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[sarahghetti]

okay so I'm DEFINITELY not finishing this last piece for the mk bingo like I thought.... it's at 4k words and I'm maybe halfway done???? 😭 childhood friends-to-lovers has me so weak until I realize... I actually have to write the childhood bit........

here's a very very short snippet:

"You should’ve just gone with Marc. You shouldn’t have let yourself be pressured by a public prom-posal from a guy who you never liked in the first place, but Brooke had called dibs on asking your best friend to homecoming and someone else said that it was girl code not to interfere even thought he’s your best friend and you didn’t even get the chance to talk to him about it because then Seth pulled out a fucking poster in the middle of chemistry class with shitty sparkly block letters only to make out with Nora Gutierrez not one hour into the night—"

[sarahghetti]

is it cringe if I make poe say "save an x wing ride a pilot" in a smut fic. because don't tell me he wouldn't

[sarahghetti]

Bound to You: Prologue

Poe Dameron x F!Reader

WC:  2012

Other Pieces:  This is part of a larger miniseries that can be found here.

CW:  Arranged marriage trope.

Poe Dameron rose quickly through the ranks of the Resistance.  General Leia Organa trusted him, and more to the point, he always got results.  Always.

Rare intel into the First Order’s movements?  Recruiting missions to convince disgruntled members of the New Republic to join the Resistance?  Errands to build relationships with allies in the Outer Rim?  Poe did it all with his own unique panache and ineffable charm.  Being a handsome bastard with an appealing smile didn’t hurt. 

Sometimes, admittedly, his charm failed him and he found himself in…uncomfortable situations. 

Like now.

Leia had dispatched him to a planet in the Core, a technological powerhouse that built state-of-the-art spaceships.  The goal was to get a deal for new crafts.  The problem was that the Resistance had little money (read:  no money) and even fewer prospects for more.  This planet, however, seemed to prefer the benevolent neglect of the New Republic over the authoritative grip of the First Order, and they had suffered under the Empire, so there was hope that a deal could be made.

Poe’s tricky situation came from two obvious facts.  First, the planet was run by a King and his attendant family – a very rich, very powerful man.  His wealth lay in his shipbuilding facilities – the technological know-how, the expertise of his engineers, the pride in superb craftmanship that left nothing unattended.  His wealth also lay in his vast progeny:  he had three wives and, well, countless sons and daughters.

The second fact of Poe’s tricky situation was that this planet, this king, his multitude of children and wives – the entire populace, in fact – was ruled by a very stringent, very precise set of rules.  There were rules for everything:  how to shake a hand (hand-on-forearm for no more than five seconds), how to sip the strong tea they served (from a lacquered cup, but only after the host sips theirs first), how to open negotiations (after precisely one lap around the King’s pleasure gardens and after saying, three times, that General Organa sends her well-wishes and highest regards).  How long to hold eye contact, how to smile, which color shirt to wear to signal certain feelings in certain situations.

Poe would have likely always ended up messing up the negotiations.  There was no way for a single person outside of that culture to learn all of their fussy, particular little rules.  Of course, Leia had tried to send C-3PO along – the droid had tried to explain all those rules - and Poe had waved her off. 

“How hard can it be?” he had said, flashing her a cocky grin.

How hard was it?  Well, it happened like a slow-motion explosion.  First, Poe had held on a beat too long with the opening handshake.  Then he glanced away while the King’s advisor was giving him an exhaustive tour of the King’s sculpture garden.

The worst, though, was when Poe inadvertently insulted the King’s second wife.  He wasn’t even sure how it happened – there was a huge dinner, and he used the wrong fork at the wrong time, wore the wrong shirt and looked her in the eye too long, and it devolved into Poe being tersely removed to sparser quarters which, it turned out, was just a prison.

And then, there was a trial (of sorts) which just involved the King’s advisors and astrologers and high priests, who all consulted their histories and star charts and rule books.  Poe would have laughed at how ridiculous it all was, except the guards who held him carried top-of-the-line blasters along with wicked-looking scythes, so he wisely kept his laughing to himself and tried to look contrite, though he wasn’t sure where contrite looks ranked with the King.

At last, it was decided (though Poe would never quite be sure if it was due to a historical precedent or some alignment of this system’s dual stars) that Poe would be released and gifted a cruiser, along with a promise of twenty premium gunships. 

The cruiser was a wedding gift. 

For Poe.

“The laws of our people demand an allyship in blood,” declared one high priest, and Poe’s heart clenched at his implied sacrifice.  Then, the priest added, “so you shall marry one of the King’s daughters.”

So the sacrifice wasn’t implied after all.  Poe was to be sacrificed on the altar of matrimony.  His heart seized up even more, but….a cruiser and twenty gunships?  The Resistance desperately needed it, and he could always get a marriage dissolution afterwards.

The slow-motion explosion continued, and if Poe thought he’d at least get to pick his wife (the King had eleven daughters), he was sadly mistaken.  Not that it mattered:  the women of the royal court (and many of the men) were bound to the strict dress codes of their strange laws.  Long hair bound and woven into intricate designs.  Long, enameled fingernails.  Faces and hands painted in delicate filigrees of designs.  Dresses with so many layers that the person’s original shape was lost.  It made the Queen of Naboo look like a fishmonger on Quila.

The day of the wedding, Poe found himself sick to his stomach.  He’d been given his own clothes back to him, clean and pressed, and his fingers shook as he buttoned his shirt.  He raked his fingers through his curls and tried to size himself up in the mirror in his room.  He looked wan underneath his tan.  Like a man on the way to his own execution.

Him, married.  He’d had plenty of casual flings, a few girlfriends, but nothing even veered close to long-term dating or marriage.  He was too devoted to the cause of eradicating the First Order from the galaxy, and that’s what he told himself he was doing now:  securing those ships, building an alliance for more.  He gave himself a nod in the mirror, as if to reassure himself. 

All that opulence and elaborate court gesturing, and the guards led him not to a large ballroom or hall, as Poe expected.  Instead, he found himself in a small antechamber with only a few people present:  an advisor, a high priest and priestess. 

And a young woman.  Poe’s intended.

You stood placidly a bit apart from the others, and though you weren’t as elaborately done up as others Poe had seen at court, you were still hidden under layers of paint and brocaded cloth.  Your hands were folded in front of yourself and that probably meant something in your culture, but you kept your eyes carefully fixed on the floor in front of you.

“Is this it?” Poe asked, incredulous.  He couldn’t quite believe that a wedding would have less pomp than the palace’s afternoon ceremony for tea and biscuits.  He glanced over at you, and you seemed to cringe at his words.

“She is the third daughter of the third wife,” the advisor said dismissively.  “The occasion of her marriage does not warrant more than this.”

So that was the other side of the equation, Poe realized.  A cruiser and some gun-ships to offload an unwanted daughter.  He tried to look at you a closer, but you seemed to sense his gaze and shrank even more from it.

The occasion of your marriage amounted to a few muttered words by both the high priest and priestess, and then first you and then Poe signed an official looking document on thick, heavy paper.  The advisor folded it carefully, then tied it with a white ribbon, then handed it to Poe.

That was it.

No exchanged vows or promises of love.  No rings placed on fingers or hands bounds together while prayed over.  Not even any eye contact – every time Poe glanced over at you, your eyes were focused elsewhere.

And afterwards?  There was no celebration.  Not even a goodbye from your parents or any of your multitude of siblings – you and Poe were both ushered away from the palace and onto the promised cruiser.  The craft that Poe had arrived on was safely stowed on said cruiser, along with your dowry (some jewelry, some personal effects, and enough gowns to outfit the entire fleet of pilots in the Resistance).

After you were cleared to take off, Poe did just that.  He marveled at how well the ship handled, and he practically twitched in anticipation for those gun-ships.  Leia would be so happy.  If Poe returned with a wife in tow, well…that was the price to pay.  He could take care of that situation later.

He set the coordinates for D’Qar and felt the ship ease into hyperspace so smoothly he almost missed the streaks of lights that flew past.  He was only two days away from being home.  No, not just he anymore.  You and he. 

Poe stood up from his pilot’s seat and stretched.  He felt the weight of the past few days slide off of his shoulders, and he felt like he could sleep until the ship exited hyperspace.  But there was a new weight laying on him, and he left the cockpit now to go face it.

You were still sitting in the galley, exactly where he had left you to take off.  You gifted him with the barest glance before you returned your eyes to the floor. 

You were, like everyone else in your court, off-putting.  A human with no shape under the leagues of fabric encasing you.  A person with a face so painted that there was no room for expression.  And, possibly, a person who didn’t talk.

“I’m Poe,” he said slowly and loudly, and he kicked himself internally at how the bark of his voice echoed off the shiny new walls of the space craft. 

He swore he saw the corner of your painted lips twitch – a smile maybe? – but your face resumed its placid surface before you murmured quietly that yes, you knew his name.  Of course - he had signed it beside yours on the marriage contract.

“Do you have a name?” he asked, a little gentler.  “Or are you just numbered off by birth order?”

That did bring a smile to your face, and you lifted your eyes to meet his gaze for a brief second before returning to watch the space on the floor between you and him.  You told him your name in your quiet voice.  “Or you could call me number eight, if you prefer,” you added with a hint of a smile in your words.

The eighth child.  Third daughter of a third wife.  Poe had no idea what you really looked like, and more to the point, what you liked.  What you didn’t like.  What you’d think of D’Qar and its rough-and-tumble, scrappy quarters.  What you’d think of the people in the Resistance.  How much you’d stick out in your elaborate gear, how the hems of your sharply pleated skirt would be muddied within seconds of walking through the forest. 

Poe could have sat beside you and tried to get to know you.  There was some time, after all, and you likely hadn’t asked for marriage any more than he had.  But he was keen to get ahold of Leia and report his success, and he wanted to discuss his next mission, which they had already talked about beforehand – finding her brother, Luke Skywalker.  Apparently there was someone on Jakku who had a map, and that mission pushed every other thought out of his mind until Poe quite forgot about you. 

So when you landed on D’Qar, Poe sprinted ahead of you to find BB-8 and Leia, leaving you behind to fend for yourself. 

As you descended the craft, you watched the retreating back of your erstwhile husband.  Poe Dameron left you behind.  Other women of your court might throw a pretty tantrum or pout winsomely, but you were the third daughter of the third wife.  You didn’t rage or pout.  You were used to being left behind and forgotten.

So you did what you did best:  you squared your shoulders, steeled your spine, and prepared yourself for a new life in this strange world. 

As Poe Dameron’s wife.

[sarahghetti]

Oscar Isaac by Josh Olins for Brioni

[sarahghetti]

thank you taylor for all the lowercase fic lyrics you have provided us tonight 🙏

[sarahghetti]

poe dameron + tumblr tags (from this post)

[sarahghetti]

Sarah. I hadn't seen you on my dash since I followed u like 1-2 months ago. And someone reblogged a fic of yours and I was like mmmhhh what is Sarah up to.

And I saw you had a new mk fic!!!! Which I read this morning and I loved it!!! Someone else commented that they would love to read a series of this if you so wanted to.

And I completely agree!!!

Like I wanna know so many things of spider person!reader and Jake.

I have so many questions I don't even know where to start?

How long have they been working together? Is Jake's suit the same as marcs? How did she meet Jake first instead of Marc?

Your writing is so good and I can't wait to read more.

Take care Sarah. I've missed you. 🤍🩶🤍🩶

Also there's like NO pressure on you to actually write more of that fic. You do you. I'm just here to support whatever fic you write.

LOLA HELLO HOW ARE U !!

