally see him. No taller, but more handsome. He’s grown into his features. Some people are cuter as kids, while others grow into their best look as adults. Marc was never unfortunate looking, but adulthood suits him wonderfully.
His dark curls are longer than you’ve ever seen them, but styled neatly off his face, despite the rebellious curl or two threatening to fall across his serious, coffee colored eyes. Jaw squared, his throat bobs, full lips parting as he utters your name.
"You’re home for Christmas.”
You smile at him brilliantly.
“You’re home for Hanukkah.”
He quickly nods, reaching, without invitation, into the trunk of your mother’s car to retrieve the rest of the grocery bags. “Same day this year.”
"I know, I thought of you once I noticed it on the calendar.”
His eyes find yours. “You thought of me?”
“Of course,” you nod toward his childhood home. “I think of you every year when I come home, always wondering if this is the year I’ll see the elusive Marc Spector.”
Something darkens his countenance. You can guess what. But he grants you a wry smile anyway. “Lead the way.”
You do so, feeling your heart thump in your chest as he follows you up the front walk, through your front door, all the way into your kitchen as you announce, "Mom, look who I found!”
Your mom squeals in excitement to see the young man she used to know, rushing him through setting down his grocery bags on the kitchen island so she can give him a proper hug.
You hover closely, making sure she releases Marc at an appropriately brief interval. You don’t want him bristling and uncomfortable in your home. Not during the holidays, or ever.
Pleasantries are exchanged, Marc is offered a sizeable sugar cookie in the shape of a dreidel, which makes him chuckle. He nods for you to take one as well, and you choose one shaped like a candy cane, if only to keep him from eating his alone.
"Why don’t you two go downstairs and I’ll bring you some tea or coffee…or cocoa?” Your mom offers, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
"Mom, we’re not six,” you tease. “You have enough to do for the party.”
You turn to Marc, who is smiling warmly, something serene settling in his countenance as he watches his old neighbors interact. Just the sight of him steals your breath for a moment. He is truly, remarkably handsome.
He apologizes, letting you both know he has other plans for the afternoon, but promises he'll see you soon.
You show him out, bouncing at little on your toes at the chance of seeing him again.
"So, does this mean you're coming to our party?"
One corner of his mouth curls. "As long as we hide downstairs the way we used to. And dad says you might come over to ours."
“Definitely.”
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The holiday party is a smashing success, as always. The whole neighborhood turns up, including Mr. Spector and Marc. Since he hasn't visited home in years, he draws a lot of attention, most of which doesn't interest him.
But he plays the dutiful son and the friendly neighbor, continuously gravitating back to you as a sort of touchstone. You make sure to "need his help" carrying dishes to the kitchen, taking out the trash - anything, really, to let Marc escape if he wants to. The two of you walk Mr. Spector back across the street, lingering longer than is necessary in your front yard.
"You don't have to go yet, do you?"
Scuffing his foot on the pavement, he hesitates, so you're quick to add, "We haven't dodged the rest of the party in the basement yet. And of course, there's the pool table."
"Right," he agrees, remembering the fun (and safe) times shared there.
"I saved some of the good whiskeyyyy," you tempt, taking his arm. "We can watch Eight Crazy Nights."
"Hell no. Die Hard."
Arm in arm, you sneak him back inside, texting your mom to let her know you'll help her clean up tomorrow.
She's quick to text back that you should 'take your time' and 'have fun' with lots of embarrassing emojis.
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“Wow, it’s like stepping back in time. This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he marvels as the two of you descend the oddly curved, carpeted staircase to your basement/family room.
"I know. Time capsule,” you laugh, watching as he takes a gander at all the old photos framed and situated across the mantle.
“God, you look almost exactly the same,” he remarks, zeroed in on your senior portrait.
"For real?”
He regards you openly, warmth in his eyes. And something more, as if he appreciates the view. “You’re exactly the way I remember you. Must be nice not to age.”
“Yeah, right,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” A beat passes between you, gazes locking, before heat creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks. “You look different, though. Good different, I mean. You don’t hunch anymore.”
He laughs. “Steven hunches enough for the both of us.”
"Oh Steven,” you remember the alter kept so carefully hidden, but you knew. You always knew. “How is Steven?”
“Good, I think. Probably won’t pass up the chance to tell you himself,” Marc diplomatically responds. “He’s been quiet since we got…home.” He clears his throat.
Boldly stepping closer, you, gently grasp his forearm. “I’m glad you’re here. So glad.”
“Thank you,” he responds evenly, and it feels like something is healed in him since you last talked, and certainly since you last laid eyes on him. “You ready to get your ass kicked at pool?”
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“Nine ball, corner pocket,” Marc announces smugly, taking his fourth shot in a row.
“I should so bump into you right now,” you tease.
“You can. I’ll still beat you,” he fires right back, sinking the shot, which makes you groan. So you bump him next time, hip to hip, and he misses.
“Your turn,” he offers, with mock graciousness, and you can tell he’s plotting his revenge. Eyeing him suspiciously, you call your shot and lean over to take it when you suddenly feel him crowding in behind you.
“This is actually my shot, cheater,” he breathes on your ear, strong arms encircling yours as his chest presses against your back. “We’re gonna play the rest of the game just like this.”
“Fine,” you pretend to shrug him off, as if you aren’t thrilled to have him close. He smells like sun-drenched sands and secrets and spice.
Your eyes drift closed as his lips almost brush your cheek. “You knew this would happen.” Wrapping his arms and hands carefully around yours, he executes the shot you called, clumsily but successfully - the two of you almost tipping over in the process.
Gripping your hip with one hand, steadies you, then maneuvers you to the other end of the table to set up for the next shot. “You always know what happens when you cheat,” he taunts, settling in behind you and announcing his next move.
“I think you want to play like this,” you fire back. "You probably love it when I cheat. Consider it your Hanukkah present,” you tease, thrusting back against him temptingly, yet playfully.
The slightest, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest as he leans you forward to make the shot. Then he turns you around, taking the pool stick out of your hand and stashing it across the table beside his own. Leaning forward, he cages you in with his forearms braced on the table's edge.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” His gaze drops to your lips.
“Yeah. Guess so,” you shrug. "What are you gonna do about it?"
Marc wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes incapable of focusing on one part of you for long. Eyes, mouth, neck, even your chest and he's not subtle about it. "Haven’t changed at all.”
“You have,” you tell him, grasping his biceps for support as he crowds into your space. “You seem...good.”
Sobering a bit at your observation, Marc eases back out of playful mode, and your personal space. “Better.”
