#Marc just wants to punch things

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Who tells the story (Issue 27)

Moon Knight, Issue #27: Cop Killer! 

Opening strong here. I adore any time they do a sky type view down on the city and the characters. 

So opening on Moon Knight watching Jake drive his cab at night is just wonderful. 

....Does that sign on the side say Steven Grant is the writer? 

Let's see what Mr. Grant is writing. 

"August in New York. I hate it. Mostly I hate the heat. That sticky, damp heat that soaks you to the bone and oozes back out your pores. Some August nighs, murder is just another way for people to forget the heat.

This was going to be one of those nights. 

On each of the last six muggy nights, a cop had been killed. Same M.O. in each case. Same markings on the bullets. Too bad no one could find the gun--or any other clues. 

It was a sure bet that the killing hadn't stopped. I --Or rather, cabbie Jake Lockley--was wondering if we couldn't find a way to stop it. 

Oh yeah. They call me Steven Grant. Me and Lockley, we're Moon Knight." 

HOLY SHIT PEOPLE WE HAVE A GRANT STORY TEAM UP WITH JAKE. 

(And let's not forget that Steven later goes on to become a director for Spetor studios in Lemier's run. I am excited people.) 

"One Edge Lockley has over me or Moon Knight--When we need information, he's got the connections." 

Why Steven, you are being generous today. 

We see Jake in his cab pull up to a taxi waiting zone. 

A cop named Richardson is there waiting and Jake calls out to him with corney jokes. 

"Hey! Richardson! What's the going price for a cop these days?" 

"Two years we've known each other, Lockley, two years you've been using that same lousy Joke." 

That's my boy Jake alright. 

Richardson is reading the paper with the headlines about a cop killer being on the loose. 

Jake doesn't like that the cop killer is getting so much press. Neither does Richardson, but the commissioner is making noise to get the killer caught before the copycats start in. 

Jake remarks that it's funny how the killer only picks out the Plain clothed cops and not the ones in uniform. 

"You'd think he'd find easier targets, like uniforms. Must make you nervous, huh?" Jake jabs, considering Richardson is in plain clothes. 

Richardson agrees that it does bother him quite a lot. 

"Like...How the heck does he spot a plain clothes cop? F'r'instance, who could tell from looking which of us was the crimefighter?" 

"Boy! Nobody, I'd think. Maybe you got something there, Richarson." 

Ah, comic humor. 

Richardson heads back to work, telling Jake to be careful out there too. It's dangerous being a cabbie. 

"Richardson had tried to not tell Lockley anything, but he told him enough. It was clear the cops knew more than we did. I wondered what Moon Knight could do with their information." 

GUNFIRE! 

"The shot came from just around the corner. Richardson had gone that way." 

Jake runs towards the sound. 

"In my gut, the part of us that was Marc Spector, the ex-soldier, knew what had happened. He had known that gut feeling in more wars than he could count.  

Spector knew how fate worked. Spector wouldn't have joked about these things. Spector would have known better. 

There are times I wish I hadn't put Spector away.

Then again, Spector would have laughed this off. Lockley and I just felt sick. 

We shouldn't have left the scene, but the cops would have a field day investigating Lockley. His trail would lead them straight to Moon Knight." 

OKAY. There is a LOT going on right here. 

First, Jake makes friends so easily. Everyone is first and foremost a buddy. He’s the friendly man of New York and he knows how to get people chatting. 

Second, they talk about how Moon Knight might know how to use the information Lockley gathers. Another key indicator that Moon Knight is seen as his own separate person now. 

Jake, Steven, and Moon Knight seem to have come to an understanding and are starting to actually work as a functional system. This is pretty big news! 

It also shows that they have sorted out roles. 

Finally, we can’t overlook the way Steven talks about Marc. He addresses the fact that Marc knows how things like this work. Marc expects death and ill-fate. He also addresses that Marc has faced a LOT of death and loss. So much so that he not only expects it, but he has learned to laugh it off as a defense mechanism. 

And the BIGGEST thing here: There are times I wish I hadn't put Spector away.

I’m standing in a room pointing at this and screaming. Steven has accepted the role as gatekeeper. He has also deemed Marc not fit to run the body and ‘put him away’. Time and time again they try to remove Marc from their lives. Marc tries to remove himself from their lives. Steven takes the life from him and refuses to let Marc touch it. Jake will even often fight Marc out of front seat to prevent Marc from doing what Marc does. 

At this point, they all feel that Marc is not something they feel is healthy in their lives right now. Marlene hates him. Marc is self destructive. Jake and Steven feel that Marc is too violent and causes them pain and strife. With Moon Knight acting as the one that can fight, Steven keeping watch on the body and life, and Jake acting as an emotional grounder and spiritual guide, Marc is just not something they need right now. Or so they think. 

ANYWAYS. Back to the story. 

Jake heads home. 

"I called the cops from a pay phone, then beat it back to my mansion on Long Island. All the way I could hear Spector begging to get out. 

He wanted the killer's blood. Lord help me, I wanted it, too." 

Jake’s friend just died. Jake is obviously upset. Marc does not do well when people close to him are hurt. Even if he doesn’t always get along, if something happens to Jake or Steven, Marc is going to want to hurt someone. 

The second Jake walks through the door to the mansion, Steven takes charge. 

He looks for Marlene, possibly wanting some sort of comfort. 

There's a fight going on inside their head and they are in pain. 

Marlene: "Well, well. My favorite schizophrenic. Can't be Moon Knight-You're not dressed for it! WHo are you today. Steven? Jake Lockley? Marc Spector?" 

(NOTE: I had to grit my teeth SO hard at this part. We have entered the era where the Moon Knight system is often going to be called Schizophrenic. Remember everyone, this was written in 1982. Multiple Personality Disorder didn't get an officially recognized diagnosis until 1980. It was often thought of, along with MANY mental illnesses, to be a form of schizophrenia. Prior to that, in 1968 it was listed under 'hysterical neurosis'. It was often thought of as "making up people". It wasn't till 1980 that the term Dissociative was even considered a class of disorders and not at all hashed out. The term was changed to DID in 1994 but was still not fairly fleshed out and still often thought of as just an amnesiac state of the ego. It wasn't till 2013 when the DSM-5 came out that things got updated to current accepted terms and definitions of dissociation. THERE IS GOING TO BE A LOT OF UNFAIR USE OF THE TERM SCHIZOPHRENIA. THIS HAS BEEN A WARNING. It’s also going to paint Marlene is a REALLY REALLY bad light. I’m going to try to give her the benefit of the doubt but fuck is it going to be hard when she outright starts being abusive towards them at times.) 

Marlene takes a playful jab. I don't know... Maybe this is her way of trying? Maybe she's trying to make it a game? 

It does not come off well. 

Steven is not amused. 

"Not Spector! NEVER Spector! This is MY home! I don't want HIM here!" 

Keep in mind that Steven admitted that Marc was worked up and wanted blood. Steven has been holding him off since they found their friend dead in the street. 

It's honestly probably gotten loud in there. Marc demanding to get out and DO something about it while Jake is in pain and sad about his lost friend. 

"Sorry. Didn't mean to yell. A man...A Friend...Was killed tonight. Cop. I was thirty feet away. I couldn't stop it. Didn't even know it was happening until it was over." 

Steven is struggling to handle things inside. 

Marlene: "What are you going to do about it?" 

Steven: "Me? Nothing of course. We know what Spector would do--Grab a machine gun and start cutting down suspects until he found the right one!" 

Marlene: "Moon Knight?" 

Steven: "Moon Knight." 

He tells Frenchie to get ready. He wants Moon Knight out there doing something. 

Moon Knight heads to the police precinct. 

It's a hot night in New York and this makes people dangerous. The cops are overworked and understaffed. 

We see a chaotic station of cops asking for backup, dangerous criminals starting a fight in the office, and one cop who claims to be a transfer but no one can find his paperwork. 

As the Sargent tries to figure out the paperwork on the new guy, Mondnacht, the fight gets serious and he has to run out to help. 

The new guy is left alone in the Sargent's office to start looking through files. 

Mondnacht.... Mond-nacht. REALLY? Moon-night. 

"'Pt. Mondnacht' had a whole strategy for getting into police headquarters--and didn't need it. Life's like that. Not that it mattered. Moon Knight had what he wanted." 

Moon Knight now has a list of the duty roster. 

"The plan smacked of Spector, but it was a good one. Find out which cops were handling the case and read their files. The names were on the pilfered duty roster." 

Moon Knight heads to the office of the first name on the list. 

"The empty station house seemed full of ghosts to Moon Knight. Like he was one of them. A ghost. Or maybe it was the air. You don't get these feelings in the sunlight. 

Or maybe it was me, not Moon Knight. Where do I go when Moon Knight takes over? Or Lockley? Or Spector? Maybe WE'RE the ghosts." 

Jumping up and down screaming and pointing people. Look. Look. Steven is starting to ask questions. 

Moon Knight breaks into the office by picking a lock. "One more skill gleaned from Spector." 

Steven wonders where the skills are learned and who can access them. If Marc has a skill and Moon Knight uses it, is it Marc using his skill? How do they share? 

Moon Knight digs through the files and makes a discovery. But he's interrupted! 

The detective is not happy to have Moon Knight there. 

Moon Knight asks him why there are no suspects listed in the case after so many days and so many dead. 

The detective tries to arrest him for interfearing and breaking into the office. 

Moon Knight tells him that he's on his side. 

"Not on THIS case. This is a departmental matter." 