I'm so happy to hear you liked "direction to perfection"!! I didn't know if it'd really vibe with people but jake + spider!reader was a combo that I could NOT get out of my head so I just had to finish it anyway lol. the fact some people like it enough to want a series means the world to me!! I don't know if I could ever commit to a chaptered fic (rip to the 10k words I've written for a planned mk series that will probably never see the light of day) but I'm not gonna say no to doing something in the future with spider!reader!!

and ohhhhh your questions have me THINKIN about them. I was gonna answer all of them, but then the writing bug caught me and...... yeah I started a new word document. no idea when that's gonna come out ('cause there's a marc fic in the works rn 👀) but. the document has officially been created 😭 however I WILL leave you with these little bts tidbits:

I have this loose headcanon: that after jake meets marc and steven, he continues working with khonshu for a bit. I don't think it'd be entirely accurate to say that he likes the job more than marc did, but he does see some kind of value in it and also doesn't get the moral hang-ups so that's a plus. (I also like the idea that marc returns to the suit again at some point. not to kill the criminals anymore, just detain them, but that's neither here nor there).

that's why I think jake's the one who meets spider!reader and not marc; it's during that in between time when jake's met the others but still wears the suit. I wasn't sure which boy I was going to center this fic around at first, but I really liked the possible dynamic between jake and spider!reader.

marc would probably hesitate to work with someone else, and I'm not sure if steven would ever be completely willing to don the suit again. that, and jake was just a good candidate because of the push-and-shove relationship he could have with spider!reader.

he could be friendly while not being vulnerable, caring while not being invested (yet), and collaborative while being argumentative (lmao). I feel like the first two are so opposite to a spider!reader, who probably can't help but be open and invested in everything they do, so it was very fun to explore!!

(I think that by the time "direction to perfection" happens, that last part is a bit less true. I think he's definitely invested at least a LITTLE in spider!reader at that point, but he probably just doesn't realize it completely till the end.)

[sarahghetti]

caramel apples with marc spector? (:

2023 Fall Blurbs

Marc loved every little thing about you. He loved your smile and your hair and the way you hugged him, he loved your eyes and your habit of wearing sweatshirts much too much for you and the way you’d accept him no matter what. Even racking his brain, Marc couldn’t think of anything about you that was even mildly annoying, you were simply perfect to him.

Even when you were so determined to see an idea to completion, even when it was clear it was a disaster from the start.

This morning, you’d made a comment about caramel apples, and Marc had said he’d try and look at the store, but you’d scoffed like that was the craziest idea you’ve ever heard.

“I can just make them,” you’d told him, and your voice was so steady, so confident, Marc had believed you.

Now, though, with your hands sticky and covered in a hoppy caramel and a furrow in your brow, he didn’t believe you as much.

He wanted to help, wanted to make everything better for you, but the way you tapped at your phone screen with your elbow to try and keep it clean was much too endearing for Marc to do anything but look on with a smile.

“You’re just going to watch me suffer like this?” You ask with a joking tone but there’s a whine to your voice that reveals a layer of seriousness and Marc springs into action, hurrying around to your side of the counter and waiting eagerly for you to tell him what to do, to let him know how he can make things better.

Marc grabs some forks to stick into the tops of the apples, the fact that you needed skewers to make this work completely slipping your mind when you’d started this experiment. Even though the caramel was beyond sticky, it worked and stuck to the apples, the process much smoother when you didn’t need to stick your entire hand into the bowl.

Soon, Marc’s sticking a tray of caramel apples into the fridge and you’re rinsing your hands, scrubbing and scrubbing to get all of the caramel off.

“Why didn’t you do that before?” Marc asks, bewildered as to why you’d just suffer instead of washing off your hands.

“I didn’t want to waste any,” you shrug, smiling at him, “and I got you to help me.”

With your clean hands, you make your way back to the bowl and Marc assumes you’re going to wash it but instead, you’re trailing a finger along the edge of the bowl to scoop up some caramel and then popping it into your mouth. You giggle when you realize Marc has caught you, and he can’t even pretend to be a little mad or exasperated because he finds you so wonderful, so perfect, and everything you do is endlessly charming, even when you’re not trying.

And, when you pull him in for a kiss, it’s sweet and caramely, and he could never be upset about that.

[sarahghetti]

moon knight- sexting

Summary: Just sexting w/ Steven, Jake, and Marc. Gets pretty filthy.

Contents: 🔥 18+ nsfw, fembodied reader, mentions via texts of: p in v, masturbation, oral (gets rough), anal, public sex, little degrading, bondage (~1.6k)

part of @moonknight-events: MK spring ‘24 Bingo Event

-----

Steven: I would like to

You: … what?

Steven: Sorry. My hand got sweaty and I dropped the phone. Can I call you?

You: No. We have phone sex all the time. This is Sexting. As in, text me the sex please.

Steven: Well, since you said please uh

Steven: um

Steven: I want to shove myself up inside of you so hard you feel it in your brain and can’t think of anything but the shape of my cock ever again.

You: 🤯

Steven: good?

You: very

Steven: Send us a dirty picture, love. Really dirty, you know the kind I want.

You: Im at work.

Steven: Bloody hell, you made me send that to your work??? Can’t be doing that. There are innocent animals there!!!!!!!!!

You: It’s an ethically run pet shop, remember? I’m not making them read your texts.

Steven: Still doesn’t feel right. Little bunny rabbit looking at you reading about my thingie.

You: THINGIE? Gross

Steven: Wot? UR gross

You: 🫵

Steven: eggplant

Steven: Marc says he thinks ur a little bunny rabbit. You fuck like one.

You: If Marc wants to sext me, he can use his own account. Not yours. We talked about this.

Steven: yeah, alright. But like, later. I’m hard now and I miss you like crazy.

You: I’ll go to the bathroom and take a pic.

Steven: 🙌

…

Steven: oh fuck love, thank you thank you thank you. Thinking of you right now, looking at yourself in that mirror in the bathroom. Your knickers down around your ankles like that. Touching yourself thinking about me?

You: I’m cleaning cat litter. No.

Steven: There’s my boner gone. Cheers.

You: sry 🤣

…

You: Okay, back in the bathroom now. Hand down my pants and thinking about you.

Steven: Really????

You: Does it matter????

Steven: Fair point. More please

You: Thinking about you, hundreds of miles away with your hand around your hard cock. The way you get all leaky when you think about my sweet, little pussy.

You: You remember what I taste like?

Steven: yes

You: I’d taste so good for you right now, so turned on for you. I’m making my hand all wet just thinking about your tongue, your fingers spreading me open so you can eat me out even deeper.

Steven: almst ther

You: You can lick me clean after you come inside of me. Leave some of it on your tongue so when you kiss me I know what we taste like together.

Steven: thank you love gods thank you you’re a filthy sexy angel you are

You: You’re done then?

Steven: I could get hard again if you want, but we video this time, yeah? I want to see that pretty little cunt get all wet for me. Want you to finger yourself so I can watch, make you lick your pretty little hand afterward.

Steven: Want to see your beautiful face. Make you tease yourself. Pinch your nipples for me, touch your clit. But you can’t come until I say so.

You: You got really good at sexting really fast.

Steven: Always been a quick learner. Video me when you’re on break, or I’ll make you spank yourself while I watch.

*****

Jake: bored

You: Not my problem

Jake: you promised to take care of me

You: I packed you a lunch.

Jake: come on. I’m staking out a bldg and can’t talk. Text w me.

You: Here’s a picture of my cleavage.

Jake: nice

You: yw

Jake: sweetheart, can I put it in your 🍑 later?

You: wtf

Jake: you’re the one who has to do all the getting ready for it and I wanted to make sure you had enough time if you wanted to. Only if you want to.

You: I want to. Maybe ask a little less abruptly next time?

Jake: Don’t just shove it in there? Start out easy?

You: Just be more considerate

Jake: i’m considerate. Don’t I always make you come first, before I even try to get a couple of fingers in there? start opening you up for me?

You: I’m at the grocery store. My face is as red as beets. STOP

Jake: you love it, sweetheart. Love it when I tease your little hole with my fingers. Then I bend you over. What do I do then?

You: I’m not doing this in the pasta aisle.

Jake: I’d do you in the pasta aisle. Do you anywhere. Bend you right over the deli counter, let everyone see what a little slut you are for me.

Jake: I’d take my time w you. Make sure you were nice and wet before I pop the head of my cock in that tight little hole. Make you beg for it before I give you any more.

Jake: Go so slow. Let you get used to how thick I am before I stuff you so full your pretty little fucked out face is drooling all over the glass front of the counter.

Jake: ???

Jake: nothing?

Jake: u mad sweetheart?

Jake: I’m sorry, okay. I’ll clean up my language. Come back.

You: I had to go the the frozen food aisle to cool down.

Jake: 😏

You: My forehead is resting on frozen peas.

Jake: Get those round cherry popsicles. I have an idea for later.

*****

You: Thank you for cleaning up before you left!

Marc: np love you

You: And you got more coffee and the jam I like!

Marc: np

You: You’re the best

Marc: You are

You: You’re just saying that b/c I gave you a big send off.

Marc: Honey, and I mean this respectfully, the way you let me fuck you? You deserve a palace in the Swiss Alps.

You: awwww, sweet

Marc: Wish I had time to massage your back before I left. Probably hurts, the way I had your legs tied up like that for so long.

You: It’s okay, ache’ll go away in an hour. Was worth it!

Marc: I’m an animal. All I want is to be as deep inside of you possible, for as long as possible.

You: I loved it. Who needs working legs and a gag reflex?

Marc: Srsly, I went pretty hard on you

You: I didn’t use our safeword. You checked in a bunch of times to make sure I was good. It was hot.

Marc: Me keeping you from breathing for five seconds at a time w/ my cock in your throat, for the whole morning, was hot to you too?

You: Very hot

Marc: We’re a good match. I like tying you up and treating you like my personal fuck doll, and you like to take it. Don’t you?

You: I can’t tell if this is flirting or sexting or just a statement of facts.

Marc: Why not all of the above?

You: In that case, yes, I do like when you make me your little fuck doll.

Marc: Send me a picture of your wrists. Redness should be going down by now.

You: okay

…

Marc: Skin looks smooth and beautiful as always. You’re still in bed?

You: Don’t judge me. I earned a little laying in bed time. Remember how I was basically hog tied for hours????

Marc: Are you okay, baby? really?

You: Yes. Just sore.

Marc: Promise me you’ll take a long bath. Put the oils in. Works better w/ the oils.

You: I feel weird about using them cuz they were you-know-who’s suggestion.

Marc: I hate him too, but he’s a healer so it pays to listen to him sometimes. How’s your jaw? Was the bigger o-ring gag okay? 

You: It was okay. Lot of drool though.

Marc: That was so fucking hot, baby. Drooled all over my cock, couldn’t stop me from being down your throat over and over. Made me nice and wet for when I fucked you.

You: I didn’t really need help being wet…

Marc: You’re killing me. I swear if this mission takes me more than 2 days, I’m pawning this avatar shit onto the next asshole I see. I already flew all the way here with a hard-on.

You: In the suit? hahahahaha

Marc: At least my suit hides it. Steven’s not so lucky.

You: idk, I feel pretty lucky when I see him get hard in it. 

Marc: Steven says ‘leave it alone or he’s going to make you get the paddle out again.’

Marc: You guys have a paddle I don’t know about? Unacceptable.

You: You refuse to teach Steven that quick release knot you use on my ankles so you can get my legs spread back apart in a half a second flat.

Marc: I love that knot.

You: 🙄

Marc: Go start the bath and send me pictures of yourself all oiled up.

You: okay. I love you.

Marc: Love you more. I asked Steven to leave you a thermos of tea in the kitchen. Take that in with you.

You: Stop taking care of me from a thousand miles away and focus on your mission!

Marc: There are 3 of us in this body. We can handle it. Mission’s easy compared to servicing you. The 3 of us can barely keep up.

You: Excuse you?!?!?! I’m the one who spends most of her time stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey cuz you 3 can't get soft.

Marc: Yeah, and you look beautiful doing it. Gotta go. I love you.

You: Take care of yourself.

Marc: Will do. And when I get back, you’re gonna tell me where that paddle is. 

