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sarahghetti · 1 year ago

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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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aspenmissing · 2 months ago

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I am so stupid and managed to send in my last ask without correcting it. Would you pretty please write that ask but instead of arcane characters do bucky, steve, tony, moonknight (both their reactions🙏) and loki.

I mean it's not like I'd get mad if you wrote the arcane character but yea I definitely get you getting burned out from writing so much for them.

❤️❤️

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ

ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ | ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋʏ | ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ | ᴛᴏɴʏ | ʟᴏᴋɪ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 7711 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅɪᴅ (ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ) - ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴊᴀᴀɴᴏɴ!! ɢᴇᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴ, ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴅᴏ ʙᴏᴛʜ (ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ), ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ 'ᴡʜʏ ɴᴏᴛ'. ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ᴅᴏ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ᴍᴏᴏɴᴋɴɪɢʜᴛꜱ, ɪ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ, ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊ��ʏ! <3 <3

STEVE

Steve Rogers and Y/N had been inseparable ever since they first met on the battlefield. They’d fought side by side, saving the world together, and had always shared an unspoken bond that felt stronger than any words could describe. Over the years, their connection had grown into something deeper, something only they truly understood. It wasn’t just about being teammates—it was about being two halves of a whole.

Y/N was Steve’s right hand, his partner in every mission. They were the strategist, the thinker, the one who kept him grounded while he led the charge. They were often the calm in the storm, the one who saw the bigger picture when Steve’s instinctual drive was to dive headfirst into the fray. They balanced each other perfectly, as though their very souls had been crafted to complement one another. If Steve was the shield, Y/N was the hand that guided it, the brain behind the operation, always one step ahead. Their connection was so seamless it felt as though they were a single entity, a force that no one could break.

Despite the intensity of their bond, their relationship had always remained professional. They had never put a name to it—at least, not out loud. Others often assumed they were married, the way they finished each other’s sentences, the way their eyes met across the room and spoke volumes without the need for words. And Y/N, ever the quick-witted one, was always fast to correct anyone who made such an assumption. They didn’t want to label it. They couldn’t. Not when the unspoken understanding between them was all that mattered.

But today was different.

The Avengers had just returned from a mission, the weight of their latest victory hanging in the air like a faint glow. They had survived another harrowing battle, and now, they were gathered in the briefing room for the usual debriefing. Y/N was standing beside Steve, both of them scanning over the latest intel. Their shoulders were close, but not touching—no need for that when they communicated so effortlessly without physical contact. It was as though their very presence was a conversation.

As the group discussed the mission’s success, Tony, ever the instigator, was the first to break the silence with his usual mischievous grin.

"So, when’s the wedding?" Tony asked, his voice laced with playful sarcasm. "I mean, you two are practically married at this point. Always together, finishing each other’s sentences, always on the same wavelength."

Steve chuckled awkwardly, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. He opened his mouth to correct Tony, to deflect the attention with a joke or a comment, but before he could speak, Y/N, who had been standing silently beside him, simply smiled and spoke up.

"I think we’re already married in spirit," Y/N said softly, their voice playful but carrying a weight that made it impossible to ignore. Their gaze never left the data on the screen in front of them. It wasn’t a joke, not like the others they’d thrown back at Tony in the past. They said it as if it was an undeniable truth—something they had both known for a long time, but never dared to say aloud.

The room fell silent for a moment, the impact of Y/N’s words settling in like a calm after a storm. Steve’s heart skipped a beat. He was surprised—not by the fact that Y/N had said something so bold, but by the weight of what they’d said. They didn’t correct Tony. They didn’t laugh it off or brush it aside like they usually did. This time, they let the moment hang in the air, unchallenged.

The others exchanged knowing glances. Natasha raised an eyebrow, Clint smirked, and even Bruce looked over with a subtle, thoughtful expression. But it was Steve who spoke next, his voice softer than usual, laced with curiosity, uncertainty, and something else he couldn’t quite place.

"Y/N…" Steve began, his voice trailing off as he looked at them, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t expected this shift. It was different. And, maybe, he realized, that was what they both needed.

Y/N finally turned their head to meet Steve’s gaze, and when their eyes met, it was like a quiet understanding passed between them. No words needed to be spoken. They didn’t need to explain themselves, because Steve already knew. He always had, deep down. Their connection was something far beyond labels. It was something that couldn’t be captured in the words ‘partners,’ ‘friends,’ or even ‘lovers.’ It was something uniquely theirs.

Steve’s expression softened, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t upset. If anything, he felt a sense of relief. For once, Y/N had allowed their bond to be known, without deflecting it, without pretending it was anything less than what it was.

Tony, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, no need to get all mushy on me," he teased, though his tone was laced more with amusement than anything else.

But Steve couldn’t help it. His heart swelled. Maybe Y/N was right. Maybe, in every sense that mattered, they were already married—connected, not just in battle, but in life. They had fought for the world together, but more than that, they had fought for each other. And in that moment, Steve realized that their bond wasn’t something that needed to be explained to anyone else. It just was.

The moment passed, the conversation drifting to other matters, but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling of something shifting inside him. A realization was dawning on him, one that had been lingering beneath the surface for far longer than he cared to admit. Maybe it was time they stopped denying the depth of what they shared. Maybe it wasn’t just about being right-hand and left-hand anymore. Maybe it was something more.

As the team began to break apart, Steve lingered behind, waiting for Y/N to finish up with the mission notes. The room slowly emptied, but Steve remained, not wanting to let the moment go just yet.

When they were alone, the silence between them was different. It was heavier, filled with the weight of everything they hadn’t said. Finally, Steve spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

"Y/N," Steve said, his hand reaching out to gently rest on theirs. The simple touch sent a wave of warmth through him. "You know that was… different, right?"

Y/N looked up at him, their gaze meeting his with that same quiet understanding they had always shared. There was no need for words to explain it—everything was already laid bare between them, everything that needed to be understood had already been understood. This time, they didn’t correct him. Instead, they smiled softly, the kind of smile that said everything Steve needed to hear.

"Yeah, Steve," Y/N replied, their voice full of unspoken affection, "I think I do."

Steve’s heart fluttered at the words. For a moment, he was speechless. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so vulnerable, so open. The truth had always been there, but it had taken this moment—Y/N’s simple words—to bring it fully to the surface.

Y/N’s eyes never left his, and Steve could feel the pull between them, a magnetic connection that neither of them could deny any longer. He swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts, but the words still didn’t come.

"You know," Steve said after a beat, his voice a little rougher now, "I’ve always known, you know? About us." He shifted, taking a small step closer. "I guess I just… didn’t know how to say it."

Y/N let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and genuine. "Steve, you don’t have to say anything. We’ve always known, haven’t we?"

For once, Steve didn’t argue. He didn’t try to push back. He simply nodded, his hand still resting on theirs, fingers gently brushing over their skin. The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with everything they had been too afraid to put into words before.

"You’re right," Steve finally said, his voice softer, but more certain than ever. "We always have."

And in that quiet moment, Steve realized that the bond they shared was enough. It always had been. And maybe that was the way it was always meant to be.

BUCKY

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes was many things: a soldier, a friend, a complicated man with a past full of shadows.

But to you, he was also something else—someone you couldn't imagine life without. From the moment you had been paired together, it had been as though fate had woven your lives together, one thread at a time. You were his right hand, his left brain, his balance. Wherever Bucky went, you were right there beside him. Whether in the heat of a mission or the quiet moments in between, you were always there, completing him in a way that no one else could.

It had taken some getting used to, the two of you always in sync, always working together. At first, it felt like you were trying to figure out how to best fit into each other’s lives. But over time, you’d learned how perfectly you worked together. You could anticipate his moves before he made them, just as he seemed to know yours. You could finish each other’s sentences, pull off complicated plans with ease, and calm each other’s nerves without a word. You were his anchor, and he was yours.

And it didn’t hurt that Bucky had a way of looking at you that made everything feel just a little more right, even when the world around you was falling apart.

People had noticed, of course. It was only natural for them to assume that you and Bucky were a couple. The way you complemented each other, the way you moved as a unit, made it seem like there was no one else who could possibly take your place. You were always by his side, whether on a mission or at the compound. You worked together seamlessly—more like partners than anything else.

Normally, when people commented on your closeness, you were quick to correct them. You’d laugh it off with a quick “we’re not married” or a wink, making it clear that, while you and Bucky were incredibly close, the title of marriage didn’t quite fit. But today, for some reason, you didn’t correct them. You weren’t sure why, but you didn’t feel the need to.

It was a quiet moment in the common room of the compound, the soft hum of the air conditioning blending with the fading sunlight outside. You and Bucky were sitting side by side, poring over the details of an upcoming mission. The tension from the mission was light, just enough to keep your minds sharp, but otherwise, it was an easy rhythm between you both. Your voices were low as you discussed the mission, your conversation punctuated by glances, hand gestures, and quiet chuckles.

The door opened, and Steve and Sam walked in, exchanging a look as they noticed the easy atmosphere between the two of you. Sam couldn’t resist the opportunity for some light-hearted teasing.

“So, when’s the wedding?” he asked, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned against the doorframe.

You froze, your words halting as you glanced over at Bucky, your mind instantly on alert. Normally, you would’ve jumped in with a quick correction, a gentle reminder that you weren’t married. But today… you didn’t. Instead, you let the words hang in the air, unspoken.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you. He didn’t move at first, simply letting his hand rest on the arm of the couch. There was a moment of hesitation, almost like he was waiting for you to react. His face, usually so controlled, softened just slightly as his gaze lingered on you, as though asking if you would correct them.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you gave him a small, nonchalant shrug, your lips curving into a faint smile, and his eyes softened further, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t that you didn’t care, it was just that, in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Sam’s grin widened, clearly seeing the tension in the air. “Wait a second. You two aren’t married?”

Steve glanced between the two of you, a knowing look crossing his face. He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because you two look like an old married couple.”

You couldn’t help the playful smirk that tugged at your lips as you glanced at Steve. You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms over your chest with a knowing look. “Old married couple?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Steve, you’re the one who’s over a century old. Maybe you should be the one talking about being ‘old.’”

Sam snickered, clearly enjoying your jab, while Steve shot you a mock glare. The twinkle in his eyes, however, betrayed the humour he found in your comment. “Alright, alright,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll give you that one. But seriously, you two are inseparable. It’s like watching a married couple bicker without the commitment.”

You laughed softly, feeling a warm comfort in the back-and-forth. But you didn’t correct them. What Steve didn’t know—and what didn’t need to be said—was that you and Bucky didn’t need to define your connection. It was perfect as it was, no matter what anyone thought.

Bucky gave a low chuckle, eyes still on you, his lips curling into a playful grin. “Guess that makes me the grumpy old husband,” he teased.

You raised an eyebrow, your smile softening as you shook your head. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have it any other way, grumpy old man.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at Bucky’s response. “Well, you guys are definitely something,” he said, glancing back and forth between the two of you, clearly sensing the unspoken bond.

You met Bucky’s eyes for a long moment, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to correct them. You didn’t need a title or a label to define what you were. What you had with Bucky was enough. It was perfect just the way it was.

Bucky’s expression softened, his eyes tender as they met yours. Slowly, his hand moved from the armrest to rest lightly on your knee, a simple, quiet gesture that spoke volumes. You didn’t need to say anything. He understood. No words were needed.

Steve and Sam eventually moved on, but Bucky remained still, his hand on your knee, his gaze lingering on you. The quiet felt sacred—like the two of you were the only ones who truly understood what was between you. Then, when the others were far enough away, Bucky leaned in slightly, his voice low and just for you.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’m okay with it. If they think we’re married.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard for a moment. Then, a soft laugh escaped your lips, the warmth in your chest undeniable. “Yeah, me too,” you replied, voice quiet but sincere.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes studying you, the tenderness never fading. “You sure about that?”

You nodded, smiling gently. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

And in that moment, you realized something important: despite the teasing and the questions from others, it didn’t matter whether you had a title or not. What mattered was that you were together, perfectly matched, right hand and left brain, now and always. You didn’t need anything else.

Bucky’s smile deepened as he leaned back into the couch, hand still resting on your knee. He didn’t need to say anything more. Neither of you did. The silence between you felt comfortable, knowing, and full of understanding. It was everything.

STUCKY

Y/N had always been the glue that held the trio together. Whether it was during intense missions, late-night strategy sessions, or just mundane days spent at the compound, they were never far from Steve and Bucky. The three of them had been inseparable since that first mission together. In the eyes of the world, they were a team—no, more than a team, they were family. But there was something else, something that everyone seemed to pick up on. Their chemistry was undeniable, so much so that everyone assumed they were all married, or at least in some kind of romantic relationship.

It was a regular mission debriefing when it happened. The room was filled with members of the Avengers, a quiet murmur running through the air. Y/N was leaning against the table, half-listening to Steve’s deep voice as he outlined their next mission. Bucky stood next to Y/N, his hand resting casually on their shoulder, their bodies almost fitting into each other like puzzle pieces. They moved together with an ease that was both professional and intimate.

“So, when do you two get married?” Tony Stark’s voice cut through the air, as his eyes flicked between Bucky, Y/N, and Steve. “It’s been long enough, right?”

Steve choked slightly on his coffee, and Bucky’s hand immediately slid off Y/N’s shoulder, though his eyes didn’t leave them. The room fell into an awkward silence, everyone waiting for Y/N to correct the assumption, as they always did.

But this time… Y/N didn’t say a word. Instead, they simply exchanged a look with Steve and Bucky.

Steve froze. His mouth opened and closed a few times, unsure of what to say. His blue eyes flickered between Y/N’s face and Bucky’s, confusion mixed with something deeper. It wasn’t anger—just surprise. “Y/N?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not going to correct him?”

Bucky, on the other hand, seemed to stiffen next to them, his gaze intense, his features unreadable. He didn’t say anything either, but the way his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed showed his discomfort. He was used to Y/N setting the record straight immediately, but now… now something had shifted.

Y/N just shrugged nonchalantly, their eyes flicking around the room, before looking back at Steve and Bucky. “I don’t know,” they said, their voice smooth, almost playful. “What if we were married? It’s not like it’d change anything.”

Bucky’s chest tightened at the implication, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Was Y/N trying to push some boundaries? Were they trying to tease them? Or was there something else going on that he wasn’t picking up on? His fingers flexed, itching to reach out and hold them again, but he stayed still, waiting for Steve’s reaction.