"Good." Missing him so near, but feeling a little off kilter from his blatant flirting, you close the slight distance between you, palms pressing against the warmth of his chest. “Marc, I missed you.”
"I missed you too."
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"Now this is a party," Marc says, resting comfortably enough on the lumpy old brown couch, socked feet stretched out in front of him on the coffee table, nursing the "good" whiskey.
"Told you. Thanks for sticking with me upstairs," you softly reply, not at all interested in the action movie sounds on the world's oldest TV.
"No problem. I don't mind it as much as I used to. Especially with you here." He offers you a sip of whiskey with such a familiar nonchalance, you almost feel like a couple.
"I can tell, you know - that the same things don't...I guess bother you as much," you gently prod. "Or maybe you handle things differently?"
"Hopefully," he nods, fingers brushing yours as he takes the drink back from you. "But what about you? How are you?"
So you catch him up on your life. College, significant others, job, your family.
"Your turn."
Then Marc tells you the most incredible story about Egypt and gods and magic powers. And how he is with Steven now. No more hiding.
"It's okay if you don't believe me," he concludes, knocking back the last gulp of whiskey. "I wouldn't."
"I'll always believe you. Tell me more about Egypt. About everything."
Marc has always been a fortress - always withdrawing into himself as to not disturb the space around him any more than was necessary. When his emotions did come out, it was usually...really intense, to say the least. Then he would run.
And that was Marc, for a long while. Feel, hurt, withdraw, lash out, run. It was one of the reasons you probably weren't together right now. Not to mention your own contributions to the issues between you years ago.
It's been a long Christmas Eve of wrapping and party prepping and hosting, and having Marc here this year is equally soothing and all-consuming.
Before you realize it, you've inched closer, arm pushing into his arm from shoulder to elbow. Your head drops to his shoulder as he continues talking. Eventually, he either takes a break or concludes his tale, focusing in on the movie. But in the mean time, his voice so soothes you that your eyes flutter closed before you realize it.
The movie ends, Bruce Willis saves the day, along with Reginald VelJohnson. "Let it Snow" plays during the credits and Marc softly calls your name. He suspected you were asleep, but now that he's certain, he doesn't have the heart to disturb you.
The gentle sounds of your breathing lull him into a state of calm he hasn't felt most of his life. He smiles to himself, lets his head drop back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
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A couple hours later, you wake up, smooshed up against Marc's side, some Christmas movie playing on the TV. Marc's head has slumped down on his chest and you feel terrible because he simply can't be comfortable.
Calling his name, you shake him gently before easing down on the floor beside him to help him lie down. He stirs momentarily, bleary eyes blinking, struggling to focus.
Seeing you, he seems to remember his situation. "Sorry," he mumbles.
"No, it's okay. Lie down. I'll get you a blanket if you want to stay."
Perhaps he wants to walk back across the street, but it is the middle of a cold night, and this would not be the first time he spent the night in your basement.
But as you stand to get him the blanket, he seems to realize you're leaving. "No, stay," he pouts, still half-asleep. "You're warm."
You sleepily giggle, hesitating only a moment before settling into the tiny space he's created for you beside his stretched out body. "Marc, I don't think I'm a very good blanket."
"Just stay for a minute," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "Just one more minute."
"Okay, I'll stay" you agree, now wide awake as your heart races. It takes you a second to tuck your body into his.
You end up half on top of him and it feels so good you can't even think straight.
"You can go upstairs if you want," he offers, palm spreading over the curve of your back as he presses you closer. "Just wanted to hold you, is all."
"I want you to hold me," you confess in a rush, breath ghosting his cheek. "I want to stay."
Then you feel his lips on yours, warm, soft and demanding. You fall apart in his arms as he tastes you, tenderly tracing the shape of your jaw as he eases back.
You don't let him get far, pressing your mouth to his.
“Welcome home, Marc,” you whisper in the dark before you fall asleep together on Christmas morning.
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
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ivystoryweaver · 20 days ago
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tags 2
@deputy-videogamer @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke @silvernight-m
@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy @cookielovesbook-akie @bibliotheca-amoris
@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @x-ratedhimbo
@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry @spidey-3 @twiggoblin
@stevengmybeloved  @howellatme @dowbastan @lonelyisamyw-0love @purple-amaranthe
@latenightcravingz @faretheeoscar @my-secret-shame @ohantonia @lilacspider
@imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners @steven-grants-world @aquaarietes @toobular
@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @thewinterv @suddenlysteven @whatthefishh
@sammi-doll483  @pooliosworld @lilskirata @strangerhands @moonknixght
@buckyssugarchick @hammerhead96 @reallyrallyauthor @pygmi-cygni @blackfawn
'Twas the Night Before - Marc Spector
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Marc + falling asleep together for @ladywynne
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Christmas night and Hanukkah 1st night are both Dec. 25 this year and I'm REAL excited!
Notes: Word Count 2.5k, gn!reader, kissing and flirting. Vague references to Marc's past but it's not angst. Marc is a flirty boy. He's younger than in the Moon Knight series (late 20s instead of late 30s). Just go with it. Overuse of italics, not beta'd.
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You don’t believe it.
Even though you see him with your own eyes, you can’t actually believe Marc Spector is standing in his childhood driveway, which sits directly across the street from your childhood driveway.
From your old bedroom window, you can see him pause as his hands land on his hips. He’s facing away from you, but you watch his head drop as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts or steel himself.
Resisting the urge to bang on the window, or open it, and shout his name, you pause as his father, Elias throws open the front door.
Marc must hear his name, but not from you, because he finally looks up, waving halfheartedly before collecting a carryon size suitcase from the trunk of the car he drove up in. After grabbing a backpack from the passenger seat, he trudges up the walk, pausing momentarily before accepting his father’s handshake.
Even from your vantage point, you notice the tension he holds in his shoulders - broader and sturdier than they were the last time you saw him. When you were teenagers. Children, really.
His father claps him gently on the back before leading him inside.
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Quite nonchalantly dressed in the cutest outfit you brought with you on the trip (besides your Christmas attire), you march the distance to your neighbor’s house, armed with a paper invitation to your mom and step-dad’s Christmas Eve/holiday party.
Elias would have received an invitation a few weeks back, but you want to be sure that Marc knows he’s invited.
And you want to see him.
Elias graciously accepts your invitation, promising to pass it along to Marc, who is out at the market. You express your disappointment in missing him, and Elias remarks how grown-up you look, and how he agrees that Marc has to see you during his brief visit. Finally, Elias invites you over for the first night of Hanukkah.
