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boredzillenial · 4 months

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Biting

You make good on your word to Steven with some, unforeseen hiccups.

Themes: f!reader awkwardness, mention of masterbation, oral (reader receiving), biting, piv, creampie

Word count: 3.1k (don't look at me like that I got carried away)

A.N.: This part 3 of the College AU, if you haven’t already go read Part 1 and Part 2!

How you're going to survive the next few hours, you aren’t quite sure. With that eager look in Steven’s eyes you take a step back. “Tonight, let me get my roomie out for the night and I’ll text you, okay?”

“How long.” His quiet desperation sends your heart pounding faster.

“Just a bit.” You glance at your phone. “We’ve still got like 3 hours of work left.” You make your way around him with your half empty cart, blood rushing in your ears. “Just, try to finish that and it’ll be over before you know it.”

He nods, “Yeah, I can try.” his voice a bit shaky as he heads in the opposite direction.

The time passes like molasses, with every step you can feel the absolute mess sitting in your panties. The sensation making it nearly impossible to focus. You have to deal with this soon.

Finally you empty your cart and head to the elevator, glancing around with no sign of Steven. One last glance and you head down, puzzled when you make it to the storage room and still don’t see him. You shrug it off and head to the staff toilet.

With the door shut and the light leaking from the crack at the bottom you roll your eyes and wait. A few too many minutes pass when curiosity gets the better of you. As you lean in you can here something but you aren’t quite sure, then a choked whimper echoes behind the door, “Shit… ah fuckkk.” The panting behind the door worsening your current status of your underwear. “Bollocks - my sweater.”

Rustling behind the door sends you panicking. You take a few steps back, hiding behind a shelf and peeking through the books as you wait for Steven to come out.

Finally he exits, furiously rubbing a wet paper towel on his sweater. The flush of pink from his release still bright across his face. He looks around cautiously, tosses the paper towel in the trash and hastily grabs the next cart full of books.

Once he's out of sight you slip into the bathroom and quickly lock the door behind you. All at once the smell of soap and cum smacks into your senses. You try as fast as you can to clean yourself up, stuffing toilet paper in your underwear before heading back out. By the time you exit your senses are swimming while you grab the next cart and check the time. Just a little while longer…

That little while flies by when Donna’s hard stare bores into you, “There’s still all that left what's a matter with you?!” She scolds.

“Sorry sorry,” you duck and make your way up to the second floor. Depositing the books in their proper place as quickly as you can. A sudden buzz in your pocket makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

Payment Received from Jake

You roll your eyes then get a text, from Steven.

was gonna wait for you but Donna keeps giving me a stink eye. Txt me when I can come over yeah?

You quickly send your reply to Steven and fill the shelves faster than you thought possible. Grabbing your jacket you hastily shoot another text, this time to your roomie to find someplace else to hang out for a couple hours. You bolt across campus and just as your running into the lobby of the dormitory you see her laying across the couch, head in the lap of a girl. Probably the one from last night, “Hell yeah go get it!” You hear her cheer you on as you bolt to the elevator.

One you make your way into your room you hastily clean, opting to kick the remaining loose clothing under your bed. You turn to clean off your cluttered desk till you spot a rumpled t-shirt on your chair, Steven’s shirt. A cheeky thought enters your mind as you change into it, the hem barely long enough to cover your bare pussy and most of your ass.

You walk over to the full length mirror hanging next to the door to admire yourself, adjusting the shirt and staring at your bare legs. “You’ve got this, he’s the virgin, you know what you’re doing.” You try to talk yourself up, it comes out more like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Just as you’re about to continue you hear an urgent knock at the door. “What the fuck-“ you whisper, peeking through the peep hole, “Marc, what are you doing?”

He jumps slightly, “Jake told me what happened, I just wanted to say sorry - for that.”

“I’ve already been paid off but thanks for the apology, you can go now!” Trying to keep the annoyance from your voice proves difficult as you turn to continue your hasty clean up.

“Can we talk? I’d like to apologize face to face, I feel like an idiot for how I reacted when we saw you in Steven’s bed.” He pushes the doorknob and the door opens a crack.

“Hey! Privacy!” You shriek as you lean against the door, glaring at the glimpse of him in the mirror. His eyes go wide, in this position bracing against the door the shirt did absolutely nothing to cover your rear.

“Fuck sorry!” He squeezes his eyes shut and stumbles back, the door slams sending you nearly sprawling on the floor.

You hear his panicked footsteps fade down the hall. Jesus Christ these brothers are gonna be the end of you. You try to shake off that in the span of a day - you’ve caught Jake fucking in the library, Marc just saw your entire naked ass, and you were about to take Steven’s virginity.

Anxiety began to claw its way up your throat. “It’s too much, this is too much I - Fuck he’s gonna hate me I, I just can’t do this tonight.” You go to text Steven when a softer knock sounds at the door. You peek and lo-and-behold it’s him. You crack the door open a tad “Hey I was just about to text you-“ your excuse is cut short as he pushes his way inside, grasping your face in his hands and kissing you in that same hungry way from earlier. Okay maybe you could do this.

“Hang on.” You say breathlessly as you shut and lock the door.

Steven uses the moment to rake his eyes over you, “Is that my shirt again?” He smiles softly “I think you’ll really like Avatar Kyoshi.”

“Who?” You look down at the front of the shirt, taking in the woman on the front with her painted face and battle pose.