Steve blinked, processing the words. His lips curved into a small, unsure smile, though his gaze lingered on Y/N longer than necessary. “I mean…” He looked at Bucky. “I think I’d be okay with that.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, turning to Steve. “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice low but steady, as if testing the waters.

Steve chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension. “Well, we make it look pretty good.” He threw a glance at Tony. “I think we might be getting ahead of ourselves, though.”

“Yeah, but the way you three are always together?” Tony’s smirk grew wider. “It’s the way you’re always looking at each other, like you can’t get enough of one another.”

Y/N gave a slight, nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing to make a big deal out of. We’re just really good at working together. You know, complementing each other.”

It was clear to everyone in the room that something deeper was going on, but Y/N wasn’t offering any answers today. Steve and Bucky shared a look, both trying to figure out what had changed, but neither spoke their thoughts aloud.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I guess it’s not that important right now.”

Steve nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Y/N. There was a flicker of something—longing, uncertainty, a question he didn’t have the courage to ask. “Maybe not. But it’s hard to ignore.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like the world around them had quieted, the noise fading away. They gave Bucky and Steve a small smile, one that seemed to say everything without words.

Maybe, just this once, the assumption was right.

In the aftermath, as the meeting broke up, Steve and Bucky lingered in the hallway, still thinking about what had just transpired. Neither one of them knew what to make of it, but there was no denying the weight of the unspoken words hanging between them.

The sounds of footsteps echoed around the compound, and both Steve and Bucky found themselves walking in a slow, purposeful silence. Steve, ever the leader, tried to break the tension with a question.

"So..." He trailed off, glancing at Bucky. "What do you think?"

Bucky’s hands were shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable, but his mind was working at full speed. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them act like this before.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, still unsure of his own feelings. “Yeah, me neither.” He paused, stealing another glance at Bucky. "But it's not like we haven't been thinking about it... I mean, not just today. It's been... building for a while now, right?"

Bucky's jaw clenched, and he let out a short, frustrated sigh. "I don't like how this feels, Steve. It feels like we're… I don’t know, leaving things unsaid."

Steve nodded, his tone turning more serious. "Yeah. I get it. It’s like Y/N is testing us, pushing us to see how far we’ll go, or maybe they’re waiting for us to make the first move."

Bucky’s expression softened a little as he glanced sideways at Steve. “You think we should?”

Steve’s gaze was steady, his blue eyes searching for something in the moment. “I don’t know, Buck. I don’t want to mess things up with them. With either of you.”

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Same here.”

They stood there for a moment, the air between them heavy with possibilities, their silence louder than any words could have been.

Finally, Bucky broke the quiet, his voice low but with a hint of humour. "I think we’ve been dancing around this for too long, don’t you?"

Steve didn’t answer right away, but his lips twitched into a smile, and he let out a short, quiet laugh. "I guess so."

As they continued down the hallway, neither of them had the answers, but one thing was certain—whatever they decided, whatever direction this took them, they were in it together.

And for once, they didn’t need to rush to figure it out.

The days that followed were quiet but charged with anticipation. The trio still worked together, still laughed together, but the dynamic had shifted. There was a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. Y/N noticed it immediately. There was an unspoken weight between Steve and Bucky that hadn’t been there the day before. It was like they were both holding their breath, waiting for something—waiting for Y/N to make the next move.

At the same time, Y/N found themselves becoming more aware of the subtle way Steve and Bucky looked at them, their touches lingering a little longer, their glances more intense. It was like they were all caught in a game they didn’t know the rules to, and yet, they were all playing it together.

One evening, after a long day of training and strategizing, the three of them found themselves in the lounge, a rare moment of downtime. Y/N was lounging on the couch, flipping through a book, when Steve and Bucky appeared at the door. They both paused for a moment, exchanging a quick look before stepping inside.

“You want some company?” Steve asked, his voice casual, but there was an edge to it. Something in his tone made Y/N sit up straighter, their heart beating a little faster.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “We were thinking... maybe we should talk.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, closing their book. “Talk about what?”

“About everything,” Bucky said simply. “About us.”

Steve glanced at Bucky, then back at Y/N. “About... what we didn’t say earlier.”

Y/N felt a knot form in their stomach. It was finally happening. The conversation they had been avoiding, the one they knew would come sooner or later. The question was—were they ready to face it? Were they ready to stop dancing around the truth?

Y/N met both their gazes, the air thick with unspoken words. “Alright,” they said, voice steady but their mind racing. “Let’s talk.”

TONY

Tony Stark’s eyes flickered over the headline in the morning paper.

"Stark and Y/N: Power Duo or Power Couple?"

The photo accompanying it was one of you and him walking out of one of his private meetings, side by side, both of you dressed in suits that practically screamed 'we own this city.' You were laughing at something he said, and he was looking at you like the world had stopped spinning just for that moment. The chemistry between you two was palpable, even in still images.

He snorted, holding the paper up to his face and waggling it in front of you, a smug grin plastered on his face. "Well, looks like we’ve made it. The world thinks we’re officially married now. I’m touched. Honestly, it’s a good look. I could get used to the headlines."

You, who had been working on an equation for a new tech prototype, didn’t even look up. You heard the sarcastic tone, but you were deep in thought—nothing new. You were often the one to correct people when they assumed you and Tony were a couple, mostly because the line between work and personal had always been blurry when you two were together. There was no distinction between "partner in business" and "partner in life" for the two of you. People always jumped to conclusions about your relationship. It wasn’t your fault. You just clicked, in every sense of the word.

"Tony," you said absently, adjusting your glasses and scribbling a new set of numbers. "You know we’re not married, right?"

Tony grinned, dropping the paper and leaning back in his chair, spinning it slightly as he watched you. "Well, that’s the thing, isn't it? We are married—in the sense that you and I are practically conjoined twins when it comes to running this whole operation. Hell, you’re probably the only one who can keep up with me. Maybe it’s time we start accepting it."

You sighed, rolling your shoulders back before finally looking up at him. "Yeah, but people will think we are. You’re not going to let them run with that idea, are you?"

Tony paused. His expression softened just a bit, but the cocky grin didn’t quite leave. It was replaced by something more contemplative—still playful, but with a deeper edge. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it's about time the world knew how well we work together... in every way."

Your brow furrowed at his tone, unsure of where this was going. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering directly, Tony raised the paper again and pointed to a particular sentence: "Close personal relationships between Stark and Y/N have always been under the radar. Sources say the duo is inseparable, with speculation about a much deeper connection than just business partners." He lowered the paper and looked at you with that familiar smirk.

You stared at it for a moment, your face unreadable, then shrugged. "I mean... we are inseparable. It's true, but that doesn’t mean—"

Tony cut you off with a smile, his usual playful spark flickering in his eyes. "Yeah, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I think it’s cute they’re so invested in our 'relationship.' I mean, how many people can say they have a 'right hand' like you?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly, his tone teasing but not entirely lighthearted. "Maybe they just don’t understand how perfectly we complement each other. Hell, maybe I’m just tired of having to tell people you're not my wife every time they make that assumption."

You frowned, deciding to just let the whole thing slide for once. You hadn't expected Tony to bring it up like that, but his words made you pause. It was always you and him, always working side by side, tackling problems from every angle. You knew how much he depended on you, how much you relied on him. Maybe it was time to stop fighting the idea.

"Alright, fine. Let them think what they want," you said with a small shrug. You shifted in your seat, leaning back slightly as if to signal the conversation was over. You didn’t want to get caught up in something so trivial. There were bigger things to focus on.

Tony raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your sudden lack of rebuttal. "Wait—hold up. You're giving up that easily? You're not going to correct them this time?"

You gave him a deadpan look, not bothering to hide your exhaustion. "It’s a busy day, Tony. The world can think whatever they want." You returned to your work, hands flying over the keyboard and tablet in front of you.

For a moment, Tony stared at you, a little surprised by your uncharacteristic lack of correction. Then, a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It wasn't one of his usual smirks or playful grins; it was something more... genuine, warmer. A look that lingered for a moment too long. Something unspoken passed between you two—something more than just partnership.

He placed the newspaper down and pushed it aside, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "I guess you’re right. Who needs the press to tell us what we already know, huh?" He sighed, as though coming to terms with something, a little smile still tugging at his lips. "I can’t deny it though. You and me? We’re a hell of a team."

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you felt that familiar weight of his gaze on you. It was comforting, yet there was something a little unsettling about it this time—like he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. For once, neither of you felt the need to clarify anything. Maybe you didn’t have to. After all, you knew what you had, and so did he.

Tony tilted his head, just a little, as if testing the waters. "What I’m saying is—if we were a thing, I’d probably get a whole lot of attention. I’m talking movie deals, book deals—maybe even a reality show. You'd love that."

You let out a small laugh, the tension easing between you two. "Yeah, sure. We could call it Partners in Crime."

Tony shot you a look. "I like that. I think it's got legs."

Your smirk mirrored his, and for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt the need to correct the narrative. The world could think whatever it wanted—because what you had went beyond labels, beyond definitions. You were a team, in every sense of the word. No one had to understand it except for the two of you.

But maybe, just maybe, the world was onto something with that "power couple" business.

And Tony... well, he liked the idea more than he let on.

MOONKNIGHT (ALL 3)

It had become a routine.

You’d swing by the museum on your off days, usually bearing coffee or some odd snack Steven had been obsessing over that week. Turkish delights. Jaffa Cakes. One time, he’d mentioned Egyptian honeycakes offhandedly in the middle of a tangent about burial rituals, and you’d spent the whole weekend perfecting a recipe just to see the way his entire face lit up when you handed him the tin. He’d looked at you like you’d brought him treasure pulled straight from a tomb.

It wasn’t official, any of it. Not your presence. Not your role. Not even the dynamic between the four of you. You weren’t listed on any museum roster, and yet most of the staff had assumed you worked there at some point. That’s how often you were around. Always flitting between the break room and the gift shop, trailing behind Steven during lunch, slipping into quiet corners with Marc when the lights went low, waiting in parked cars with Jake in the late hours after the museum closed.

You were Steven’s right hand. Marc’s backup. Jake’s trusted secret. And somehow—despite all of that—never just a friend.

Even Donna had noticed.

Especially Donna.

So when you step into the gift shop today, two warm lattes in hand and your coat still speckled with spring rain, it’s no surprise that she clocks you the moment you walk in. Her eyes flick up from the register with laser precision. Her smirk forms before she even says a word.

Steven doesn’t notice right away. He’s knee-deep in a battle against gravity and a particularly rebellious tower of scarab keychains—the cheap kind that never sell, but Donna stocks religiously like they’re museum relics. His brows are furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking slightly between his lips as he tries to wedge one more into the crooked stack without toppling it.

And then he sees you.

His whole expression transforms in an instant—like someone hit a switch. The anxious fog behind his eyes clears, the corners of his mouth lift, and something warm and open rushes into his face. His posture loosens, shoulders dropping with visible relief.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he breathes, stepping forward like you’re gravity itself, like you’ve pulled him into orbit.

He reaches for the coffee before you’ve even fully held it out. Your fingers brush his—just for a second longer than they need to—and something sparks in the space between you. Not literal, not cinematic. But real. Tactile. A quiet buzz under your skin that feels a little too intimate for something so casual.

“You say that every time,” you tease, your voice soft with fondness.

“Yeah, well. Still true every time,” he murmurs, casting a shy glance your way before sipping gratefully.

You smile, watching him relax around the first mouthful like he’s just been handed peace in a paper cup.

And then, right on cue, Donna calls out from the front counter—arms folded, tone smug as ever. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Grant. Come to rescue your husband again, have you?”

Steven freezes.

His eyes flick to yours, wide and blinking. You’ve both heard it before. Variations of the same joke. Donna’s favorite little jab. Usually, you roll your eyes. Laugh. Say the line like it’s part of the script.

We’re not married, Donna.

But today…

You don’t.

You take a deliberate sip of your drink. Let the silence stretch. Let it hang between you like tension pulled tight on a string. Then you shrug—easy, unbothered—and smile.

A small one. But telling.

Steven is staring. Absolutely stunned. His mouth hangs open like he forgot how to close it. You can practically see the error message flashing behind his eyes. Donna, meanwhile, blinks. Then cackles.

“About bloody time you two admitted it,” she mutters, ducking behind the register and vanishing with a rustle of receipts and bubble wrap.

What’s left behind is silence. Thick and tangled.

You glance at Steven again. His face is still frozen, but you see it—just a flicker. The tiniest shift in the way he holds his weight. Not outward. Inward.

You know that shift.

Marc.

You’ve never seen the changes in a mirror. Never needed to. It’s in the way they carry themselves. In the silence between one breath and the next. Marc is stillness where Steven flutters. A quiet density that settles into the room like pressure before a storm.

“You’re messing with us,” Marc says, his voice lower now—more grounded, laced with suspicion. There’s a guarded edge to it, like he’s circling the perimeter of something he’s afraid to want. “That what this is?”

You tilt your head slightly. Not backing off. “Am I?”

His gaze sharpens. Marc doesn’t just look at you. He studies you. Like he’s waiting for a tell that doesn’t come. You feel it in your chest—the way he’s bracing himself. Ready to be disappointed. Ready to dismiss it all as a joke or misunderstanding.

But then something shifts again.

You don’t see it. Not exactly. But you feel it, the way the air changes. Cooler. Calmer. Like a slow tide slipping in under the surface of things. A quiet control that curls at the edge of your awareness.

Jake.

You don’t hear him like a voice in your ear, but he’s there. Present in the way Marc’s sharp tension fades into something looser, more confident. In the way your skin prickles with anticipation, like you’re being watched by something careful and amused.

“Careful, cariño,” Jake murmurs in the back of your mind, smooth and velvet-soft, brushing against your thoughts like a gloved hand on bare skin. “We might take that seriously.” (Love)

Your lips curl into a smile before you can stop them.

“I’m not messing with you,” you say at last—quiet, but sure. Unshaken. You turn your attention back to Steven—because you know it’s Steven now, feel it in the nervous flutter of his hands and the way his eyes dart to yours like they’re afraid of what they might find there.

“You’re not?” he asks, voice tight, uncertain.

“I’m not.”

And suddenly, the stillness in the gift shop feels sacred. Like the whole world just took a breath and held it.

Steven looks down at your hand again—at where your fingers had brushed his earlier. He stares like it’s new. Like it means more now. Because it does.

You don’t rush to fill the silence. You let them—all of them—sit with it.