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“Hey there, need some help?”
Yearning mingles with relief and excitement as you hear the soft tenor of Marc Spector’s voice later that afternoon.
Grocery bags in hand, you whirl around to see him - really, finally see him. No taller, but more handsome. He’s grown into his features. Some people are cuter as kids, while others grow into their best look as adults. Marc was never unfortunate looking, but adulthood suits him wonderfully.
His dark curls are longer than you’ve ever seen them, but styled neatly off his face, despite the rebellious curl or two threatening to fall across his serious, coffee colored eyes. Jaw squared, his throat bobs, full lips parting as he utters your name.
"You’re home for Christmas.”
You smile at him brilliantly.
“You’re home for Hanukkah.”
He quickly nods, reaching, without invitation, into the trunk of your mother’s car to retrieve the rest of the grocery bags. “Same day this year.”
"I know, I thought of you once I noticed it on the calendar.”
His eyes find yours. “You thought of me?”
“Of course,” you nod toward his childhood home. “I think of you every year when I come home, always wondering if this is the year I’ll see the elusive Marc Spector.”
Something darkens his countenance. You can guess what. But he grants you a wry smile anyway. “Lead the way.”
You do so, feeling your heart thump in your chest as he follows you up the front walk, through your front door, all the way into your kitchen as you announce, "Mom, look who I found!”
Your mom squeals in excitement to see the young man she used to know, rushing him through setting down his grocery bags on the kitchen island so she can give him a proper hug.
You hover closely, making sure she releases Marc at an appropriately brief interval. You don’t want him bristling and uncomfortable in your home. Not during the holidays, or ever.
Pleasantries are exchanged, Marc is offered a sizeable sugar cookie in the shape of a dreidel, which makes him chuckle. He nods for you to take one as well, and you choose one shaped like a candy cane, if only to keep him from eating his alone.
"Why don’t you two go downstairs and I’ll bring you some tea or coffee…or cocoa?” Your mom offers, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
"Mom, we’re not six,” you tease. “You have enough to do for the party.”
You turn to Marc, who is smiling warmly, something serene settling in his countenance as he watches his old neighbors interact. Just the sight of him steals your breath for a moment. He is truly, remarkably handsome.
He apologizes, letting you both know he has other plans for the afternoon, but promises he'll see you soon.
You show him out, bouncing at little on your toes at the chance of seeing him again.
"So, does this mean you're coming to our party?"
One corner of his mouth curls. "As long as we hide downstairs the way we used to. And dad says you might come over to ours."
“Definitely.”
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The holiday party is a smashing success, as always. The whole neighborhood turns up, including Mr. Spector and Marc. Since he hasn't visited home in years, he draws a lot of attention, most of which doesn't interest him.
But he plays the dutiful son and the friendly neighbor, continuously gravitating back to you as a sort of touchstone. You make sure to "need his help" carrying dishes to the kitchen, taking out the trash - anything, really, to let Marc escape if he wants to. The two of you walk Mr. Spector back across the street, lingering longer than is necessary in your front yard.
"You don't have to go yet, do you?"
Scuffing his foot on the pavement, he hesitates, so you're quick to add, "We haven't dodged the rest of the party in the basement yet. And of course, there's the pool table."
"Right," he agrees, remembering the fun (and safe) times shared there.
"I saved some of the good whiskeyyyy," you tempt, taking his arm. "We can watch Eight Crazy Nights."
"Hell no. Die Hard."
Arm in arm, you sneak him back inside, texting your mom to let her know you'll help her clean up tomorrow.
She's quick to text back that you should 'take your time' and 'have fun' with lots of embarrassing emojis.
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“Wow, it’s like stepping back in time. This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he marvels as the two of you descend the oddly curved, carpeted staircase to your basement/family room.
"I know. Time capsule,” you laugh, watching as he takes a gander at all the old photos framed and situated across the mantle.
“God, you look almost exactly the same,” he remarks, zeroed in on your senior portrait.
"For real?”
He regards you openly, warmth in his eyes. And something more, as if he appreciates the view. “You’re exactly the way I remember you. Must be nice not to age.”
“Yeah, right,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” A beat passes between you, gazes locking, before heat creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks. “You look different, though. Good different, I mean. You don’t hunch anymore.”
He laughs. “Steven hunches enough for the both of us.”
"Oh Steven,” you remember the alter kept so carefully hidden, but you knew. You always knew. “How is Steven?”
“Good, I think. Probably won’t pass up the chance to tell you himself,” Marc diplomatically responds. “He’s been quiet since we got…home.” He clears his throat.
Boldly stepping closer, you, gently grasp his forearm. “I’m glad you’re here. So glad.”
“Thank you,” he responds evenly, and it feels like something is healed in him since you last talked, and certainly since you last laid eyes on him. “You ready to get your ass kicked at pool?”
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“Nine ball, corner pocket,” Marc announces smugly, taking his fourth shot in a row.
“I should so bump into you right now,” you tease.
“You can. I’ll still beat you,” he fires right back, sinking the shot, which makes you groan. So you bump him next time, hip to hip, and he misses.
“Your turn,” he offers, with mock graciousness, and you can tell he’s plotting his revenge. Eyeing him suspiciously, you call your shot and lean over to take it when you suddenly feel him crowding in behind you.
“This is actually my shot, cheater,” he breathes on your ear, strong arms encircling yours as his chest presses against your back. “We’re gonna play the rest of the game just like this.”
“Fine,” you pretend to shrug him off, as if you aren’t thrilled to have him close. He smells like sun-drenched sands and secrets and spice.
Your eyes drift closed as his lips almost brush your cheek. “You knew this would happen.” Wrapping his arms and hands carefully around yours, he executes the shot you called, clumsily but successfully - the two of you almost tipping over in the process.
Gripping your hip with one hand, steadies you, then maneuvers you to the other end of the table to set up for the next shot. “You always know what happens when you cheat,” he taunts, settling in behind you and announcing his next move.
“I think you want to play like this,” you fire back. "You probably love it when I cheat. Consider it your Hanukkah present,” you tease, thrusting back against him temptingly, yet playfully.
The slightest, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest as he leans you forward to make the shot. Then he turns you around, taking the pool stick out of your hand and stashing it across the table beside his own. Leaning forward, he cages you in with his forearms braced on the table's edge.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” His gaze drops to your lips.
“Yeah. Guess so,” you shrug. "What are you gonna do about it?"