This gets his attention. 

"I wanted the cop to keep talking --But from somewhere, Spector screamed, 'Jump him!' Moon Knight only heard Spector." 

And there he goes… Jumping out the window again… At least Flint wasn’t there this time. Maybe I should start a ‘jumps out window counter too’. 

Moon Knight heads up to the chopter to discuss with Frenchie what he learned. 

"Ever hear of the Kingpin?" 

Oh shit! We got Wilson Fisk people! Moon Knight has officially made it into the Marvel New York Universe! 

"Few people messed with the Kingpin of crime. Fewer lived to talk about it. We had to beat the odds. The files proved that each murdered cop had busted a kingpin operation--and the fat man bore grudges." 

You don't just sneak into Kingpin's building. He's got more security than fort knox. 

So of course Moon Knight....

Right through the window… 

Well, at least Wilson is blunt about it. 

Moon Knight takes out all the goons and demands answers from Fisk. 

Fisk tells him that he bought the cops and had the cases they were working on dropped. 

Moon Knight is pretty upset, declaring that one of the cops was his friend and couldn't possibly be corrupt. 

Fisk doesn't care. He knows where his money goes. 

"My reputation for violence is useful....But there are cleaner methods of dealing with people. MOST men have their prices. I can meet most prices. Your friend and his fellow officers had their prices." 

And Moon Knight makes a rooky mistake. He lets Kingpin get up close to him. 

Everyone always assumes that the fat man is just money and blubber. 

Everyone always forgets just how freakishly powerful Kingpin really is. 

It takes one solid punch from fisk to knock him out cold. 

Luckily, Fisk has more ideas than killing. 

He tells his goons to set Moon Knight free up on the roof. He wants his contacts at the station to give Moon Knight everything he needs to solve the case. 

The cop killer is killing HIS bought cops and he wants the killings to end. 

"Though woozy, Moon Knight heard everything. He feigned unconsciousness as they dragged him up the stairs." 

The thugs drag Moon Knight to the roof. 

"Spector clicked in. He didn't like being knocked around--And he was ready to take it out on anyone." 

He springs up and knocks around the thugs a bit before heading to the copter and taking off. 

Meanwhile, the two sargents Moon Knight was looking into have also just seen the Kingpin. 

They have their orders and are on their way to carry them out. 

As they head out, another car speeds past them at top knotch. 

They call for backup as they give chase. 

Moon Knight and Frenchie catch their radio signal in the chopper. 

Frenchie asks if they should get involved. 

"Sounds like routine business. We have better things to do." 

Steven: "Moon Knight voiced Spector's thoughts. I wanted to get involved. For all his skill, Spector can be so bloody blind." 

We see the Sargents corner the speeding car. They recognize the driver. Just as they are about to ask why he's speeding around so fast, he pulls a gun on them and opens fire. 

The suspect yells "I know what you're doing and I know where you've been!" as he fires. 

So he has been gunning down the crooked cops working for Kingpin. 

One cop is dead, the other frantically calls for help on the radio. 

Moon Knight picks up the signal and they rush over in the chopper. 

Moon Knight arrives too late to stop it.

Moon Knight arrives as the one cop tries to warn him. He manages to get out “Looey”, but it all sounds like gibberish. 

The suspect comes from behind and pulls his gun on Moon Knight. 

"I only want the bad ones. Not you. Investigations don't stop them. Commissions don't stop them. When a cop turns bad, nobody's safe! You know what I mean! I never hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it!" 

As the man rants, Moon Knight quietly reaches for his truncheon under his cape. 

He's too late! When he turns around, the suspect is gone. 

"Moon Knight had failed to stop the killer -- And deep inside, we weren't sure now we wanted to." 

The killer is going after crooked cops working for kingpin. 

Before he can think about it, the police show up. Moon Knight makes a break for it and the cops prepare to open fire. 

A Sargent steps in and tells them all to hold their fire. 

"He has it on good authority that Moon Knight's not our man!" 

And an old partner shows up late, claiming he was stuck in traffic. 

Now, if I know my Moon Knight crime comics, I'm willing to bet one of these men is the killer. Let's see if I'm right. 

Back at headquarters, we see the old partner returning. He's there to fill out paperwork and Moon Knight follows. 

"Don't turn around, De Rais! You gave me a break--and I'm giving you one! I know your secret--and I sympathize. I know what it's like to do evil in the name of good!" 

Moon Knight explains that he knew the matters were a departmental matter, leading him to believe it was a cop that was the killer. He also theorizes that Looey meant Lieutenant, which is what De Rais is. 

He warns him that Kingpin has a man inside the investigation. Since it isn't him, that leaves the Sargent. 

He tells him that the killing must stop. "Stop now, before you're caught -- Or you mke me come after you!" 

And Moon Knight leaves him. 

Of course the guy figures his next move is to take care of the Sargent and then worry about Moon Knight later. 

Steven is...Idealistic. 

"That was supposed to be the end of it. Time would pass and people would forget and the case would go unsolved, like the Jack the Ripper killings. It was clear when I returned to my mansion that it wouldn't work that way." 

Marlene can't believe that they let the killer go. 

"He's not a mad dog, Marlene--And his victims deserved what they got! I found that out!" 

"His motives don't matter! He's still a killer!" 

"You forget--So am I!" 

Marc is still angry and fighting for a say in it all. Steven puts the reigns back on him, but Marc is still pretty upset. 

I find it funny that Steven KNOWS Marc used to box, and when he’s angry and struggling with Marc, he always goes to the punching bag to work out the angry Marc energy. 

We see the sargent return to his home across town. It's a lavish apartment that far exceeds a police officer's payrole. 

He finds an envelope of cash on his table and gets a phone call. He has orders to take out his partner, permanently. 

Sargent calls his old partner, asking to meet him at his place. 

Both men are setting a trap. 

Steven tries to call De Rais but gets no answer. He worries that De Rais is going after the Sargent. 

While looking up the Sargent's number, Marlene takes pause. The Sargent's full name is Louis Fulcanelli. LOOEY! 

So is it the Sargent or is it the lieutenant?? 

Spector wants to go seek out the Sargent's home. Moon Knight decides to head to De Rais's place. 

For once, Moon Knight takes the lead. 

The two cops meet up and Sargent gets the upper hand, holding De Rais at gun point. 

It's all laid out on the table now. Sargent Louie is the cop killer and De Rais is working for Kingpin. 

They argue on who is in the right. De Rais gets the upper hand and takes a shot, hitting Sargent in the shoulder. 

Look at that dramatic entrance. He’s always gotta make an entrance and an exit. 

Sargent cheers that Moon Knight is on his side. 

"We can work together! CLean up the department for good..." 

Moon Knight turns to Sargent. He tells him that after a trip to the hospital for the gunshot wound, he's going to jail. 

"You're a killer...As Bad in your way as the men you've killed... And I have to be better than that!" Moon Knight kicks away the gun and calls the police. 

We jump ahead to a fancy restaurant where Steven is dining with Marlene. 

She asks what happened with Sargent. 

Steven tells her that he was put away under psychiatric observation, though he believes that in a way he is saner than a lot of people and in a way, a good man. 

"You did the right thing, Steven." 

"Too bad the right thing isn't always the decent thing. Well, I can live with that. And if Marc Spector would ever accept it--He might become a whole man again." 

And we end on glasses of wine clinking. 

OKAY. There was a lot in this comic. Like..A LOT. 

Steven narrating (And this is big because we don’t get a lot of Steven’s perspective in the old runs, much less in current runs where half the time they forget Steven exists!), Jake being the good buddy he is and losing friends despite it all, and Marc fighting with Steven and Moon Knight. 

We get Moon Knight acting on his own, but also under heavy influence from Steven and Marc. Moon Knight is a really special case and I’d need to do more research into alter roles and presentation to really speculate what sort of person he is. He’s his own person, but sometimes he seems to act under heavy direction from the others. And I have my suspicions but I don’t feel it’s my place to do a full call out. 

We also have another moral decision on their hands. The choice they were forced to make with Stained Glass Scarlet still weighs heavily on them and not all of them are in agreement that it was the right choice. It haunts them and will continue to do so for a long time. 

Being faced with a killer who is trying to clean up a corrupt department of cops, and the corrupt cops…. The system is at odds on what to do. 

And Steven Grant chooses what he views as the high road. He strives to be better than Marc Spector. He feels like he and Moon Knight and Jake HAVE to be better than Marc, or it was all for not. Sometimes this leads them to go against Marc just to be contrary. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. 

We see Marc argue to do things that could have saved some of the cops, but we also see Marc argue to do some things that lead to deaths. 

Steven is taking the role of Gate Keeper and in his eyes, this means keeping Marc out. He views Marc as a threat to their very wellbeing. Unfortunately, this is also causing strife in the system and inter-system arguments and fights for control. 

We also start to see Steven view Marc as a wounded man that needs to be corrected and healed. He starts to get notions that if Marc can see and start to act in a more just manner without his temper and urge to hurt those that hurt them, then maybe they can heal and become overall a single better person. 

We see what is often seen as a huge controversial problem solve of “Final Fusion” when it comes to DID. I’m not going to get into that. I have my own opinions on it, but it isn’t my place to discuss them without someone that actually has any say on it present. 

Steven believes that Marc can go away and they can start to live as one man that can act justly. He sees Marc as “THE PROBLEM”. And this is going to cause further issues in their system that is just starting to figure itself out. 

We’ll see more of this start to pop up later on. 

Pretty excited about this issue! Hope you liked it! 