You know they’re talking in there. You can feel it. Quiet conversations in the corners of a shared space. Thoughts layered over thoughts, like echoes in a cathedral. You can’t hear the words, but you sense the shift.

Then Steven clears his throat. It cracks halfway through like a boy trying too hard to sound smooth, and you bite back a laugh.

“…Well,” he says, trying and failing to sound casual, “I suppose we’ll need to plan the honeymoon, yeah?”

You bump his shoulder with yours, grin blooming wider. “Only if it involves not organizing another scarab display.”

That gets him. A laugh bubbles out—relieved, genuine. And it’s not just Steven anymore. You hear the flicker of Marc’s low, reluctant chuckle beneath it. The deeper sound of Jake’s amusement, warm and unspoken.

For just a heartbeat, everything aligns. Like the world settles. Like you all belong—right here, right now.

Exactly as you are.

LOKI

The conference room on the Helicarrier was uncomfortably bright. Stark had insisted on LED renovations — something about reducing eye strain for the “lesser geniuses” who couldn’t handle prolonged screen time. It only made Loki’s headache worse.

He sat at the long metal table, gleaming under the synthetic lights, dressed in his usual sharp green and gold, fingers steepled under his chin in that calculating way that always spelled doom for whoever spoke next. His jaw was tense, his expression unreadable save for the faint twitch of an eyebrow every time someone said something particularly stupid — which, unfortunately, was often.

Beside him, you were the picture of calm efficiency. Eyes flicking across a folder of debrief summaries, pen tapping against your lips in time with the rhythmic bounce of Loki’s foot beneath the table. It was unconscious, the synchronicity between you. Like a song only the two of you could hear.

You were his right hand. His second brain. His strategist, his handler, his first and last sounding board. If Loki was all sharp edges and wicked smirks, you were clean lines and quiet precision. Where he wielded chaos like a weapon, you crafted control like armor.

And everyone knew it.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to assume you were together — romantically, domestically, secretly. The way you moved in step, answered questions he hadn’t spoken aloud, the way he leaned in when you whispered something only for him to nod once and completely pivot strategy without question. There was an intimacy to it. An ease.

So when Maria Hill strode in briskly, dark eyes scanning the room, and said without fanfare, “Do you and your spouse have anything to add, Loki?” — the room didn’t even blink. No one laughed. No one corrected. It was almost routine by now.

Usually, you would. Immediately. With a dry, “We’re not married,” or a breezy, “Just partners — professionally.” You’d always been quick to define the boundary, quick to draw the line before someone else drew it for you.

But this time?

You stayed silent. You raised your eyes from the folder — briefly, steadily — and met Loki’s gaze.

He had turned his head slowly, sharply, like something had snapped into place behind his eyes. Green met yours, narrowed slightly. Waiting. Calculating. And then, as if nothing had happened, you looked away again and flipped to the next page. Loki blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The silence stretched. Stark cleared his throat. Natasha raised an eyebrow. Somewhere across the room, Bruce gave you a confused side-glance, as if you’d forgotten a line in a well-rehearsed script.

Then, softly — almost curiously — Loki leaned in and murmured, “No corrections today?”

You didn’t look at him. “Seemed like a waste of energy.”

A beat. He tilted his head, watching you with the unnerving attentiveness of a predator smelling a shift in the wind.

“Ah,” he said. “Does that mean you’re finally admitting the truth?”

You raised an eyebrow but kept reading. “What truth is that?”

“That we function as one,” Loki said, as if stating a universal constant. “That you complete my sentences, counter my moods, sharpen my plans, and soften my rage. That we are, to everyone with eyes, the picture of unity. Undeniable. Inseparable.”

Now you did look at him. Slowly. Deadpan. “I didn’t say all that.”

“But you didn’t say not that,” he replied smoothly, and his smirk was unmistakable now — amused, delighted, but laced with something else. Something heavier. “Fascinating.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What is?”

“That I find myself… pleased by your silence.”

“Because you enjoy being right?”

“No,” he said, and the tone shifted. Softer. Lower. Real. “Because it means I might not be the only one who wants them to keep assuming.”

The air thickened. Your pen stopped tapping.

You stared at him — really stared — and for a moment, everything else in the room seemed to fall away. The murmuring agents, the flicker of the screen, the dull hum of machinery behind the walls. None of it mattered.

“…Loki,” you murmured, mouth dry, “are you flirting with me during a debrief?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned closer, voice a velvet purr meant only for you. “No, darling. I’m proposing.”

Your breath hitched.

You choked.

Across the table, Stark muttered, “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.” Natasha snorted. Bruce was too afraid to look up.

And then, as if on cue, Thor’s booming voice entered the scene, shaking the air as he strolled into the room with his usual easy confidence. He had clearly just finished with another one of his ‘heroic duties,’ his cape sweeping behind him in grand fashion. As he caught sight of the two of you, his face split into a grin.

“Aha!” Thor boomed, his voice filling the room. “I knew it! Well done, my dear brother!” He slapped a heavy hand on his brother’s back with enough force to make the chair creak.

Loki winced slightly, not from the slap but from the sheer volume. Still, he didn’t move from your side, even as his older brother all but towered over the table, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You finally put a ring on it, eh?” Thor continued, a gleam in his eye as he turned to you. “I always thought you two were too inseparable to just be ‘partners.’”

The room went still. Stark, still reeling from his own comment, looked at the two of you in a mix of disbelief and awe.

Loki didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes locked with yours once more — no trace of discomfort, only that familiar spark of something deeper. His lips twitched into a small, private smile.

“Seems they already assume we’re married, brother,” Loki said smoothly, addressing Thor, but his gaze never left you.

“Hmm,” Thor mused, scratching his chin. “Well, I do believe that means congratulations are in order.” He raised his mug of ale, as if toasting to something grand, his grin widening. “Finally, Loki, you’ve found someone who can match your brilliance.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling slightly. “And who says I’m matching him, Thor? It might be the other way around.”

Loki’s smirk deepened as he raised an eyebrow in mock affront. “What’s that, darling? Have I been upstaged by my own right hand?”

You chuckled softly, turning to him with a look that was both teasing and warm. “Oh, Loki, you know better than anyone that we’re the perfect balance.”

Thor clapped Loki on the back again, a booming laugh filling the air. “Ah, partner banter! I shall leave you two to your plans, but know this, Loki — I support this union fully.” He paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Just don’t make it too official before I get to witness the wedding!”

As Thor left the room, Tony turned to you both with a smirk. “Well, that was a show.”

Loki shot a glance at you, that unspoken communication between you two louder than anything he could say. A brief moment of pure amusement flickered in his eyes before he straightened his posture and addressed the room again.

“Let them assume,” Loki said, voice cool but with a subtle warmth at its edges. “For once, they might be right.”

And you, for once, didn’t argue. You only smiled — slow, warm, and undeniably dangerous. Let them assume.

They wouldn’t be wrong.

#Marvel #marvel fandom #reader insert #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #stucky x reader #steve x reader x bucky #tony stark x reader #tony x reader #moonknight x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #loki x reader

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vampireimiko · 4 months ago

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Adam Warlock (with a vampire reader) !!

warnings, none 🧟

note, i kinda hate this one guys 🙁

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Adam disagrees with the plan to kill all vampires completely. Sure, the species had malevolent vampires but it also has benevolent ones, such as you! If Tony and Marc were to go through with killing the innocent undead, that would be a grave injustice in his eyes.

"Genocide is not a solution, Stark," Adam states firmly, eyes glowing with defiance. "You cannot punish an entire species for the sins of a few."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Tony and Moonknight are eventually able to come to their senses and actually wrap their head around what to do. They admit that they saw the Montesi formula as the most efficient way to get rid of Dracula and his loyalists. Not once did they consider the value of individual lives, and the importance of targeted actions over broad measures.

“Alright, I get it,” Tony says with a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “We were looking at the Montesi formula as a one-size-fits-all solution without thinking about the bigger picture. But there’s no easy fix for this, is there?”

Marc, though still conflicted, nods in agreement. “I didn’t consider how many innocent ones would be wiped out. That’s on me.”

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Once Tony and Marc have come to terms with the gravity of the situation, Adam takes the opportunity to pull you aside, guiding you to a quieter, more secluded area where you can talk away from the others.

"How long has it been since you've fed?" He asked gently with his golden hand caressing your cheek.

"It doesn't- I mean it's...been a few days now," you admit, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to worry him too much. You know how he feels about you keeping your strength in check, especially when it’s been a while since you’ve fed.

"You need to take care of yourself, love. We’ll figure this out. We’ll handle everything without resorting to unnecessary violence, okay?"

He steps closer, placing a hand gently on your shoulder. "But you can’t keep pushing yourself. It’s not just about the fight we’re facing now. You have to keep your strength up."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He’s incredibly protective, even if he doesn’t always show it emotionally. If anyone so much as implies that you’re just like Dracula’s minion, Adam will shut them down immediately.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° In sweet private moments, he’s gentle, his concern never far from the surface. "I know you don’t want to show weakness," he tells you softly, "but you don’t have to hide it from me. I’ll always be here, especially when you need to recharge." His voice is full of warmth and care, a stark contrast to his usual cool demeanor.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° All in all, Adam cares for you very deeply and will do anything in his cosmic power to see that harm, in no shape or form comes to you 🫶🏽

additional note ! i tried my best to capture exactly what you meant in this anon !! 😭 i don't feel like i executed this as well as i would've liked

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

#spirits works 🤍#adam warlock #adam warlock x reader #marvel #marvel rivals #marvel rivals x reader #marvel x reader #x reader #vampire!reader #fem!reader #gn reader #black!reader

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buckmepapi · 20 days ago

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Everyday without moonknight season 2 is a curse

#moon knight #Moonknight #Steven Grant #marc Spector #marvel #mcu #k;#buckmepapi

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 1 year ago

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What You Like

Marc Spector x F!Reader x Steven Grant • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Marc gets in his head about being with you, Steven talks him through it.

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

A/N: There was a post about Marc talking Steven through his first time with reader, which I adored and couldn't stop thinking about. And then my brain went... but what if... the other way around? (I'm so sure I reblogged the post, or maybe it's in my queue, but I cannot for the life of me find it. Please if you know the one I'm talking about, let me know! I really would like to link it here. Also I'm so sorry I forgot who wrote it as well.)

Warnings: oral, fingering, so much swearing, some self loathing from Marc, I have used 'mate' far too much, as well as 'yeah?', kind of Marc being sort of into Steven talking to him, typos, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 2213

“She doesn’t like it so much like that, if you tilt your head to the side a little and-”

Marc snaps his eyes open and glares at Steven in the far-off mirror. “Fuck off.” He thinks hard, and Steven doesn’t have to hear him to read his expression.

“I’m just trying to help, mate.” He holds up his hands like all he had done is hold the door open for him or something.

Marc glares harder, about to flip him off when you pull back from the kiss.

“You okay?”

Marc swallows, “Sorry, I, erm…” He hadn’t realised you’d noticed his distraction.

You smile at him and stroke his cheek. "You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you shift a little on the bed, giving him a fraction more space.

“No, no, that wasn’t…” he gives you a small smile in return and leans forward again to kiss you. “Steven, I need you to be quiet now, okay?”

“I was just-”

“Steven.”

He tuts. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

Marc inches a little closer, recovering the space you’d previously offered up. His thigh nudges against yours and you let out a little moan into his mouth as he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip.

He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, anxiety like eels swimming in his belly, you were Steven’s girlfriend (and technically, his now? Or was that too forward?) you’d been in this bed, with this body before. And strictly speaking, Marc had looked in on you and Steven a few times in more… intimate moments. Accidentally, of course.

This should be fine. Practically second nature.

He tries to clear his head, to be more in the moment, and runs his hands down your back as he presses closer, leaning into you slightly to urge you to lay back onto the mattress.

You move with him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him against you. Parting your legs slightly so that he can situate himself between them.

He nips lightly at your lip, licking softly but confidently into your mouth as he just grinds his hardening cock against your core. Oh, and your barely muffled moan is delicious, the way you dig your fingers into his shoulders makes his head spin, if-

“Oh, that’s a good move. She definitely likes that.”

“Steven! For fuck’s sake! I trusted you to be quiet!”

“Sorry!”

Marc tries not to let the interruption show, but he jumps a little when Steven speaks and it’s impossible for you to have missed it. A small thorn of anxiety settles in his chest, piercing between his ribs.

“Kiss her neck, she really likes that.”

“Steven-”

“I’m just giving helpful tips!” He can feel more than see Steven shrug his shoulders. “You’re the one without any game.”

“Without any game? I’ve got more game than you.”

Steven sorts. “Unlikely. When’s the last time you got laid? God only knows. I, however, had sex this morning.”

“Steven.”

“Just saying.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna be having sex in a minute, so shut up.”

There was a moment of blissful silence and Marc let out a breath of relief.

You hooked your legs over his hips, urging him closer and bucking up so that you could grind against him. The heavy drag of his jeans sending sparks of pleasure along your spine.

He slips his left hand down, sneaking the tips of his warm fingers under your top and stroking at the soft skin of your side.

“She’s ticklish there.”

“Steven-”

You can’t help but giggle a little, squirming away from his touch and breaking the kiss. “Sorry,” you bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“You’re ticklish.” Marc finishes and you nod smiling.

“Sorry.” You mouth again.

Marc shakes his head and smiles as he leans back down. “It’s fine, don’t worry.” He moves his hand away from your side.

He’s barely pressed his lips against you for a second before Steven speaks again. “Told you.”

Marc inwardly grunts, rolling his eyes as he kisses along your jaw to your neck. He nips lightly at your skin, before sucking gently.

“Bit lower mate, that’s the spot.”

Marc scowled but followed the instruction, hatching onto the spot Steven suggested and you moan loudly, arching your back off the mattress.

“See, she really likes that. Now if you just move your hand down and-”

Marc clenches his jaw instinctively, letting his frustration bubble over. Unfortunately, your neck is still between his teeth when they snap shut.

You let out a little gasp of pain and Marc nearly blacks out from panic, instinctively moving to jerk backwards and away from you. But your arms tighten on his shoulders, your thighs clenching around his hips.

You whimper and buck against him instantly. “Marc, fuck, please do that again.”

He relaxes, tension easing out of his limbs as he growls faintly and does as you ask.

“It’s okay mate, really. She’s not made of glass.”

“Steven. I’m fucking gonna-”

“Hey,” Steven protested, “look, I don’t mind when you’re watching us go at it all the time, yeah?”