Marc wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes incapable of focusing on one part of you for long. Eyes, mouth, neck, even your chest and he's not subtle about it. "Haven’t changed at all.”
“You have,” you tell him, grasping his biceps for support as he crowds into your space. “You seem...good.”
Sobering a bit at your observation, Marc eases back out of playful mode, and your personal space. “Better.”
"Good." Missing him so near, but feeling a little off kilter from his blatant flirting, you close the slight distance between you, palms pressing against the warmth of his chest. “Marc, I missed you.”
"I missed you too."
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"Now this is a party," Marc says, resting comfortably enough on the lumpy old brown couch, socked feet stretched out in front of him on the coffee table, nursing the "good" whiskey.
"Told you. Thanks for sticking with me upstairs," you softly reply, not at all interested in the action movie sounds on the world's oldest TV.
"No problem. I don't mind it as much as I used to. Especially with you here." He offers you a sip of whiskey with such a familiar nonchalance, you almost feel like a couple.
"I can tell, you know - that the same things don't...I guess bother you as much," you gently prod. "Or maybe you handle things differently?"
"Hopefully," he nods, fingers brushing yours as he takes the drink back from you. "But what about you? How are you?"
So you catch him up on your life. College, significant others, job, your family.
"Your turn."
Then Marc tells you the most incredible story about Egypt and gods and magic powers. And how he is with Steven now. No more hiding.
"It's okay if you don't believe me," he concludes, knocking back the last gulp of whiskey. "I wouldn't."
"I'll always believe you. Tell me more about Egypt. About everything."
Marc has always been a fortress - always withdrawing into himself as to not disturb the space around him any more than was necessary. When his emotions did come out, it was usually...really intense, to say the least. Then he would run.
And that was Marc, for a long while. Feel, hurt, withdraw, lash out, run. It was one of the reasons you probably weren't together right now. Not to mention your own contributions to the issues between you years ago.
It's been a long Christmas Eve of wrapping and party prepping and hosting, and having Marc here this year is equally soothing and all-consuming.
Before you realize it, you've inched closer, arm pushing into his arm from shoulder to elbow. Your head drops to his shoulder as he continues talking. Eventually, he either takes a break or concludes his tale, focusing in on the movie. But in the mean time, his voice so soothes you that your eyes flutter closed before you realize it.
The movie ends, Bruce Willis saves the day, along with Reginald VelJohnson. "Let it Snow" plays during the credits and Marc softly calls your name. He suspected you were asleep, but now that he's certain, he doesn't have the heart to disturb you.
The gentle sounds of your breathing lull him into a state of calm he hasn't felt most of his life. He smiles to himself, lets his head drop back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
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A couple hours later, you wake up, smooshed up against Marc's side, some Christmas movie playing on the TV. Marc's head has slumped down on his chest and you feel terrible because he simply can't be comfortable.
Calling his name, you shake him gently before easing down on the floor beside him to help him lie down. He stirs momentarily, bleary eyes blinking, struggling to focus.
Seeing you, he seems to remember his situation. "Sorry," he mumbles.
"No, it's okay. Lie down. I'll get you a blanket if you want to stay."
Perhaps he wants to walk back across the street, but it is the middle of a cold night, and this would not be the first time he spent the night in your basement.
But as you stand to get him the blanket, he seems to realize you're leaving. "No, stay," he pouts, still half-asleep. "You're warm."
You sleepily giggle, hesitating only a moment before settling into the tiny space he's created for you beside his stretched out body. "Marc, I don't think I'm a very good blanket."
"Just stay for a minute," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "Just one more minute."
"Okay, I'll stay" you agree, now wide awake as your heart races. It takes you a second to tuck your body into his.
You end up half on top of him and it feels so good you think you can't even think straight.
"You can go upstairs if you want," he offers, palm spreading over the curve of your back as he presses you closer. "Just wanted to hold you, is all."
"I want you to hold me," you confess in a rush, breath ghosting his cheek. "I want to stay."
Then you feel his lips on yours, warm, soft and demanding. You fall apart in his arms as he tastes you, tenderly tracing the shape of your jaw as he eases back.
You don't let him get far, pressing your mouth to his.
“Welcome home, Marc,” you whisper in the dark before you fall asleep together on Christmas morning.
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
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ivystoryweaver · 20 days ago
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tags 1
@stormydaysxx @laaundromat @kindlover @flyestvenustrap @spxctorsslxt
@stevenknightmarc @marvelouslovely-barnes @evilbubu @usualsworld @ssp3ctor
@rivalriotrenegade @this--is--music @avengersinitiative2012 @lockleywife @poppyflower-22
@thursdaywritings @scoliobean @peregrine-nation @local-mr-frog @bitchotine
@ren-ni @valkyrie05x @randomhoex @thebestrouge @mintellaine
@lasttoknowv @spideyman-peter @emily-roberts @halleest @soulsforsales
@mypurplewinee  @seninjakitey @d1lf-loverrr @kingtwhiddleston @chinglewingledingledong
@radioactiveinvisible @fanofverymanythings @patchesofwork @soft-girl-musings @erissco
@may4ri @beezusvreeland @roserfz27 @chinglewingledingledong @hobisunshine13
@xxfashionable-nerdxx @dornishannie @klillaah
'Twas the Night Before - Marc Spector
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Marc + falling asleep together for @ladywynne
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Christmas night and Hanukkah 1st night are both Dec. 25 this year and I'm REAL excited!
Notes: Word Count 2.5k, gn!reader, kissing and flirting. Vague references to Marc's past but it's not angst. Marc is a flirty boy. He's younger than in the Moon Knight series (late 20s instead of late 30s). Just go with it. Overuse of italics, not beta'd.
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You don’t believe it.
Even though you see him with your own eyes, you can’t actually believe Marc Spector is standing in his childhood driveway, which sits directly across the street from your childhood driveway.
From your old bedroom window, you can see him pause as his hands land on his hips. He’s facing away from you, but you watch his head drop as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts or steel himself.
Resisting the urge to bang on the window, or open it, and shout his name, you pause as his father, Elias throws open the front door.
Marc must hear his name, but not from you, because he finally looks up, waving halfheartedly before collecting a carryon size suitcase from the trunk of the car he drove up in. After grabbing a backpack from the passenger seat, he trudges up the walk, pausing momentarily before accepting his father’s handshake.
Even from your vantage point, you notice the tension he holds in his shoulders - broader and sturdier than they were the last time you saw him. When you were teenagers. Children, really.
His father claps him gently on the back before leading him inside.