You: no

Marc: I’ll handcuff you to the bed and fuck it out of you. You know I will.

You: I look forward to it.

-----

Square- "B" Sexting

**MK Spring '24 Bingo** MK masterlist :: main masterlist :: Join My Fic Taglist

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[sarahghetti]

LMAO RIGHT like...... ... comparing your current gf to past partners.......... .... marc...................

all the echoes in my mind; m.s.

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

summary: marc falls victim to his own self-doubt. you get caught in the crossfire.

warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, implied self-harm, a bit of a character study.

word count: 1.3k

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

It all had to come to a head, eventually.

The bitter, vitriolic part of Marc always knew that it would happen. That one day, you would see him for who he is—a leech on your life, a waste of space. Someone that would only bring you pain, no matter how much kindness Steven or Jake might show you.

He can sense it as soon he climbs in through their apartment window, retracting the hood and mask of the suit to scan the room. You’re waiting for him on the couch—you always are, no matter how many times he insists you sleep when he goes on patrol—but you don’t make a move towards the first aid kit laying on the coffee table like usual. There’s a distant look in your eyes.

“Baby?” Worry spikes in his chest as he makes his way towards you.

Your breath catches at his voice, and finally, you look up at him. There’s a hesitance there that makes him uneasy. He reaches out towards you, but you both falter when you see the blood staining the white bandages.

It’s a lapse of judgement that causes him to retract the rest of the suit, forgetting about the bruised and bloody state of his body underneath. It all aches so much worse without Khonshu’s powers. He nearly collapses onto the couch but you’re there in a second, supporting him with an arm under his shoulders.

“Marc…”

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Alarm rings clear in your gaze as it roams over him, taking inventory of all the ways he’ll need you to patch him up before either of you can go to sleep tonight.

Distantly, he recalls that you wanted to wake up early tomorrow—a presentation at work. When you’d showed him your slides earlier with such light in your eyes, he couldn’t help but share that excitement too, even if he didn’t understand any of it.

He should just keep the suit on and send you to bed. But you won’t tolerate that—not today, not ever. You said that you couldn’t sleep without knowing that he was okay. On his good days, the sentiment warms him from the inside out.

But tonight?

It takes everything in him to not squirm under your touch. To not find the nearest shadow and hide there until all his injuries have scarred over, and his mind settles into something less agitated.

His muscles flex with uneasiness, and you’re too perceptive for your own good. Your brows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It comes out sharper than he expected.

And that confirms it for both of you: tonight is not a good night. Tonight is actually a very bad fucking night and it flares in Marc’s chest, in his words, in the annoyance that is sending him off the deep end.

“Would you like me to take over?” Steven, ever-patient, ever-kind, only grates on Marc’s nerves. He swears through gritted teeth. You tense from beside him.

When this happens, you know to give Marc some space to himself to decompress. He’s never told you what exactly sets him off because it’s never just one thing. It’s doing sloppy work on their patrols, not getting there in time before someone gets hurt, allowing himself to get beat up just to hear the blood rushing in his ears.

It’s crawling back to you in pieces, knowing that it breaks your heart to see him this way, and still letting you put him back together.

The self-disgust wretches him away from your touch and you startle, automatically reaching out again only for him to flinch back.

“It’s okay,” you try, but he scoffs. “Please, just sit down?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Marc.” You aren’t letting up, tone soft as you speak to him, but he can hear the exhaustion underneath. It’s not just from tonight, he knows—he asks too much of you. Of course, you’re tired of him. Isn’t this how he ruined things last time, too?

“Don’t.” He turns away, limping towards the kitchen with no real goal in mind. After a pause, your footsteps quietly follow him.

You should know better than to keep trying. Maybe you would, if he hadn’t worn you down so much.

“Take a break, hombre.”

God, shut the fuck up, Jake.

“All I want is to help—”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? All he does is take and take and take, until you’re nothing but bones in his dust. You’d do anything for him, and he wishes you were less kind for your own sake.

A bitter laugh erupts from his throat and before he can stop it, his voice is scathing. “If Layla were here—”

“DON’T.”

The word thunders in his head, so forceful that he can’t tell if it was Steven or Jake. They buzz in the background, begging, demanding for control, but his wounds burn. They burn and his mind is paralyzed with anger (“It’s fear, you’re just afraid—“) and his fists ache for release and this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Fighting. Fleeing. Why do you bother with him? You can’t reason with a bull.

When Marc finally focuses back on you, his blood turns to ice. He's spoken about Layla before, telling you about their relationship, why they fell apart. Once, and only once, did you admit to being insecure in comparison to her.

You called yourself a downgrade. Marc fucked the word out of your vocabulary.

But now your expression is the same as it was that night, and it’d yank him into action if the rational part of his brain were still functional. You're frozen in place, tears welling in your eyes that you try to hide by turning away from him. It’s too late, though. The image of your face, contorted with hurt, is carved into his memory, right beside what he had told you in assurance: I don’t want you to be like her. I love you for you.

Marc needs to say something, anything. He needs to take it back. He needs to turn back time, and cut off his tongue.

But nothing comes out. Even as you glance back at him, a glimmer of hope in your gaze that he might be a better man than he is, he has nothing to give you.

All he does is watch as that hope is snuffed out by his silence, and your shoulders fall, defeated.

“I—” You’re speaking through lead, and every sound seems painful. You can’t even look at him as you shake your head, trying to get a handle on yourself. “I—I need to go.”

You should. He can’t be the partner you need right now, and staying might only make things worse. If he hurts you, more than he already has—he clenches his jaw. The thought makes his hands shake.

You shouldn’t. It’s the middle of the night, and even if he just came back from patrol, Marc knows exactly what kind of vermin might still be wandering the streets. You won’t want him to watch over you; he’d just have to pray that nothing bad happens.

It’s ultimately not up to him. You move quietly around him in order to grab a sweater (one of yours, he’d realize later, there’s probably no comfort in one of his own anymore—) before slipping on your shoes. If Steven or Jake are trying to talk to him, none of it gets through. His whole body is numb.

The sound of the door unlocking is like a gunshot. It jolts Marc just enough to know that this is his last chance to stop you, but he doesn’t.

His gaze stays steady on the floor, and you leave without another word.

[sarahghetti]

FEN U ARE ALWAYS TOO KIND 😭💕💕💕

I have some weird eating things as well, and so writing this piece was really comforting in a way--I'm glad that it connected with you too!!

let it out, let it in; m.k.

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

summary: how the boys support you through disordered eating.

warnings: disordered eating, body insecurity, mentions of food, hurt and comfort.

word count: 1.9k

notes: disordered eating looks different from person to person, and so I've tried to keep these headcanons as general as possible while also drawing from personal experiences. please heed the warnings, and take care of yourselves 💕

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

they’re too perceptive for their own good—maybe you keep declining food, have lied one too many times that you’ve already eaten or aren’t hungry—but they get a suspicion about your habits before you open up to them about it.

“you feeling alright?” jake frowns at your plate, still mostly full even though he’s finishing up. you shrug, trying to appear nonchalant.

“still full from breakfast, I guess.”

marc is quick to chime in. “she barely ate anything this morning.”

jake hums, chewing slowly to give them some time to think. they don’t tend to hide their internal conversations from you, though to be frank—they don’t know how to bring it up. they’ve never had to deal with something like this before.

the worry tightens in their chest, but no one has any suggestions. you swallow uneasily, and he pretends to not notice you squirming in your seat. whatever it is, now is clearly not the time to talk about it.

so instead, jake just smiles kindly at you, nodding. “okay, then.”

steven reads. he’s read tombs and textbooks and has an encyclopaedias’ worth of knowledge in his head, and loves to tell you about his newest discoveries just as much as you love seeing his eyes light up with wonder.

but when they first start to suspect that something is wrong, he starts a little collection on body image as well—the ways that insecurity can affect someone’s thoughts, signs of disordered eating, how to support a loved one when they’re struggling.

while steven shares the information with the others through many mirror discussions, it’s ultimately decided that he’s the one who should talk to you about their concerns.

it’s a quiet night. you’re curled up on steven like a cat, head resting on his chest as the credits to a movie roll on the television in front of you. you should probably start getting ready for bed, but his arm is so warm around your waist that you have half a mind to just fall asleep on the couch.

“I love you.” everything about him is soft as he turns to you, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. “you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“of course,” you reply, laughing a little at the seriousness of his tone. “what’s this about?”

when he holds your gaze, eyes warm as they are sad, you realize—they know. they know, and the embarrassment lumps in your throat, it’s so stupid—

steven doesn’t let your mind spiral any further, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“it’s okay, love. you don’t have to say anything right now.” his lips move gently against your hair. your heart might beat its way out of your chest. “all of us. any of us. whenever you’re ready, we’ll be here, yeah?”

they hold true to those words; they don’t pressure you after that conversation with steven, being as understanding and caring as they’ve ever been as they give you the space to work through things on your own.

when you finally open up to them about your struggles, it’s both terrifying and relieving. you’ve had to hide from them for so long—the weight lifts off your back as you speak, and even though it’s marc who holds you when tears start to form in your eyes, you feel all their love surround you.

of course, it’s not perfect right off the bat.

marc is hypervigilant, and sometimes goes a little overboard in trying to make sure nothing triggers you.

steven frets a lot, and you feel his not-so-secret glances towards you whenever you pause during a meal.

jake is a big words of affirmations guy, and has to consciously remind himself that even positive comments on how you look can be detrimental sometimes.

but they’re always trying to be better in supporting you, and eventually, it becomes second nature for them.

cooking is one of marc’s love languages. you feel the guilt settle in your stomach whenever you decline something that he’s lovingly made for you, but he knows better than to take it personally.

it’s a difficult conversation, but marc makes you tell him of any food rules you might have—what you will and won’t eat, your preferred methods of preparation. your face might burn furiously, admitting them aloud, but he doesn’t judge you at all, only listening intently to make sure he doesn’t miss anything.

he makes sure that the kitchen is always stocked with your safe foods and won’t even hesitate to pivot on what he’s making if you tell him that it’s a bad day.

“sorry,” you mumble as marc pulls out the necessary ingredients, making room on the counter beside the actual dinner he had planned. you can’t bring yourself to look at him, but he casually waves off your embarrassment.

“don’t be.” he gives one last look at the spread in front of him. “this is everything, right?”

you nod, still facing the ground, and he hums triumphantly. it’s a surprise when his hands suddenly grip your waist, lifting you into the air, and you yelp as you reach out to steady yourself on his shoulders.

“marc—!”

“I’ve got you.” he places you on the dining table, giving your thigh a reassuring pat before turning back. “keep me company as I cook?”

well, you would’ve agreed without the manhandling, and you open your mouth to tell him that, but then you realize his intent—up on the table, you have a clear view of the counter and stovetop. you’ll be able to watch everything he does, and you won’t have to worry about there being too much or too little of anything.

his consideration makes your retort die on your tongue. if marc notices, he doesn’t mention it, only raising an eyebrow as he waits for your response.

the corner of your lips tugs upward. “of course.”

steven gently encourages you to talk to someone about your issues if you aren’t seeing one already.

the boys started seeing a therapist a few months back (mostly for marc’s benefit), and he notes how helpful it’s been for them, just having someone give another perspective on things.

if you’re nervous about anything, he assuages you by opening up about their own experiences—what each session is like, how they knew their therapist was right for them.

he kind of. really gets into helping you find the right one.

steven’s got his reading glasses on as he peers down at his laptop, scrolling slowly through a list of headshots and short biographies of therapists in london so that you can read through them. there’s several piles of pamphlets scattered across his desk, and a notebook scrawled with his handwriting beside him.

“what about him?” he gestures to one of them, and to be honest, you’re not sure what to glean from some dude’s picture.

“I mean, I guess he looks fine?”

he jots something down and you make an indignant noise. from what he’s told you, that’s a thing that happens in therapy a lot, but it still makes you burn with curiosity.