“Nevermind, I’ll show you later.” He grins as he eagerly pulls his sweater up and over his head. Muscle and smooth skin with a whisper of a soft tummy sends your heart pounding.

“Steven I-“ he undoes his belt, the sound of his pants and boxers hitting the linoleum are the only sound in the room as you bite your lip. Fucksake why is it the quiet ones that are always packing. His cock looks hard as stone as he stands infront of you, a drop of precum already at the tip.

“Sorry I don’t know how any of this really works. You can just, tell me what to do yeah?” He looks like he’s nearly shivering with anticipation, or maybe from holding himself back.

You can feel slickness gathering as you take a long look at him. His gaze glued to your exposed legs as you take him by the hand and lead him to sit on the edge of your bed.

“I’m gonna start with kissing and touching you, then when you’re ready we can move on to more.” You say softly, his hands glide across your thighs, then toy with the hem of the shirt. “I’m on birth control, and I’ve been tested recently. So to make it special we can go without a condom if you’re comfortable.”

His eyes light up as he looks up at you. “You sure?” You bite your lip a moment and nod, eliciting a groan from him. His hands glide, touching your soft mound. His breath catches as he slides his hand further still to the slickness gathering there.

He gulps, “I, I need to know. Is anything off limits? Like any parts of your body or, or anything specific?” His voice his nearly shaking.

“Huh? Uh I guess not - OH!” He lunges forward, your sentence ends with a gasp as he buries his face between your legs. Kneeling on the tile he laps and sucks at your folds. You dig your fingers into his curls, “Fuck Steven that’s - ah fuck that’s good.”

His tongue is hungry and searching, not getting much further than your clit as he presses his face into you. “Get on the bed.” He breathes against your center as he adjusts, managing to send you stumbling onto the bed with a giggle.

Once on your back, ass at the edge of the bed he spreads your legs wide. His breath catching as he looks you over, you can feel heat rising up your throat and face as he gazes. Then, slowly you feel the light press of his fingers through your folds.

You bite back a groan as he continues to explore, gliding and barely pressing into you. You look down to see him eagerly staring up at you. “I wanna make you feel good. Tell me how love.”

“Steven tonight is supposed to be about you.” You chuckle “Do what you wan- shit.” yet again he interrupts you with his tongue as he dives into your channel. He drags his tongue out, swirling up to your clit then back down into you. It’s like he can’t decide which he’d rather do.

He shifts, putting your legs over his shoulders as he presses his tongue deeper into you. Your legs are already quivering as he continues to tongue-fuck you. “S-Steven you don’t have to -” You pant.

He pulls away a moment. “I want to. Gods I want it all.” He adjusts his focus to lapping at your clit. Your senses are swimming as you feel his hands knead at your thighs and ass. You weren’t sure whether this was the wettest you’d ever been because of your own juices or if he was drooling. Whatever the combination, it was dripping down your ass onto the floor.

His tongue swirls and works over your core till you’re writhing. At one point you’re nearly jumping from the pressure on your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into his curls, grabbing a handful and slowing his pace till your thighs clamp around his head. His whimpers and groans humming against your core send you crashing over the edge.

Your body goes slack and his hands shift, spreading you wide. He pulls away to look at you again, his lips and chin glistening. “What about,” his thumb presses against your tight rim, managing to slip in to his first knuckle from the slickness gathered there.

Your eyes shoot open as you jolt away. “Woah!” You gasp. “One thing at a time.” You laugh breathlessly.

He pulls back, looking momentarily defeated. “Some other time?”

“Yeah,” you nod, shifting to kneel on the bed. “Lay down.” You pat the pillow and pull his hand forward. He climbs on and lays down. “Well since you’ve tossed my plan out the window,” you chuckle “Do you want to feel my mouth or me.” You slide your hand down to your mound and swirl your fingers around your clit.

“Can I feel you? Please I- I don’t think I can wait much longer.” His beg comes out wrecked. "I want this off," he breathes as he pull his shirt off you in one swift tug.

You grin, straddling across his lap and settling. You begin to roll your hips, gliding the slickness across his shaft and gods the heat of him against you was driving you mad. You reach down and point him upward, slowly sinking onto the tip. You shiver at sensation and continue, he stretches your soaking channel deliciously.

A choked whimper echos in the dorm room as his hips buck up. “Feels so good,” he grabs your hips, pushing himself to the hilt. You try to lift off, the stretch all at once overwhelming your senses. “Stay oh gods please stay.” He pleads loudly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tight against him.

“Steven,” you pant “Steven it’s too much,” the slight burn fades to pleasure as he pulls out, only to thrust deeply again.

“ ‘s not enough. I’m sorry it’s, it's not enough.” His broken pleas shoot lighting to your core as he sets a frantic, uneven pace. “Oh gods thank you, I’m sorry, thank you.”

You hear banging on the wall beside you, “Shhh. Fuckkk - we’ve gotta b-be quieter.”

His unrelenting broken pleas continue, thank you, I’m sorry, thank you. You hear more banging on the wall and in a moment of panic you lean back, pulling him up with you to bury his face between your breasts and stifle his resounding pleas.

The moment his nose bumps against your chest he turns, biting the side of your breast and whimpering against your skin. You hiss against the sting and look down. His mess of curls have fallen across his forehead and his brows furrow as the blush of pleasure spreads across his cheeks.