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Quite nonchalantly dressed in the cutest outfit you brought with you on the trip (besides your Christmas attire), you march the distance to your neighbor’s house, armed with a paper invitation to your mom and step-dad’s Christmas Eve/holiday party.
Elias would have received an invitation a few weeks back, but you want to be sure that Marc knows he’s invited.
And you want to see him.
Elias graciously accepts your invitation, promising to pass it along to Marc, who is out at the market. You express your disappointment in missing him, and Elias remarks how grown-up you look, and how he agrees that Marc has to see you during his brief visit. Finally, Elias invites you over for the first night of Hanukkah.
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“Hey there, need some help?”
Yearning mingles with relief and excitement as you hear the soft tenor of Marc Spector’s voice later that afternoon.
Grocery bags in hand, you whirl around to see him - really, finally see him. No taller, but more handsome. He’s grown into his features. Some people are cuter as kids, while others grow into their best look as adults. Marc was never unfortunate looking, but adulthood suits him wonderfully.
His dark curls are longer than you’ve ever seen them, but styled neatly off his face, despite the rebellious curl or two threatening to fall across his serious, coffee colored eyes. Jaw squared, his throat bobs, full lips parting as he utters your name.
"You’re home for Christmas.”
You smile at him brilliantly.
“You’re home for Hanukkah.”
He quickly nods, reaching, without invitation, into the trunk of your mother’s car to retrieve the rest of the grocery bags. “Same day this year.”
"I know, I thought of you once I noticed it on the calendar.”
His eyes find yours. “You thought of me?”
“Of course,” you nod toward his childhood home. “I think of you every year when I come home, always wondering if this is the year I’ll see the elusive Marc Spector.”
Something darkens his countenance. You can guess what. But he grants you a wry smile anyway. “Lead the way.”
You do so, feeling your heart thump in your chest as he follows you up the front walk, through your front door, all the way into your kitchen as you announce, "Mom, look who I found!”
Your mom squeals in excitement to see the young man she used to know, rushing him through setting down his grocery bags on the kitchen island so she can give him a proper hug.
You hover closely, making sure she releases Marc at an appropriately brief interval. You don’t want him bristling and uncomfortable in your home. Not during the holidays, or ever.
Pleasantries are exchanged, Marc is offered a sizeable sugar cookie in the shape of a dreidel, which makes him chuckle. He nods for you to take one as well, and you choose one shaped like a candy cane, if only to keep him from eating his alone.
"Why don’t you two go downstairs and I’ll bring you some tea or coffee…or cocoa?” Your mom offers, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
"Mom, we’re not six,” you tease. “You have enough to do for the party.”
You turn to Marc, who is smiling warmly, something serene settling in his countenance as he watches his old neighbors interact. Just the sight of him steals your breath for a moment. He is truly, remarkably handsome.
He apologizes, letting you both know he has other plans for the afternoon, but promises he'll see you soon.
You show him out, bouncing at little on your toes at the chance of seeing him again.
"So, does this mean you're coming to our party?"
One corner of his mouth curls. "As long as we hide downstairs the way we used to. And dad says you might come over to ours."
“Definitely.”
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The holiday party is a smashing success, as always. The whole neighborhood turns up, including Mr. Spector and Marc. Since he hasn't visited home in years, he draws a lot of attention, most of which doesn't interest him.
But he plays the dutiful son and the friendly neighbor, continuously gravitating back to you as a sort of touchstone. You make sure to "need his help" carrying dishes to the kitchen, taking out the trash - anything, really, to let Marc escape if he wants to. The two of you walk Mr. Spector back across the street, lingering longer than is necessary in your front yard.
"You don't have to go yet, do you?"
Scuffing his foot on the pavement, he hesitates, so you're quick to add, "We haven't dodged the rest of the party in the basement yet. And of course, there's the pool table."
"Right," he agrees, remembering the fun (and safe) times shared there.
"I saved some of the good whiskeyyyy," you tempt, taking his arm. "We can watch Eight Crazy Nights."
"Hell no. Die Hard."
Arm in arm, you sneak him back inside, texting your mom to let her know you'll help her clean up tomorrow.
She's quick to text back that you should 'take your time' and 'have fun' with lots of embarrassing emojis.
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“Wow, it’s like stepping back in time. This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he marvels as the two of you descend the oddly curved, carpeted staircase to your basement/family room.
"I know. Time capsule,” you laugh, watching as he takes a gander at all the old photos framed and situated across the mantle.
“God, you look almost exactly the same,” he remarks, zeroed in on your senior portrait.
"For real?”
He regards you openly, warmth in his eyes. And something more, as if he appreciates the view. “You’re exactly the way I remember you. Must be nice not to age.”
“Yeah, right,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” A beat passes between you, gazes locking, before heat creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks. “You look different, though. Good different, I mean. You don’t hunch anymore.”
He laughs. “Steven hunches enough for the both of us.”
"Oh Steven,” you remember the alter kept so carefully hidden, but you knew. You always knew. “How is Steven?”
“Good, I think. Probably won’t pass up the chance to tell you himself,” Marc diplomatically responds. “He’s been quiet since we got…home.” He clears his throat.
Boldly stepping closer, you, gently grasp his forearm. “I’m glad you’re here. So glad.”
“Thank you,” he responds evenly, and it feels like something is healed in him since you last talked, and certainly since you last laid eyes on him. “You ready to get your ass kicked at pool?”
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“Nine ball, corner pocket,” Marc announces smugly, taking his fourth shot in a row.
“I should so bump into you right now,” you tease.
“You can. I’ll still beat you,” he fires right back, sinking the shot, which makes you groan. So you bump him next time, hip to hip, and he misses.
“Your turn,” he offers, with mock graciousness, and you can tell he’s plotting his revenge. Eyeing him suspiciously, you call your shot and lean over to take it when you suddenly feel him crowding in behind you.
“This is actually my shot, cheater,” he breathes on your ear, strong arms encircling yours as his chest presses against your back. “We’re gonna play the rest of the game just like this.”
“Fine,” you pretend to shrug him off, as if you aren’t thrilled to have him close. He smells like sun-drenched sands and secrets and spice.
Your eyes drift closed as his lips almost brush your cheek. “You knew this would happen.” Wrapping his arms and hands carefully around yours, he executes the shot you called, clumsily but successfully - the two of you almost tipping over in the process.
Gripping your hip with one hand, steadies you, then maneuvers you to the other end of the table to set up for the next shot. “You always know what happens when you cheat,” he taunts, settling in behind you and announcing his next move.