“you can always switch therapists if you don’t get along,” steven reminds you. at your pointed gaze towards his notebook, he slides it over so you can see that he’s just crossed out the guy’s name. “but you should feel some kind of connection before going to meet ‘em. wouldn’t want to spill your guts to a complete stranger, would you?”

“won’t they be a stranger regardless?”

“well, yes, but—” the cursor dances across the screen as he speaks with all the crispness of a judge on a cooking show. “—personally, I think this guy looks funny, and she looks like a librarian who’d shush you for breathing too loud, and he doesn’t seem to believe in the oxford comma—”

“okay!” you laugh, and he beams at the sound. “yeah, okay, I get it. we can keep going, then.”

steven meets your gaze with a grin—two lovers on a mission. “ab-sol-utely.”

once you finally settle on someone, jake drives you to and from every appointment, no questions asked.

one hiccup is that there are mirrors all over the flat. of course there are—it makes it easier for the boys to talk to each other.

but that does mean that you tend to see your reflection wherever you turn: in the washroom, beside the front door, on a fridge magnet.

even if you don’t mention it to them, they figure it out anyways. the boys are the boys, after all.

jake’s never been one for subtlety. his arms wrap around your torso as you stand in the living room, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “do you want to cover the mirrors?”

“what?”

“the mirrors.” his eyes flicker to yours in the reflection of the one in front of you, holding your gaze even as you shift uneasily. “do they bother you?”

so they have noticed. you twist your face while you think, knowing better than to try and downplay your emotions. the mirrors definitely don’t help, but…

 “don’t you guys need them?”

jake snorts, shaking his head. “couldn’t get these pendejos out of my head even if I tried.”

despite his lightheartedness, you furrow your brow. he presses a kiss to your cheek.

“we’ll be fine,” he states, then slips away to grab the discarded cloth at the foot of the mirror. he drapes it over the frame and immediately moves along to his next target. a tiny square one is plucked off the wall and tucked under his arm without ceremony.

you trail after him at he picks away at the flat. “you don’t have to do this now, it’s alright.”

“why not?” he clicks the tri-mirror shut. “still worried about us, querida?”

“well, I mean—”

his voice shifts, soft accent disappearing into something equally as familiar. they haven’t shifted—it’s still jake in front of you, but when he speaks, steven’s voice is what comes out. “seriously, tell her we don’t mind.”

you stop in your tracks. jake’s skill in impersonation is unparalleled, and it surprises you every time. he continues, this time, marc’s dry wit seeping through. “if anyone’s going to be bothered by the lack of mirrors, it’ll be mr. knight over here.”

your laugh catches you off guard. jake grins at his alters’ antics, still crystal clear in his mind even when he’s pulling you into a hug.

“you see? we don’t need mirrors.” he taps a finger at his temple. “now, let’s finish up, hm?”

because at the end of the day, the boys are there for you.

they’ll never want to make you feel like a burden because of your issues, and will always do their best to support you.

they might mess up at times, but there’s never a doubt in your mind that they care.

and even on your worst days, when you feel out-of-control with your habits, they’re waiting with warm arms and kind words. your wonderful, sweet boys—making living so much easier for you, and hopeful for your future to come.

[sarahghetti]

TRIPLE FRONTIER (2019) + letterboxd reviews (insp.) (insp.)

[sarahghetti]

tysm 💕 I wasn't sure if people would vibe with this idea, so I'm so glad to hear that you liked it! I just love the thought of the boys having to put up with spidey-humour--like, jake and steven would probably go right along with it, but poor straight-man marc couldn't even escape it if he wanted to, they share a gd body 😭😭

direction to perfection; j.l.

pairing: jake lockley x reader, marc and steven are briefly alluded to but do not make an appearance

summary: one day, your vigilante lifestyle leads to you to crossing paths with a moon-serving weirdo in white bandages. jake promises that he won't get in the way, but there's something about his smirk that has your spidey-sense tingling, and what do you know—

he sets a building on fire.

it's not supposed to be romantic.

warnings: depictions of fighting and violence, injuries, hurt and comfort, reader is a spider-person and thus has a spider-person sense of humour😭.

word count: 3.8k

notes: part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'bonfire”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You have a love-hate relationship with your spidey-sense—it’s useful enough to give you a heads-up, but it’s not exactly a get-out-of-danger-free card.

It kicks in as you’re soaring through the air, an errant pulse in your veins that tells you one thing: MOVE. But there’s no time—before you even manage to lift your web-shooter, one of Doc Ock’s mechanical arms whips around and collides hard against your torso. For a moment, you feel your ribs crack underneath the metal, the sharp pains accompanied by a real stupid thought, even by your standards: guess I’m going to call in sick tomorrow—

—and then you finally hit the brick wall behind you. The air is ripped from your lungs and your thoughts short-circuit into nothingness. New York’s evening rush hour is drowned out by high-pitched ringing. If it weren’t for your wallcrawling ability, you’d be falling forty stories down onto the traffic below. Instead, rooted into the small crater you’ve made into an office building, all you can do is languish in what surely must be multiple broken bones and a slightly bruised ego for not being able to dodge a hit that you saw coming.

Speaking of—there’s another one heading towards you right now.

You leap upwards without a second thought, just narrowly avoiding becoming a shitty claw-machine prize as the arm lodges into the wall where your head used to be. Spots dance across your vision and you groan—your body does not want to move.

Suspended between two buildings, Doc Ock’s mechanical arms dig into concrete and brick as she follows you up. Her voice is deceptively empathetic. “Down so soon, little spider? I expected more from you!”

One of the arms rears back again but distantly, there’s the clench of a trigger—and it gets pinned behind her by a golden grappling hook.

The wire grows taut then there he is, using the reeling mechanism to lunge upwards. All the momentum is channeled into his crescent blade as Jake jams it between the plates of the trapped arm; it jerks like a wounded animal, suddenly uncoordinated and stiff. When it lashes out again, he easily dodges and jumps across the buildings onto the fire escape next to you.

“Mierda! You okay?”

Glowing white eyes, wide with concern—the sight is enough to shake you out of your concussive stupor. Jake extends a hand, and you take it readily, allowing him to help you up onto the rickety platform.

“Just peachy,” you wheeze as you lean almost your entire body weight against him.

This was supposed to be a simple mission. It wasn’t even supposed to be a mission in the first place, but one detained drug dealer led to another, which led to a smuggler and a mercenary and a goddamn gym teacheruntil you were faced with a whole corrupt laboratory that tied back to Doc Ock’s operations.

Jake got looped in somewhere between the mercenary and the gym teacher, apparently answering some kind of divine calling of his own. Egyptian god of the moon? Protecting travelers of the night? You just call the people you save New Yorkers, no fancy labelling here.

But you’re not so prideful as to turn away help when you need it, especially when it comes gift-wrapped in superhuman strength and a bullet-proof cape. Even though you catch him giving himself these looks in the windows you pass by or having whole conversations to himself under his breath—you’ve seen weirder.

Like now: There’s a clear conflict happening in—on?—Doc Ock. The damaged arm flails wildly through the air, and the other three can’t seem to decide between trying to calm it down, retreat, or kill you.

Those white eyes turn to you. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot her?”

“No!” Now you remember why you were initially wary of him—because when you first met, he was holding one of his blades to a lackey’s throat. Danger, danger! You didn’t even need your spidey-sense to tell you that; he wears the warning like a badge of honour. “We just need to subdue her till the cops come. Follow my lead.”

Jake gives you a mock salute. Fortunately, Doc Ock’s lab was deserted—except for her—when you crashed the place. Whatever supersecret bioweapon she’s cooking up will still be waiting for you to destroy it after you capture her.

With just one press of a button, you’re soaring back into action. The arms seem to have coordinated themselves again—having decided to kill you, how lucky—but so have you and Jake. One lunges towards you, and you pull upwards on your web, going feet over head as you as you flip backwards out of the way.

In that split-second moment when you’re fully upside-down, your arm extends downwards and thwip!—your web attaches to the titanium plating. The world realigns itself, and your momentum carries you in an arc below the arm, dragging it behind you as you continue in your original direction.

As soon as you land on the side of the opposing building, you yank hard. Immediately, your other hand comes up to shoot a dozen or so webs to attach the claw onto the wall. It won’t last—the brick is already crumbling under the force—but it gives Jake enough time to shake off Doc Ock’s attention and join you.

Closer than you were before, you can see just how much force it takes for him to drive his blade through the circuitry. Sparks burst like little fireworks around his hand. He makes it look easy, but a shudder crawls down your spine—you just know what he’s capable of.

You both leap out of the way as the arm thrashes erratically; Doc Ock cries out in frustration. That’s two arms down, and two that are busy suspending her in the air. You’ll have to catch her once you take out another one, but that’s no biggie.

“Jake!” You gesture towards the nearest arm, and he nods in understanding. Despite the pain radiating through your limbs, you grin. For all his snark and murderous tendencies (which you hope are just a joke), he’s a half-decent partner.

It’s too bad, then, that Doc Ock doesn’t seem to care about how good of a time you’re having. Her mouth twists into a snarl, and in a blink of an eye, she’s scrambling away. Retreating? Your poor, bruised head is hopeful for the night to end.

In a way, it’s right—she is trying to get away from you. Unfortunately, it also recognizes that she’s retracing your steps, right back to the lab where you first found her.

“Oh, damn it!”

Your injuries and Jake’s limited modes of superhuman transport make it impossible to gain any real ground as you chase after her. Doc Ock climbs through her shattered window half a minute before you do, and even if your conscious mind doesn’t realize it, some part of you does—it’s an ambush.

You dive to the ground just as a mini fridge is thrown in your direction. Pain shoots down your side, your vision blurring with tears. The sheer wave of nausea that washes over you makes your mouth water and fuck, you might actually puke like this.

There’s something else coming but you can’t do anything other than half-heartedly roll behind the nearest object. The workbench shields you from—what, a chair? You aren’t afforded anymore time to think about it because she rips off the counter next, several important-looking valves raining down around you. Through the noise, you just barely manage to pick up a quiet hissing in the air as you try to gather your bearings.

A line of workbenches down the centre of the room, an aisle on either side.

On the right: sinks and fume hoods.

On the left: whiteboards.

Directly in front of you: the absolute bane of—and possible end to—your existence, holding up that chunk of black countertop as if it were a hammer and you are a nail.

You brace yourself for the hit, but it never comes. There’s a surprised yelp from above you, and your peer through your arms at just the right time to see Jake land a brutal kick into Doc Ock’s chest, sending her flying. You don’t see her land, but you do hearit; equipment crashes to the ground, glass shattering on the linoleum.

With a hand from Jake, you’re back on your feet. Doc Ock is reeling at the far end of the room. The walls are littered with long, deep gashes—some from your initial confrontation with her, some likely from her mechanical arms flailing from Jake’s hit. Several of the fume hoods are missing their windows entirely, which definitely bodes ill considering that there are still chemicals in some of them.

Gritting your teeth, you somehow manage to get the words out, “Just stand down, Olivia!”

A hand is clutched at her side, and some petty part of you hopes that her ribs are broken too. “This isn’t over.”

You gesture to her mechanical arms, two of which are still malfunctioning like headless chickens, then to yourselves, who are (mostly) in one piece. “Well, it sure is about to be.”

She raises her eyebrows at Jake. “You raid a Spirit Halloween and suddenly think you can defeat me?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just take fashion advice from someone cosplaying as an octopus.”

Jake leans towards you. “Do you always talk this much?”

At that, Doc Ock’s eyes narrow, filled with determination. She’s not backing down this time, which means neither can you.

You both ready yourselves like you have countless times before, straightening your stance and setting your shoulders back. But Jake doesn’t show the same patience. No—he sees the remaining mechanical arms twitch in preparation, and a blade is already leaving his hand with deadly-precise aim.