[spicyllewyn]

Roleplaying with them.

(NSFW) Headcanons. - Moon system x reader. (+18)

Marc.

You had been feeling observed for about 15 minutes during your walk.

You were heading back home, as usual, too late for your own safety.

Nothing had happened to you so far, so what could you lose?

It wasn't until the whitish glow behind you appeared, combined with the shadow from the ground, that your attention finally turned to your back.

A few days ago, you had seen more than one moon painted on the streets.

You weren't surprised to come across him.

"How long have you been there?" He didn't speak, just shrugged.

"I can see my house from here, your job is done."

When you turned around, you heard him clear his throat. "Don't people thank superheroes more?"

He was no longer wearing the mask. His tousled curls fell over his forehead, and the tight ceremonial suit of Khonshu allowed you to see every detail on his body.

"I thought they did it only out of love for their fellow beings."

Another step, and you felt your breath catch in your chest.

"Does anyone do things for free nowadays?"

He was right. And by the way his eyes wandered over your body, you didn't need to think much to guess what he was referring to.

His gaze was scorching you and you wanted to kiss his jaw until your lips hurt.

And you gave in, because who else was there to thank the masked vigilante who protected the nighttime travelers?

One step closer.

You were still in the middle of the deserted street, in plain sight of anyone who decided to take a nighttime stroll.

You didn't care much, not even when the cold concrete of the sidewalk made your knees ache.

His suit vanished in front of you, your eyes locked onto the pair of dark jeans that now filled your entire field of vision.

You licked on the fabric when you realized that he was already hard under his clothing.

And although the cold did not cause anything in him, your tongue did make him tremble.

A little more of force and you would have yanked the button off his jeans.

You were both clumsy, desperate.

Before you could object, the tip of his cock was pushing against your throat.

"Just like that, sweetie." And just when you thought her voice couldn't get any deeper.

Turns out, the terrifying Moon Knight was also a fan of encouraging his partners during sex.

He kept complimenting you, reminding you how well you were doing.

Although his moans spoke for him.

He had no compassion for you, when his hands were placed in your hair you knew you were no longer in control.

He rammed into your mouth with the brutality with which you had saw him punch people before.

You could only hear the gurgling of your saliva every time it slid down your tongue.

And your eyes filled up with tears as your nose bumped against the veil of his abdomen, you could feel him push you further.

Until you ran out of oxygen.

With two touches on his thigh he understood what you needed, finally letting go.

Your hand had to take care of the job, your saliva made it easier to stroke his already sensitive cock.

He looked at you, and you looked back at him.

"Thanks for taking care of me." Your smile was mocking, and Marc could only think about how cute your little face looked destroyed by him.

A chill ran through him from head to toe as the heat in his abdomen began to rise.

He was so close. "Just like that. Don't stop, -ah, fuck, please." His pleas confirmed the obvious to you.

You stuck out your tongue for him, and the mere image was too much for him.

It was obscene, he could see in you how much you wanted to swallow every drop he had to give you.

He came on your tongue. Actually, he came on your whole face.

And you squeezed anything that was left on him with your hand.

“Shit, I love you.” He said with a breathy, broken voice.

“Marc, don't get out of character!”

Steven.

"Sorry for the hour! Are there still tours available?" "Oh, Gods. You are just in time for the last one! But I'm afraid it will be just you and me, we're about to close."

At least this way you could ask anything that crossed your mind.

Steven was… dreamy.

You weren't the biggest fan of museums, but the guy was really doing his job for society.

You probably learned more there than in months of history classes.

And he made it so… enjoyable. So easy to understand, so much fun.

His eyes were shining as he spoke, and the 2-hour tour felt like 15 minutes.

"This is the least visited part of the museum." "Why?" "Many people are afraid of the ocean."

Both of you whispered, squinting your eyes to gaze at each other in the middle of the dark room.

A soft blue light gave the perfect tone to Steven's face as he looked at the exhibits as if it were the first time.

You leaned in to read the plaque in front of a representation of a shark skeleton.

And within seconds, a body positioned itself behind you. His chest against your back, one of his arms slid under yours, and he made you raise your hand.

His fingers guided yours to touch the fake skeleton.

"They don't have bones, you know?" A breathy moan escaped from his mouth when you pushed yourself towards him. "Oh no?" You played dumb. "It's, ah… gristle."

You tortured him by continuing to see the figure for extra seconds.

And when you turned around, Steven was on his knees

You smiled.

“I think it's my favorite room.” And in one jump you climbed onto a kind of high step that supported some other figures.

As if his lips had a magnet towards you, he began to kiss between your thighs.

Because of course, the first thing you did was spread your legs for him.

He kissed on top of the fabric until he got desperate.

You never thought that the shy museum guide in the baggy clothes would have the strength to pull your skinny jeans down in one fell swoop.

You've been wanting to mess up those soft curls ever since you laid eyes on him.

Right now, with his tongue working on you, it was the perfect opportunity.

"Oh shit." Your voice echoed through the empty room as you pushed him harder between your legs.

Steven refused to pull away for air, and you happily kept him between your legs.

He looked like a hungry man, you could feel his saliva running between your legs.

"Y-You do an amazing job." “Well, I always wanted to be a museum guide.” oh so innocent

"Steven!" It resounded so loudly in the room that you feared someone would discover you.

But not enough to shut you up.

It goes without saying that you finished sooner than expected, the adrenaline rush of being caught was always a fetish for you.

And when you looked down, you almost fainted.

His huge chocolate brown eyes were staring at you, barely parted enough for you to see his glossy lips full of you.

He had the expression of someone about to get into some mischief.

"No." "Yeah." "Steven, no." “How are you going to rate my good work in the suggestion and complaint box if I don't please you?”

Before you protested, his mouth was on you again.

2 orgasms were not enough for him.

Not even with 3, you lost count after 4, and he only stopped when your legs threatened to no longer support your weight.

You trembled, your vision was blurred and you couldn't bear the suffocating heat that you were feeling on your face.

“Did you like the tour?” He asked innocently as he adjusted your pants and finally faced you.

His face full of saliva and your fluids.

"You're awful at roleplay." "I know." He kissed you and you cleaned his mouth area with your tongue.

He looked at you with more wonder than at his favorite pieces in the museum.

"Let me take you to dinner, okay?"

Jake.

The honking of a car made you rush out of your house.

Your furrowed brow and your lips forming a pout gave you away as you got into the taxi.

Apparently, you were having a terrible day. You didn't even greet the driver as you got in.

"Bad day?" His accent did catch your attention. "Bad life." You replied with a nostalgic smile.

You could feel him looking at you constantly in the rearview mirror.

"Who would allow a beauty like you to get into a stranger's car at this hour?" "My fiancé is an idiot."

You made him scoff.

"I bet I can make you forget about him in seconds." "Seconds is quite ambitious."

He winked at you.

And you felt butterflies in your stomach.

The teasing way you turned your back on him made Jake accept the challenge.

Only God knows where he parked the car; you had never been in this part of the city before.

Him talking about seconds wasn't him being ambitious.

It was him being realistic.

Because before you could react you had the words stuck in your throat because his cock was deeply buried in you.

You were turning your back on him once again, this time by his choice.

You swore you could hear the screeching of the car with every movement of his hip.

"Does he fuck you like this, cariño?" He growled in your ear.

His questions made you dizzy, his thick accent and his hot breath hitting your ear.

"I bet he's never made you moan like that before." “Aw, look at you, honey. All cock-drunk and whiney.” "Pídeme más, amor, pídeme que te destroce."

You were staining the leather seat with saliva.

And Jake would pull on your hair to try and lift your face up a bit.

He didn't want you to keep quieting your whining like that, you knew it.

"More." It came out broken from your lips.

And he complied.

You could never think of another man like that, although to be fair, you didn't mean to.

“That fucking death-grip.” And while Jake seemed in control, he wasn't immune to your tricks, your way of taking the bull by the horns. “Amor, no, please, no… You are going to…”

He came inside of you.

And you shivered, keeping him inside.

"Look at that, cielo." After a few seconds, he pulled out, staring. “Do you think he will take you back now that I marked you as mine like this?”

And you made him laugh by cursing him out loud.

"Amor?" "Uh?" "You're going to clean that up." He poked you on the nose. Your cheek felt wet against the seat, your saliva making you groan.

[minispidey]

I need to hear your most out of pocket HC about your fav Oscar characters that there really isn’t much evidence for but you feel in your soul is right. Can be fluff or nsfw!

For example:

I think Nathan actually likes to be topped and degraded. Do I have any evidence for this? No. Do I know in my pussy gut that I am right? Yeah 😌💅

OUT OF POCKET HCS.

OSCAR ISAAC character headcanons

Content warning: just some real filthy shit. Uses female body descriptions. Breeding kink A LOT. Mentions cheating but doesn't get cheated on.

Characters: Nathan Bateman, Marc Spector, Jonathan Levy, Steven Grant, Miguel O'Hara.

Words: a lot.

Not beta read.

Requested by: @boredzillenial

Author's Note: i wish i could've written more bUT MY BRAIN IS JUST EXPLODING. Btw, thank you for requesting! Reblogs and comments are appreciated 💅❤️

MINORS DNI

I swear. Nathan Bateman's head... you know exactly what I mean. LISTEN YOU SAID OUT OF POCKET SO HERE'S THE FANTASY: just... just grinding on it, your clit getting stimulated by his shaved head— he's not completely bald so I'm saying that if you caress his head, it'll still feel prickly.