“I think you want to play like this,” you fire back. "You probably love it when I cheat. Consider it your Hanukkah present,” you tease, thrusting back against him temptingly, yet playfully.
The slightest, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest as he leans you forward to make the shot. Then he turns you around, taking the pool stick out of your hand and stashing it across the table beside his own. Leaning forward, he cages you in with his forearms braced on the table's edge.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” His gaze drops to your lips.
“Yeah. Guess so,” you shrug. "What are you gonna do about it?"
Marc wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes incapable of focusing on one part of you for long. Eyes, mouth, neck, even your chest and he's not subtle about it. "Haven’t changed at all.”
“You have,” you tell him, grasping his biceps for support as he crowds into your space. “You seem...good.”
Sobering a bit at your observation, Marc eases back out of playful mode, and your personal space. “Better.”
"Good." Missing him so near, but feeling a little off kilter from his blatant flirting, you close the slight distance between you, palms pressing against the warmth of his chest. “Marc, I missed you.”
"I missed you too."
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"Now this is a party," Marc says, resting comfortably enough on the lumpy old brown couch, socked feet stretched out in front of him on the coffee table, nursing the "good" whiskey.
"Told you. Thanks for sticking with me upstairs," you softly reply, not at all interested in the action movie sounds on the world's oldest TV.
"No problem. I don't mind it as much as I used to. Especially with you here." He offers you a sip of whiskey with such a familiar nonchalance, you almost feel like a couple.
"I can tell, you know - that the same things don't...I guess bother you as much," you gently prod. "Or maybe you handle things differently?"
"Hopefully," he nods, fingers brushing yours as he takes the drink back from you. "But what about you? How are you?"
So you catch him up on your life. College, significant others, job, your family.
"Your turn."
Then Marc tells you the most incredible story about Egypt and gods and magic powers. And how he is with Steven now. No more hiding.
"It's okay if you don't believe me," he concludes, knocking back the last gulp of whiskey. "I wouldn't."
"I'll always believe you. Tell me more about Egypt. About everything."
Marc has always been a fortress - always withdrawing into himself as to not disturb the space around him any more than was necessary. When his emotions did come out, it was usually...really intense, to say the least. Then he would run.
And that was Marc, for a long while. Feel, hurt, withdraw, lash out, run. It was one of the reasons you probably weren't together right now. Not to mention your own contributions to the issues between you years ago.
It's been a long Christmas Eve of wrapping and party prepping and hosting, and having Marc here this year is equally soothing and all-consuming.
Before you realize it, you've inched closer, arm pushing into his arm from shoulder to elbow. Your head drops to his shoulder as he continues talking. Eventually, he either takes a break or concludes his tale, focusing in on the movie. But in the mean time, his voice so soothes you that your eyes flutter closed before you realize it.
The movie ends, Bruce Willis saves the day, along with Reginald VelJohnson. "Let it Snow" plays during the credits and Marc softly calls your name. He suspected you were asleep, but now that he's certain, he doesn't have the heart to disturb you.
The gentle sounds of your breathing lull him into a state of calm he hasn't felt most of his life. He smiles to himself, lets his head drop back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
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A couple hours later, you wake up, smooshed up against Marc's side, some Christmas movie playing on the TV. Marc's head has slumped down on his chest and you feel terrible because he simply can't be comfortable.
Calling his name, you shake him gently before easing down on the floor beside him to help him lie down. He stirs momentarily, bleary eyes blinking, struggling to focus.
Seeing you, he seems to remember his situation. "Sorry," he mumbles.
"No, it's okay. Lie down. I'll get you a blanket if you want to stay."
Perhaps he wants to walk back across the street, but it is the middle of a cold night, and this would not be the first time he spent the night in your basement.
But as you stand to get him the blanket, he seems to realize you're leaving. "No, stay," he pouts, still half-asleep. "You're warm."
You sleepily giggle, hesitating only a moment before settling into the tiny space he's created for you beside his stretched out body. "Marc, I don't think I'm a very good blanket."
"Just stay for a minute," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "Just one more minute."
"Okay, I'll stay" you agree, now wide awake as your heart races. It takes you a second to tuck your body into his.
You end up half on top of him and it feels so good you think you can't even think straight.
"You can go upstairs if you want," he offers, palm spreading over the curve of your back as he presses you closer. "Just wanted to hold you, is all."
"I want you to hold me," you confess in a rush, breath ghosting his cheek. "I want to stay."
Then you feel his lips on yours, warm, soft and demanding. You fall apart in his arms as he tastes you, tenderly tracing the shape of your jaw as he eases back.
You don't let him get far, pressing your mouth to his.
“Welcome home, Marc,” you whisper in the dark before you fall asleep together on Christmas morning.
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist
143 notes · View notes
lonelyisamyw-0love · 13 days ago
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Hell. YES! This is the perfect amount of fluff and sass.
We keep the spanking spatula in the bedroom.
Let It Snow - Jake Lockley
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Jake + Baking for @campingwiththecharmings
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Jake Masterlist | Main Masterlist WC: 333, non-holiday, gn!reader, tw food, suggestive, not beta'd
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A sprinkling of white dusts Jake’s beard, beyond the delicious salt and pepper you’re used to feeling against your face as he kisses you.
Flour fills the air, falling silently like a blanket of snow, dusting his dark curls, long eyelashes, cheeks and mostly, his beard.
You’ve just started something he’s likely to finish.
A food fight.
No. It's more of an avalanche of ingredients that miss the mixing bowl and make a huge mess in your kitchen.
"We're gonna run out of flour," you pout, nodding toward the bowl.
He chuckles darkly, eyebrows shooting up as he swipes his thumb over the fullness of his bottom lip. "It's powdered sugar, mi amor. Here."
He pulls you close, arm winding around your waist, and crushes his mouth to yours in a delicious, confectionery kiss.
You melt against the warmth of his chest like butter on a skillet. He does make you sizzle.
But he is a man of vengeance and he’s gonna make a mess of you in one way or another, so you willingly accept the glob of shortening he sneaks across your cheek, breaking the heaven of your kiss.
“We better call a truce or we’ll never get these made,” you attempt, brandishing a spatula to defend yourself, your body nearly shaking with giggles.
Jake reaches for the chocolate chips, holding the open bag threateningly in the air.
“Don’t you dare, Jake Lockley,” you warn, lightly swatting his arm with the spatula. “That’s the only bag we have.”
He pours a few into his open palm, a taunting glint in his eyes. “Bet this would taste good on your skin.”