You tug on his curls to get him to release, his eyes half lidded as they look up at you. They then lower to look at the mark he made and you could feel him pulse inside you. “S-sorry.” He stammers.

“Don’t be,” you lean forward, kissing him deeply and sliding your tongue across his lips. He pulses again and groans into your mouth. His hips struggling to roll with the way you're straddling him.

Before you realize what’s happening your back hits the mattress. He leans forward kissing and nipping at your neck. He trails across your skin until he reaches your shoulder and bites down. You cry out, body arching, the sound seems to only encourage him as he shifts to bite down on your other breast.

Steven’s hips continue their frantic pace as he bites and sucks across your neck and chest. And just when that familiar tightness winds in your core he shifts again, this time lifting your legs and pinning them higher with his arms, his thighs caging you in and pressing deeper into you.

“Fuck, feel so good. Mating press feels to good.” He groans, in this new position with your legs wide you were at the mercy of his frenzied pace.

“The, what?” You ask breathlessly.

“N-nothing nevermind.” He pants. He slows down a moment, grinding against you, you whimper at the pressure against your clit.

“S-Steven I, I’m gonna come.” Your legs shake with the oncoming sensation.

“Fuck - me too.” In the same breath your channel flutters around him. The squeeze around his length is blinding as he pumps rope after rope into you.

Steven slowly adjusts, releasing your legs for them to drape them his hips as he presses his forehead against yours. “Y-you alright?” He asks shakily, his unsteady breaths fanning across your face as his mahogany gaze searches your eyes.

A lazy smile spreads across your lips as you nod. “Better than alright.”

His eyes shift down to the marks he’s left across your skin. Then, oh so slowly, he places a soft kiss on every one of them. “Sorry, got a little carried away.” He whispers.

You reciprocate his kisses with one of your own on his cheek. “It’s alright. Really.” He peers at your face, looking for something but your not quite sure what. “Come on, let’s clean up.” You tap his side, he moves a little too quickly and winces as his oversensitive softening cock slips free.

You bite back a smile and while you wanted to help him down from his high, you were worried about him getting clingy. For the next hour or so help put him back together and give a quick cuddle before sending him back to his room. He leaves with half-lidded eyes a contented smile as he shuffles off to his room.

You toss on a large hoodie and sweats, texting your roomie the all clear. She comes bounding in with a smirk, “You gotta fill me in! I need details”

“It’s nothing I was,” you search for how to explain what just happened. “Doing a friend a favor.” You chuckle and awkwardly rub the back of your neck.

Your roomies eyes go wide as the lock onto your neck, “Help a friend?! Bitch you did not!” She squeals and pulls your collar back, revealing the bites and hickeys across your shoulder. “Wait, that guy in the hall… Did you… All this from little Stevie?!”

“It’s Steven actually,” you tug the collar from her grasp and pull your hood up. “Turns out, not little…” you can't quite bite back the grin playing at the edge of your lips.

“Oh, my, god you gotta tell me everything!” She laughs and jumps onto her bed.

“Absolutely not, I think all these say enough.” You tease.

“All what?” You jolt at the voice behind you, you whip around to see Jake standing in the open doorway.

Quickly you tug on the drawstring of your hoodie. “All nothing, and way to invite yourself into the conversation.”

Jake shrugs “You weren’t responding to my texts, and I brought a peace offering.” He smirks and pulls a bottle of tequila from his jacket.

You see your roommate’s eyes go wide. “Hell yeah come in! Close the door I don’t wanna share with the rest of the floor.” She says excitedly. “Come on girl just show him, it’s no biggie right?”

“Show me what?” He smirks.

“None of your - hey!” You protest as Jake yanks down your hood and pulls the collar wide.

A light blush tinges the tips of his ears as he takes in the marks across your skin. “Oh really, finally getting some for yourself huh?” He smirks, but there’s a hit of something else in his eyes.

“From Steven of all people!” Your roomie calls over her shoulder as she pours shots into assorted coffee mugs and hands them to you both. You do your best to kill her with a look.

Jake’s brow raises, his dark gaze boring into you as you clink your mug against his and tip back the burning liquor. “Alright spill, now.”

—————

Moon Knight Masterlist

Moon Knight Bingo

Taglist: @moonknight-events @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @lunar-ghoulie @flowercrownonapegion @howellatme @mooksmouse @ahookedheroespureheart @beezusvreeland @auntiegigi @moonkxit @faretheeoscar @softestqueeen @spidey-3 @steven-grants-world

#moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #moon knight bingo #college au

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thexsanctuaryx · 1 month

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no one talks about how hard it is to stop writing mid-fic because you HAVE to go to sleep, but you're on a fucking ROLL and have unlocked galaxy brain. but you have you go to sleep, but it feels so good to finally get more writing done. and the muses are AWAKE. and honestly this fic I'm working on is a long fic/series-- and I'm barely in and I could already technically check off like 6 different squares of MK Bingo with just this part-- I say technically cause that's against the rules. but uuuuggggghhhhh you guuuuuysss-- I don't wanna stop writing but I NEED to get to sleep cause otherwise my baby brain will break and I'll end up in the hospital!

#moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight bingo #moon knight system x oc #i heard you singing in a taco bell bathroom; i heard you singing a cheap trick song { arielle speaks }#now that she’s back in the atmosphere; with drops of jupiter in her hair { status update }

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sarahghetti · 3 months

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moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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soft-girl-musings · 3 months

Text

Salt & Pepper

Moon Knight System x GN!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: rated T for teasing, domestic fluff, author does not condone touching people's hair without permission, no use of Y/N

wc: 1,078

fic summary: Marc, are you familiar with the term "silver fox"?