Oh but imagine... breeding kink Nathan (tbh just in general i think all oscar characters would have a breeding kink)

Slow strokes, in and out of you. Nathan holding you still— not even in bed, he just wanted to fuck you in his office while idk doing research, but you were just standing in the corner of his office doing god knows what and he's accusing you of seducing him. And now here he was, his research forgotten and fucking you on his seat.

"Hm? When are you gonna learn your lesson that you can't just strut into my office and expect me not fuck the shit out of you?"

"N-Nathan, I wasn't even doing anything-"

"Shh... this'll be your punishment, okay?"

But at the end of it, just cuddling while he worked... but cockwarming him.

"Keep my cum in. Don't wanna waste God's seed, right sweetie?"

"Nathan, just shut up."

The moment you told him to shut up, something awakens in him.

"Slap me."

"Are you crazy?"

"Love, sweetie, honey bunny... please slap me."

Lets you ride him in your own pace for once, and he tried to stop himself from grabbing your hips and slamming you down on his cock.

"Naughty naughty..."

"Sweetie, please... fuck, you're driving me crazy here."

"Aw, don't you wanna cum in me?"

"F-Fuck..."

He fucking whimpers.

"God's seed shouldn't be wasted, right?"

"I'm never letting you be on top again..."

Marc... oh my Marc. I have a mini series coming soon for the Moon Knight boys where Reader is has such a huge crush on Steven, and becomes his girlfriend after confessing. She meets Marc when he fronted, hates him so much and wants to punch him, but he has the face and body of her boyfriend and didn't want to hurt him. Maybe like an enemies to lovers with Marc and Reader, and Steven being happy that they're getting along. Jake will come later to me idk yet.

Imagine just going to bed in one of his shirts. Drives him CRAZY and the next thing you know, your sleepiness disappears as he fucks into you, just in a brutal pace. He loves groping you, breasts, thighs and all. If you're plus-sized/ chubby, he would hold your waist and giving you a squeeze here and there as he fucks you into oblivion.

Would top a lot but he loves it when you ride him and you get overwhelmed by his size.

"Come on, just a few more inches in."

"Marc... too big..."

Size kink applies to all the Moon boys. Well, because they share a body and uses one dick.

Marc just loves pressing against you. He's pretty experimental with the positions. Aftercare with Marc is just heavenly. Bubble bath, washing your body with a loofa. But then he gets turned on again and fucks you in the bath.

You could exist and just breathe, Marc will get turned on (like Nathan tbh).

Jonathan Levy... ugh dilf. An actual one. Expect a long one (tw: mentions mira)

Usually it's the teacher-student love affair with this guy (tbh real) but seriously you can treat him better than Mira.

Something about you keeps driving him crazy to the point that Episode 4 and 5 of the show didn't happen 💅💅

He sees that you're absolutely nothing like his ex wife. And he loves the breath of fresh air. You loved all the things Mira hated about him.

Jonathan loves it when you cup his face and just stare into his eyes. Loves it when you pack him his lunch and put in notes. Brags about it a lot with his co-workers.

Just imagine being in love with him since childhood, being broken hearted when he married Mira, but one drunken night he realized he shouldn't have been chasing after Mira and turned to look at you. You finally had him.

His daughter adores you. Jonathan sees you being so good with children and he immediately goes "I want one with you."

Breeding kink dude. This guy obviously has one. He loves children. (Personally i would give him a football team because he deserves it) when you do get pregnant, he would be so caring and attentive. You're pregnant with his baby so obviously he would spoil you non stop. He would just smile at you whenever you get mood swings and start to get annoyed when he chews too loud.

Just a lot of fucking. Shower, bed, walls, even inside closets. He just adores you. He couldn't believe he was so blind not to see how much you've loved him and he would spend the rest of his life making it up to you.

"Jon, too tired..."

"Need you so bad, hun... just a few more, please? Wanna cum in you again..."

Mira hates you, but since you're you, you always one-up her and you two may or may not have gotten into a fight and Jonathan found you more attractive since then.

You become possessive of Jonathan whenever Mira's around, but Jonathan actually finds it really hot. Expect more than one round of sex with him on those days.

He never cheats on you even if Mira keeps pushing it. You were one of a kind, Jonathan knew how broken-hearted you would be if he did. Jonathan would purposely treat you like a lady in front of Mira, 100 times more than he usually does (which is impossible he already treats you so well)

Just... you make him a better person. You got him on a leash. He's not going anywhere.

Also he definitely loves risky sex. House filled with guests and you two are in the bathroom. He would even make you moan loudly that it'll annoy Mira who is passing by the bathroom. You enjoyed it when Mira's pissed off. You just hate her so much.

Steven oh Steven. Just imagine trying to seduce Steven, and he's just clueless and continues to ramble on about Egyptian history and all, but you're trying to fuck him.

You want him to clear his table of books and just slam you on the table to fuck you. You go back to reality and he's smiling innocently at you as he kept talking.

You just hear nothing. His voice sounded muffled to you as your eyes scanned his face and stops on his nose... his nose.

Big noses. What Doja Cat said.

"Steven."

"Yes, love?"

"I want you to fuck me right now."

Soft sex with Steven. He doesn't want any position but missionary. He loves seeing your face.

Breeding kink? Yes. You all know this by now.

Falls silent when he cums, eyes rolling to the back of his head. It feels so overwhelming but so good. Loves filling you up to the brim.

Sometimes when you leave a pair of panties out, he would fight the urge to jack off to them. He just misses you so so much.

When you come back, he would push you against the wall and attack you with kisses and hickeys.

He also buys you a matching Koala plush keychain for your keys.

Sometimes you just want him to fuck you mercilessly, just slam you around and use you. UGH IM SCREAMING.

And back to the nose thing, he definitely let you grind on his nose at some point.

"C'mon, love... wanna taste you..."

Something about him nerding out just turns you on. You would suck his dick while he's talking. Even after cumming, you don't stop. You love seeing him overstimulated.

They say home is where the heart is. But god do you love the english 💅💅💅

Did he restrain you to his bed at some point? You told him to. And it unlocked a kink.

But do you know what kink Steven would have? Worship. Take it or leave it.

Messy kisses, his light colored shirts are stained with your lipstick. He ends up with his neck filled with hickeys. His back is scarred by your nails.

Risky sex? Fucking in the museum bathroom. Steven looked so hot behind the gift shop that you couldn't help it. Steven's dad material too, talks to kids really well.

So yeah that's when your breeding kink appeared. You wanted him to get you pregnant. He would be a great father.

"Cum inside me, Stevie. Fill me up."

Loves sucking on your tit while groping the other. He wants to make eye contact with you as much as he could while he does it.

Bree- *gunshots*

This one is obvious though. He has a breeding kink and wants to get you pregnant.

Let's pretend Gabriella's alive here and he sees how good you are with her. He wants to have a bigger family with you.

"Gabby said she wants a sibling..."

Yeah. That's when you know, non stop breeding. Even when you're not even ovulating, he just fills you up. He wants to get you pregnant and see how good you look pregnant.

When you start lactating even before you give birth, he'd suck them out. He didn't want to waste good milk.

He treats you like a gentleman but at the same time you want him to slam you down and fuck you.

He's an old fashioned lover boy, romantic dinner and flowers. Gabriella has a babysitter while you two go on a date. She thinks you two are really perfect for each other. She draws you two a lot and you put them on the fridge.

"Daddy, I saw mommy kissing Spider-Man."

You two choked on your breakfast. Miguel hasn't told her yet about him being Spider-Man. He looks at you and smirks.

"Oh, did she?"

Prepare for a long night of degradation. Pulling your hair and jackhammering into you.

"Such a slut, huh?"

"Dumbass, you're Spider-Man. You can't call me a slut for kissing my husband."

He just fucks you harder. Miguel does get tired easily and lets you ride him.

Just... yes. And yes, he does bite you.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Stitches

Marc Spector x GN!Reader • Rating: T Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist •

Summary: Marc goes to A & E after you have an accident at work.

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

A/N: *gestures vaguely*

Warnings: swearing, reader has hair that gets shaved at the back, slimy guy called Luke

Word Count: 941

Marc was going to kill him. Kill everyone. It was a workplace for fuck’s sake, there were rules, regulations, fucking health and safety. They were meant to be in place to stop things like this happening, to stop things from happening to you. 

He marched through the hospital entrance, the automatic doors taking a millisecond too long for his liking and he had been a hair's breadth away from kicking the glass in.

He turned sharply left, heading for A & E, and spotted Luke, fucking Luke, a moment after he spotted him. 

And apparently Luke had a fucking death wish, because Marc’s scowl wasn’t enough to discourage the man from jumping to his feet and making his way over to him. 

Luke swallowed nervously as he came over, brushing his hair back with his right hand. “Steven, mate,” 

Oh, ‘mate’ was it? Marc clenched his jaw. The sudden urge to punch him square in the jaw was blisteringly overwhelming. His hand tensed, tendons trying to curl into a fist. 

Kick him in the dick instead. Steven.

Not in public. Jake. 

The surprisingly, but honestly unsurprisingly, agreement to violence from both of his headmates made Marc pause. Swallow. Try to calm himself. 

“Where are they?” Marc said gruffly, too stressed to bother with even sounding vaguely Steven-like. 

Luke stammered, a little on edge at the vicious tone of his voice. “I… Well…”

Marc glared. 