"Waste another one and I'm gonna smack your ass, Lockley." You pop the spatula teasingly on the counter for good measure.
He shrugs, stalking toward you, "Don't threaten me with a good time unless you're ready to bend me over."
It takes you until midnight to finish baking night with Jake, but the cookies aren't the only delicious treats you enjoy.
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Jake Masterlist | Main Masterlist
84 notes · View notes
jessthebaker · 20 days ago
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So wonderful to read Marc home and happy! ♥️
'Twas the Night Before - Marc Spector
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Marc + falling asleep together for @ladywynne
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Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets
Christmas night and Hanukkah 1st night are both Dec. 25 this year and I'm REAL excited!
Notes: gn!reader, kissing and flirting. Vague references to Marc's past but it's not angst. Marc is a flirty boy. He's younger than in the Moon Knight series (late 20s instead of late 30s). Just go with it. Overuse of italics, not beta'd.
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You don’t believe it.
Even though you see him with your own eyes, you can’t actually believe Marc Spector is standing in his childhood driveway, which sits directly across the street from your childhood driveway.
From your old bedroom window, you can see him pause as his hands land on his hips. He’s facing away from you, but you watch his head drop as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts or steel himself.
Resisting the urge to bang on the window, or open it, and shout his name, you pause as his father, Elias throws open the front door.
Marc must hear his name, but not from you, because he finally looks up, waving halfheartedly before collecting a carryon size suitcase from the trunk of the car he drove up in. After grabbing a backpack from the passenger seat, he trudges up the walk, pausing momentarily before accepting his father’s handshake.
Even from your vantage point, you notice the tension he holds in his shoulders - broader and sturdier than they were the last time you saw him. When you were teenagers. Children, really.
His father claps him gently on the back before leading him inside.
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Quite nonchalantly dressed in the cutest outfit you brought with you on the trip (besides your Christmas attire), you march the distance to your neighbor’s house, armed with a paper invitation to your mom and step-dad’s Christmas Eve/holiday party.
Elias would have received an invitation a few weeks back, but you want to be sure that Marc knows he’s invited.
And you want to see him.
Elias graciously accepts your invitation, promising to pass it along to Marc, who is out at the market. You express your disappointment in missing him, and Elias remarks how grown-up you look, and how he agrees that Marc has to see you during his brief visit. Finally, Elias invites you over for the first night of Hanukkah.
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“Hey there, need some help?”
Yearning mingles with relief and excitement as you hear the soft tenor of Marc Spector’s voice later that afternoon.
Grocery bags in hand, you whirl around to see him - really, finally see him. No taller, but more handsome. He’s grown into his features. Some people are cuter as kids, while others grow into their best look as adults. Marc was never unfortunate looking, but adulthood suits him wonderfully.
His dark curls are longer than you’ve ever seen them, but styled neatly off his face, despite the rebellious curl or two threatening to fall across his serious, coffee colored eyes. Jaw squared, his throat bobs, full lips parting as he utters your name.
"You’re home for Christmas.”
You smile at him brilliantly.
“You’re home for Hanukkah.”
He quickly nods, reaching, without invitation, into the trunk of your mother’s car to retrieve the rest of the grocery bags. “Same day this year.”
"I know, I thought of you once I noticed it on the calendar.”
His eyes find yours. “You thought of me?”
“Of course,” you nod toward his childhood home. “I think of you every year when I come home, always wondering if this is the year I’ll see the elusive Marc Spector.”
Something darkens his countenance. You can guess what. But he grants you a wry smile anyway. “Lead the way.”
You do so, feeling your heart thump in your chest as he follows you up the front walk, through your front door, all the way into your kitchen as you announce, "Mom, look who I found!”
Your mom squeals in excitement to see the young man she used to know, rushing him through setting down his grocery bags on the kitchen island so she can give him a proper hug.
You hover closely, making sure she releases Marc at an appropriately brief interval. You don’t want him bristling and uncomfortable in your home. Not during the holidays, or ever.
Pleasantries are exchanged, Marc is offered a sizeable sugar cookie in the shape of a dreidel, which makes him chuckle. He nods for you to take one as well, and you choose one shaped like a candy cane, if only to keep him from eating his alone.
"Why don’t you two go downstairs and I’ll bring you some tea or coffee…or cocoa?” Your mom offers, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
"Mom, we’re not six,” you tease. “You have enough to do for the party.”
You turn to Marc, who is smiling warmly, something serene settling in his countenance as he watches his old neighbors interact. Just the sight of him steals your breath for a moment. He is truly, remarkably handsome.
He apologizes, letting you both know he has other plans for the afternoon, but promises he'll see you soon.
You show him out, bouncing at little on your toes at the chance of seeing him again.
"So, does this mean you're coming to our party?"
One corner of his mouth curls. "As long as we hide downstairs the way we used to. And dad says you might come over to ours."
“Definitely.”
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The holiday party is a smashing success, as always. The whole neighborhood turns up, including Mr. Spector and Marc. Since he hasn't visited home in years, he draws a lot of attention, most of which doesn't interest him.
But he plays the dutiful son and the friendly neighbor, continuously gravitating back to you as a sort of touchstone. You make sure to "need his help" carrying dishes to the kitchen, taking out the trash - anything, really, to let Marc escape if he wants to. The two of you walk Mr. Spector back across the street, lingering longer than is necessary in your front yard.
"You don't have to go yet, do you?"
Scuffing his foot on the pavement, he hesitates, so you're quick to add, "We haven't dodged the rest of the party in the basement yet. And of course, there's the pool table."
"Right," he agrees, remembering the fun (and safe) times shared there.
"I saved some of the good whiskeyyyy," you tempt, taking his arm. "We can watch Eight Crazy Nights."
"Hell no. Die Hard."
Arm in arm, you sneak him back inside, texting your mom to let her know you'll help her clean up tomorrow.
She's quick to text back that you should 'take your time' and 'have fun' with lots of embarrassing emojis.
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“Wow, it’s like stepping back in time. This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he marvels as the two of you descend the oddly curved, carpeted staircase to your basement/family room.
"I know. Time capsule,” you laugh, watching as he takes a gander at all the old photos framed and situated across the mantle.
“God, you look almost exactly the same,” he remarks, zeroed in on your senior portrait.
"For real?”
He regards you openly, warmth in his eyes. And something more, as if he appreciates the view. “You’re exactly the way I remember you. Must be nice not to age.”
“Yeah, right,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” A beat passes between you, gazes locking, before heat creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks. “You look different, though. Good different, I mean. You don’t hunch anymore.”