A/N: i might have a problem lol

_____________________

“Put. It. Down.”

Marc Spector does not startle easily. So when he nearly falls from his perch beside the bathtub, you’re surprised you have to steady him.

“Jesus, where’s the fire?” Marc picks up the towel and small cardboard box he’d dropped because of your outburst.

Shifting your focus, you zero in on the latter: hair dye, just as you’d suspected.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away?” You tut, cradling his temples and shaking your head. "What happened to you?"

"What? Nothing, I'm-"

"-I wasn't talking to you," you sigh, resting your forehead against the crown of his head. "How long has he been treating you like this, you poor things?"

“Ha-ha.”

You release his face to study it. "But seriously, how long have you been dying your hair?”

“... For a couple of years. Started to turn gray from stress a while back, and I guess it never stopped.” He fidgets with the loose edge of the container.. “You really never noticed?”

You take the box and set it beside him. “You hid it well.”

You’re not judging him for dying his hair, it’s just… surprising. Marc’s never been one to fuss over his appearance, as far as you could tell. When you first saw his closet, you’d half expected it to be lined with the same outfit ten times, like in a cartoon. Most days, “dressing up” means adding a jacket or blazer.

“Since when do you care? About your hair, I mean.”

He shrugs. “I’m not gettin’ any younger, honey.”

“Neither am I.” You kiss the bridge of his nose. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Goes double for me, don’t you forget it.” Leaning in, Marc tries for another kiss, but you duck and grab the hair dye before turning away with a mischievous smirk.

“Gotta keep you honest,” you wink and dart out of the room before he can catch you.

_____________________

"Love?"

"Hm?"

"Might fall out if you keep playing with it like that.”

You’d been standing behind Steven for the past couple of minutes, meaning to check in on his preparations for his morning tour but had gotten distracted. Very distracted.

“Sorry,” you sigh, your fingers leaving the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck and trailing down to his shoulder. “It’s just… hm.”

Your conversation with Marc must have taken root: over the past few weeks, you’ve noticed the hair that had been dangerously close to another round of boxed dye abuse steadily turning lighter. A subtle blend of silver strands mix with the darker curls that frame his face, making his hair shine a bit brighter in the light of the desk lamp.

“It’s like starlight,” you finally state, leaning in to rest your head against his.

Steven sputters and puts his book aside. “Starli- that’s a bit much, yeah?” His brow furrows, but there’s no denying the smile tugging at his lips.

“Not if it’s true,” you contend. You adjust the reading glasses that had slid down his face and tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “It’s a good look on you.”

There’s no denying the heat rising to his cheeks when you talk. “This– you don’t–” Steven caves and sets his book down, hopelessly flustered. “Either go away or get over here. Cheeky.”

He makes room for you to settle into his lap, which you giddily accept. Your hands sink back into his curls and he shivers as you scratch his scalp.

“Did I ever tell you I had a thing for my professor, once upon a time?”

“Oh my days–”

You’re not sure who kisses who, but you’re certainly not complaining. Neither is he.

_____________________

The time apart has been agony.

You check your phone for the fifth time this evening. They’ve been gone for what feels like months (it’s been weeks) handling some business in California, of all places. Marc said he’d call when they were on their way home, meaning no news is sad news.

You’re pulled from your pity party by a knock on the door. It’s late, and you’ve already signed for your dinner delivery. Slowly, you get up and grab the bat you keep by the entrance (with a sock slipped over the end per Jake’s advice).

The knocking continues, getting more urgent. You take a deep breath and look through the peephole. A large brown eye stares back and you yelp, dropping your bat. The unmistakable boom of Jake’s belly laughter mocks you from behind the door.

“You’re hilarious,” you groan, standing the bat back on its head and unlocking the door.

You’re ready to lay into him when you open the door, but you’re stunned into silence. Jake’s smile is highlighted by silvery stubble, dusted with black. He adjusts his cap as his dark eyebrows raise in mock surprise.

“What, no hello?”

You tear your eyes away from his jaw. “Hm? Oh. Hi.” You open the door wider for him to step in. “Marc said you’d call first.”

“No fun in that, is there? Besides, you looked ready to handle some trouble.” he shrugs off his coat as you lock the door behind him.

“Trouble, yes. Nuisance, debatable.” You sidle up to him and drape your arms around his waist. You place a kiss on his cheek; it’d be impossible for him to not notice how you let yours drag along the rough line of his jaw.

“I missed you too,” he laughs again. “But man, is it warm in here…”

He tosses his cap and it takes everything in him to not lose it when your eyes widen at the sight of his hair, now more gray than black and curls longer than you’ve seen them before. You’re too enraptured to be embarrassed at your obvious loss for words.

“Your hair…” You reach up to touch it, but Jake grabs your wrist.

“Tsk, tsk, you threaten and barely say a word to me, then go straight for the goods without so much as a ‘please’? What happened to decorum, hm?”

“You fucking tease,” you huff. “...please?”

“Well, since you asked nicely–” Jake can barely finish his thought before your lips are on his, your hand tangled in his starlit hair as soon as he lets go.

“I take it we should cancel Marc’s haircut?” he murmurs as you catch your breath.