Marc flushed. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t think you’re being sneaky about it either. I can tell.”

“I don’t mean to, it’s just…”

“Just what mate?”

“It just… happens.”

“Yeah, right.”

Marc stays quiet, knowing that whatever he says won’t make him look good. He tries to ignore Steven, to just focus on you. To grind against you just right. But he could feel Steven hovering just in the background.

You run your hands through Marc’s hair, pulling highly as you writhe under him and he can’t help but risk a sneaky look up at you, at how your eyebrows are pinched together, eyes closed in pleasure and…

Was it real? Or was it just for show? Did you always look like that when Steven…? He thinks back trying to recall the memories of watching in as much detail as possible.

“Marc.” Steven’s voice is soft.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Stop getting in your head about it, yeah? She’s here with you. She likes you. She wouldn’t pretend to be into something she doesn’t, ‘kay?”

Marc swallows, trying to take Steven’s words on board and calm his quickly spiralling thoughts.

But it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right, it’s all stiff and unsettled. Like his joints are just a fraction out of place.

You can tell. He’s so sure that you can tell. Even if you are moaning and writhing against him, you must know. Must sense it. How out of alignment he is. How much of a failure.

“Steven?"

There’s a fraction of a pause before he answers. “Hmm?”

“What does she like?”

He can feel Steven’s frown.

“What does she like? What should I do? You were full of tips a second ago, don’t lea-”

“Move your hand down,” his voice is a little softer than before. Compassionate. And Marc knows his emotions have bled through. “Slower.”

Marc slowly runs his hand down your body, careful not to tickle your side, stopping just short of the top button of your trousers.

“Kiss lower on her neck, just above her collarbone... that’s it.”

Marc feels a little warm at the praise, giddy even.

“And just start to undo her trousers, yeah?”

He flicks the top button open and you whine, bucking up against him. You urge his face up with your hands so you can kiss his lips and slide your tongue into his mouth. A deep shiver runs along Marc’s spine, forcing his hips to buck mindlessly.

You pull back for a second, just to lift your top up and over your head before dropping it to the side and his breath catches in his throat.

“Trousers.”

Marc all but jumps despite the soft tone of Steven’s voice and he quickly snaps his eyes away from your skin to focus on undoing your pants.

You grin at his eagerness and help him by wiggling out of your trousers and kicking them off your feet. You kiss Marc’s neck, your hands moving desperately to his jeans.

“Touch her.”

Marc lets out a little moan as you suck on his pulse point. “Wha-”

Marc’s left hand moves under Steven’s control, slipping his fingers under the elastic of your panties and pressing two thick fingers inside of your heat.

You gasp in surprise, your thighs twitching at the sudden intrusion, shifting wider to allow him easier access.

Steven strokes two fingers languidly against your walls for a second, enjoying the little tremors and flutters before placing his thumb on your clit. “Can you feel that?”

Marc nods inwardly, “fuck.”

“See how wet she is?”

“So fucking wet.”

Steven smiles, continuing the long, slow strokes for a second before retreating back and leaving their hand once more completely under Marc’s control. He falters for half a second before he quickly resumes the tortuous pace set up by Steven.

You gasp and whine, flinging your head back against the pillow as you arch up your hips towards him, trying to buck and urge him to move faster.

“Go nice and slow… yeah… like that…” Steven whispers in his ear and there’s something strangely comforting about it, something exciting at having him there, right with him.

Marc bites his bottom lips between his teeth, watching your face with rapt attention.

“Nice slow circles and nice slow strokes.”

“Slow circles.” He mutters under his breath, almost inaudible. He glides his fingers back and forth, barely leaving you before pushing back in, revelling in the sound of your wetness.

You buck and whine, grabbing hold of his forearm like you were hanging onto a lifesaver. “Marc- ah, please!” Your words are cut off by desperate half choked sobs.

He continues to circle your clit gently, barely allowing any pressure so that you can only just feel the slightly calloused glide of his thumb. Your thighs started to shake, your movements becoming sloppy.

“Take her panties off completely, yeah? She’s gonna cum in a second, you’re gonna want to see.”

Marc obeyed without thinking, using his free hand to pull them down and groaning softly when you lifted your hips as best you could to help him.

Fuck you looked so pretty laid out all before him- before them.

You moaned particularly needily, already looking fucked out of your head and Marc hissed, unable to stop himself as he hurriedly leant down and flicked his tongue along your clit.

Your little high-pitched cry made him go light-headed.

“Fuck, god yeah, give it to her.” Steven’s arousal bled into his own, making him dizzyingly high. “God, make her cum, make her cum in our mouth Marc, please.”

“Marc, oh god, please!” You whine at almost the same moment, your and Steven’s voice blending together in a harmony that made Marc’s dick throb.

He sucked your clit into his mouth for a moment before running board, flat licks over it, continuing his fingers slow pump as he brought you maddeningly close to the edge.

Steven moaned loudly, “fuck Marc, please, please, need to taste her cum. Then we can fuck her together, yeah? She feels so good, she makes the best little noises,” he groaned again, “she tastes so sweet doesn’t she?”

“So sweet,” Marc mumbled against your pussy as he kept moving, kept sucking and licking and practically humping the mattress with his eyes pinched tight in pleasure.

“Marc,” you whimper and pull on his hair with your free hand, urging him on, “you’re so good at this, so good, ‘m gonna cum-”

“Fuck, Marc, yes.”

He couldn’t help himself, simply couldn’t. Found himself opening his mouth and letting the words spill out before he had even registered them. “Steven’s here too.”

“Oh shit!” You gasp, your voice raising in pitch as your orgasm crashes into you, seizing your limbs in pleasure and whiting out your vision, before leaving you boneless and breathless.

Marc stops moving slowly, trying to prolong your bliss for as long as possible. He bites his lip nervously as he sits up, your release and his spit covering the lower half of his face. Fuck, why had he said that, why had he gone and fucked this all up-

You smile up at him, still trailing your fingers through his thick curls. “Steven’s here too?”

He nods as heat rises to his face. He stares down at your knee.

“Look at her, mate.”

He doesn’t move until you gently tilt his chin up with your hand.

Your soft smile makes his heart ache.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers. “Is that… okay? That he’s here?”

You nod, your grin widening as you sit up and kiss him. It’s messy and deep, and Marc just melts into it. He whines against your lips as you wrap your arms around him, stroking your tongue with his own as you lick into his mouth.

“Now, how about,” you say between kisses, your fingers tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt. “I get you out of these clothes and suck both of your dick.” You pause and pull a silly face at the odd-sounding, but technically correct singular use.

Marc giggles and nuzzles into your neck.

“Say yes mate!”

“Yes please.” He mumbles as he sucks a love bite into your skin.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley @saturn-rings-writes @boredzillenial @lonelyisamyw-0love @melodygatesauthor @steven-grants-world @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @queerponcho

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

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st4rymoon · 10 months ago

Note

hi i have an idea 😋

can u do a fic where Steven and the reader are in a friend-with-benefits situation but she doesn’t know he’s a superhero so while she was reading fanfics on her new celebrity, the new white suit vigilante Steven saw her screen and had an idea to make her feel good 🤸

This was so fun to write HEHEHE😽 I have a feeling the suit would give Steven a boost of confidence… I see him getting more daring and touchy than usual. He just feels like he has a stronger power over you than usual 🙊

☾˚⋆𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝘩𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑡

✶ 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵: After joking about how you think the white masked vigilante could kiss you better than he could, Steven decides to put it to the test.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: p in v, brattish reader, unprotected sex, creampie, language, sex! in Mr. Knights suit xx, dumbification on both sides, soft dom steven, friends with benifits, very slight choking

"I wonder if he's cute." You smiled as the photos of a new vigilante flooded your feed. A white suit with moon-embroidered accents that was well-fitted on the stranger fighting off some robbers.

Steven sat beside you as you talked about how you'd bet money the man behind the suit was handsome. Unbeknownst to you, the man under the suit was, in fact, attractive and sitting right next to you.

Steven managed to keep under the radar from cameras and news outlets, but sooner or later, he knew he'd be caught when fighting crime. "And if he is cute, what then?" Steven curiously asked.

"Might have to kiss him, ya know, for keep us safe and all," you wink as you stand beside him. His eyes trailed with your form as you packed up your belongings. "You think he'd kiss better than me?" Steven asked with a teasing pout as he stood up and wrapped his arms around your waist.

His lips softly kissed down your neck and onto your shoulders as you tried to ignore the hard-on pressing against your ass. "Maybe, might even fuck me better," you teased. Steven scoffed at your words; he knew you were trying to poke his buttons, and it worked. Even when the man you were talking about was him.

"We'll just have to see about that, huh?" he smiled as you pulled away from him with an eye roll.

A few days later, you again ended up at Steven's flat. Waiting for him to return from whatever shenanigans he was up to today. You decided to kill some time and go on your phone, scrolling through your Tumblr as you came across a new writer appearing on your feed. Moonknight smut.

Moonknight? Is this the name of the new sexy superhero? You squealed as you turned onto your stomach and got lost in the reading. The story pulled you to the point that you didn't even hear Steven walk into the flat.

He tip-toed quietly to you and took a look at your screen. He followed along as you read without you noticing his ninja-like movements. Steven chuckled at the filthy words you read, deciding it was a good idea to announce himself as he summoned his suit.

You jumped as you heard a loud noise from behind you. "I've been told you're quite fond of my suit," you heard from the suited figure before you.

Your mouth dropped at the familiar voice. "S-Steven?" you gasped as you stood from the bed. "I'm not sure who Steven is, love. Whoever this fella is, do you think he'd kiss you better than I could?" With that sentence, you knew it was Steven.

"I'm not sure, Mr. white suit. Wouldn't I have to try it before making rash judgments?" you cooed as you walked up to Steven and ran your fingers up his chest. "I think you're right." the glowing eyes from his mask scrunched as he smiled.

Your eyes lit up as Steven's mask disappeared, putting you face-to-face with the handsome superhero. "Told you he'd be sexy," You teased as Steven's Hands trailed down your hips. You smiled as you took in Stevens's soft features. His soft lips curled into a smile as you traced his cheekbone with your thumb.

"And very handsome." you purred as you yanked him down for a kiss. The sound of your lips smashing against each other as you lapped at each other's mouths was intoxicating for Steven. He squirmed in his uncomfortable suit as his trousers grew tight. "In the suit, fuck me in the suit," you gasped as your nails dug into his forearms.

"Why else would I have this on?" he smiled, yanking your shorts down swiftly and the time it took Steven to unzip his pants was impressive, to say the least. "Look at me, darling, look at me," Steven hummed as he moved a pillow behind your back, arching you up perfectly.

"Does he kiss better, mmhm?" Steven teased as he bit down your neck, his hands moving to the back of your thighs and spreading you wide. "Yeah, and he'll fuck me better, too" You brattly replied.

"Acting like a brat, honey? Why? Does the suit make you want to talk back?" Steven hissed as he rubbed his leaking tip between your folds. “You can keep the attitude up darling, I don’t mind” he cooed.

"Mhm" you moaned as you watched his hips roll with each thrust. His thick tip rubbed against your clit ever so slight, purposefully teasing and riling you up.

Your eyes lit up as you watched Stevens's eyes roll into the back of his head as he pushed into you. You could see the veins in his neck bulge as he sunk deeper into your sticky cunt. "Feel's so fuc- ahh" Steven cried out as he thrusted into you.

Stevens's calloused hands groped you hungrily, his nails sinking into your plush thighs in desperation. Embarrassment filled Steven as a loud moan left his lips. Your cunt pulsing around him had him drunk. You smiled dumbly as you watched Steven's white mask appear in an attempt to save himself from embarrassment.

His glowing eyes stared down at you with a pathetic furrow "God love you always f—feel so good," he huffed as you clawed at his sleeves. You brainlessly bounced along with his deep thrusts as his hands gripped his bookshelves.

"Stev- stevenn," You sobbed as he threw your legs over his shoulders. Your content moans filled stevens ears as his public bone rubbed against your swollen clit. "Feels good, doesn't it love? Getting fucked by the guy who keeps you safe?" He chuckled shakily.

It was true, and you loved it, loved knowing the man who could pull multiple orgasms out of you was the man behind the white masked vigilante. "Pl- wanna see your face plea-" You sobbed as Steven's arms cradled your head for a better position.

You could feel him hitting the deepest spots inside you, and the moment his hand wrapped around your throat, your eyes rolled back into your skull. Steven's mask disappeared, and you were met with his puppy dog eyes admiring you as a desperate moan left your lips.

Steven couldn't help but smile as he watched you come undone on his dick, your white pearly slick making the sex all the louder. He could feel you pulsing around him in a way that had his saliva dribbling down his lips. "oh my g- bloody hell" Steven's guttural moan filled your ears as he collapsed on top of you.

You could feel your slick dripping down your thighs as Steven fucked his messy loads back into your cunt while you clung onto him for dear life. One last moan left Steven as you squealed in pleasure.

Steven's hands carefully lowered your legs and pulled out with a hiss. His suit was off in seconds, and you were flushed against his chest. You both bathed in each other's warmth before Steven ran a hand down your head "Surprise" he cockily chuckled as you sighed.

“Superhero vigilante is definitely a turn-on." You smiled.

#smut #marvel smut #moon knight smut #moonknight x reader #steven grant smut #steven grant x you #moonknight smut #steven grant x reader #steven grant

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mysecretlittlelibrary · 10 months ago

Text

The Scientific Method

Pairing: Moonknight trio x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: just a bunch of ritual things, there's mention of blood and reader cuts their hand open

Genre: angst/fluff

Summary: They are determined to go through with this mind link and you have to do everything in your power to protect them

***

You groan to yourself as you shut yet another old heavy grimoire. The more you try to research this dammed ritual the more you feel like your head this close to exploding. You're overwhelmed trying to sort through conflicting information, unclear instructions, and a seemingly never-ending list of cautions. Several times over the last few hours you debated if it'd be easier to change their minds than go through with this. The knock at your apartment door shocks you so much you practically jump out of your skin. With a sigh, you stand from your desk and walk to the door. When you open the door you barely register your boyfriend standing there, your eyes trying to recover from combing over walls of text all day.

"Hello love." Steven smiles at you.

"Hi baby, what brings you over?" You ask stretching.

"It's movie night." He frowns.

"Right! Shit, is it time already?" You shake your head.

"How could you forget?" He chuckles.