He laughs. “Steven hunches enough for the both of us.”
"Oh Steven,” you remember the alter kept so carefully hidden, but you knew. You always knew. “How is Steven?”
“Good, I think. Probably won’t pass up the chance to tell you himself,” Marc diplomatically responds. “He’s been quiet since we got…home.” He clears his throat.
Boldly stepping closer, you, gently grasp his forearm. “I’m glad you’re here. So glad.”
“Thank you,” he responds evenly, and it feels like something is healed in him since you last talked, and certainly since you last laid eyes on him. “You ready to get your ass kicked at pool?”
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“Nine ball, corner pocket,” Marc announces smugly, taking his fourth shot in a row.
“I should so bump into you right now,” you tease.
“You can. I’ll still beat you,” he fires right back, sinking the shot, which makes you groan. So you bump him next time, hip to hip, and he misses.
“Your turn,” he offers, with mock graciousness, and you can tell he’s plotting his revenge. Eyeing him suspiciously, you call your shot and lean over to take it when you suddenly feel him crowding in behind you.
“This is actually my shot, cheater,” he breathes on your ear, strong arms encircling yours as his chest presses against your back. “We’re gonna play the rest of the game just like this.”
“Fine,” you pretend to shrug him off, as if you aren’t thrilled to have him close. He smells like sun-drenched sands and secrets and spice.
Your eyes drift closed as his lips almost brush your cheek. “You knew this would happen.” Wrapping his arms and hands carefully around yours, he executes the shot you called, clumsily but successfully - the two of you almost tipping over in the process.
Gripping your hip with one hand, steadies you, then maneuvers you to the other end of the table to set up for the next shot. “You always know what happens when you cheat,” he taunts, settling in behind you and announcing his next move.
“I think you want to play like this,” you fire back. "You probably love it when I cheat. Consider it your Hanukkah present,” you tease, thrusting back against him temptingly, yet playfully.
The slightest, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest as he leans you forward to make the shot. Then he turns you around, taking the pool stick out of your hand and stashing it across the table beside his own. Leaning forward, he cages you in with his forearms braced on the table's edge.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” His gaze drops to your lips.
“Yeah. Guess so,” you shrug. "What are you gonna do about it?"
Marc wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes incapable of focusing on one part of you for long. Eyes, mouth, neck, even your chest and he's not subtle about it. "Haven’t changed at all.”
“You have,” you tell him, grasping his biceps for support as he crowds into your space. “You seem...good.”
Sobering a bit at your observation, Marc eases back out of playful mode, and your personal space. “Better.”
"Good." Missing him so near, but feeling a little off kilter from his blatant flirting, you close the slight distance between you, palms pressing against the warmth of his chest. “Marc, I missed you.”
"I missed you too."
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"Now this is a party," Marc says, resting comfortably enough on the lumpy old brown couch, socked feet stretched out in front of him on the coffee table, nursing the "good" whiskey.
"Told you. Thanks for sticking with me upstairs," you softly reply, not at all interested in the action movie sounds on the world's oldest TV.
"No problem. I don't mind it as much as I used to. Especially with you here." He offers you a sip of whiskey with such a familiar nonchalance, you almost feel like a couple.
"I can tell, you know - that the same things don't...I guess bother you as much," you gently prod. "Or maybe you handle things differently?"
"Hopefully," he nods, fingers brushing yours as he takes the drink back from you. "But what about you? How are you?"
So you catch him up on your life. College, significant others, job, your family.
"Your turn."
Then Marc tells you the most incredible story about Egypt and gods and magic powers. And how he is with Steven now. No more hiding.
"It's okay if you don't believe me," he concludes, knocking back the last gulp of whiskey. "I wouldn't."
"I'll always believe you. Tell me more about Egypt. About everything."
Marc has always been a fortress - always withdrawing into himself as to not disturb the space around him any more than was necessary. When his emotions did come out, it was usually...really intense, to say the least. Then he would run.
And that was Marc, for a long while. Feel, hurt, withdraw, lash out, run. It was one of the reasons you probably weren't together right now. Not to mention your own contributions to the issues between you years ago.
It's been a long Christmas Eve of wrapping and party prepping and hosting, and having Marc here this year is equally soothing and all-consuming.
Before you realize it, you've inched closer, arm pushing into his arm from shoulder to elbow. Your head drops to his shoulder as he continues talking. Eventually, he either takes a break or concludes his tale, focusing in on the movie. But in the mean time, his voice so soothes you that your eyes flutter closed before you realize it.
The movie ends, Bruce Willis saves the day, along with Reginald VelJohnson. "Let it Snow" plays during the credits and Marc softly calls your name. He suspected you were asleep, but now that he's certain, he doesn't have the heart to disturb you.
The gentle sounds of your breathing lull him into a state of calm he hasn't felt most of his life. He smiles to himself, lets his head drop back against the headrest and closes his eyes.
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A couple hours later, you wake up, smooshed up against Marc's side, some Christmas movie playing on the TV. Marc's head has slumped down on his chest and you feel terrible because he simply can't be comfortable.
Calling his name, you shake him gently before easing down on the floor beside him to help him lie down. He stirs momentarily, bleary eyes blinking, struggling to focus.
Seeing you, he seems to remember his situation. "Sorry," he mumbles.
"No, it's okay. Lie down. I'll get you a blanket if you want to stay."
Perhaps he wants to walk back across the street, but it is the middle of a cold night, and this would not be the first time he spent the night in your basement.
But as you stand to get him the blanket, he seems to realize you're leaving. "No, stay," he pouts, still half-asleep. "You're warm."
You sleepily giggle, hesitating only a moment before settling into the tiny space he's created for you beside his stretched out body. "Marc, I don't think I'm a very good blanket."
"Just stay for a minute," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "Just one more minute."
"Okay, I'll stay" you agree, now wide awake as your heart races. It takes you a second to tuck your body into his.
You end up half on top of him and it feels so good you think you can't even think straight.
"You can go upstairs if you want," he offers, palm spreading over the curve of your back as he presses you closer. "Just wanted to hold you, is all."
"I want you to hold me," you confess in a rush, breath ghosting his cheek. "I want to stay."
Then you feel his lips on yours, warm, soft and demanding. You fall apart in his arms as he tastes you, tenderly tracing the shape of your jaw as he eases back.
You don't let him get far, pressing your mouth to his.
“Welcome home, Marc,” you whisper in the dark before you fall asleep together on Christmas morning.
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