Your free hand grazes the scruff on his cheek and you grin. “I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

_____________________

A/N: marvel you cowards give us gray-haired moon knight

ty for reading <3

event tags:@moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro @queerponcho (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

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takenbypeter · 1 year

Text

Vulnerable Drunk

Steven Grant x reader

Words: 469

FLUFF BINGO

Ending this year with a Steven Grant fic hope you all love it and have a great new year!!

“Okay, yeah just one foot in front of the other. You got it,” you encouraged as you did your best to guide Steven through his front doors.

He was slouched over, his body heavy in your arms, but you somehow managed to get him to the corner of his bed. Once his butt hit his mattress, he instantly sprawled his limbs out, before tucking them back in and laying on his side, letting out a breath of air with his eyes closed.

After making sure he was somewhat comfortable, you give his head a final pat before stepping away.

“No, don’t go,” Steven whined, his voice fragile.

“Relax, I'm just going to get you water. I’ll be right back,” you replied, heading towards the open kitchen area.

Returning onto the empty spot next to him, you pat for him to get up and he does so reluctantly. “Here have some water, it'll do you good for tomorrow.”

With eyes still closed he took a sip of the water and let the cool liquid slip down his throat. After finishing half the glass he held it out and you took it placing it to the side. “Thanks,” he said, eyes struggling slightly to remain open. Once he finally got to open his eyelids he caught sight of you and his facial muscles instantly lifted into a sleepy intoxicated smile.

Steven caught you by surprise by grabbing your shoulders, “has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?”

You laugh a little, caught off guard and his grip on you loosens a bit.

“You look just like my love. So pretty.”

His hands leave your body and he leans back down against the soft sheets. “I love my love. But shhh,” he abruptly sits up again before moaning a little at the sudden movement, “don’t tell ‘em.”

“Oh?” This you were curious about. “Why not?” You whisper.

“I say it too much. I don’t want to scare my love away.”

You suppress a laugh. You didn’t know what was funnier; him not realizing who you were or the fact that he kept referring to you as his love.

“Steven, I am your love. And you’ll never scare me away. In fact I don’t say those words enough. I love you.”

“Show me.”

For a moment you weren’t sure you didn’t imagine what you just heard. “What?“

“Show me you love me.“

You’re a bit surprised at his sudden bluntness, not used to this from him. But without any argument you bent down, and brushing his curls away from his forehead you placed a tiny kiss against his skin.

When you sat back up he was already smiling with his eyes closed. “I love that.”

“And I love you. Now finish your water or you’ll be feeling it tomorrow.”

“Yes my love.”

#steven grant fanfiction #steven grant fanfic #steven grant imagine #steven grant x reader #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fanfic #moon knight imagine #moon knight x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #mcu imagine #mcu x reader #fluff bingo

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campingwiththecharmings · 2 months

Text

Never Let Me Go

AN: Fourth fic for @moonknight-events MK Bingo! So….this isn’t exactly what I’d intended it to be lol (no dialogue? No full on smut?? What’s wrong with me???) but I also kind of like how it turned out? Idk. Hopefully someone other than me enjoys this lol

Jake is feeling lonely and disconnected and you help make him feel better.

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: M+ (labeling this as M since it has cockwarming. not very smutty tho) Prompt: Cockwarming Words: 560 Pairing: Jake Lockley x GN!Reader (pretty sure this could be read as GN, please let me know if that's incorrect) Warnings: cockwarming, angst, feelings of loneliness (please let me know if i missed anything) AO3

——————

You’re in Jake’s lap, knees bracketing his hips, his cock buried inside you. You’re both still, his strong arms wrapped around your middle, fingers loosely fisted in the worn fabric of your sleep shirt. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, eyelids fluttering slightly as you comb your fingers gently through his curls. He inhales slowly, deeply, nuzzling your collarbone with his nose, his mustache tickling your skin.

He’s been feeling disconnected, your Jake, lonely even. Tonight is the first night you’ve had with him in weeks. He’d let himself in about an hour ago looking tired, his movements sluggish as he’d toed off his shoes, shucked his jacket, and loosened his tie. You’d gone to him immediately, anxious to see him after such an extended absence. It’s not that he hadn’t looked happy to see you, he had—he was—he’d just looked so down, almost defeated.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, whatever it was that was bothering him, and you didn’t push, knowing he’d open up when he was ready. For now, he just needed you, to be with you. He’d never ask for this though, for comfort, even though he needs it and knows you’d happily give it. He forgets, you see, forgets that he doesn’t have to handle everything on his own, forgets that his troubles are also your troubles…forgets that you chose this, chose him.

So, you remind him. Remind him that you love him (and that he is worthy of that love), that you care for him, that you are a team, that it’s okay to need people, to be vulnerable. When he finally gives into you (and he always does), you lead him to the bed and just hold him for a while, your body draped over him like a blanket. You can tell when he starts to get antsy, when his mind is racing at top speed, when he’s no longer present. You know what he needs, how to calm his mind, to bring him back to you.

You raise yourself up on all fours, motioning for him to sit up as you slowly crawl up his body. He does what you want without argument, his eyes focused on you, intently following your every movement. When you kiss him, he sags against the headboard, keeping his arms limp at his sides as you straddle his hips. His lips are soft against yours, his tongue warm and wet as it slides against yours languidly. When you sink onto him, he breaks the kiss, his head thudding back against the wall as he sucks in a breath. You watch him for a moment, taking in the state of him—the tinge of pink on his skin, the way his dark lashes fan across his cheek as he closes his eyes, the kiss-bitten look of his mouth.