Luke had been a lot more collected when they’d met a few weeks ago at your work’s Christmas party. Charming and slimy in the way he’d weaselled over and flirted with you right in front of Steven. Despite your blatant rebuttal of his advances. Despite your clear refusal of wanting anything to do with him. No matter how many times you’d showed disinterest at work he still just didn’t get the fucking message. 

“Where are they?” Marc repeated, his voice cold and quiet. 

“They, well, there was an accident…”

Marc bit his tongue, forcing the words ‘I fucking know that’, down. Even if he hadn’t been given the message already, the fact that they were in a fucking hospital should have been enough for Luke to gather that Marc had a vague idea of what was going on.

“They’re with a doctor now, they’re just getting some stitches and-”

Marc didn’t see red. Instead, it was as if everything went sepia, drained of colour to the point where nothing mattered at all. “Stitches?” 

“Yeah, just a few-”

Marc stepped closer and Luke visibly cowered back suddenly realising the danger he was in. 

“Can I help you?” A nurse, a young man with bright eyes who barely seemed old enough to be out of school, moved between them, glancing between Marc and Luke. 

Luke said nothing, eyes wide still watching Marc for any sudden movements. 

Marc spoke your name softly, looking down. “I’m their partner, are they…?” He swallowed, too many words all at once trying to force their way out of his mouth. 

The nurse smiled kindly, “They’re fine, just with the doctor now down the hall. I’ll take you to them, okay?” 

Marc faltered for a moment, his eyebrows pinched together. “Is that okay, is, is that allowed? I don’t want to get in the way of anything.”

The nurse shook his head. “No problem at all, come.” He gently touched Marc’s arm, just enough to get him to turn and walk with him. 

You smile when the door opened and saw a rather ashen-looking Marc being ushered in by a kind-looking nurse. 

“Doctor Ali, is it okay for the patient’s partner to come in?” 

The doctor smiled and nodded her head, “Of course, I’m nearly done anyway.” She was busying herself with the equipment cart. 

Marc rushed in and quickly knelt down next to you, “Baby,” he whispered, taking your hand and pressing his lips to your knuckles. 

“Hey, hey,” you rubbed his back soothingly. “It’s okay, I’m okay.” 

He looked up at you with glassy eyes and a growing lump in the back of his throat. 

Slowly you moved your hand to his cheek and ran your thumb lightly over his skin. Newly growing stubble prickled against your fingers. 

Marc closed his eyes for a second, letting out a long sigh through his nose and allowed himself to press into your touch before he placed a kiss to your wrist and looked back into your eyes. 

“Though,” you smiled, trying to lighten the mood a little, “I might look a bit like a fifteenth century monk for a bit.” You pointed to the back of your head, moving slightly so Marc could see the patch of shaved hair and stitches. 

“Fuck.” He muttered, his voice barely audible. 

“It’s okay,” you smile. “It’ll grow back.” 

Marc gave you a look, “you know I’m talking about the size of the wound.”

“I know.” You lean down and kiss his forehead. 

“How did it happen?”

“I fell down, didn’t I?” 

“Baby-”

You pull him a little closer so you can give him a proper hug, he lets out another sigh when you wrap your arms around him and kiss his temple. “I’ll tell you the whole boring story later, I promise.” 

He nods. He knows, deep down, you’re only waiting until he’s calmed down a little, until the panic and nausea have left his heart and throat. 

“I saw Luke in the waiting area,” Marc mutters, still pressed close. “I nearly punched him.” 

You chuckle a bit at that in spite of yourself. “Amazing self control Spector.” 

Marc’s eyes crease as he smiles. “The day is still young.” 

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[formulapookie]

don't ask just read idk what's this

ok so I remember a while ago in the Rosquez community there was a wave of angst and we had decided in 2015 after Sepang Marc had lost the baby him and Vale had because of the kick and he never told Vale.

Now.

Migbabol episode comes out. Vale says that thing where he says Marc might have fallen on purpose just to have him penalized, that he's done that intentionally.

And Marc never really recovered completely at a mental level for the loss of the baby because despite everything he had half a thought of keeping it, and even now he's hurt by that loss because he thinks "what could've been".

He usually laughs at Vale's podcasts batshit takes, because come on, who wouldn't?

But this time he doesn't, because in his mind Vale is accusing him of having killed the baby.

And he rationally knows that Vale doesn't mean that because he doesn't even know there was a baby, but his mind just races with it.

And Alex is listening to the episode with him and sees Marc freezing and tears coming because he's till wounded. And he hugs him tight because Alex obviously knew abt the baby, and that it was Vale's and that Marc lost it in Sepang.

Say this week, Misano 2, Vale is there (for RPF reasons he doesn't have children) Marc wins again, Alex comes third, they go out to celebrate, Alex gets a bit too drunk and somehow (say Ducati throws one big party for all its teams) he runs into Vale like in the bathroom.

And oh he's angry. Like so close to punching him in the face he has to remind himself he's in Italy and punching Valentino Rossi be his death sentence.

So he just insults him, tells him he's a terrible person for saying that, that Marc fell on purpose.

And Vale, still not knowing the truth, kinds does his bastard smirk and goes "And why? He could've, he had to get me out the fight somehow"

And Alex sees red, and he just doesn't keep himself in check anymore and tells Vale "He would've never done it on purpose because he was pregnant with your fucking baby, and he wanted to tell you but you went and made him fall, and he lost the baby, the first thing he told me when he came back limping because of the crash was 'Alex we have to be sure the baby is ok', do you get it Rossi? He was more concerned for the baby YOU TWO had on the way than himself, or your fucking championship. He never, never told you because he didn't want to hurt you but I don't give a fuck, you deserve to know how much of a disgusting person you are for saying that. You know, Marc saw the podcast, because every time he's convinced you'll be less of a dick, and when he hard you accusing him of pretending to fall because of the contact he had a breakdown, he didn't eat for three fucking days because he was hurt by the loss once again. So just so you know, that day you killed your child Rossi, and you hurt my brother so much you could've just killed him too. Next time you get a mic think of this, and maybe be less of an asshole"

And Alex leaves, and Vale is just standing there in the bathroom, he isn't smiling anymore, he's practically on the verge of crying, he wants to think this is yet another Marc trick, but then he remembers how one day Marc had thrown up in the morning and woke him up or of how he had placed a hand on his own belly when raising from the gravel after the fall, in the footage he saw thousands of times.

And then Marc comes into the bathroom, and he sees Vale is there, and for a moment there's something like pain in his eyes, and then Vale is closing the distance, grabbing him by the shoulders and looking at him in the eyes with this hurt gaze and just goes "We had a baby?"

And Marc is in shock, there's four people who know, his mother, father, brother and Dovi. And none of the would've told Vale, he asked never to tell.

But he can't hide it, not anymore because he's practically crying. "Yes. We did"

"When?"

"2015, I found out one week before Sepang, I didn't want to distract you so I didn't tell you, I thought about doing it after the race but then you said those things and I didn't"

"Marc did you lose it on track?"

Marc doesn't want to say it, because yes, he did, but still even after all the hurt he doesn't want to accuse Vale of it.

"Marc tell me"

"I - yes. The doctor told me the - the kick and the fall killed it."

Something inside Vale at that point shatters, he wants to punch himself.

"So I - I killed our baby?"

And once again Marc doesn't want to answer, because in his heart he can't accuse Vale of having done this, because despite everything he's STILL in love with him.

So he just looks away and Vale knows it's the truth.

"You should've never known about it, I made them promise they wouldn't tell you"

And Vale is dying inside because what the fuck why does Marc want to protect him from the truth? After all he did?

"But please Vale, I ask you just one thing. Don't say I did it on purpose, the fall, please don't say it again. I didn't, I couldn't have, not normally but especially not with the baby. I though I could've kept it. Take a season off. So please, keep on hating me, say all you want, say to the world I came begging for you the year after but please. Don't say I fell on purpose that day. I'd prefer you telling the world I was with Lorenzo and that's why I made you loose. I'd prefer that but I beg of you don't say I killed our baby on purpose"

And vale is just shocked because Marc is practically telling him he could slaughter him and he didn't care as long as it didn't involve the baby.

And NOW he truly looks at Marc and fucking sees who he's been accusing of being a monster all this time.

And he doesn't know what to do because what exactly should you do when you discover you killed your own baby for greed? And you discover it after years because who knew didn't want to tell you not to hurt you? And you have them right in front of you after accusing him of having killed it themselves?

"Marc if you told me -"

"If I told you back then you would've called me a liar, you would've told me it wasn't yours, that I was sleeping around, that I just got pregnant because I was a whore and kicked me out"

And Vale can't argue because it's true, back then he would've reacted like this.

So he just has to watch as Marc exits the bathroom and he can't say anything anymore and just stays there for God knows how long until one of the boys finds him and drives him back home.

Uh so yes sorry it's a lot but I had to get it out

[sooniebby]

A dream i had has been haunting me so here i am.

A jock any sport my dream wasnt specific just a popular jock is the reader and he is just so popular and everyone loves him and of course everyone assumes since his this big jock his the dom in the relationship between him and his boyfriend when in fact his the complete opposite.

The boyfriend can be in the band or a part of the cheer team again it depends on the sport and my dreams never clarify, He hears one of these conversations and has a brilliant idea that he was gonna put the reader in his place and everyone is gonna know that place.

Kinks you can go wild with, But praise and a little the reader getting dumb on whoever you choose the nerd to be cock but the rest you can do what you please 🤭🤭

ఌ 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

꧁ 𝙊𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙭 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 ꧂

Word count › 2.5k

Rating › NSFT

Warnings › none

Kinks › praise, voyeurism, semi-public sex, use of pussy/feminine terms

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

╰┈─➤ ＢＥＧＩＮＮＩＮＧ

“Isn’t that (Name)’s boyfriend?”