"Well someone wants so badly to risk their sanity I've been doing research all day to protect this silly individual. Lost track of time I guess."

"You've been doing research on it?"

"Of course I have. If I'm going to do this insanely dangerous ritual I need to know it so well you'd think I was there upon its creation." You say.

"What have you found out?" He asks.

"I'm sitll sifting through it, there's possibly a potion involved-"

"Well you can put a pin in it for now, because it's movie night." Steven grabs you by the shoulders and leads you to your couch to sit you down.

"I'm just worried there's some time sensitivity aspect I'm missing. Something this complex probably requires very specific circumstances in order to have even a chance of being successful. Like what if it can only be done during a solar eclipes, or when all the fucking planets are aligned or-"

"Baby you don't have to work it out all at once, we're not in a rush, plus we trust you. I don't think you have anything to worry about." Steven says gently.

"That's fine for you, I'm the one performing the ritual you just have to show up, I'm the one responsible for making sure you don't die or lose your mind or lose a limb or-"

"Breathe." Marc says grabbing your hand. You stop and take a breath.

"Marc-"

"Don't start, and don't get yourself all worked up. It's like you don't even realize how powerful you are. You're not going to kill me, or drive me insane, or steal my arms. We will absolutely come out on the other side of this for the better." Marc says firmly.

"When did you get all optimistic?" You chuckle.

"When you showed up and gave me something worth living for." He says kissing your temple.

"You're such a softie." You scoff.

"Yeah yeah, now let's get this movie night started, you can research the spell later."

"Alright alright. I'll table it for now." You sigh letting Marc pull you closer to him as he starts the first movie for tonight.

*~*

You draw the last of the symbols on the ground, checking them for the umpteenth time that you got them all correct. You drove hours out of the city to prepare and do this spell. Marc is meant to meet you any minute now, but you've already been here a while getting all the bits and pieces together. You read your notes again, as if you haven't seared them into your brain at this point, but it helps you feel in control. You've done all the research you could possibly do without having a first hand account of doing this spell. You're as ready as you can be, you know you are, but there's just so much that could go wrong it's impossible not to be nervous.

"The pacing does not bode well for your sanity." The booming voice almost makes you drop your pages.

"Holy fuck- you brought the bird?!" You clutch your chest when you realize your boyfriend has arrived and so has Khonshu.

"I am not some pet he does not bring me anywhere. He is my Avatar, if you intend to disintegrate his mind it's in my personal interests to be aware of that." Khonshu says.

"I'm not disintegrating anything you kooky old skeleton but if you insist on being here do not interrupt." You roll your eyes.

"Even if it saves him from your incompetence?"

"Marc may work for you but I don't you fucking-"

"Khonshu don't speak to her that way." Jake interrupts. "We didn't tell you about this so you could come all this way just to insult her. She's powerful and capable and we have faith in her. Your opinion on the matter is not only unwanted, it is also unfound." You look between them as Jake's words hang in the air for a moment.

"You hold her in high regard." Khonshu hums.

"You knew that already." Jake glares.

"To see it is a different thing."

"Are you two done?" You ask.

"Sorry mi amor, I told them to leave Khonshu in the dark but no one listens to me. How are you feeling?" Jake takes your hand in his, eyes scanning your face.

"Fine. Good. As good as I can be. Everything's set. How're you guys?" You ask.

"Steven's a little nervous."

"Just Steven?" You probe softly.

"Sí just Steven. Marc is, impatient and I am, managing our expectations."

"As always." You kiss his cheek.

"Are you two quite finished with the- whatever this is?" Khonshu scoffs and you're sure if he had eyes to roll he'd probably be doing that.

"Oh I'm sorry did you mistake us for a theater show? We're not here to entertain you." You roll your eyes. You walk over to your bag and pull out a small bottle. "Drink this."

"What's this?" Jake asks.

"Step one."

"Which does what?" His eyebrow cocks up at you.

"Makes you more susceptible to the magic of the spell so it's easier." You say, that's not exactly right but the full explanation would be far too much to break down and you need to focus on getting through this not giving a potions lesson. Jake downs the murky liquid and cringes slightly. It probably doesn't taste great based on the ingredients. "Stand in the center where all the lines meet."

"How should I stand?" He asks.

"Still." You mutter walking over to your bag for your ritual dagger.

"What?"

"You asked how you should stand. Stand still." You say.

"Amor?" Jake calls, making you look up from your recitation pages. "Te amo."

"I love you too." You say. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. It's now or never.

"Ich baln kikae fineir shel cae ganel ufnae oulm antae woom bae." The circle starts to shimmer in that familiar but unnatural way that's so custom of magic. You twirl the ritual knife once in your hand before slicing open your palm. A spell meant to bind you and another person in any way almost always requires blood.

"Ich Maie fanie rach el aer wol nihar welm intalm axo tanit shway." One hard squeeze of your hand drops blood on the first of the seven symbols that make up the points of the circle. The symbol lights up and the corresponding line follows and shines from end to end.

"Baint int quare yeel fren smer worsh ufer dal krei lut isht." More blood on symbol 2 lighting it and its line.

"Pahb arth e rinethow finae ni shabnida." Your hand is starting to hurt but you squeeze blood onto the third symbol and watch it join the first 2 in brightening the circle.

"Inae fuu raunk valum dae chaw ji prosh shay zila trof renda ishan." You watch the fourth symbol light up and move on to the next.

"Urf nae inst purn wolay kirna ru gant verin herab vins tae." Five down, two more to go.

"Ich shie bruy pir exun bakiyen wishor itarm kastey." Onto the last one.

"Intraey izarnit wor bint azun oxair yerin jiha geins." The last of the symbols lights up, and you walk over to Jake in the center. You tip his head back and squeeze blood into his mouth.

"Mierda! You didn't mention anything about-" Jake doesn't finish his sentence, he drops to the ground and you gasp.

"I imagine that wasn't supposed to happen. Was it?" Khonshu muses. You roll your eyes you wish he'd shut up but at least the irritation overrode the panic bubbling. You take a deep breath and recite the last bit of the spell. It won't do you any good to leave the circuit incomplete, an unfinished spell could do more damage to Jake than whatever's already going on.

"Rahg inth der minshea loun weemae zontho ich baln kikae fineir." With the final incantation complete you watch as the spell circle burns brighter and brighter until all the symbols seemingly drain towards the center, disappearing one after the other as if Jake's body is absorbing them.

"Is it over?" Khonshu asks.

"Well the spell circle... disappeared so- I guess?"

"He's still unconscious."

"Gee hadn't noticed." You roll your eyes.

"There has to be something you can do about this you did the spell."

"Just pick him up off the ground." You say packing up your spell items.

"Why would I do that?"

"That spell wasn't easy, I don't have the strength to pick him up but it's not like we can just leave him out here overnight." You cross your arms.

"I am not carrying him all the way into town." Khonshu says.

"Why would you do that? Did you walk here?" You ask.

"The British one doesn't have a car."

"Sure but Jake does."

"Jake didn't want to have to leave the car here if something happened." Khonshu says.

"Whatever, I drove. You just need to get him to my car." You say.

"And what if I don't?"

"If you don't he spends the night out here." You shrug grabbing your bag of things and trudging away from the clearing.

"Well- hang on!" Khonshu huffs. A few moments later you hear his heavy footfalls behind you. "Would you really have left your boyfriend laying in a field unprotected."

"Of course not, the field had a bunch of defensive spells in place." You scoff.

"Why didn't you say that!?"

"I knew you wouldn't call my bluff." You say opening your car and tossing your bag in the passenger seat. "Drop him in the back please." You open the backseat door and help Khonshu fold your boyfriend across the seats.

"You had better hope they all survive your odd experimentation."

"It was their idea you foolis- you know what, it doesn't matter what you say, you have no right to pretend you value their life beyond how you can use them like a puppet of course I hope they survive I tried to talk them all out of this like 5 times. Stubborn fools." You shake your head.

"So what happens now?"

"Now I take him home and we hope for the best." You shrug getting into your car. You drive home, anxious to get your boyfriend home so you can start looking for some way to reverse this or at least help in some way.

Back at your apartment you struggle to get the body up to your place. Luckily it's incredibly late already or you'd probably have to explain this to more than just the person frowning at you from behind the front desk when you walked in. Once in the safety of your own apartment, you take a deep breath as you look at Marc passed out in your guest room.

"I don't want to get to say I told you so but you had better give me a chance to yell at you for being an idiot. You owe me that. Please wake up, you're far too stubborn to die like this. It'd be a rather pathetic way to go, given all the shit that didn't take you out." You huff. You feel so restless, you need to shower and you know you need to sleep because it's been a long and exhausting day but there's no way you'll get any rest with your boyfriend passed out indefinitely in the other room, all you want to do is sit up sifting through grimoires until the answer jumps out at you from one of the pages, you can't just leave him like that and not do anything-

"Stop." You say to yourself, hoping to stall your racing thoughts for a moment. "Okay, strategize. Realistically if you try to comb through your grimoires and things right now your eyes will literally fall out bleeding you have done entirely too much today even if you found the answer you wouldn't have the strength to do anything with it. He's physically safe and while you can't possibly know what's going on internally that'll have to be enough for now because you can't save him if you don't take care of yourself. Let's shower and try to get some sleep and we can approach this with a fresh mind in the morning."

With an acceptable game plan officially vocalized you take one more deep breath and clap your hands once to center yourself. Your shower helps tremendously which you knew it would but sometimes it's hard to regulate when so much is going on at once. You put on lotion and your pajamas and check on the trio once more before forcing yourself to go to bed. Hopefully you can get some sleep and maybe start problem solving this whole nightmare in the morning.

***

A/N: So sorry it took so long to get here my mind is a labrynth and my life has been a tornado lately, it's getting calm so what else would you like to see from this series?

Tagged Users: @itsmskeisha @auntiegigi @neteyamsluvts @a-lil-bit-nuts @i-love-sammwiches @chaosgoblinreblogsthings

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crsssie · 1 year ago

Text

this is a drama. i am the drama.

word count: 10.4k

WARNINGS: mentions of SA, mentions of sex trafficking, mild violence (all r kinda glossed over but still warning), Nonexplicit smut

summary: your soul drowns Tim, but he finds comfort in it.

The city of Gotham is not phased by much.

From the drug trafficking in the docks to the human trafficking happening under everyone's nose, the average citizen doesn't really care. Though, arguably, they do mind when their sleep is disturbed by the sound of racing cars— something else that isn't necessarily new in Gotham. However, there had been news that the racers were steering off into the city at night, so Tim finds himself in civilian clothes, holding up a pass to access the venue that the racers were using, stepping in past the loud noises and people screaming. Ah, he made it in time.

He's surprised to find actual racing cars— cars that look like they could be in a grand prix.

From the seats, he meets eyes with a racer. He can't tell anything, but from posture and body frame, a woman. Now that he looks at it, all the racers seem to be female-presenting. He turns down the drink offered by one of the men, striking up a conversation instead, batting his lashes at the man, hoping to seduce him in some way. He wore too much clothing to be able to do so with his body, but it was still worth a shot. He hates dressing up like this anyway.

"So, what's a goody two shoes like you doing here?" The man smiles, sliding an arm around his shoulder.

"A friend gave me his pass because I said I'd never watched a Gotham street race." He bats his lashes. (Hopefully the fake lashes Stephanie glued don't fall off. God, did he hate dressing as Caroline)

"Really? Usually we place our bets on a racer." He hums, waving a guy over, dropping a twenty in a box. "I'd recommend you vote for Spitfire, she's an oldie and usually wins."

"Who are the others?" Tim slips a twenty from the back of his phone, blinking at the other names.

The man chuckles. "Lightwing is another good contender. She's been around forever. But also, her vision is spotty from an accident last time, so she's not as popular as before."

Tim nods slowly, staring at the other two names. "Who's Moonknight and Aquastar?"

"Moonknight is making her debut tonight, but her test run streaks were pretty bad because she doesn't have as big of a team as the rest of them." The man waves his hand. "You don't need to bet on her, pretty girl." He grins toothily. "Oh, and Aquastar is a visiting racer from a nearby city. We usually have more racers, but Cardinal got suspended for going off the race tracks and breaking into Gotham two weeks ago."

Now that he thinks about it, all of the names were practically knockoffs of the vigilantes and heroes who protected the cities. Although, he's surprised the street racing had ended up this big without any of the bats shutting it down. Someone must have a hand somewhere. He just wonders if it's Hood or B. It could be neither for all he knows.

"How does one race?" Tim blinks at one car in particular. It looks too much like a batmobile for comfort.

"You'd have to talk to the racers for that."

"Ey, Chris, are you hitting on newbies again?" A woman walks up the stairs, shoving him to the side playfully, tilting her head at Tim.

"Oh, come on, Spitty. You know I only do that so I can collect profits when you win."

"Arguably," She tilts her head at Tim, pausing. "You should bet on Moonknight."

"A-ah?"

"If she wins," Spitfire smiles, "then you collect all the profits. It's only a twenty, after all."

Tim frowns.

"But there's also a tradition for newbies to bet on newbies." She laughs. "You never know. That girl's got more speed in her than Cardinal. She just refuses to tell people."

"What's the cash prize?" Tim raises a brow.

"Driver gets ten percent of the bet money on top of the two million that WE pours into the track." She pauses.

"WE pours money into this?"

"We're not sure why, but they have been for a while now. The whole race track was from them." Spitfire sighs. "It's an old story, so it's not that surprising anymore."

Tim glances at the car again, pausing. Ah. This was where Bruce tested out his batmobile by using other people. No wonder he didn't push anyone to check the driving out. If Bruce was testing out all of his vehicles here, then there was no way he'd want it to be shut down. It would explain why he handed him an access card without having him get one. Tim glances around to look for seating, and Spitfire notices.

"You wanna sit in the grandstands?" She smiles. "My treat."

"Really?" Tim puts the money into Moonknight's box. The woman was right. It's only a twenty. Worst case, he loses the money. Though, he wonders what kind of a racer would have a leading champion telling him to vote for her. "Oh, is there a reason all the racers are girl?"

"We tried co-ed racing for a while." Spitfire holds her hand out for Tim, and he takes it. "But the men would get too aggressive and lead to unnecessary accidents on the track. Our goal is to test out cars for our sponsors before they're taken onto the field."

"Is that why there's a pass to get in?"

"Yeah." She hums, pulling the door open. "Come on in."

"Spitfire, favoring a newbie?!"

"Spitfire, who do you think is going to win!"