He opens his eyes after a moment, smiling softly at your attention. You smile back, the tightness you hadn’t realized was in your chest easing slightly. You shift forward, wrapping yourself around him and pulling him close. He sighs, pushing his face against your neck as he winds his arms around your torso.

Jake forgets sometimes, what it’s like to be this close to someone, to be loved, to be cared for. He’s grateful that he has you here to remind him.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟 MK Bingo Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

#my fic #moon knight bingo #jake lockley x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley fanfic #jake lockley fic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfic

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 2 months

Text

Tell Me No

Marc Spector x GN!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: Marc prefers when you take what you want.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Okay, this is really not going to be for everyone. Please look at the warnings.

Warnings: hand jobs, sub!Marc, Marc having a rape fantasy/ravishment kink, rapeplay, safe words, forced orgasm (but not really forced *dennis reynolds voice* it's the implication), this isn't noncon because both parties have agreed on this - which is also mentioned in fic but I till feel like it could cause distress in anyone that has a trigger, over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I’ve missed a warning!

Word Count: 1592

“Tell me no?” Marc asked softly as he gently touched your arm.

You turned from where you were putting plates away to face him fully.

He swallowed, his fingers still brushing against you, looking down at your feet. His head was tilted slightly, making it even more obvious that he was shying away from your gaze.

Slowly you hooked your forefinger under his chin and lifted his head upwards ever so slightly. Your touch delicate, but firm.

He sucked in a breath, his muscles tensing but kept looking at the floor, his eyelashes practically kissing his cheeks.

“You want that?” You asked firmly, your voice steady but gentle.

He nodded once, a small micro movement.

“You gonna ask for it properly?”

He swallowed again, the action making a gulping sound that clicked around the room. But he took a little too long to answer,

“Or do I have to make you?” You said, your voice still that same constant sturdiness.

He nodded again and you smiled.

It had started as an accident really, a bit of a silly joke when you were still early into your relationship. Sitting on the grass in Greenwich Park, Marc pouting and saying ‘no’ when you tried to kiss his cheeks. You had laughed and backed off every time, not touching him, when he’d bitten his lip and asked sweetly. “Do it anyway when I say no?”

“You want me to kiss you anyway?”

“If you can.” He’d wiggled his eyebrows at you, purposefully making you giggle. But even then you had recognised that he was trying to cover something, some nervousness with bravado. Even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on what.

“Alright,” you smiled. “But what if you really want me to stop? How will I know?”

He had looked to the side, in thought for a moment. “I’ll say dandelion.”

“Dandelion?”

“Hmm.” He nodded.

“You just chose the first thing you saw!” You laughed.

“So what if I did?” He said cheekily.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have you kisses as punishment.”

“No.”

You couldn’t remember when the name of the game had stuck, ‘tell me no’, but Marc always said it that way, despite him being the one that would being saying the negative. It seemed easier for him to ask you that way.

He had been awkward about it the first time he brought it up in conection to sex. More than awkward. Fumbling over his words and not looking at you, until he had given up in frustration and huffed as he walked off. But he didn’t go off to sulk, instead he wrote down what he was having such trouble saying and handed you the paper.

‘I know it’s weird.’ The word was underlined twice. ‘And you can say no. But what if we play tell me no during sex?’

You had looked up at him. “That’s not weird.”

He paused, his face completely blank for a moment. Error screen. Loading. Clearly he hadn’t expected that response.

“Lots of people have that fantasy.”

He paused, raising his chin ever so slightly in question. A microexpression you were used to.

“Really,” you smiled and touched his arm, reassuring him. “I’m happy to. But we need to talk about it a little before hand, I need to know what you want, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Marc wanted to act like he didn’t want you to touch him, please him. He wanted you to do it anyway, to force him to come.

You kissed him deeply, pushing your tongue into his mouth and growling when he pulled away.

“Please, don’t.” He said softly, looking down like he was ashamed.

“But I want to.” You pinched his chin lightly between your thumb and forfinger and turned his face back towards you. This time you kissed him harsher, biting at his plump bottom lip.

Marc groaned, allowing himself to sink into your embrace for a moment before he moved his hand away again. “Stop, please, I shouldn’t.”

You kissed him again, grabbing hold of his biceps and walking him backwards towards the bed.

He muffled a moan against your lips, pretending to squirm to try to get out of your grip. He raised his hands, pressing them to your chest as if he was trying to get you off him. But he used no where near half of his strength, his touch practically begging you to manhandle him.

You push him back against the bed, pining him down under your body and straddling his hips. He whines under you, bucking upwards as if he was trying to push you off, but really he was rubbing his already half hard cock against your core.

You bite his lip again, hard and he lets out a sweet moan. The sound turning into a stiffled breath as you nip down his jaw and suck on the sweet spot on his neck.

“Stop, please, stop, no, I don’t want this, I shouldn’t-”

“You’ll take what I give you,” you hiss in his ear and Marc shivers, his eyes rolling back as he groans. “Gonna make you come and make a mess everywhere.”

“No,” he shakes his head rapidly. “Please.” The stress on the word is delicious, the way he looks up at you, begging silently for you to continue.