“Mickey?”

“I thought his name was Mikey?”

“Nah man, it’s Mickey!”

Marcus sighed. He hated having to practice for the marching band when the football team was practicing as well. The players didn’t know how to whisper. He was really wondering if he should give them a look that he could hear them.

He wasn’t sure why the football coach allowed them to practice with them here but he was sure it was because the teacher for band was a sexy man. Marcus could tell the coach, Coach Pattinson, loved to stare at his band teacher’s ass.

But he couldn’t lie. Mister Yang had a nice ass.

More importantly though, Marcus could sometimes see his boyfriend playing. But it was mainly rare. (Name) played soccer so obviously he couldn’t play while the football team occupied the field.

Today was that day the soccer team practiced somewhere else.

He was getting a bit agitated at this point. The heavy drum strapped to his chest and the sun beaming down at him. God, he wanted to just walk home. But he did like his band mates. He didn’t want them to hate him for any reason so he’d put it with it.

But that didn’t mean he’d do it without complaints.

“Marc! Pay attention.” One of his band mates whispered, poking him with a drum stick. Marcus quickly put his focus on Mr. Yang as he continued to drone on and on about timing and making sure to be energetic during performances.

Marcus tried to pay more attention, even though he had already heard this speech once before. Expect the two players whispering (?) about him started up once more.

“I wonder what (Name) sees in him.” Thing 1 said.

“What do you mean? Mickey is a cute ass guy. Especially his ass…” Thing 2 muttered.

“Mikey… And yeah I guess. It’s kinda flat to me. Mr. Yang has a much fatter ass than him.”

“True true… I mean look it at… I wonder what it looks like when he jumps…”

Thing 1 whispered. The only time he ever whispered. “Perv.”

“You started it!” Thing 2 shouted, earning a glare from Coach Pattinson. Thing 1 & 2 quickly quieted down.

“But for real, who do you think tops?” Thing 2 muttered.

“(Name)… obviously. The dude is bigger and taller than Mikey. How could Mikey top him?!”

“(Name) is only 5’10 at the most. He’s not that tall. And he’s hardly that muscular. It’s mainly his legs.”

“Says you, Mister 6’4!” Thing 1 punched Thing 2 on the arm, earning a wince. “(Name) has an ass that could rival Mr. Yang, though.”

“Didn’t he play baseball?”

“He plays both sports. Such a cool guy. I’m not sure how he doesn’t go crazy.” Thing 1 looked as if he had a crush on (Name). Marcus didn’t like that, he could feel himself tighten his grip on his drumsticks.

“Maybe he knows how to manage himself… unlike someone…”

“Say that to my face you beanstalk!”

“Alright boys, break time is over!!” Coach Pattinson yelled. “Back to the field!!” He blew his whistle before glancing over to see Mister Yang’s ass once more.

Yeah, he wasn’t hiding it.

Marcus thought hard about what Thing 1 & 2 talked about. Damn, did he not give off top vibes like the thought? Shit—what could he do to show it off?

Well it wasn’t that he really cared what those little shits said but he didn’t like that his looks somehow determined his sexual position.

Oh. Marcus smirked to himself.

He could always make it known that he is the dom in the relationship… and he knew just the way to do it.

“Dude… the fuck are you smiling about?”

Marcus glanced over to his band mate, Olivia. “Nothing important.”

Olivia didn’t look convinced but she turned her attention back to Mr. Yang. Marcus couldn’t wait to test out his plan.

ꕥ

It was the next day and Marcus didn’t have band practice today. But (Name) was at soccer practice. He hardly joined him because he mainly wanted to go straight home after school. Any minute he stayed longer at this cursed school was a damage to his mental health.

(Name) was sitting down on the bench, drinking water when he spotted his boyfriend. He waved, a large grin on his lips. If he was an animal, many would say he would be a golden retriever. So happy to be with people.

“Marc! Something happened?”

“I can’t just see my boyfriend?” Marcus grinned, his blonde locs pulled into a ponytail. He wore a ridiculously large jacket with a red tee with black pants. (Name) always wondered why Marcus always complained about being hot when he chose to wear such clothing during summer.

(Name) simply hummed and pursed his lips, closing his eyes. He titled his head up earning a laugh from Marcus. Marcus would usually just give him a light kiss. He wasn’t one for PDA.

But this time, he grabbed (Name)’s chin and held him in place as he kissed him. (Name)’s eyes widen as Marcus immediately bit his lip, causing him to automatically part them. The innocent kiss (Name) wanted was quickly turned into a full on make out with tongue.

(Name) whimpered into the kiss, wondering if any of his teammates were looking at him. Marcus pulled away from the kiss—a small trail of saliva connecting their lips—as he glanced back to see if anyone saw that. It seemed at least a few did—with the embarrassed looks on a few of the boys face.

The coach didn’t seem to have saw it though by the fact she was paying attention to another player. Good. He just wanted the other players to see.

“What…?” (Name) muttered. He didn’t hate it. No he loved it but he would’ve loved a warning first.

“Trying something new. Like it?” Marcus said, wiping away a stray line of drool on (Name)’s chin.

“I like whatever you do. But I thought you didn’t like public stuff.”

“I still don’t.” Marcus simply said and sat down on the bench.

(Name) didn’t understand Marcus sometimes.

Marcus fanned at himself, starting to complain about the sun cooking him alive.

“I’m lucky I can’t get any darker ‘cause what the fuck, man…” he complained.

“Take your jacket off.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll mess up my style. I had this whole outfit planned and everything. I mean, look at my shoes—it matches the jacket!”

It did.

(Name) simply laughed. “Alright. Enjoy the sun, Mikey.” He said as he got up to return back to practice.

“Ay! It’s because of you those other jocks are calling me Mikey or Mickey! I’m not a mouse!”

“Sorry! I didn’t think anyone else would call you that!”

Marcus simply huffed. He mainly couldn’t wait until he could enact his plan. The kiss was simply to just get it started for later.

Ah he couldn’t wait.

ꕥ

(Name) knew Marcus liked to try new things. Y’know, only live once and all that jazz. But he didn’t know that he’d be into something so… scandalous?

So risky.

“Isn’t this nice?”

(Name) simply huffed, not able to say anything due to the cock in his mouth. They were behind the bleachers—not too far from door that leads to the locker room. When (Name)’s coach called for a thirty minute break, Marcus saw that as his cue to go ahead with his plan.

He had pulled (Name) to the back of the bleachers were no one could see them and forced him to his knees. But the spot they were in was hardly hidden. Someone could just walk up to the locker room door and get a clear view of them.

(Name) was kneeling down on the balls of his feet, forced to keep his balance this way. It wasn’t a good position to try and suck dick at, especially when Marcus was only 5’7 to his 5’10. (Name) wasn’t immediately at face with his cock.

He had to bend a little. Suffice to say, he was uncomfortable sucking dick right now. But he loved Marcus telling him what to do so who was he to stop him.

“Did I tell you that some guys said that you were topping me?” Marcus laughed.

(Name) hummed, pulling away from his cock. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

“Maybe.” Marcus tapped two fingers on (Name)’s lips. (Name) eagerly took them into his mouth—sucking them to lather it up. His cock twitched in his gym shorts as he thought about someone seeing him in this position.

Kneeling down in front of someone physically weaker than him.

“So I thought… maybe I should prove them wrong, y’know? But then it hit me… if they think like that—than everyone else must think like that.”

(Name) wasn’t sure if he believed that. No one could be that weird to care about his sex life.

Marcus hummed as he forced his fingers down deeper (Name)’s throat, enjoying the panicked choke he got from his boyfriend. He dragged them out of (Name)’s mouth. (Name) took a few shuttered breaths as Marcus motioned for him to lay down.

“Pants off.”

(Name) slipped off his pants and boxers as he moved to lay down on the grass. It felt dirty to do so but he didn’t care at the moment. Marcus hummed, deep in thought before he tapped (Name)’s waist.

“Doggy.”

(Name) flushed. He always felt embarrassed during doggy. Marcus always got full view of his ass at this position. It also didn’t help that doggy was the quickest way for Marcus’ cock to reach his prostate.

With a little hesitation, (Name) moved into the doggy position. Just as he was about to try and not think about the fact someone could see him in such position, Marcus slapped his ass.

“Hey, you forgot your move.”

(Name) blushed in full embarrassment as he leaned down more so his ass was in the air and shyly shook his ass. He hated doing it. The first time he ever did it was by accident. He didn’t think Marcus would’ve wanted him to do it everything for doggy.

Marcus had said it reminded him of a cat getting ready to pounce. It was the only time (Name) was ever said to resemble a cat.

“Good boy.” Marcus shoved in his two fingers, gaining a scream from (Name). “Hey, do you want them to hear you?”

(Name) shook his head.

“Your pussy says otherwise. It tightened as soon as I mentioned it.” Marcus laughed, dragging his fingers against (Name)’s wet walls before grazing his prostate.

Marcus loved to call (Name)’s features with feminine terms. Boobs, tits, pussy, cunt. You name it. He didn’t use it all the time. Sometimes he was nice to called them pecs or asshole.

(Name) liked both. But there was something different about his ass being called a pussy. He wasn’t sure what it was.