Wait, wait, the hissing sound—the gas—

“Get down!” You ram your body into Jake’s, bringing you both to the ground as the blade makes contact with the titanium, sparks flying out and—

BOOM.

It’s like your heart stops.

For several moments, you don’t register anything at all. You aren’t even sure if you’re still breathing.

Slowly, your senses return. The scent of burning plastic invades your nostrils—even the air tastes like it too. Something’s landed on top of you, pinning you down with a surprising amount of strength. Warm and sturdy and pressing into all the wrong places, but you can’t even hear your own whimpering—there’s nothing but ringing in your ears.

Are your eyes closed? You can’t bring yourself to check. All you can do is try to remember how to live, and figure out what the hell is happening.

Your spidey-sense has gone quiet. That’s—that’s good. Hopefully. Or maybe it’s just been knocked out of you by the blast. You let that last thought get washed away into the muddled mess of your head; you could probably use a bit of positive thinking right now.

Everything hurts. That’s been true for the past hour, really, but there’s no gut-wrenchingly painful burn anywhere on your body like what you expected from a lab explosion. The closest thing is just that warmth against your back, in a thick arm across your chest, and encircled around your wrist, where it lingers along your pulse point.

Something brushes up against your cheek, roughly textured but trying to be so, so gentle. Words start to pierce through the hearing damage. “—estás bien, te tengo. No te preocupes, estás bien.”

“Jake?” Your voice comes out small and tinny, unsure of how loud to speak when everything sounds like it’s underwater. You receive an affirmative rumble, and the tension seeps out of your limbs, just a tad.

Tentatively, you open your eyes. And there’s—nothing. Just a white sheet of fabric covering your entire field of view. Jake huffs out a laugh at your confusion before finally standing up, his cape pulling back from where it was draped on top of you.

“Oh.”

It’s like a bomb went off. Nearly every surface has been scorched black, save for the perfectly untouched flooring around you where Jake shielded you both from the blast. Any equipment in the room has been reduced to pieces—if not completely combusted into ash and soot—and fires still linger despite the efforts of what’s left of the sprinkler system.

No sign of Doc Ock anywhere—she must’ve gotten away. Jake lets out a long string of curses under his breath, then finishes it off with an eloquent: “Fuck.”

The fire alarm is incessant, and the sprinklers have all but drenched your suit. If you had half a working brain left, you’d feel the shivers wracking your body and realize that you’re still bleeding out in several different places, but the only thing that crosses your mind is how tired you are.

You throw your mask off with a groan. The sirens in the distance only add to your growing headache. So close, you were so close this time.

“Come on.” Jake’s stands over you, mask retracted, and you can see the grimace on his face from how the mission turned out. Wordlessly, he offers to help you up, and is promptly ignored. He keeps his hand extended towards you, shaking it a little for emphasis, but you refuse to budge.

That is, until your mind so helpfully strays and wonders—how big was the blast?

Your eyes widen, and your body jerks upright as though electrocuted. Oh, God—you didn’t see anyone else in the lab other than Doc Ock when you arrived, but what about the other floors? What about the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, who might’ve had glass and debris rained down upon them when the windows were blown out?

It takes several tries to get to your feet, none of which are entirely successful because Jake has to intervene halfway through to hold you upright. Your second wind catches him off-guard and his brows furrow as you try to leap back into action. “Whoa—talk to me, bug. What’s happening?”

“Need to—” You try to shrug him off. His grip loosens for all of a moment before you’re stumbling again, and then he returns, as firm and steady as ever. “Was anyone hurt?”

“You.”

“Not what I meant,” you scowl. It’s thoroughly ineffective. The only response you get is a subtle tilting of his head, then a loss of his undivided attention as he listens to something—someone—in the room that you aren’t privy to.

His gaze flickers back to you, marginally softer. “No one else was hurt. You need to rest.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. What’s the point of superhealing if you can’t bounce back after a fight? This time when you struggle against him, Jake lets you go, crossing his arms as you limp around the room.

Fortunately, most of the smoke is being pulled out the windows; what’s left is enough to burn and scrape down your larynx, but you push through it. Doc Ock has to have left some kind of trace—if not during her escape, then in the work she left behind. But kicking around in the ashes yields nothing. There’s no conveniently placed folder full of evil plans, or vial labelled SUPER SECRET BIOWEAPON (ONLY COPY - NO NEED TO SEARCH ANY FURTHER).

Jake sighs. “What are you looking for?”

What are you looking for? The building is still on fire, for Christ’s sake—you should have been gone ten minutes ago. Still, your stubbornness is steadfast. “There has to be—something.”

He sweeps out an arm, gesturing to the resounding nothing around you. With wet curls stuck to his forehead, his tone veers on sardonic. “Oh? Your little spider-sense tell you that?”

“Spidey, and—and it’s not a radar, I can’t just turn it on,” you bristle. His ensuing snicker lands all wrong, and your mouth twists into a scowl. “Funny, is it? Blowing up a building?”

“Hey.” The lightness disappears from his expression. “How was I supposed to know about the gas leak?”

It’s a valid question. Still, the anger in you can’t help but flare up anyways, running on his words as if they were diesel. You bite back a retort at the last second, which isn’t enough because the resulting silence is accusatory in and of itself.

He takes a step towards you, chin raised as water continues to rain down on you both. Solid, sturdy—unyielding. The sight twists your stomach into knots, but you stand your ground, placing your hands on your hips even though it pulls painfully at a handful of your muscles. “Shit happens, bug. It’s no one’s fault—well, maybe a bit my fault, but—”

“I had her.” It’s a blatant lie, but full of conviction as it leaves your lips.

He’s nothing short of incredulous. “Did you?”

“Yes—”

Faster than your hazy mind can register it, his hand shoves at your shoulder. Not hard, but it didn’t need to be—you practically crumple, hands scrambling to find something to hold on to before you land flat on your ass, but Jake wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you.

You swat at his chest. You hate that his warmth is familiar. “Let me go.”

He counters: “What’s wrong?”

“You, asshole.”

“’m the bad guy now? You want a fight that bad?” His eyebrows cock upwards, regarding you like some unruly child.

He’s being inflammatory on purpose and it’s working. You’re an elastic band in his fingers, one that he keeps stretching and stretching and stretching until you snap. “I don’t want a fight, I want a—”

Win, you almost admit. You wanted a win, after all this time you’ve spent chasing after Doc Ock. Countless sleepless nights and lackeys thrown behind bars, only to fail in the final moments when it really mattered. The realization is debilitating, even in the confines of your own head, and so you lash out again, distracting yourself from the bitterness on your tongue by spewing it out instead.

“We’re not all out for blood, you know.” Then, because you can’t help yourself— “I’m not you, Jake.”

“Is that what this is about?” His hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back, but you manage to catch it. Of course you do, with every sense on high alert, blood rushing in your ears. “You mad ‘cause I’m a killer?”

Something dangerous underlines his tone when he says the word and you flinch, trying to create some distance between the two of you on instinct. Jake doesn’t grant you that—his other arm comes to hold you as well, pulling you in even though you think you might suffocate in his presence.

“You knew this from the start. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to turn me in now.”

“Maybe I should,” you say in a rush, gaze steely as it meets his. For all your superhuman powers, none give you the ability to read what’s going on behind the storm in his eyes. You’re so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, hear the words in his mouth before he even says them.

“You’re the one with the spidey-sense.” His voice is low. Somewhere in the back of your mind, through the shame and anger and desperation—you note that he’s called it by the right name this time. “You tell me. Am I a threat?”

Your heart is beating a mile a minute and your stomach is all fluttery and weird but—no. There’s no tingling at the back of your neck, no hair-raising along your arms. Petulance makes you want to lie and say yes anyways, but you can’t bring yourself to form the words. It just… isn’t true. And for some reason, you have feeling that this would be going too far, even as a rash potshot.

When you don’t respond, Jake’s expression softens, the lines of his face giving way to an understanding look that makes you feel smaller than his antagonism ever could. The fires have mostly died down now, but warm reds and oranges still flicker along the side of his jaw, in corners of his irises. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a lifeline, keeping you from drifting out to sea.

“Just—thought I finally caught her,” you mumble, and he pulls you the last few inches into a proper hug. Exhausted, you let yourself melt into his arms, the adrenaline beginning to seep away despite the cacophony of sirens in the background. “It’s been so long, Jake.”

“I know.” He doesn’t, not really—you haven’t divulged just how far this rivalry goes, but you don’t have to think very hard to realize that he’s speaking from experiences long before he ever met you. “We’ll get her next time.”

You snort softly into his suit. “What, you staying?”

It’s silly, the tinge of hopefulness that laces your voice just minutes after you’ve essentially accosted him. But Jake’s grinning when you pull back to look at him, all boyish confidence, and you nearly forget to breathe. “I could be convinced.”

Wait—what? He’s thrown you off-kilter. You—you didn’t think he’d actually— “Well—!”

At your stammering, he lets out a laugh, throwing back his head. It’s a wonderful sound, and when you flick his arm in response, there’s no real force to it.

“Well, you know what they say,” you sniff, trying to maintain your composure. “Friends close, enemies closer, and all that.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely. The effect is severely diminished by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Keeping one arm around you, he starts to lead you towards an exit. “Don’t know how you’ll handle it—your spidey-sense going off all the time with me around.”

On the way out, he picks up your mask from where you discarded it, slapping it a few times against his leg to brush off the soot and ash. His own mask and hood come up to envelope his face as he hands it to you. Distantly, you wonder how his glowing white eyes would look in the dark. Probably a bit stupid, is your conclusion.

“I’m sure I can manage,” you sigh, and once you slip on your mask, he gives you a little pat on the head before you can bat him away. Jake leans away enough to avoid your attempts to tug at his hood, but at the next opportunity, he reaches over again, the little shit, hand drawing in close, and your spidey-sense, superhuman and extraordinary, it’s—

It’s never been quieter.

[sarahghetti]

trying to write this marc fic where you're childhood friends and realized..... he's thirty-eight during the show's events???? (irl oscar was forty-two, forty-three???) y'all how much belief can we suspend because I have no idea if I can personally imagine myself that much older 😭

[sarahghetti]

direction to perfection; j.l.

pairing: jake lockley x reader, marc and steven are briefly alluded to but do not make an appearance

summary: one day, your vigilante lifestyle leads to you to crossing paths with a moon-serving weirdo in white bandages. jake promises that he won't get in the way, but there's something about his smirk that has your spidey-sense tingling, and what do you know—

he sets a building on fire.

it's not supposed to be romantic.

warnings: depictions of fighting and violence, injuries, hurt and comfort, reader is a spider-person and thus has a spider-person sense of humour😭.

word count: 3.8k

notes: part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'bonfire”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You have a love-hate relationship with your spidey-sense—it’s useful enough to give you a heads-up, but it’s not exactly a get-out-of-danger-free card.

It kicks in as you’re soaring through the air, an errant pulse in your veins that tells you one thing: MOVE. But there’s no time—before you even manage to lift your web-shooter, one of Doc Ock’s mechanical arms whips around and collides hard against your torso. For a moment, you feel your ribs crack underneath the metal, the sharp pains accompanied by a real stupid thought, even by your standards: guess I’m going to call in sick tomorrow—

—and then you finally hit the brick wall behind you. The air is ripped from your lungs and your thoughts short-circuit into nothingness. New York’s evening rush hour is drowned out by high-pitched ringing. If it weren’t for your wallcrawling ability, you’d be falling forty stories down onto the traffic below. Instead, rooted into the small crater you’ve made into an office building, all you can do is languish in what surely must be multiple broken bones and a slightly bruised ego for not being able to dodge a hit that you saw coming.

Speaking of—there’s another one heading towards you right now.

You leap upwards without a second thought, just narrowly avoiding becoming a shitty claw-machine prize as the arm lodges into the wall where your head used to be. Spots dance across your vision and you groan—your body does not want to move.