“Shut up you stupid whore.” You grab hold of his wrists and pin them up above his head with one hand, Marc groans, wiggling his hips a little. It would be so easy for him to move, to get away from your touch. Your fingers are just resting on his skin, not even squeezing. That’s how he likes it. The illusion of being pinned. But knowing he can move at any moment if he really wanted to.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to give up control, he does, he craves it, it’s just that past experiences have made the reality of having his hands tied a little impractical. Even if he knows he’s safe, even if his mind is begging for it, his body still reacts with adrenaline and fear. Panic attacks and gasping for breath. Neither of you want that.

“Stop.” He mutters, shaking his head from side to side, looking at you with wide, fearful eyes that you know are dark with lust and desperation.

“I told you to shut the fuck up.” You hiss, reaching down and pushing your free hand under his jogging bottoms and grabbing his warm, velvety length.

He whimpers, biting his lip. “Stop! I don’t want this!”

“You’re so dumb, you know that?” You run your fingers up and down him a few times, revelling in how he twitches and hardens under your touch. “Saying you don’t want it. Look how hard you are.”

He lets out a sob, arching his spine in a pretend attempt to throw you off.

“Flower Marc?” You ask softly.

“Rose.” He says quickly, his version of green.

You start jerking him off quickly, watching his face as he whines. “Look how much your body wants it.”

“No!” He shakes his head rapidly, even as his words turn into needy moans.

“Fucking look.” You hiss.

He keeps his eyes closed.

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

He groans loudly, having to tense his muscles and fight against his body with an iron will to stop himself from coming at your words. He knows you’d never actually hurt him, never lay a finger on him that wasn’t wanted, that wasn’t there to cause pleasure. But the threat of it, your tone. It feels too good.

He looks down to where you’re touching him, how your sliding your fingers over his cock and teasing his slit. He moans loudly, trying to choke back the sound.

You pull his t-shirt up higher until the material is grumbled up at his chest, and then go back to squeezing his cock, pumping your hand up and down the burning length of him. As you get to the tip on every stroke you twist your wrist just a little, tighten your grip ever so slightly.

Marc’s hips jerk up, his thighs tense under you as he wiggles, trying and failing not to give in and chase the sensation.

“Please don’t,” he moans, “don’t want to come, please.”

“You’ve got no choice in this.”

His sounds increase, sweat beading on his forehead as he relentlessly bucks upwards into you grip. Every nerve is on fire, every thought bleeding out of his mind onto the matress, only the pleasure of your touch remaining.

“Please don’t make me,” he whines, so close that he can almost taste it, almost touch it.

“You’re gonna come Marc, you’re going to give it to me. Understand?”

He groans loudly, the sternness of your voice tipping him over the edge. The command making his body obey without his say in the matter.

He comes loudly, spurting all over his stomach in hot, thick squirts that splash all over his skin, staining it white.

You slow your hand, but don’t stop. Still stroking him evenly.

Marc gasps, shivering with aftershocks. His breathing is heavy, his eyes a little unfocused as he opens them to look back up at you.

You smile, leaning down quickly to kiss his temple.

When you move back he has his lip between his teeth, his thighs twitch under you. You recognise that look.

“You’re gonna come again Marc.”

He shakes his head. But there’s a glint in his eyes, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “No.” He pouts.

“It wasn’t a question.”

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh @romanarose @saturn-rings-writes @lonelyisamyw-0love @queerponcho @steven-grants-world @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin @apesarecuul @reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom @alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr @soft-girl-musings

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

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jake-g-lockley · 1 year

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Bingo is now the Fist of Khonshu

#someone laugh with me cuz i feel alone #bird man #khonshu #bluey #bingo #moon knight

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boredzillenial · 5 months

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“Is That My Shirt?”

After befriending Jake and Marc, one night you find yourself growing a little closer to their brother, Steven.

Themes: college Au, boys are in separate bodies, f!freader is tipsy, mostly fluff, mention of morning wood

Wordcount: 1.2K

You’re sophomore year at college is going amazing so far. Classes aren’t too bad, your RA is lazy and can’t be bothered to keep alcohol out of the dorms, and you’d made fast friends with Jake. While you both often tore up parties around campus you also have a blast dragging his brother Marc out every once in a while.

Despite some initial sexual tension you’d had with Jake and then Marc you three found your friendship much more fun. So most nights Jake would end up with a girl and if you’d done your job of wingwoman right so would Marc.

Their other brother, Steven, is a bit different to say the least. Soft spoken, studies focused and honestly a bit of a nerd. Talking about anime and history whenever the chance arises. Spending most nights watching said anime’s or studying.

One particular night Jake and Marc had managed to find girls on their own and disappeared with them in the dorm building. So you, still piss drunk and now alone, wander back to your room. Banging on the door you giggle “Roomie, lemme innnnn.”

You roommate quickly unlocks the door, giving you a panicked look as she opens it a crack. “Hey, I’ve got a girl in here. Can you stay with your friends tonight please.” She pleads.

“Well-shit everyone’s gettin pussy tonight.” You grumbled “fineeeee, but you owe me.” You groan and stumbl back to the elevator. After what felt like way too long you land on the boys’ floor. You try as quietly as you can to get to their room and push on the door, it’s unlocked.

“Stevie,” you whisper far too loudly. “Stevie itsme donworry.” You giggle as you make your way inside the dark room. “ ‘m jus gonna crash here tonight. You’re brothers are gettin busy - I mean they’re busy t’night.” You laugh.

“It’s Steven…” he grumbles behind a pile of blankets. As you look closer you see he’s got his laptop set up in bed.