“I’m surprised they haven’t wondered where you are…. Do you often use these breaks to jerk off? Play with your clit?” He grinned, enjoying the whimper he earned.

(Name) shook his head, gripping at the dirt beneath him. His hole clenched down on Marcus’ fingers. He had never done that but he did usually use the break time to sit in the locker room with the air conditioner.

Marcus pressed against his prostate, teasing it as (Name)’s ass twitched upwards. He loved it whenever (Name) tried to chase the relief. His ass was a sight to see as it bounced at every sudden movement he made.

Maybe Thing 1 was right about his ass… it could rival Mr. Yang’s…

“You think you’re ready?” Marcus asked, continuing his grazes against (Name)’s prostate.

(Name) simply whined, too dumbed out to say anything. He honestly didn’t trust himself to open his mouth without moaning anyway.

Marcus took that as a yes as he slipped out his fingers and grabbed his cock. It was a good size, six inches. But the best part about it was how thick it was. Imagine a soda can.

He slowly pushed inside, moving one hand to grip (Name)’s waist. It took everything in (Name)’s body to not cry out. He bit his lip harshly—digging his fingers into the dirt.

Marcus was antagonistically slow. Dragging his cock in and out of (Name)’s hole. He wouldn’t go fully in—set to just tease his prostate before pulling out. (Name) was going to die if he continued this way.

“You always take me so well. But that’s just cuz you were made for me.” Marcus muttered, pushing down (Name)’s shirt to press soft kisses on his back. His back is sweating, from playing or sex? Marcus hoped it was sex.

(Name) huffed as he began to thrust backwards, hoping that Marcus’ cock will reach in deeper. Marcus simply laughed to himself as he stopped his thrusting—allowing (Name) to continue his lackluster performance.

“Mikey…”

“Yes, baby?”

“C’mon… we don’t have all day… please…”

(Name) was right. They had thirty minutes. It could’ve been thirty minutes already for all they knew. If he didn’t want to play soccer with a raging boner—he needed to cum now.

Marcus frowned. He hoped he could drag this out longer but knew it wasn’t fair to (Name).

“I’ll get you off. We’ll worry about me when your practice is finished,” Marcus said, grasping (Name)’s waist and holding him still as he began to thrust harshly inside of him.

He purposefully aimed for his prostate, enjoying the panicked hiccups (Name) accidentally slipped out. (Name) was struggling to keep his voice down. He could hear his coach saying they had a minute left.

Could he really cum in under a minute?!

Marcus was going to make sure he did though. He didn’t let up with his constant thrusts, reaching down to jerk (Name)’s leaking clock as well.

It doesn’t take too long for (Name) to cum. Before he could scream, Marcus quickly shoved (Name)’s own shirt into his mouth. It muffled it a little but he could still hear someone ask if they heard something.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Marcus pulls out despite his cock twitching for his own release and pulled his boxers and pants on. (Name) stayed on the ground, trying to catch his breathe before slowly moving to put on his pants.

(Name) looked numbed. He certainly looked as if he could fall asleep any minute. Marcus helped him to his feet (with a little struggle but he would never admit that).

“Go back to practice. I’ll be waiting for you,” Marcus said, patting (Name)’s ass. (Name) glared at him before limping away to his teammates.

If anyone asked why he was limping, he’d just say he hurt his leg while playing earlier. Though he was sure a few of his teammates didn’t believe that.

And unlucky for him, it was the few who loved to tell everyone what they knew. At least Marcus plan worked. Everyone was going to know who was truly the top in the relationship.

After practice, when almost everyone had already left, (Name) was changing into his clothes after taking a shower when Marcus walked into the locker room.

A small smirk on his lips.

“It’s time to worry about me.”

A limp walk wasn’t going to be the only thing (Name) went home with. A nice creampie would accompany it~

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

╰┈─➤ ＥＮＤ

My comeback! Marcus is so fun to write, I hope you guys like him!! If you guys want, I can do a little fic of how he started dating you 🤭 lemme know!

Tag list: @mello-life69 @the-ultimate-librarian @nakedtoasterr @chill-guy-but-cooler @kiiyoooo

Number 1 fan: @elegantcecile

[moonshynecybin]

Any updates you’d want to share of your incredible marc 31&unfucked/airport rosquez wip? Or do you move in silence

twink for sale. never fucked. part one here, part two here ! yet again i have not reread the previous parts so these idiots might very well be talkin in circles. c'est la vie i am what i am.

Marc leans against the counter of the bar, a thick slab of slightly sticky wood covered in a mess of elbows and drinks. It’s not exactly a dive, but it’s unpretentious, laid back. Marc likes it. Likes the sound of the music and the smell of cigarette smoke.

The Ducati crew are all here, plus the Gresini people— celebrating an all-Ducati podium that saw Pecco roaring away into the distance before anyone could figure out a way to catch him, shades of Jorge Lorenzo. Marc had snapped up P3. Whatever.

He sighs. Studies the menu like he isn’t just going to order the same thing he always does.

Alex is feeling sick— staying at the hotel— and he doesn’t even know why he’s here. It's nice, but he doesn’t really know anyone. He wants to text Santi, see what the people at Honda are up to, but he balks. Someone might run a headline, and he doesn’t want to deal with that. He'll call them later, when he gets back to Spain, and link up for dinner then.

He orders his mojito and pauses, caught as a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He looks over, expecting one of his mechanics or someone from the factory team. Instead— Valentino. VR46 must’ve been invited as well. 

A grin splits his face before he can help it. 

“You still order the same drink.” Vale muses, like poking that particular bruise doesn’t even hurt him. He just— remembers Marc’s drink order like it’s nothing,

Marc ducks his head. “Shut up,”

“No, it’s just, you said– you are older now, yes? I thought maybe you would make a change?”

“Why should I? I like what I like.”

Vale flags the bartender and asks for a Negroni, curls his long hand against the glass. Marc catches his eyes on the bones of a wrist, the way it looks in the low lighting. He blinks.

He doesn't know what’s going on with him lately. 

Vale leans closer, looks around, conspiratorial. Grin white sharp in yellow light, shirt gaping at the collar to expose the long lines of his neck. He raises a finger at Marc.

“You know, Bez has a bet about you,”

“Bezzecchi?” Marc asks, pulling back into himself— he’s never called him Bez, isn’t about to start now.

Vale tilts a chin over to the corner, where Bezzecchi and Pecco seem locked in some sort of boozy, animated discussion. Marc catches snatches of words in Italian: tattoo, turbo, braking.

“What bet?” He asks, turning back to watch Vale take a sip of his drink. It’s a wonder there’s not a camera on them. Although— he thinks about that headline. Friends again. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

“That you will not win another title,” Vale says casually, smacking his lips around the bitter of his drink. 

They’ve never been two people known for playing it safe.

Marc hums, fiddles with his bar napkin. “Oh, does he?” He doesn’t mention the bet he’s been told Uccio has. Four thousand dollars towards the same.

Vale nods. Places an elbow next to Marc on the bar and leans. Marc catches a whiff of his cologne— something spicy.

“Why should I care?” Marc shrugs, plays confused. He doesn’t— it’s Bezzecchi. He’s always been a bit weird about Marc. After Valencia last year, Marc has just written him off completely. One of Vale’s devotees too caught up in their history to think clearly for himself.

Vale laughs. “I guess you shouldn’t.”

“And what about you?” Marc prods, a little spiky. He's pretty sure he knows the answer. “What do you think? Will I win?” 

Vale tilts his head. 

“You could do it,” and Marc stares. “—if it rains.” Is the punchline that drags a smile back to him like a punch to the gut.

“Ah, I see. Master in the wet.” Marc waggles his eyebrows and Vale chuffs a laugh, scrubs a hand down his face like he’s embarrassed he finds Marc funny. 

“No no, but you’re the only one crazy enough— Brno 2019,” He reminds Marc. “Why was it raining for us and not for you?”

Marc doubles over, presses his smile into his palm. He still can’t quite believe this is happening— that Vale still knows how to twist the knife enough to make it sweet instead of making it hurt, teasing in ways that make Marc bark a laugh instead of blink away the burning feeling in his stomach. Now the joke is— how bad it got is almost funny. The ludicrousness of their falling out. His injury. Vale retiring. Leaving Honda. and Marc shouldn’t be laughing really, but Vale’s always found a way to thrive in the comedic incongruity of a situation. How the hell did we even get here? Is the question, and they both seem to find it abruptly hilarious, tension snaking ephemerally away from them as they giggle like children.

Vale regroups, catching his breath, “Bah, anyways. Pecco will be very, very strong. Hard to beat when he is giving 100%.” 

It’s probably the truth. It’s what he should say. Marc doesnt think he means it, and his smile grows.

He pretends to think. “Yes. He is. But I'm not trying to be greedy— nine is, nine would be a good number.” Continuing their theme—half a jab, half a joke—a test. Are they there yet, he's asking, can Vale take the same treatment from Marc? Daring Vale to confirm all his worst assumptions. If he’s going to pull back, get it over with. Pull him down to earth from where it feels like he’s floating away.

“Not as good as ten, no?” Vale says smoothly, and it would sound like taking the bait but his voice is still a tease, and his smile is still there, and he’s still next to Marc. Leans closer, even.

Marc doesn’t think he’s blinked in the last 45 seconds.

“No,” Marc lets every bit of his confidence into his voice. Nine times world champion is good, but Vale is right. He wants ten. “No, it’s not.”

“Ah, so that is the plan? Beat me?” Vale pulls another sip from his drink, leaning on the bar like he owns it. 