The woman turns her head, smile on her lips. "Me, obviously."

But it proves wrong when Tim meets eyes with the same woman from the first time.

You stare into his eyes, white racing suit snug on your body, a look in your eyes he recognizes. Though, the longer you look at him, the more you seem to read him— as if his entire past were exposed in front of you at a table. There is a sort of darkness to both your eyes and hair, the stare of a thousand souls. He breaks eye contact first, waving goodbye to Spitfire as she hops back to her position, final checkups of the cars in progress as Chris asks him if he wants a drink. Tim waves him down, but he mentions a can of Zesti would be fine. Chris barely makes it back in time for the announcements.

Tim catalogs the majority of the announcements in, checking for their voice on his phone, blinking when he finds a lack of match for it. He'd ask Chris, but the man is practically leaning over on the stand, eyes glittering as the cars prepare to race. He stands up, cracking open his soda, blinking when the four racers seem to fly off, and his eyes glance at the big screen, camera flying after the cars.

Moonknight goes from second to third, and Spitfire goes from third to first. He doesn't have much faith in his twenty bucks, but he wonders if the batmobile would really be helpful in a race like this. It didn't—

Moonknight goes from third to first at the final moment, boosting past Spitfire and racing to first place as she makes it into the second lap. Tim pauses while recalling the batmobile, and he remembers the change he had made just a week ago on the car, letting it accelerate faster than the other cars. Seeing his own creation in action hits something in him, blinking as she swerves.

"Oh, I might actually lose my money today." Chris laughs. "I didn't think she'd be able to do it."

"Who is Moonknight?"

"She's a completely new racer. She's called Moonknight because he sponsor gave her a car that looks eerily like a batmobile every time. Though, her car is in light grey." Chris points. "I'll hand you the pamphlet later."

"Thank you." Tim mumbles, watching as Spitfire races neck to neck with Moonknight. Tim wonders if it's going to be a tie. Though, he did add something else to the car. Maybe Bruce told you, maybe not. If she manages to find it, she could win. Though, he's more curious to know if rocket boosters were technically allowed in a race like this. Who knows.

You grimace in the car, pressing a couple of buttons as your fingers brush over something new. You wonder if it's the self-destruction button that Batman had told you not to touch. Yet, you shrug it off, clicking it anyway, slamming back into your seat as you speed past Spitfire, breaking past the finish line, steering with one hand as you try and stop the rockets on your car, clicking on the screen, grimacing. You'd rather not call Oracle. Last time you did, she tried pulling your social security number on you, only to find a lack of one.

Your heart races in your chest as you press the button again, the rockets only growing stronger, and you groan as you type in a code you had memorized from the Batcave, successfully shutting down the systems on the car, turning it back into a regular vehicle. You don't know who invented that line of code, but god were you thankful that you memorized it. The car eventually slows, and you drift next to the other racers, parking successfully. You step out of the car, leaning on the door as it closes, the blood in your body flushing your skin.

"Moon, are you alright?" Spitfire rushes next to you, hand on your bicep.

"I'm fine." You pull the helmet from your head, meeting eyes with Tim's again. You raise a brow, and you lower your voice to Spitfire. "That girl isn't a girl."

"Drag maybe?"

"No." You mumble, turning to shield your mouth from his eyes. "Undercover cop. Either that or they're a vigilante. They used Batman's card to get in."

"Ah." She frowns. "Are we safe?"

"I'll deal with it if he throws a fit." You stretch your neck, placing your helmet onto the top of your car. "Gotta submit a report later."

"I'm not looking forward to that." Lightwing groans. "Our next race is supposed to be motorbikes."

"Ewwww." Spitfire shudders. "I hate racing those."

"I hope they don't have rocket boosters like on my car today." You shudder.

"Alright, go get your cash prize, girlie." Spitfire smacks your back to send you walking to the podium.

You step over to the makeshift stage, taking the cheque from the announcer, blowing a kiss at the phones as you stare at the blank cheque. Two million was the max, but you were told you'd get to cash out five if you could win the race. You pause, though, when the girl you were staring at earlier makes her way out of the stands and walks over. Spitfire tries stopping her, but she seems to say something that has her quiet as she steps up the podium to meet you. You tilt your head at her.

Tim opens his mouth to speak before you cut him off.

"You know." You pause to wave the announcer off, hooking your arms under her knees to rest your chin on her chest. "You're real hot as a woman, but I'm sure you'd look better as a man."

Tim flushes as you press a kiss to the crown of his head, and you set him on the podium, lips pulled into a pretty smile. Your voice lowers as you rest your chin in the valley of his tits, blinking up at him. You jut out your bottom lip as Tim swallows thickly. Your fingers lace into his hair, nails digging into his scalp gently, blinking slowly, reading his emotions, his expressions, his everything. You look entranced, and Tim almost feels bad that he's here undercover and you're staring starry-eyed over someone who doesn't exist.

"What's your name, pretty girl?" You raise a brow at her, grinning.

"Caroline." He swallows again, heart racing in his chest. You're too attractive for your own good. Maybe you were using that against him. "Caroline Hill."

"Well, Carrie," You hum, tucking his hair behind his ear. "I think you're gorgeous. Care for a drink sometime?"

"A-as much as I would like to, I'm not into w-women." He stumbles. (A bold lie. He's never had a worse panic over a woman in his life.)

"Quite a shame." You mumble. "You're so pretty too..."

You step down the stage, holding the cheque up as the girls cheer with you.

Tim should really talk to Bruce about what the batmobile was doing in a street racing event.

Though, as Tim tries to run a background check on you, he finds nothing come up. Even in the private files of the batcomputer. Even on the card that gave him access, all the fingerprints were wiped clean. He finds practically nothing, not that it gets to him, he just looks harder. He practically lives in the cave now. He doesn't remember the last day he got regular sleep. He has nothing on you.

So, he shows up at the next race as himself this time. He enters with the same card, and this time, you find him first.

"So? You related to B?" You hand him a can of unopened zesti, and he raises a brow at you. You raise a brow back at him, pointing at his card. "Card. That's a B exclusive card."

"How so?"

"Sponsor card." You smile. "Since it's light grey, that means it's my sponsor. My sponsor is B."

Tim frowns. "Who are you?"

"My question first."

"He's an aquaintance. Now my question." He opens his can, pressing the drink to his lips.

"I'm a racer." You smile.

"I meant as a person." He clicks his tongue.

"Why don't you find out?" You bat your lashes at him prettily, hand pressed to his abdomen, leaning in to blink at him devilishly. "Or are you not into women too?"

Tim's heart races in his ears, swallowing as he tries his best to match your pace. "What does the media say?"

"Lots" You grin, pressing yourself closer to him, arms wrapped around his neck, your air mixed with his, lips pulled into a dangerous smirk. "But all I hear these days is how someone keeps trying to hack my personal information."

"Yeah?" He tilts his head, placing the can to the side.

"Mhm." You hum.

Tim smiles at you, dangerously, all while his mind is a jumbled mess. You had an effect on him that he dared not to pry further into, but god were you intoxicating — bad for his brain even. He finds himself leaning closer to you, all systems going off about how this was bad for him, but he doesn't care. Not when your perfume smells tantalizing and the only thing he wants to do is kiss you sick— make out with you until you're whimpering against his lips, knees giving out under you, and brain fuzzy with only him. His eyes darken with the thoughts, a smile on his face.

You remove your arms from him, tapping his shoulder twice with an innocent smile. "Thanks for giving me the last piece."

Tim raises a brow as you peel yourself from him, his mask in your fingers, smile not so pure anymore.

There was no way.

Tim grabs it back from you as you back up, both hands in the air, and as he shoves it into somewhere you can't touch, you hop over the stands, landing on the dirt with a thud. Tim frowns in frustration as you send a wink his way, starting final check-ups for the race. It's bikes today, and Tim recognizes all of the models. A copy of his own bike is in Spitfire's hand right now. Maybe this was how Bruce figured out whether or not his bike was safe to ride after his own customizations. Jason's bike is in another rider's hands, red helmet with black— presumably Cardinal, and Dick's bike is in Lightwing's hands. You have Bruce's bike still. It checks out now.

This was the testing ground for the vigilante vehicles in Gotham.

The fact that you had figured him out so quickly only meant that you had realized faster than everyone else.

But there had to be a reason that no one part of the team saw the similarities between their vehicles and the ones that the Gotham vigilantes used. There had to be a reason that only you would be crazy enough to figure it out just based on vehicle models. Maybe he could use the status card to talk to you all for a little. Too bad you were already checking the vehicle. He should have asked earlier— strange. It's not like him to be this disoriented.

You win the race.

It's obvious. B's bike was designed with the fastest engine possible, and in a race of pure speed, it would win. No matter how much Tim tinkered with his bike, he wasn't allowed to go faster than Bruce. The man had said it was too dangerous, and Tim could see why. The Batbike was a nightmare to steer at such high speeds. Though, he does wonder where everyone on the track gets their practice. There's never a peak of sound during the day on the track, and neither was there much noise at night when you weren't racing.

Tim does not dig the idea that he has to pull his money card out, but the more competitive part of him does wonder what it would look like to have you fold for him.

"A drink?" He leans over the railing, card held up, raising a brow at you.

You wave him off, handing your helmet to someone else, clicking your tongue.

"That's not the way to ask a pretty woman out on a date, boy." You raise a brow, lips pulled upwards in a grin. "Maybe ask better next time. Some of us have black cards too."

So Tim watches as you leave with the rest of the racers, his heart racing in his chest.

It takes ten more tries for Tim to trace from someone else to you.

He blinks at the woman on the screen, and he pauses to ponder. Perhaps.

However, all of his thoughts are thrown off when a command is called from behind him by Bruce with a new case. A file is handed to him, a file with a rather unoriginal name, and it makes Tim raise a brow. Surely it was a jest.

"I assure you, they are very much real." Bruce rolls his eyes, cowl peeled off, humming with a drink pressed to his lips.

"Is this related to the serial murder of rapists going around in Gotham?" He opens the file.

"Not just Gotham." Bruce hums. "Clark did a report on the serial murder of both registered and unregistered sex offenders in Metropolis as well. It has been a trend. Despite the vigilantism, it is still very much illegal to kill someone."

"I don't see too much of a problem with killing a rapist." Tim presses his coffee to his lips, scanning through the files Bruce hands him. The target seems rather clear. The killer does not regard anyone in the way, knocking everyone out and always only killing the rapist. A maneater. The name given to the murderer was maneater, as if it were some ploy. In some cases, the victims were found with their pants unzipped and an anti-rape condom stuck on them, writhing in pain as they were almost always found dead with poison in their system.

Those who suffered more gruesome deaths... either found castrated with their genitals lying not too far away, or a hole where their heart was supposed to be, the organ missing. It reminds him almost of Heartless, but... that is not the case. This is a vigilante no different from them... just less sparing and guaranteed murder. Now, does Tim solve the case or let the vigilante free...

He does not know what possesses him to ask you of all people, but your response does not help much.

"Moonknight." Tim hums, adjusting his glasses as he puts them on. "May I pick at your brain?"

"Is this about the serial murders?" You wipe the helmet in your hand, cheque tucked safely into your wallet.

Tim nods. "Thoughts?"

"I feel like the murderer's doing us ladies a favor." You shrug. "Think about it."

"I know, but murder is a little..."

"Little hypocritical of you, you know?" You raise a brow. "Must I name your war crimes?"

"No." Tim hums. "Perhaps I should do some digging anyway."

"Wouldn't hurt to have it on file in case you do need it one day." You eye one of the newer men on the track, grinning at Spitfire as she greets him. "Hm?"

Tim's eyes trail up to Spitfire.

Similar build. His glasses indicate the same.

"It's not any of my girls." You crack open the can of soder. "I promise they're clean. B runs background checks on all of us."

Tim mulls over your words.

Scary.

Yet, he visits you anyway, money piling in his back pocket as you win round after round, small talk rolling off your lips in a sort of practiced way, smile inviting as you turn down his request to grab a drink again, humming quietly as Tim's eyes trail down to the small of your back, brow raised as he notices your shorts peeking out past your pants.

"What does it take for a date with you?"

"Maybe not being part of law enforcement." You hum. "Legal or not."

"Why? Worried I'll turn you in?"

"No..." You trail off, chewing your top lip as you turn your head at Lightwing. "Well, if you save Lightwing from some trouble, I'll consider."

"What's wrong?"

"You see the man talking to her?"

Tim raises a brow and spots another group of men not too far off. "Bingo."

You wink in her direction, and Tim hums.

"Hey big fella. Having fun so far?"

You watch as Tim tears the man apart, Lightwing leaving at one point to stand next to you.

"Really, I don't know what you see in that man."

"Not much." You purse your lips, smiling. "Something tells me he's the one."

"I'm willing to bet that he is not." She mumbles.

Yet, as Tim barely lifts a finger to piss the man off, you grin.

"Oh, he's definitely the one."

Tim runs the information, stalking down the final member of your racing team, matching the majority of information to the final member, brow raised when he realizes that Cardinal was not part of B's files either, hunting the woman down as he searches for her current location, and it makes Tim's stomach churn uncomfortably when he realizes how eerily similar the racer is to the described criminal. The person who was dubbed Cardinal had been face-matched to someone who had entered Metropolis just a little bit before the serial murders. It made Tim nauseous.

"Got any leads?"

"Might be one of the previous racers." Tim grimaces. "Of the race tracks."

"Cardinal? I assure you it is not her."

"Really? There had been rumors—"

"It is not." Bruce mumbles. "You know who Cardinal is. It is not her. They may have similar builds, but it is not her."

"Who is Cardinal?"

"You'll figure it out soon enough."

Bruce's evasion of his question does not help the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

You end up with Tim on the date, hair ruffled as he picks you up in his bike, hand held out to you as you take it, humming. It's supposed to be simple. Though, you suppose simple for a Wayne is impossible to determine. You never know what to expect from him. Though, when he pulls you to the local diner, you find it impossible to not know he's the one. It's really too simple.

"Would you tell me about Cardinal?" Tim finally asks you proper questions once the two of you finish ordering.

"Do you think she's the one?" You raise a brow.

"You said your girls are innocent."

"The ones I currently race with." You hum, reaching for the bread on the table.

"And Cardinal?"

"I don't know much about her. She didn't talk much."

"But she was aggressive, no?"

"No." You hum. "She drove into Gotham because she saw something. She also raced her own bike. No one knows who she is."