Suspended between two buildings, Doc Ock’s mechanical arms dig into concrete and brick as she follows you up. Her voice is deceptively empathetic. “Down so soon, little spider? I expected more from you!”

One of the arms rears back again but distantly, there’s the clench of a trigger—and it gets pinned behind her by a golden grappling hook.

The wire grows taut then there he is, using the reeling mechanism to lunge upwards. All the momentum is channeled into his crescent blade as Jake jams it between the plates of the trapped arm; it jerks like a wounded animal, suddenly uncoordinated and stiff. When it lashes out again, he easily dodges and jumps across the buildings onto the fire escape next to you.

“Mierda! You okay?”

Glowing white eyes, wide with concern—the sight is enough to shake you out of your concussive stupor. Jake extends a hand, and you take it readily, allowing him to help you up onto the rickety platform.

“Just peachy,” you wheeze as you lean almost your entire body weight against him.

This was supposed to be a simple mission. It wasn’t even supposed to be a mission in the first place, but one detained drug dealer led to another, which led to a smuggler and a mercenary and a goddamn gym teacheruntil you were faced with a whole corrupt laboratory that tied back to Doc Ock’s operations.

Jake got looped in somewhere between the mercenary and the gym teacher, apparently answering some kind of divine calling of his own. Egyptian god of the moon? Protecting travelers of the night? You just call the people you save New Yorkers, no fancy labelling here.

But you’re not so prideful as to turn away help when you need it, especially when it comes gift-wrapped in superhuman strength and a bullet-proof cape. Even though you catch him giving himself these looks in the windows you pass by or having whole conversations to himself under his breath—you’ve seen weirder.

Like now: There’s a clear conflict happening in—on?—Doc Ock. The damaged arm flails wildly through the air, and the other three can’t seem to decide between trying to calm it down, retreat, or kill you.

Those white eyes turn to you. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot her?”

“No!” Now you remember why you were initially wary of him—because when you first met, he was holding one of his blades to a lackey’s throat. Danger, danger! You didn’t even need your spidey-sense to tell you that; he wears the warning like a badge of honour. “We just need to subdue her till the cops come. Follow my lead.”

Jake gives you a mock salute. Fortunately, Doc Ock’s lab was deserted—except for her—when you crashed the place. Whatever supersecret bioweapon she’s cooking up will still be waiting for you to destroy it after you capture her.

With just one press of a button, you’re soaring back into action. The arms seem to have coordinated themselves again—having decided to kill you, how lucky—but so have you and Jake. One lunges towards you, and you pull upwards on your web, going feet over head as you as you flip backwards out of the way.

In that split-second moment when you’re fully upside-down, your arm extends downwards and thwip!—your web attaches to the titanium plating. The world realigns itself, and your momentum carries you in an arc below the arm, dragging it behind you as you continue in your original direction.

As soon as you land on the side of the opposing building, you yank hard. Immediately, your other hand comes up to shoot a dozen or so webs to attach the claw onto the wall. It won’t last—the brick is already crumbling under the force—but it gives Jake enough time to shake off Doc Ock’s attention and join you.

Closer than you were before, you can see just how much force it takes for him to drive his blade through the circuitry. Sparks burst like little fireworks around his hand. He makes it look easy, but a shudder crawls down your spine—you just know what he’s capable of.

You both leap out of the way as the arm thrashes erratically; Doc Ock cries out in frustration. That’s two arms down, and two that are busy suspending her in the air. You’ll have to catch her once you take out another one, but that’s no biggie.

“Jake!” You gesture towards the nearest arm, and he nods in understanding. Despite the pain radiating through your limbs, you grin. For all his snark and murderous tendencies (which you hope are just a joke), he’s a half-decent partner.

It’s too bad, then, that Doc Ock doesn’t seem to care about how good of a time you’re having. Her mouth twists into a snarl, and in a blink of an eye, she’s scrambling away. Retreating? Your poor, bruised head is hopeful for the night to end.

In a way, it’s right—she is trying to get away from you. Unfortunately, it also recognizes that she’s retracing your steps, right back to the lab where you first found her.

“Oh, damn it!”

Your injuries and Jake’s limited modes of superhuman transport make it impossible to gain any real ground as you chase after her. Doc Ock climbs through her shattered window half a minute before you do, and even if your conscious mind doesn’t realize it, some part of you does—it’s an ambush.

You dive to the ground just as a mini fridge is thrown in your direction. Pain shoots down your side, your vision blurring with tears. The sheer wave of nausea that washes over you makes your mouth water and fuck, you might actually puke like this.

There’s something else coming but you can’t do anything other than half-heartedly roll behind the nearest object. The workbench shields you from—what, a chair? You aren’t afforded anymore time to think about it because she rips off the counter next, several important-looking valves raining down around you. Through the noise, you just barely manage to pick up a quiet hissing in the air as you try to gather your bearings.

A line of workbenches down the centre of the room, an aisle on either side.

On the right: sinks and fume hoods.

On the left: whiteboards.

Directly in front of you: the absolute bane of—and possible end to—your existence, holding up that chunk of black countertop as if it were a hammer and you are a nail.

You brace yourself for the hit, but it never comes. There’s a surprised yelp from above you, and your peer through your arms at just the right time to see Jake land a brutal kick into Doc Ock’s chest, sending her flying. You don’t see her land, but you do hearit; equipment crashes to the ground, glass shattering on the linoleum.

With a hand from Jake, you’re back on your feet. Doc Ock is reeling at the far end of the room. The walls are littered with long, deep gashes—some from your initial confrontation with her, some likely from her mechanical arms flailing from Jake’s hit. Several of the fume hoods are missing their windows entirely, which definitely bodes ill considering that there are still chemicals in some of them.

Gritting your teeth, you somehow manage to get the words out, “Just stand down, Olivia!”

A hand is clutched at her side, and some petty part of you hopes that her ribs are broken too. “This isn’t over.”

You gesture to her mechanical arms, two of which are still malfunctioning like headless chickens, then to yourselves, who are (mostly) in one piece. “Well, it sure is about to be.”

She raises her eyebrows at Jake. “You raid a Spirit Halloween and suddenly think you can defeat me?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just take fashion advice from someone cosplaying as an octopus.”

Jake leans towards you. “Do you always talk this much?”

At that, Doc Ock’s eyes narrow, filled with determination. She’s not backing down this time, which means neither can you.

You both ready yourselves like you have countless times before, straightening your stance and setting your shoulders back. But Jake doesn’t show the same patience. No—he sees the remaining mechanical arms twitch in preparation, and a blade is already leaving his hand with deadly-precise aim.

Wait, wait, the hissing sound—the gas—

“Get down!” You ram your body into Jake’s, bringing you both to the ground as the blade makes contact with the titanium, sparks flying out and—

BOOM.

It’s like your heart stops.

For several moments, you don’t register anything at all. You aren’t even sure if you’re still breathing.

Slowly, your senses return. The scent of burning plastic invades your nostrils—even the air tastes like it too. Something’s landed on top of you, pinning you down with a surprising amount of strength. Warm and sturdy and pressing into all the wrong places, but you can’t even hear your own whimpering—there’s nothing but ringing in your ears.

Are your eyes closed? You can’t bring yourself to check. All you can do is try to remember how to live, and figure out what the hell is happening.

Your spidey-sense has gone quiet. That’s—that’s good. Hopefully. Or maybe it’s just been knocked out of you by the blast. You let that last thought get washed away into the muddled mess of your head; you could probably use a bit of positive thinking right now.

Everything hurts. That’s been true for the past hour, really, but there’s no gut-wrenchingly painful burn anywhere on your body like what you expected from a lab explosion. The closest thing is just that warmth against your back, in a thick arm across your chest, and encircled around your wrist, where it lingers along your pulse point.

Something brushes up against your cheek, roughly textured but trying to be so, so gentle. Words start to pierce through the hearing damage. “—estás bien, te tengo. No te preocupes, estás bien.”

“Jake?” Your voice comes out small and tinny, unsure of how loud to speak when everything sounds like it’s underwater. You receive an affirmative rumble, and the tension seeps out of your limbs, just a tad.

Tentatively, you open your eyes. And there’s—nothing. Just a white sheet of fabric covering your entire field of view. Jake huffs out a laugh at your confusion before finally standing up, his cape pulling back from where it was draped on top of you.

“Oh.”

It’s like a bomb went off. Nearly every surface has been scorched black, save for the perfectly untouched flooring around you where Jake shielded you both from the blast. Any equipment in the room has been reduced to pieces—if not completely combusted into ash and soot—and fires still linger despite the efforts of what’s left of the sprinkler system.

No sign of Doc Ock anywhere—she must’ve gotten away. Jake lets out a long string of curses under his breath, then finishes it off with an eloquent: “Fuck.”

The fire alarm is incessant, and the sprinklers have all but drenched your suit. If you had half a working brain left, you’d feel the shivers wracking your body and realize that you’re still bleeding out in several different places, but the only thing that crosses your mind is how tired you are.

You throw your mask off with a groan. The sirens in the distance only add to your growing headache. So close, you were so close this time.

“Come on.” Jake’s stands over you, mask retracted, and you can see the grimace on his face from how the mission turned out. Wordlessly, he offers to help you up, and is promptly ignored. He keeps his hand extended towards you, shaking it a little for emphasis, but you refuse to budge.

That is, until your mind so helpfully strays and wonders—how big was the blast?

Your eyes widen, and your body jerks upright as though electrocuted. Oh, God—you didn’t see anyone else in the lab other than Doc Ock when you arrived, but what about the other floors? What about the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, who might’ve had glass and debris rained down upon them when the windows were blown out?

It takes several tries to get to your feet, none of which are entirely successful because Jake has to intervene halfway through to hold you upright. Your second wind catches him off-guard and his brows furrow as you try to leap back into action. “Whoa—talk to me, bug. What’s happening?”

“Need to—” You try to shrug him off. His grip loosens for all of a moment before you’re stumbling again, and then he returns, as firm and steady as ever. “Was anyone hurt?”

“You.”

“Not what I meant,” you scowl. It’s thoroughly ineffective. The only response you get is a subtle tilting of his head, then a loss of his undivided attention as he listens to something—someone—in the room that you aren’t privy to.

His gaze flickers back to you, marginally softer. “No one else was hurt. You need to rest.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. What’s the point of superhealing if you can’t bounce back after a fight? This time when you struggle against him, Jake lets you go, crossing his arms as you limp around the room.

Fortunately, most of the smoke is being pulled out the windows; what’s left is enough to burn and scrape down your larynx, but you push through it. Doc Ock has to have left some kind of trace—if not during her escape, then in the work she left behind. But kicking around in the ashes yields nothing. There’s no conveniently placed folder full of evil plans, or vial labelled SUPER SECRET BIOWEAPON (ONLY COPY - NO NEED TO SEARCH ANY FURTHER).

Jake sighs. “What are you looking for?”

What are you looking for? The building is still on fire, for Christ’s sake—you should have been gone ten minutes ago. Still, your stubbornness is steadfast. “There has to be—something.”

He sweeps out an arm, gesturing to the resounding nothing around you. With wet curls stuck to his forehead, his tone veers on sardonic. “Oh? Your little spider-sense tell you that?”

“Spidey, and—and it’s not a radar, I can’t just turn it on,” you bristle. His ensuing snicker lands all wrong, and your mouth twists into a scowl. “Funny, is it? Blowing up a building?”

“Hey.” The lightness disappears from his expression. “How was I supposed to know about the gas leak?”

It’s a valid question. Still, the anger in you can’t help but flare up anyways, running on his words as if they were diesel. You bite back a retort at the last second, which isn’t enough because the resulting silence is accusatory in and of itself.