“Are you watchin’ anime inthe dark?” You ask as you pad closer, shivering on the cold tile in your party dress.

“What else should I be doing.” He says in a mixture of annoyance and confusion as he sits up. His face is half illuminated by the flashing screen and for a moment your drunken brain dredges up that old flutter in your stomach.

You quickly try to snuff out the rising feeling and slur “Oh, shit I’mso sorry.” You pout out your lower lip, “next party you’re comin’ withus!” You declare with a shiver. “Why’s it so cold in here.”

“I sleep better in the cold.” He shimmies to lay back down. “Just lay over there I guess.” He waves over to Marc and Jake’s bunk bed.

Your teeth chatter as you make your way over to a set of dressers. Unsure who’s stuff is what, you grab a soft oversized shirt and a pair of boxers at random. You glance over your shoulder and see Steven has returned to his original position, laying on his side facing the wall, anime continuing to play quietly infront of him.

Quickly you shimmy out of your dress an into the clothes you’ve commandeered. As you slip into the lower bunk your teeth begin to chatter. “You alright?” Steven calls over his shoulder.

“ ‘s cold.” You whine. “Can I - can I huddle for warmth?” You ask softly, alcohol inhibiting any sense of boundaries you would’ve normally had.

“You want a cuddle?” His tone lilts in surprise.

“Please, I’ll owe you bigtime m’kay?” You plead shivering in the cold sheets.

“Alright c’mon.” He rolls onto his back as you jolt out of the cold sheets and under the warm ones. “Gods your freezing!” He flinches as you press your cold form against his.

“Toldya.” You mutter as you shudder, the remnants of cold chased away by his warmth.

“Lemme just, my arm I need to -“ he sat the laptop across his legs as he sat up again, this time lifting his arm up. Instinctively you nestle right into the open space. His arm lays lightly across your back as you lay your head on his chest. Surprise raises your brows for a moment at how firm he is.

“That - works I guess.” He says softly, settling his arm around you. His gaze lingers on you as you settle in. You glance up a moment, something stirs in you as your eyes connect. “Is-“ he leans in squinting a bit “Is that my shirt?”

“Tell me about what you’re watching.” You quickly look back at the screen, trying desperately to stop yourself from doing something really stupid.

“You haven’t heard of The Last Airbender? Avatar is amazing! This is Aang he’s -“ The excitement in his voice becomes a distant hum as you slip from consciousness. The last thing you’re aware of are the soft circles his fingers make across your back and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

~~~~~~

The first sensations that come to you are the throbbing of your head, the shaft of light across your eyes making you squint, and the warm body pressing tightly to your back. You shift a bit to avoid the harsh column of morning light filtering through the blinds, causing the arm around your stomach to tighten and pull you closer.

Steven hums sleepily, his face snuggled into your back. For a brief moment you relax into the embrace. The pounding in your head juxtaposing his warm soft embrace. Well, not entirely soft.

“Ah Steven.” You pat his hand in an attempt to stir him.

“Yeah love?” Still not entirely present his hips rolled slightly. Then like a freight train he gasps and jolts away from you. “Oh I’m so sorry I, oh gods I’m -.” He awkwardly climbs out of bed and hit the cold linoleum with a groan.

“Shit are you alright?” You sat up to see him sprawled across the floor. Keeping the blanket up to your neck for warmth.

“Yeah.” He grunts, staggering in his oversized pjs toward the mini fridge. Glass clinking and the rustle of plastic sound as he turns, in one hand a bottle of water. In the other - a prepackaged bottle of vanilla iced coffee.

“Never pegged you for an iced coffee guy.”

“Oh no, these are Jake’s coffees. Figured he can share.” Steven shrugs, his face flushed as he awkwardly tries to cover his morning wood. “Sorry I- here.” He gently tosses the drinks on the bed and shuffles off to the bathroom.

You laugh weakly under your breath as you took the water, nearly emptying it in a long gulp. Next you crack into the vanilla coffee and sip slowly, blanket falling around your waist as you test just how much your headache will allow you to move.

You hear the shuffle of footsteps as you rub your eyes. “Look Steven I don’t care about your boner I-“ your sentence haults in your throat as you lock eyes with Jake, then Marc.

“Why are you in Steven’s bed, talking about his -” Marc’s eyes go wide.

Jake’s blow wide as well “and why are you drinking one-a my Iced Vanilla Lattes…”

Steven’s soft footsteps sound in the hall, as he rounds the corner his gaze flicker between his brothers and you. Marc and Jake look at Steven, then back at you. That moment will be forever cemented in your mind, Marc’s look of confusion, Jake’s expression shifting from cross to a shit-eating smirk, and Steven’s entire face now a ruddy hue as he tries to slowly back away.

“No no no get back here!” You hear Jake tease as he chases Steven out into the hall with a laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

MoonKnight Bingo Masterlist

Taglist: @moonknight-events @melodygatesauthor @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @romana-after-dark @moonknight-events

#moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #moon knight bingo

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bingo-bumbles · 6 months

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Idk how well this kind of thing does here but! Posted this on TikTok and it got removed and then FLOPPED so here you go! Mind the tw at the start :)

#bingo shut up #moon knight #moon knight edit #marc spector #steven grant #im actually so proud of this #so i want people to see it lol

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sarahghetti · 3 months

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blood on your lies; m.s.

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

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

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

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