Tim connects something in his mind, and it sends him back to step one.

"Would you be able to help if I gave you the file?"

"Isn't it just what's available online?"

"One final thing. The killer in Metropolis might be the same person." Tim mumbles. "Thank you."

The food is presented before the two of you, and you stab into your pasta. "I don't think so. Did you track anyone else that entered and exited Metropolis that was a Gothamite?"

Tim shakes his head. "I find it strange."

"Perhaps magic?"

"Not impossible." Tim mumbles. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Tinker." You hum.

"With your bike?"

"No. That's B's property. I tend to tinker with smaller things. It's always fun to build a PC from scratch."

"Ah, you're quite handy with tech." Tim hums, blowing on his pasta. "Anything else?"

"I like watching detective shows." You pause to think. "And racing. I think that's about it. How 'bout you, boy wonder?"

"That's my brother." He laughs dryly.

Tim finds that it's intriguing to talk to you. You know everything that he does, and it seems you know much more than what you let him in on. Dare he say it, perhaps he's met his match.

Tim sends you home and starts patrol. Gotham had become eerily quiet since the murderer had been on the loose.

Though, he has a knack for saying things too early.

A man dies the same day, and B finds his way there with Tim, the two of them sweeping down and kicking the man down, a woman shaking as Tim shields her, holding his cape out, making sure to not look at the way her clothes are ripped up and she's shaking with an intensity unknown to him. He can feel the vibrations of her skin through his cape. The fear is easily contagious had he not known.

"B?"

"Dead. The poison spread too fast."

The woman doesn't look like she was aware.

"Did you buy the product?" Tim raises a brow, eyes scanning her face for any changes in emotion, and she shakes her head.

"I... a-a friend got me o-one on because—" She gasps, shoulders trembling still. "I-it saved her life."

"Do you know where she bought it?"

The woman shakes her head. "Th-they were giving them out on the streets a while back. It's been m-months."

"May we take one back?"

B shakes his head. "Gordon is coming. We will decide then. Oracle?"

Oracle has no intel either, and Tim wonders just how far this murderer is willing to go. If he just let them kill all the rapists in Gotham, then it would result in a number of the population as gone. If he checked them, perhaps the offenders in Gotham would assume they are protected by B — which truly could not be further from the truth.

"Where are you living? I will take you back." Tim catches a figure in the corner of his eye.

"B."

The man shakes his head.

"I-I'll be fine." She mumbles. "May I borrow a... clothes?"

B nods, and Tim hands the woman to him as he takes a good look at the man on the ground.

Familiar. He looks familiar.

The scan from his mask indicates the same. The man who had been talking to Spitfire at the tracks. It was the man who had been talking to her. Some clicks in the back of Tim's mind, his fingers pressing to the silicone, pressing the dirt and grime to the back of his glove to check for DNA.

Just the shaking woman.

"B, I need one of them." He speaks firmer this time. "There has to be some unidentified DNA on one of them."

"There are in one of the files on our computer. It was sent this afternoon." B hums. "The police are arriving. Come on."

Tim doesn't need to be told twice, yet he lingers, eyes trailing on the woman as he waits.

One of the policemen is an unregistered sex offender.

He clicks on his mask as he zooms in, a dark figure flying out of the alleyway at the man, and Tim watches as a claw digs into the man's genitals, ripping off with a sound that shakes the walls, followed by a guttural scream. The policemen shoot at the figure, but they don't react, only retreating back into the walls, seemingly unhurt by the bullets.

"Oracle, did you catch that?"

"No face was detected."

"How about figure?"

"Non-human." Oracle mumbles. "I can't identify anything."

"Tsk." Tim clicks his tongue.

"Though, it has to be a shadow ability. Perhaps something adjacent to it. They're gone, right?"

Tim hums into the mic. "Affirmative."

Tim ignores the way the shadow shapes weirdly underneath his feet.

"You can come out." He taps the corner of his mask for reinforcements, taking a step back into the moon as the shadow forms, a smile of white forming into a human.

"Can you—"

"Neither. All indications of sex are missing."

"Oh..."

Their voice is nothing short of horrifying to him.

"I caught a bird." It grins, and as Tim takes a step back, he finds that his other foot has a shadow warping around his ankle.

"Who are you?"

"We are the night." It sings. "We are the darkness..."

Tim knows what's next.

"We are... vengeance."

"That's rather cringe, don't ya think?" Tim raises a brow.

A batarang flies from behind him, and the shadows only create a hole for the weapon to fly through. The shadow splits into two people, and Tim smiles.

"Gotcha."

"Ah ah," The one on the left shakes its hand. "We were promised... freedom."

"Only where you belong." Batman shines a flashlight at the creature, and Tim watches as it retreats back into the shadows, his ankle free. "And you. Next time, just shine the flashlight."

"Are they weak?" Tim raises a brow. "Just to light?"

"It stuns." Batman nods.

"Go track the leftovers on your ankle back in the cave."

"Will do." Tim pauses before he goes. "Is it an alien?"

"No. Something worse."

Tim does NOT know what could be worse than an alien. (He lies. He does.)

The DNA tracks too many women to count. One shows up and then the next, and eventually, Tim has at least twenty women pulled up on his screen, all pronounced dead after being found used and discarded. It is horrifying. Tim may not understand just how terrifying it is to be a woman, but as he finds children, he seems to understand just how disgusting this is. Girl after girl, woman after woman, every last one of them were used and discarded bare for the world to see, photographed and made a case study out of — all who met their unfortunate end and their rapists never see the end of their life the same way they did.

It is disgusting, but something else is discovered.

He does not remember if it is something new, but it seems strange. It is not a shadow, but rather a composition of human souls forced to merge into an unrecognizable shape. It is science, not an alien, and Tim understands why it is worse. It is an unfortunate victim and not an alien. It is someone who had been forced to change into something unloveable. He wonders if the souls of the unfortunate make up the shadows.

Ah. If they are shadows...

Tim turns around as the shadows form a human again, shorter than he is, apple of its cheeks soft and gentle. A girl. It is a girl this time; not a woman.

"Are you a victim?"

It does not answer him.

"Tim? Tim, do you hear me? Red!"

"It has not attacked yet." Tim answers. "How many of you are there?"

The child does not respond, holding up one finger, and then two, and three, and eventually there are too many fingers sticking out of the hand that Tim had lost count.

"Many."

"What's the deal?"

"I matched the DNA." Tim swallows. "I won't hurt you, but please—"

The shadow dissolves, and Tim lets out a breath, staring at the faces plastered across the screen of the Batcave.

"Tim?"

"Oracle." His voice goes quiet. "They are all victims of... The computer just keeps going."

Eventually, B returns, staring at the wall of faces Tim left, finding the man in his room, glasses on as he stares at his PC, case file after case file being read, news article after news article. There is more than one soul occupying the shadows, and Tim reads one after the other of how they were murdered. Stabbed, strangled, shot, mangled, burned. None of the souls were able to escape death at the hands of their rapist. It was sickening.

"It is not a human." Tim speaks, staring at Bruce at the door. "We can not arrest it."

"Is it humanoid?"

"No. It is a shadow of vengeance."

"There has to be a way to stop it from collecting more souls."

Tim closes his eyes, brows furrowed as he sighs.

"And if I do not want to?"

"Tim."

"I know." He mumbles, exhaustion written all over his face. "How will we destroy the remaining souls?"

"How many women were identified?"

"There are currently twenty seven." Tim mumbles. "There may be even less if more of the men die."

"The vengeance of a ghost." Bruce mumbles. "Just find a way to stop the addition of souls. Surely, someone is collecting souls and adding them."

Tim finally closes his eyes when the sun starts peeking over the horizon.

"Sorry." Tim shows up to your meetup place, eyebags extra bad, and you raise a brow at him.

"Something up?"

"What would you do if someone was collecting the souls of the victims of rape and kill and turning them into a shadow of some sort to let them have vengeance on their rapist?"

"Wow, what a loaded question." You mumble.

"Thoughts?" Tim closes his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Feel free to ignore it if not—"

"I mean... it makes sense." You hum. "Is it scientifically immoral? Yes. Is it in some way morally correct? Perhaps. Their lives were taken and their souls haunt the earth because they are still held down by things they could not resolve while they were alive. Perhaps to the living, they are a monster, but to the dead? to the dead, they are a savior."

Tim pauses to think. "Should the person be punished?"

"Under the law? Sure."

"How about according to yourself?"

"No." You mumble. "If I was raped like that, I would love to ruin the life of the man who ruined mine. I heard a police officer got his dick ripped off. Is he still alive?"

"Alive." Tim nods. "Vitals are stable, but he can no longer procreate... obviously."

"Deserved, maybe. I heard he got off with only two months of jail time after the initial trial."

Tim does not answer, pausing to mull over the case.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." You stand up, stretching your legs. "Shall we get something to eat?"

"You have food by here?"

"No, but since you brought your bike, I can take us somewhere."

"It better not be the diner from last time."

It is NOT the diner from last time

Instead, Tim finds himself seated outside of a Batburger place, thanking you as you hand him his order, clear view of the alleyway.

"This place is a little..."

"It's where a lot of drug trades happen." You hum, staring at the alleyway behind him. "Also where a lot of sex trafficking occurs."

"Ah, right." He mumbles. "Red Hood manages that, no?"

"Not as much." You bite into the burger, humming happily. "Sorry if this wasn't what you were expecting."

"I think the burgers and shake could fix me."

You raise a brow.

"As much as it can try, of course."

"Nah, I have those days too." You hum. "Did you find much on the souls?"

"I just wonder if they are decreasing after extracting revenge on their former rapist." Tim mumbles.

"I heard somewhere they started off in the fifties." You hum, continuing with your burger.

"...fifties? Where did you even hear that?"

"Rumor gets around quickest at the racetrack." You mumble. "Cardinal kept closely with the news. Apparently the figure was as large as a human at one point."

"Is twenty souls not enough to form a full grown woman?"

"Perhaps it picks a child for other reasons." You reach for a fry. "Am I being of much help, mister detective?"

"Somewhat." Tim pauses when he hears rustling behind him. "...May I?"

"Careful, they carry stun guns."

Tim nods, leaving you alone, and you click on your phone as you watch Red Robin swing in, kicking and freeing the poor girl, handing her off to the police as you stare at the two men knocked out. Tim had overestimated just one thing.

From behind, a spike of darkness pieces through the men's hearts, killing them on the spot as Tim holds a hand over the eyes of the woman.

Dead. The two men are dead.

The shadow forms behind them, three young women who look no older than the one that Tim is covering the eyes of.

"How many of you are left?"

This time, the shadow forms a 24.

The number is going down.

So, Tim reports the findings to Bruce, changing out of his suit to get back to you, nodding as he sits down and sighs.

"Sorry, stomach died."

"Nah, don't worry about it." You sip on your shake, humming. "Duty calls."

"Are you racing sometime soon?"

"I think B's trying to have us race less lately." You hum. "I won't be racing for some time. The only reason we raced so often a while back was because there were so many upgrades being implemented."

"So you have more free time?"

"Yeah." You hum. "I was thinking of traveling."

"Where to?"

Tim knows something you don't. The gentle taps of your painted nails omit some eerie sense of death, and it seems that no matter how much Tim likes you and feels fine around you, it is impossible to ignore that eerie sense of death. It reminds him of the first time he met you, stare of a thousand souls. Yet, it seems that...

"Staring?"

"You're rather pretty." He hums, pressing his napkin to his cheeks. "Is it not normal to stare a little?"

"Oh, look at you and your smooth words." You hum.

"I mean them." Tim stares at you.

You only give him a weak look.

You don't seem to believe Tim when he says you're everything.

And maybe at some point in time, Tim had realized that your words swayed him harder than they need to. He does not know when he had ended up so deep with his fingers and hands stained with a passion for you, but as it drags him under, he finds that it's fine. Maybe you were just destined for him in some way. If he would be dragged under, then he would simply find a way to clear it out. He enjoys the sensation of drowning in you. Maybe he is just weak for you.

"Do you love me?" You tilt your head, milkshake straw on your lips as Tim sorts through his files.

Tim stares at you, pushing his glasses up. "Why?"

"Curious." You hum. "You've brought me to your place, after all. Isn't this the nice little boat you got with your boyfriend? I remember the media going insane."

"Perhaps." Tim mumbles. "I brought you here to help me with the case, though. I don't think love is the right word for what we feel towards each other right now."

"Mm." You nod slowly, picking up some papers. "The number went down?"

"Yes. The two men who were killed resulted in three less entities in the shadow." Tim mumbles. "I just wonder if the number is going to increase."

"You wouldn't want it to, huh?" You hum.

"Prefferably no." Tim pauses. "Though, I suppose if the entity is acting on its own, then I can not do much to stop it. Someone is letting the souls merge into the shadows."

"If it's just cells, shouldn't it be the act of a human? That must mean they have some sort of way of accessing the victims' bodies."

"That would be the case, but a further search indicated that they were not picking up the cells, but rather just souls. I don't know when we got an upgrade to be able to locate souls, but—"

"It was probably when you tried cloning your best friend." You don't bother letting him finish the sentence.

Your statement freaks Tim out.

"H-how the hell do you know?!"

"B." You puff out your cheeks, continuing with reading the file.

B does NOT have that information open to just anyone to access.

Yet, Tim shuts his mouth, continuing with the file, taking the chance to seal your fingerprint. He runs the match while you continue checking, and he ends up in a dead end again. You do not exist in the database. Your fingerprint is not a real person. Surely there was a chance that you were not quite human either.

"Just how cautious are you?"

"Very." You hum. "My fingerprint won't show up."

"What gives you the boldness to say that?"

"A gamble." You hum. "I race for B. Surely, he would not do something as cruel as that."

"He is consistently paranoid."

"That does not matter." You click your tongue. "He could not hold me down if he tried."

Tim senses that there is a certain level of untruth to your words, but he can not say just what it is.

Three days later, four more men are found dead by the docks. Tim checks them with the police, Oracle's voice in his ear as he observes them. All three have had their hearts pierced through, a gaping hole left behind. Tim looks to the side at the shadows brewing beneath the water, and he observes that the number shown is four less than before.

"These men have to be part of an organization."

"They are." Oracle notes. "Human trafficking. These are the men who are part of a human trafficking specifically for sex workers."

"So... rapists."

"Yes."

"Did we ever get a number on them?"

"No."

Tim nods at the police as they arrive, grappling away.