He takes a step towards you, chin raised as water continues to rain down on you both. Solid, sturdy—unyielding. The sight twists your stomach into knots, but you stand your ground, placing your hands on your hips even though it pulls painfully at a handful of your muscles. “Shit happens, bug. It’s no one’s fault—well, maybe a bit my fault, but—”

“I had her.” It’s a blatant lie, but full of conviction as it leaves your lips.

He’s nothing short of incredulous. “Did you?”

“Yes—”

Faster than your hazy mind can register it, his hand shoves at your shoulder. Not hard, but it didn’t need to be—you practically crumple, hands scrambling to find something to hold on to before you land flat on your ass, but Jake wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you.

You swat at his chest. You hate that his warmth is familiar. “Let me go.”

He counters: “What’s wrong?”

“You, asshole.”

“’m the bad guy now? You want a fight that bad?” His eyebrows cock upwards, regarding you like some unruly child.

He’s being inflammatory on purpose and it’s working. You’re an elastic band in his fingers, one that he keeps stretching and stretching and stretching until you snap. “I don’t want a fight, I want a—”

Win, you almost admit. You wanted a win, after all this time you’ve spent chasing after Doc Ock. Countless sleepless nights and lackeys thrown behind bars, only to fail in the final moments when it really mattered. The realization is debilitating, even in the confines of your own head, and so you lash out again, distracting yourself from the bitterness on your tongue by spewing it out instead.

“We’re not all out for blood, you know.” Then, because you can’t help yourself— “I’m not you, Jake.”

“Is that what this is about?” His hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back, but you manage to catch it. Of course you do, with every sense on high alert, blood rushing in your ears. “You mad ‘cause I’m a killer?”

Something dangerous underlines his tone when he says the word and you flinch, trying to create some distance between the two of you on instinct. Jake doesn’t grant you that—his other arm comes to hold you as well, pulling you in even though you think you might suffocate in his presence.

“You knew this from the start. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to turn me in now.”

“Maybe I should,” you say in a rush, gaze steely as it meets his. For all your superhuman powers, none give you the ability to read what’s going on behind the storm in his eyes. You’re so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, hear the words in his mouth before he even says them.

“You’re the one with the spidey-sense.” His voice is low. Somewhere in the back of your mind, through the shame and anger and desperation—you note that he’s called it by the right name this time. “You tell me. Am I a threat?”

Your heart is beating a mile a minute and your stomach is all fluttery and weird but—no. There’s no tingling at the back of your neck, no hair-raising along your arms. Petulance makes you want to lie and say yes anyways, but you can’t bring yourself to form the words. It just… isn’t true. And for some reason, you have feeling that this would be going too far, even as a rash potshot.

When you don’t respond, Jake’s expression softens, the lines of his face giving way to an understanding look that makes you feel smaller than his antagonism ever could. The fires have mostly died down now, but warm reds and oranges still flicker along the side of his jaw, in corners of his irises. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a lifeline, keeping you from drifting out to sea.

“Just—thought I finally caught her,” you mumble, and he pulls you the last few inches into a proper hug. Exhausted, you let yourself melt into his arms, the adrenaline beginning to seep away despite the cacophony of sirens in the background. “It’s been so long, Jake.”

“I know.” He doesn’t, not really—you haven’t divulged just how far this rivalry goes, but you don’t have to think very hard to realize that he’s speaking from experiences long before he ever met you. “We’ll get her next time.”

You snort softly into his suit. “What, you staying?”

It’s silly, the tinge of hopefulness that laces your voice just minutes after you’ve essentially accosted him. But Jake’s grinning when you pull back to look at him, all boyish confidence, and you nearly forget to breathe. “I could be convinced.”

Wait—what? He’s thrown you off-kilter. You—you didn’t think he’d actually— “Well—!”

At your stammering, he lets out a laugh, throwing back his head. It’s a wonderful sound, and when you flick his arm in response, there’s no real force to it.

“Well, you know what they say,” you sniff, trying to maintain your composure. “Friends close, enemies closer, and all that.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely. The effect is severely diminished by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Keeping one arm around you, he starts to lead you towards an exit. “Don’t know how you’ll handle it—your spidey-sense going off all the time with me around.”

On the way out, he picks up your mask from where you discarded it, slapping it a few times against his leg to brush off the soot and ash. His own mask and hood come up to envelope his face as he hands it to you. Distantly, you wonder how his glowing white eyes would look in the dark. Probably a bit stupid, is your conclusion.

“I’m sure I can manage,” you sigh, and once you slip on your mask, he gives you a little pat on the head before you can bat him away. Jake leans away enough to avoid your attempts to tug at his hood, but at the next opportunity, he reaches over again, the little shit, hand drawing in close, and your spidey-sense, superhuman and extraordinary, it’s—

It’s never been quieter.

[sarahghetti]

direction to perfection; j.l.

pairing: jake lockley x reader, marc and steven are briefly alluded to but do not make an appearance

summary: one day, your vigilante lifestyle leads to you to crossing paths with a moon-serving weirdo in white bandages. jake promises that he won't get in the way, but there's something about his smirk that has your spidey-sense tingling, and what do you know—

he sets a building on fire.

it's not supposed to be romantic.

warnings: depictions of fighting and violence, injuries, hurt and comfort, reader is a spider-person and thus has a spider-person sense of humour😭.

word count: 3.8k

notes: part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'bonfire”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You have a love-hate relationship with your spidey-sense—it’s useful enough to give you a heads-up, but it’s not exactly a get-out-of-danger-free card.

It kicks in as you’re soaring through the air, an errant pulse in your veins that tells you one thing: MOVE. But there’s no time—before you even manage to lift your web-shooter, one of Doc Ock’s mechanical arms whips around and collides hard against your torso. For a moment, you feel your ribs crack underneath the metal, the sharp pains accompanied by a real stupid thought, even by your standards: guess I’m going to call in sick tomorrow—

—and then you finally hit the brick wall behind you. The air is ripped from your lungs and your thoughts short-circuit into nothingness. New York’s evening rush hour is drowned out by high-pitched ringing. If it weren’t for your wallcrawling ability, you’d be falling forty stories down onto the traffic below. Instead, rooted into the small crater you’ve made into an office building, all you can do is languish in what surely must be multiple broken bones and a slightly bruised ego for not being able to dodge a hit that you saw coming.

Speaking of—there’s another one heading towards you right now.

You leap upwards without a second thought, just narrowly avoiding becoming a shitty claw-machine prize as the arm lodges into the wall where your head used to be. Spots dance across your vision and you groan—your body does not want to move.

Suspended between two buildings, Doc Ock’s mechanical arms dig into concrete and brick as she follows you up. Her voice is deceptively empathetic. “Down so soon, little spider? I expected more from you!”

One of the arms rears back again but distantly, there’s the clench of a trigger—and it gets pinned behind her by a golden grappling hook.

The wire grows taut then there he is, using the reeling mechanism to lunge upwards. All the momentum is channeled into his crescent blade as Jake jams it between the plates of the trapped arm; it jerks like a wounded animal, suddenly uncoordinated and stiff. When it lashes out again, he easily dodges and jumps across the buildings onto the fire escape next to you.

“Mierda! You okay?”

Glowing white eyes, wide with concern—the sight is enough to shake you out of your concussive stupor. Jake extends a hand, and you take it readily, allowing him to help you up onto the rickety platform.

“Just peachy,” you wheeze as you lean almost your entire body weight against him.

This was supposed to be a simple mission. It wasn’t even supposed to be a mission in the first place, but one detained drug dealer led to another, which led to a smuggler and a mercenary and a goddamn gym teacheruntil you were faced with a whole corrupt laboratory that tied back to Doc Ock’s operations.

Jake got looped in somewhere between the mercenary and the gym teacher, apparently answering some kind of divine calling of his own. Egyptian god of the moon? Protecting travelers of the night? You just call the people you save New Yorkers, no fancy labelling here.

But you’re not so prideful as to turn away help when you need it, especially when it comes gift-wrapped in superhuman strength and a bullet-proof cape. Even though you catch him giving himself these looks in the windows you pass by or having whole conversations to himself under his breath—you’ve seen weirder.

Like now: There’s a clear conflict happening in—on?—Doc Ock. The damaged arm flails wildly through the air, and the other three can’t seem to decide between trying to calm it down, retreat, or kill you.

Those white eyes turn to you. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot her?”

“No!” Now you remember why you were initially wary of him—because when you first met, he was holding one of his blades to a lackey’s throat. Danger, danger! You didn’t even need your spidey-sense to tell you that; he wears the warning like a badge of honour. “We just need to subdue her till the cops come. Follow my lead.”

Jake gives you a mock salute. Fortunately, Doc Ock’s lab was deserted—except for her—when you crashed the place. Whatever supersecret bioweapon she’s cooking up will still be waiting for you to destroy it after you capture her.

With just one press of a button, you’re soaring back into action. The arms seem to have coordinated themselves again—having decided to kill you, how lucky—but so have you and Jake. One lunges towards you, and you pull upwards on your web, going feet over head as you as you flip backwards out of the way.

In that split-second moment when you’re fully upside-down, your arm extends downwards and thwip!—your web attaches to the titanium plating. The world realigns itself, and your momentum carries you in an arc below the arm, dragging it behind you as you continue in your original direction.

As soon as you land on the side of the opposing building, you yank hard. Immediately, your other hand comes up to shoot a dozen or so webs to attach the claw onto the wall. It won’t last—the brick is already crumbling under the force—but it gives Jake enough time to shake off Doc Ock’s attention and join you.

Closer than you were before, you can see just how much force it takes for him to drive his blade through the circuitry. Sparks burst like little fireworks around his hand. He makes it look easy, but a shudder crawls down your spine—you just know what he’s capable of.

You both leap out of the way as the arm thrashes erratically; Doc Ock cries out in frustration. That’s two arms down, and two that are busy suspending her in the air. You’ll have to catch her once you take out another one, but that’s no biggie.

“Jake!” You gesture towards the nearest arm, and he nods in understanding. Despite the pain radiating through your limbs, you grin. For all his snark and murderous tendencies (which you hope are just a joke), he’s a half-decent partner.

It’s too bad, then, that Doc Ock doesn’t seem to care about how good of a time you’re having. Her mouth twists into a snarl, and in a blink of an eye, she’s scrambling away. Retreating? Your poor, bruised head is hopeful for the night to end.

In a way, it’s right—she is trying to get away from you. Unfortunately, it also recognizes that she’s retracing your steps, right back to the lab where you first found her.

“Oh, damn it!”

Your injuries and Jake’s limited modes of superhuman transport make it impossible to gain any real ground as you chase after her. Doc Ock climbs through her shattered window half a minute before you do, and even if your conscious mind doesn’t realize it, some part of you does—it’s an ambush.

You dive to the ground just as a mini fridge is thrown in your direction. Pain shoots down your side, your vision blurring with tears. The sheer wave of nausea that washes over you makes your mouth water and fuck, you might actually puke like this.

There’s something else coming but you can’t do anything other than half-heartedly roll behind the nearest object. The workbench shields you from—what, a chair? You aren’t afforded anymore time to think about it because she rips off the counter next, several important-looking valves raining down around you. Through the noise, you just barely manage to pick up a quiet hissing in the air as you try to gather your bearings.

A line of workbenches down the centre of the room, an aisle on either side.

On the right: sinks and fume hoods.

On the left: whiteboards.

Directly in front of you: the absolute bane of—and possible end to—your existence, holding up that chunk of black countertop as if it were a hammer and you are a nail.

You brace yourself for the hit, but it never comes. There’s a surprised yelp from above you, and your peer through your arms at just the right time to see Jake land a brutal kick into Doc Ock’s chest, sending her flying. You don’t see her land, but you do hearit; equipment crashes to the ground, glass shattering on the linoleum.

With a hand from Jake, you’re back on your feet. Doc Ock is reeling at the far end of the room. The walls are littered with long, deep gashes—some from your initial confrontation with her, some likely from her mechanical arms flailing from Jake’s hit. Several of the fume hoods are missing their windows entirely, which definitely bodes ill considering that there are still chemicals in some of them.

Gritting your teeth, you somehow manage to get the words out, “Just stand down, Olivia!”

A hand is clutched at her side, and some petty part of you hopes that her ribs are broken too. “This isn’t over.”

You gesture to her mechanical arms, two of which are still malfunctioning like headless chickens, then to yourselves, who are (mostly) in one piece. “Well, it sure is about to be.”

She raises her eyebrows at Jake. “You raid a Spirit Halloween and suddenly think you can defeat me?”

“Yeah, sure, let me just take fashion advice from someone cosplaying as an octopus.”

Jake leans towards you. “Do you always talk this much?”

At that, Doc Ock’s eyes narrow, filled with determination. She’s not backing down this time, which means neither can you.

You both ready yourselves like you have countless times before, straightening your stance and setting your shoulders back. But Jake doesn’t show the same patience. No—he sees the remaining mechanical arms twitch in preparation, and a blade is already leaving his hand with deadly-precise aim.

Wait, wait, the hissing sound—the gas—

“Get down!” You ram your body into Jake’s, bringing you both to the ground as the blade makes contact with the titanium, sparks flying out and—

BOOM.

It’s like your heart stops.

For several moments, you don’t register anything at all. You aren’t even sure if you’re still breathing.

Slowly, your senses return. The scent of burning plastic invades your nostrils—even the air tastes like it too. Something’s landed on top of you, pinning you down with a surprising amount of strength. Warm and sturdy and pressing into all the wrong places, but you can’t even hear your own whimpering—there’s nothing but ringing in your ears.

Are your eyes closed? You can’t bring yourself to check. All you can do is try to remember how to live, and figure out what the hell is happening.

Your spidey-sense has gone quiet. That’s—that’s good. Hopefully. Or maybe it’s just been knocked out of you by the blast. You let that last thought get washed away into the muddled mess of your head; you could probably use a bit of positive thinking right now.

Everything hurts. That’s been true for the past hour, really, but there’s no gut-wrenchingly painful burn anywhere on your body like what you expected from a lab explosion. The closest thing is just that warmth against your back, in a thick arm across your chest, and encircled around your wrist, where it lingers along your pulse point.

Something brushes up against your cheek, roughly textured but trying to be so, so gentle. Words start to pierce through the hearing damage. “—estás bien, te tengo. No te preocupes, estás bien.”

“Jake?” Your voice comes out small and tinny, unsure of how loud to speak when everything sounds like it’s underwater. You receive an affirmative rumble, and the tension seeps out of your limbs, just a tad.

Tentatively, you open your eyes. And there’s—nothing. Just a white sheet of fabric covering your entire field of view. Jake huffs out a laugh at your confusion before finally standing up, his cape pulling back from where it was draped on top of you.

“Oh.”

It’s like a bomb went off. Nearly every surface has been scorched black, save for the perfectly untouched flooring around you where Jake shielded you both from the blast. Any equipment in the room has been reduced to pieces—if not completely combusted into ash and soot—and fires still linger despite the efforts of what’s left of the sprinkler system.

No sign of Doc Ock anywhere—she must’ve gotten away. Jake lets out a long string of curses under his breath, then finishes it off with an eloquent: “Fuck.”

The fire alarm is incessant, and the sprinklers have all but drenched your suit. If you had half a working brain left, you’d feel the shivers wracking your body and realize that you’re still bleeding out in several different places, but the only thing that crosses your mind is how tired you are.

You throw your mask off with a groan. The sirens in the distance only add to your growing headache. So close, you were so close this time.

“Come on.” Jake’s stands over you, mask retracted, and you can see the grimace on his face from how the mission turned out. Wordlessly, he offers to help you up, and is promptly ignored. He keeps his hand extended towards you, shaking it a little for emphasis, but you refuse to budge.

That is, until your mind so helpfully strays and wonders—how big was the blast?

Your eyes widen, and your body jerks upright as though electrocuted. Oh, God—you didn’t see anyone else in the lab other than Doc Ock when you arrived, but what about the other floors? What about the pedestrians on the sidewalk below, who might’ve had glass and debris rained down upon them when the windows were blown out?

It takes several tries to get to your feet, none of which are entirely successful because Jake has to intervene halfway through to hold you upright. Your second wind catches him off-guard and his brows furrow as you try to leap back into action. “Whoa—talk to me, bug. What’s happening?”

“Need to—” You try to shrug him off. His grip loosens for all of a moment before you’re stumbling again, and then he returns, as firm and steady as ever. “Was anyone hurt?”

“You.”

“Not what I meant,” you scowl. It’s thoroughly ineffective. The only response you get is a subtle tilting of his head, then a loss of his undivided attention as he listens to something—someone—in the room that you aren’t privy to.

His gaze flickers back to you, marginally softer. “No one else was hurt. You need to rest.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. What’s the point of superhealing if you can’t bounce back after a fight? This time when you struggle against him, Jake lets you go, crossing his arms as you limp around the room.

Fortunately, most of the smoke is being pulled out the windows; what’s left is enough to burn and scrape down your larynx, but you push through it. Doc Ock has to have left some kind of trace—if not during her escape, then in the work she left behind. But kicking around in the ashes yields nothing. There’s no conveniently placed folder full of evil plans, or vial labelled SUPER SECRET BIOWEAPON (ONLY COPY - NO NEED TO SEARCH ANY FURTHER).

Jake sighs. “What are you looking for?”

What are you looking for? The building is still on fire, for Christ’s sake—you should have been gone ten minutes ago. Still, your stubbornness is steadfast. “There has to be—something.”

He sweeps out an arm, gesturing to the resounding nothing around you. With wet curls stuck to his forehead, his tone veers on sardonic. “Oh? Your little spider-sense tell you that?”

“Spidey, and—and it’s not a radar, I can’t just turn it on,” you bristle. His ensuing snicker lands all wrong, and your mouth twists into a scowl. “Funny, is it? Blowing up a building?”

“Hey.” The lightness disappears from his expression. “How was I supposed to know about the gas leak?”

It’s a valid question. Still, the anger in you can’t help but flare up anyways, running on his words as if they were diesel. You bite back a retort at the last second, which isn’t enough because the resulting silence is accusatory in and of itself.

He takes a step towards you, chin raised as water continues to rain down on you both. Solid, sturdy—unyielding. The sight twists your stomach into knots, but you stand your ground, placing your hands on your hips even though it pulls painfully at a handful of your muscles. “Shit happens, bug. It’s no one’s fault—well, maybe a bit my fault, but—”

“I had her.” It’s a blatant lie, but full of conviction as it leaves your lips.

He’s nothing short of incredulous. “Did you?”

“Yes—”

Faster than your hazy mind can register it, his hand shoves at your shoulder. Not hard, but it didn’t need to be—you practically crumple, hands scrambling to find something to hold on to before you land flat on your ass, but Jake wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you.

You swat at his chest. You hate that his warmth is familiar. “Let me go.”

He counters: “What’s wrong?”

“You, asshole.”

“’m the bad guy now? You want a fight that bad?” His eyebrows cock upwards, regarding you like some unruly child.

He’s being inflammatory on purpose and it’s working. You’re an elastic band in his fingers, one that he keeps stretching and stretching and stretching until you snap. “I don’t want a fight, I want a—”

Win, you almost admit. You wanted a win, after all this time you’ve spent chasing after Doc Ock. Countless sleepless nights and lackeys thrown behind bars, only to fail in the final moments when it really mattered. The realization is debilitating, even in the confines of your own head, and so you lash out again, distracting yourself from the bitterness on your tongue by spewing it out instead.

“We’re not all out for blood, you know.” Then, because you can’t help yourself— “I’m not you, Jake.”

“Is that what this is about?” His hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back, but you manage to catch it. Of course you do, with every sense on high alert, blood rushing in your ears. “You mad ‘cause I’m a killer?”

Something dangerous underlines his tone when he says the word and you flinch, trying to create some distance between the two of you on instinct. Jake doesn’t grant you that—his other arm comes to hold you as well, pulling you in even though you think you might suffocate in his presence.

“You knew this from the start. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to turn me in now.”

“Maybe I should,” you say in a rush, gaze steely as it meets his. For all your superhuman powers, none give you the ability to read what’s going on behind the storm in his eyes. You’re so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin, hear the words in his mouth before he even says them.

“You’re the one with the spidey-sense.” His voice is low. Somewhere in the back of your mind, through the shame and anger and desperation—you note that he’s called it by the right name this time. “You tell me. Am I a threat?”

Your heart is beating a mile a minute and your stomach is all fluttery and weird but—no. There’s no tingling at the back of your neck, no hair-raising along your arms. Petulance makes you want to lie and say yes anyways, but you can’t bring yourself to form the words. It just… isn’t true. And for some reason, you have feeling that this would be going too far, even as a rash potshot.

When you don’t respond, Jake’s expression softens, the lines of his face giving way to an understanding look that makes you feel smaller than his antagonism ever could. The fires have mostly died down now, but warm reds and oranges still flicker along the side of his jaw, in corners of his irises. His arms feel less like a cage and more like a lifeline, keeping you from drifting out to sea.

“Just—thought I finally caught her,” you mumble, and he pulls you the last few inches into a proper hug. Exhausted, you let yourself melt into his arms, the adrenaline beginning to seep away despite the cacophony of sirens in the background. “It’s been so long, Jake.”

“I know.” He doesn’t, not really—you haven’t divulged just how far this rivalry goes, but you don’t have to think very hard to realize that he’s speaking from experiences long before he ever met you. “We’ll get her next time.”

You snort softly into his suit. “What, you staying?”

It’s silly, the tinge of hopefulness that laces your voice just minutes after you’ve essentially accosted him. But Jake’s grinning when you pull back to look at him, all boyish confidence, and you nearly forget to breathe. “I could be convinced.”

Wait—what? He’s thrown you off-kilter. You—you didn’t think he’d actually— “Well—!”

At your stammering, he lets out a laugh, throwing back his head. It’s a wonderful sound, and when you flick his arm in response, there’s no real force to it.

“Well, you know what they say,” you sniff, trying to maintain your composure. “Friends close, enemies closer, and all that.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely. The effect is severely diminished by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Keeping one arm around you, he starts to lead you towards an exit. “Don’t know how you’ll handle it—your spidey-sense going off all the time with me around.”

On the way out, he picks up your mask from where you discarded it, slapping it a few times against his leg to brush off the soot and ash. His own mask and hood come up to envelope his face as he hands it to you. Distantly, you wonder how his glowing white eyes would look in the dark. Probably a bit stupid, is your conclusion.

“I’m sure I can manage,” you sigh, and once you slip on your mask, he gives you a little pat on the head before you can bat him away. Jake leans away enough to avoid your attempts to tug at his hood, but at the next opportunity, he reaches over again, the little shit, hand drawing in close, and your spidey-sense, superhuman and extraordinary, it’s—

It’s never been quieter.

[sarahghetti]

Hello, hello!

I just wanted to say that you're an absolutely phenomenal writer and I get so excited whenever I see your name pop up! Your characterization of the moon knight system is so indescribably human, especially in "all the echoes in my mind." I often find myself returning to it because it's just so well-written and captures that kind of struggle that Marc faces when the world gets too much and it spills over into the ones you love, the kind that is so palpable in the show but not outright spoken. I truly adore the voice that you give marc in your works, how soft he can be, but how it's buried between layers and layers of internal struggle, and how real the love is and can be. Thank you for sharing your work with us all!

thank you so so SO much 💕💕💕 it makes me so happy to hear that you like my writing and how I characterize the moon boys!! "all the echoes in my mind", as angsty as it was, was such a joy to write because marc is one of my favourite oscar characters of all time. his love and softness and struggles--marc is so complex (and I love him so much), and I'm glad that I was able to convey that in my work!