Maybe he's committing a sin by letting the shadow get away with the murders. It would be impossible to hold them down, but he wonders if he should ever shine a light on them when they kill.

Back at the cave, the young girl emerges again, smiling at Tim as he raises a brow.

"What?"

"Twenty." The voice speaks, much younger this time.

"Are you all children?"

The widening of the smile indicates a yes.

"How old were you?" He holds his hand out for the shadow.

His question goes ignored, the shadow disappearing as B returns to the cave.

"The number of shadows decreased again." Tim stares at B as he undresses.

"How do you know the shadows aren't lying?"

"Here." Tim shows B the newest scan of the souls, and the number has shrunk.

"How did you scan it?"

"I do not know. We hadn't been able to scan based on soul previously."

Bruce clicks on the computer, eyes focusing on the application, taking over as Tim sits to the side. He looks further, digging into the code as he pauses and points at a line.

"Moonknight."

"The racer?"

Bruce reads the code, and Tim follows, pausing.

"She's a computer system?"

"No, but you probably scanned some system in when you ran her through the system the first time."

"Just what is she?"

"I don't ask questions, and neither does she. Just a worker."

"Alright." Tim mumbles. But the issue was you do ask questions. You ask plenty of questions and each one brings you closer than the last. He had already lost his identity to you because of your charm. Perhaps Bruce was not far off. Though, if Tim could not find you, then Bruce probably could not either.

The next time he meets up with you, you finally let him into your apartment.

"Oh, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you love me." Tim hums. "What brings you to invite me here?"

"No, I didn't feel like going out today." You shut the door behind him. "Pizza's on the counter."

"Where are the others?"

"Racing." You hum.

"I thought you said there weren't any races?"

Tim finds that you're a liar.

Somewhere down in the place he's been pulled to, he finds that there is endless amounts of darkness, something brooding behind your soul as you talk to him, smile on your face. You called him the one, but if you were the one, he wouldn't feel so turbulent. Shaking waters. The water he's been pulled under is unmoving and serene, only in the middle of the sea, making the peace eerie rather than soothing. Rather than the liquid moving, he finds that he's spinning further and further down.

"I'm not racing for the time being." You hum. "The others are racing with their own bikes."

"Do you not own one?"

You shake your head. "I prefer other forms of transportation."

Tim raises a brow but doesn't question it.

Even when the two of you are tangled under your sheets and he listens to your heartbeat, the sense of uneasiness doesn't leave. You are too perfect. Even if you were to drag him down with you, he would only know how to hold onto you and not swim. Maybe this is his end. Unless you free him, he fears he will be stuck with you forever. Drawn to the beating of your heart, Tim is stuck being in love with you for the rest of his life. If you would drag him into the depths of your world and ruin his life, then so be it. As long as neither of you cross the line, neither of you would be hurt.

"Would you like to race?"

You raise a brow at Tim.

"Once in a lifetime." He offers.

"On the track?"

"We can race during the day." He hums.

"Not a day person."

"Then at sunrise."

You pause to think about it.

"If that's what you want."

"You make it sound like it's something I want to do." Tim whispers, chin resting on your chest as it rises and falls.

"Is it not?" You run your fingers through his hair, vibrations of your voice making him purr.

When Tim wakes in the morning, Oracle sends him a news article. Ten men found dead at the docks. Ten men were killed, and Tim can only wonder how many of the shadows found peace from their deaths. Though, as your fingers scratch at his scalp again, he could worry about it later. He'd rather not stir up deep waters.

"Ten died?"

"Mhm." Tim closes his eyes, mumbling. "Ten men."

"From the same organization?"

Tim is too tired to consider how you would know all the men are from the same organization when it has not been disclosed to the public.

"You seem to know much more than you let on."

"Of course I do." You hum. "But I won't race you until you find out."

"Then give me a month." He mumbles, eyes closing as he drifts back to sleep. You're warm, and for the first time in a while, he gets some rest.

The next race Tim goes to, he notices Spitfire and Lightwing are missing.

You tilt your head at Tim from the track, waving as he waves back, lips curled upwards in a gentle smile.

He refuses to meet the truth.

There is some sense of security that lies in playing stupid, eyes closed and fingers reaching out into a void of nothingness, knowing that as long as he did not know, he would be safe. Yet, there is always the nagging in the back of his mind, uncertain about his future, uncertain about what would happen if he continued to play dumb. He knows he'll get called out for it by Steph soon, but it really... he was only a fool in love. He can not do something so terrible to his heart.

Even as you bring back the trophy and greet Tim with a thrashing kiss against his lips, breath hot against his as he tries to ignore the truth of the world beneath his feet embedded into the shadows, he knows that he can only play stupid for so long. Soon, this racetrack will become empty, and one day, you too will leave him for the world that he refuses to uncover for his own safety. He loves you, but he can only do so much when he's young and stupid.

"Can I take you back to mine?" Tim whispers, eyes begging quietly as you lick your lips, helmet in your hand as you confirm with a kiss.

The gentle rocking of Tim's place is peaceful in the Gotham waters, port comfortable as he pushes back all of his knowledge. It is a curse to be wise, yet Tim finds that there is nothing he can do when he just refuses to. He would choose you even if it meant laying what he had known before down. It pains him to know that he should not, and you would not let him, but he is foolish and young, eyes gentle as he drinks up the way you lay beneath him, the moon coating you in a lovely white as he furrows his brows to forget about it all.

Your skin is soft against Tim's hands, plush of your waist filling the spaces between his fingers as you stretch your arms above your head, eyes half-lidded as he pleases you — himself. It makes no difference. Turbulent waters have long become the place where he finds his rest, eyes half-lidded as he listens to the way you breathe, both beneath him and in the dead of the night. Life becomes slightly more bearable with you around, exhaustion no longer as suffocating as he's used to. Perhaps he loves you or such. Perhaps he does not. Most certainly, he knows he cares.

In the afterglow of sweat and skin, Tim finds that you are no different from him.

"How many of them are left?"

Tim stares outside the window, recalling the last murder in Gotham.

"They're almost gone."

"That's good."

You close your eyes, lashes brushing Tim's neck as you rest your neck over his arm.

"When will we race?"

"I told you. When you find out."

"Find what, exactly?"

You do not answer, closing your eyes and succumbing to exhaustion instead.

Ultimately, Tim knows.

He knows what he's to look for, and he knows just what you might be. It scares him that you might have lied to him for so long, the shadows and souls lurking beneath the surface of the water finally snaking around his ankle and pulling. The big screen in the Batcave is of no help either, only a single person with an obscured soul, and Tim knows deep down that it is yours. You are a victim of the same organization, an amalgamation of vengeful souls all combined together for the sole purpose of seeking vengeance.

Tim stares at the shadow forming behind him, digits dropping by the day as he reports to Bruce about just what was happening in Gotham. The moral code to prevent murder is strong, but the understanding that a few lives of a few criminals for the cost of a safer Gotham was not a world-ending trade-off. Tim understands that much, at the very least. He knows Bruce does too. In a world where neither of them have to work against human trafficking as hard as previously, Tim finds that the waters are both comforting and vicious. He can not be touched in the warmth of your skin, but others will die from the toxin that he is immune to.

So, as Tim crosses off the final ones in the list of souls, he texts to let you know that the organization has been wiped, asking you which sunrise would work best for you.

You refuse to pick a time during the day because you are afraid of being burnt.

You do not exist in the database because you are not quite human.

You exist because you are someone's hatred and memories, manifesting in the form of the shadows and risking a life you do not have in order to see what is worth living for, vehicles meaning nothing to you as you speed through the racetrack at night, only Aquastar left next to you as she too disappears into the shadows after all the guests leave. There are barely any guests now that Tim looks. Perhaps more than half of them had been tired souls, begging for some sort of help, seeking refuge in the way you would risk your life for some sort of power above the law.

You are home to the souls, regardless of whether they are alive or dead. If someone seeks death, they reach for your arms, holding their hands around your shoulders as you stare past their skin, into the depths of the darkness beyond — something Tim is terrified of touching, Yet, with the feeling of your skin memorized between his fingers, he knows why people go to you to look for something.

You are so living yet so dead.

There is comfort only you can provide.

You meet Tim at the racetrack, sitting on your bike as Tim drives in past the gates. The darkness in your soul has grown lighter. Something has changed from when he first met you. You are still so lovely in his eyes, yet it seems that you can not be together in a case like this. It is a shame. At least he gets to race you, popping off his helmet as he notices how empty the stands are compared to when you used to race. The end of your need in Gotham has arrived, and the end of your services to WE has ended as well. There will be no more of you one day in the future, and Tim knows that one day, he too will be cursed to forget everything about you.

The people are gone.

The racers are gone.

And perhaps after this race, you will be too.

You enable the speaker, fingers clicking on the screen at the podium, giving the two of you a twenty-minute warmup.

Tim wonders just how fast he can go. He watches you from the side as you warm up your bike and drive, speeding around the track with practice that can only come from muscle memory. Yet, he drives around the track and gradually speeds up, trying to get a hand on how to race around. Tim finds that he's a little rusty, making several more rounds around the track as you sit on the side, clicking on your phone and scrolling through. Tim does not know how to bring it up.

"What does the winner get?" You look up from your phone, hopping on your bike as you wait for the countdown.

"Whatever the winner wishes."

"That's quite the bet." You hum, staring up at the light as Tim gets ready.

"Of course."

You start your bike, speeding past Tim as the light shows green, Tim tight behind you as he catches up to you. You wonder and think, leaning to the side as the bike follows, letting Tim pass you as you trail behind him. Tim finishes the first lap relatively quickly, and he realizes that you've fallen back a significant amount. He's unsure whether or not to speed up, but as he finishes his second lap, he finds that you're still far behind.

You cut him from the left, successfully stopping Tim from hitting a wall.

Tim speeds up to chase after you, wondering when you had the time to cut him off.

Yet, the end is evident, your bike parked at the end after your third lap, a grin on your face as he stares at you.

The souls are gone, and you look so, so lonely.

The lights shut as the two of you sit by the podium, tablet in your hand as you kick your legs, and you finally speak up.

"I know you found out."

Tim grimaces. "...why?"

You stare at Tim, peeling back your jacket, throwing it at him as he stares at you, watching as your eyes turn pitch black, shadows forming underneath your skin and turning the entire podium dark, some sort of ancient power creeping up your hands to your forearms, darkness evident in every blink at him, lips curled up into an apologetic smile, and Tim feels the water surrounding him drain all at once. If he would not leave you, then you would leave him. You would force him out of the comfort of your waters, knowing that it would drown him one day.

"The shadow moves with you." Tim stares at you, swallowing thickly. "There is only one victim left. We both know who it is."

You stare at Tim, lips curling upwards as he remembers why your smile started looking so familiar at one point.

"You are the last." Tim picks his words carefully. "Are you a shadow?"

"No. Just a medium. I am very much alive." You smile.

"Who are you waiting to kill?"

"No one." You hum. "I am alive because I must hold onto the shadows for the next ones seeking vengeance."

"You are the source."

You ignore him.

"Are you human?"

You blink at him again, ignoring him once more. "Luckily, it seems the victims have lessened lately."

"Why had there been so many at once?"

"There was an organization." You rock on your heels, lips curled upwards. "Everyone in the organization has been wiped. No fret. They alone resulted in over fifty deaths of women after they reached the age threshold."

"The youngest was ten."

"Yes."

"And the oldest?"

"Most of them were killed once they turned 21." You hum. "Occasionally, if someone looked young enough, they would be killed later, but the majority of them were killed at 21."

"How many souls were there initially?"

"Well over a thousand." You hum.

"And only you are left."

"Yes."

"Why play savior?"

"Why not?" You grin. "I have done nothing but host the poor souls. That does not warrant for my arrest."

Tim knows there is an argument against it, but he does not think too hard.

"Next time a soul finds you, notify me. Send me an invite to your race."

"You know, Tim." You hum. "B no longer needs me."

Ah.

"Will you be gone?"

"Very much so."

"To where?"

You do not tell him.

"Write to me." He speaks again.

You shake your head.

"I can not."

"Why not?"

"Send me some flowers when you see me on the news. That is my wish."

Tim tries to not think too much about your final words to him. You left the next morning, morphed shadows in the city leaving with you, and Tim finds that soon, almost everyone forgets you had ever existed. You had come and gone, shadow of death leaving with you, but he finds that occasionally on the news, he hears word about a new racer, gender unidentifiable, face consistently hidden, only known by their speed. You have become a criminal under the law, racing between the crevices of cities, fake trophy after fake trophy taken home, death following wherever you went, sex trafficking decreasing whenever you rested at night.

Tim tries not to follow you all that much, but when you show up on camera on accident, your home is raided and you are killed on sight by the same men who had killed so many others.

It hurts Tim in the head, eyes closed as he tries his best to not think too much about your death and how you had known all this time, but it would forever haunt him. He still remembers the way the waves would rock gently underneath the moonlight when he was engulfed by you, eyes always tired but comfort always found, knowing that you would be his rest when he needed it. So, for him to see you dead on the news, he finds that perhaps he was just cursed to not be able to hold onto you — that he was destined to be stuck in place and watch as you died because you had made a minor mistake. A mistake that would not have cost his life, but cost yours instead.

Yet, he honors your promise, white chrysanthemums placed at your grave as he holds onto the umbrella, humming quietly. The rain splatters gently against the plastic, quiet drumming calming him as he stares at the carving on the grave. The media had reported this was your place of burial, though Tim did not know if it really was you. He could have only assumed off of the information given, matching your age slightly, and he wonders if there is some sort of universe out there where he would be able to just stay with you.

"Here to see her too?" A masked woman steps next to Tim.

"Yes. I promised I would send flowers once she showed up on the news."

"How lovely of you." The woman hums, placing down a blue lotus.

"Did... you know her?"

"I knew her quite well."

Tim stares down at his flowers, finally looking up at the woman.

"It's such a shame, huh? That she would die to the very organization that she had been working to take care of."

"Well, perhaps she had just understood what it meant to live when she died." You turn to Tim, pulling down your mask as you wait for it to register in his head. "What do you think, Ca—"

You don't get to finish your words before Tim wraps his arms around you with closed eyes.

"I love you too, boy wonder."

#good morning tim drake tag did you miss me? no? GOOD.#tim drake x reader #tim drake imagine #timothy drake x reader #tim x reader #☾.fics #☾.suggestive #contemplated not posting this but like. 10k words r NOT about to go to waste when my queue is empty

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