Marc shrugs, grins hugely. “Beat everyone. These guys— they are not better than you, and they are not better than me.”

“Maybe not.” Vale’s looking at him, eyes sparkling, and Marc’s melting down, like sugar dissolving into tea.

He clears his throat. Maybe the mojito is stronger than he thought. He hasn’t— they’ve never talked about it like this. He hasn’t wanted to talk about this. But he likes that it’s happening now, somehow. That it’s happening like this, like it’s the past instead of the present.

“Eh, you know, you’ve been coming to a lot of races.” 

“I have people I want to see.” Vale says, which could mean a lot of things, and “Old friends included,” which could mean less things but also isn’t necessarily any less confusing. Then he taps a finger on the edge of Marc’s drink, a non sequitur. “Can I try?”

Marc nods, feels like his brain is running a step behind his body. Watches Vale move the straw to take a sip from the rim, then think through the taste hitting his tongue.

“Do you like it?”

Vale shrugs, noncommittal, then pushes his glass towards Marc. He puts his hand on the back of Marc’s neck. 

“Here. Try mine.”

“No, no no— I have had Negronis. Too bitter.” Marc says, even as he raises the drink to his lips. There's no straw in this one, just lips against glass. He wonders if it’s the same spot Vale had been drinking from earlier.

Bitter aromatics burst in his mouth. He makes a face against the strength of it, feels Vale’s laugh through his hand on the back of his neck. He shivers a little, it’s— he doesn’t know why he's doing that.

He decides not to think about it. It could be cold in here, he hasn’t really been paying attention.

“Ah, you’re one of those with a sweet tooth?” Vale takes his drink back from the well of Marc’s hand, and their fingers zap a little static shock that makes Marc feel brave.

Marc winks. “I am guilty.”

Vale just— looks at him. And they’ve done a lot of that in their history, looked at each other, tried to ascertain the next move to make on track or the next mind game to use in a press conference— but this feels different. Marc feels different. His skin feels tight and his head feels dizzy and his heart is pounding, and through it all Vale keeps looking, and he doesn’t quite know what to say or what to do, but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

There's a big cry from the other side of the room, breaking his train of thought— some mechanics in a rowdy conversation of some sort, and Marc becomes hyper aware of how exposed they are right now. Anyone could see— well, he doesn’t know quite what, but he knows he doesn’t want them to see it. He shifts, darts eyes to the exit.

He wants to leave, and it could be the alcohol, but Vale’s face is pretty much the exact thing that Marc wants to see right now.

“Want to head back?” Marc asks, feeling a little reckless— it’s a flyaway, he’s pretty sure they’re all packed inside the same hotel.

Vale considers him for a minute, and as Marc waits for him to speak he wonders if the booze is catching up to him. The world feels like it’s rushing around his ears. 

“For sure.” Vale murmurs, and when he takes his hand off of Marc’s neck he can feel it slide all the way down his back.

When they get into the Uber, Marc looks at his phone and gives a little groan. Tries to shake it off. Feel more sober. Reassert some normalcy from their earlier tension. Vale and him– they haven't been friends in eight (Or nine? Marc thinks, Is it nine?) years. There’s bound to be growing pains.

“It’s so early.” He groans.

Vale nods. It is.

“I’m old.” Marc continues, reminded of their conversation in the airport. It’s true now— with Aleix going, he’ll be the veteran. How did that happen. You can’t talk to me about old, Vale had said. But he finds that he wants to.

“You are not old,” Vale echoes, with emphasis, like Marc’s insane. What does he know, he’s even older.

Marc puts a hand on his bad arm, which hurts. Slides down in the seat a little, loose with alcohol. He's such a lightweight now. He lets out a big sigh.

Vale nudges him. He's got a look on his face— that same conspiratorial one from the bar earlier, and Marc cranes his neck up.

“Marc,”

“Yeah?” God, his eyes are blue.

“Tell me— do you want to pay Bez back?”

“What?” Marc croaks, not really processing what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to talk about Bezzecchi— he can still see the skin between Vale’s shirt and his neck, can’t stop looking at it. He leans in heavily. Thinks about a world where Vale puts a hand on the inside of his thigh and leans right back.

“Yeah.” Vale flips up his hand to flash a hotel key card. probably Bezzecchi’s. He grins, waiting for Marc to get the joke, and after a moment— it clicks. Laughter explodes out of Marc’s chest. 

It's been a minute since Valentino and him were on the inside of something. In cahoots, instead of at odds, and he feels— energized. Adrenaline creeping into him like an old friend. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel old at all, and he wants to get out and do something— sweat, dance, move, fuck. Get Vale to keep smiling at him. Ruin Bezzecchi’s day. Win another race this year. Win a championship.

For once, he sure that Vale feels about the same.

It's quick work for them to break in and hide all of Bezz’s socks.

Marc overhears him, the next race in the paddock—that Vale wasn’t supposed to be at but is anyways. They’re talking about the missing socks, and Vale is loudly and smoothly blaming it on Pecco. When Marc passes, Vale catches his eye, easy,  and shoots him a sly wink.

Marc floats on air all the way back to his box

[burirammin]

Watched sepang 2011 moto2 fp1 followed by qualification and now I am absolutely devastated. screaming crying throwing up etc. etc. (the following write-up aka. me ever so slightly losing my mind over how Marc Marquez's 2011 season ends)

That weekend was so cursed it's unbelievable. Not even two minutes into the fp1 session the camera cut to the turn 10 gravel trap and then there was two riders occupying the place. The first one was Jules Cluzel, who was thankfully already up and was not hurt. Marc was the second one and oh boy, was he NOT fine. He laid there on his back for what felt like minutes, camera focusing on him almost THE WHOLE TIME. I. am. sick. to my stomach!!!

Not a moment later another bike (or two actually, but one of them was off camera) came crashing in, Marc was still on the ground, just out of the hit range. It was Yonny Hernandez (who looks to be fine. he raced the next day but was black-flagged) and Bradley Smith, who ended up with a broken collarbone + bruised ribs and was forced to be out of the race altogether. His injuries were caused by him getting thrown directly into Marc's bike. How unlucky was that??? The cause of all these crashes? A WET. FUCKING. PATCH. I reeallly meant it when I say that weekend was fucking cursed (and on sunday. we all know what happened on sunday...)

I was already regretting my choice to watch it at this point but just like watching a trainwreck, I couldn't stop.

And then I saw the team's reaction (full on regret. hits like a brick)

The icing on the cake? the whole session did not have any commentary. Just pure ambient noises, bike engines, staff radios, people rushing around the track. The whole scene was so eerie, I could not imagine watching this live.

The way they were running out from the pit, almost entirely abandoning it to (presumably) check on Marc at the medical center? gut punched.

The famous shot of Marc after medical check-up. Already a pro at slutty suffering at the tender age of eighteen. (I was about to throw up, so thank you I guess? how he was just out there, looking beautiful in this state was beyond my comprehension)

Marc missed all the sessions following fp1 (3 in total) but he did joined in for qualification session the next day. There was commentating for this and they mentioned that he was still a little dizzy this morning, his neck and left shoulder was not doing great either. Of course Marc being Marc he still wants to at least try to qualify and maybe, race. For context, he was just 3 points off the lead and not participating in this race means he will lose the championship, which in the end, he did.

It didn't last long. Marc was back in the box after just one qualifying lap.

Back in the box, Santi and Emilio was immediately all over him. The commentators DID pick up that there was something seriously wrong as normally only Santi (crew chief) would be present to talk about technical stuff that needs to be done and such, and not Emilio (manager). They discussed, things did not look good. With the gift of hindsight we can see that Marc was clearly informing them about his eye problem (which we know was diplopia later on) not to mention his other injuries to neck and left shoulder that was probably bothering him.

He has to leave the box shortly after. The commentators said they were hoping that he will be feeling better in the morning of race day, and also that Marc losing the championship was “inconceivable” before the fp1 crash*. There’s no such luck, unfortunately.

*mind you, he already have another big (very reckless and very much his own fault) crash from prior week with Ratthapark Wilairot in phillip island resulting in his blackeye but that was not enough to hindered his performance.

Marc watching the sunday race from the sidelines, no longer able to participate in this and following race.

And just to add even more (like anyone needed it, jesus christ) to the cursed factor of this weekend, Axel Pons suffered a massive crash during the race, resulting in a red flag. He also, was not fit for the next race.

God. That's it. That's the end of his 2011 season. From a crash that was in no way, shape or form, his fault. The circuit was later fined for not displaying yellow flag to warn riders of a wet patch on the track.

He could've won. HE COULD HAVE WON. HE COULD HAVE BEEN A MOTO2 WORLD CHAMPION IN HIS ROOKIE YEAR!!!!! I must repeat that at the time he was 3 POINTS AWAY FROM THE LEAD and has more or less been DOMINATING the whole season. He was on the podium for every races that he has finished and was on a streak. I am convinced he could have easily done it if not for the unfortunate accident.

But all he got out of it was second place in the championship (which we all know he won't accept in his mind. at least back then) and a diplopia problem that would still haunts him more than ten years later...

[tyblackthornsheadphones]

Hiya! Maybe some hurt and comfort fic with the moon boys after the reader got hurt in a street scuffle thing? :)

i reread this only once and yes, i did notice the inconsistent verb tenses but honestly i don’t have the energy to go back and change it. i tried to keep physical descriptions of the reader to a minimum so it should be gender neutral and any race. if not, please let me know so i can fix it.

i also kind of forgot the reader was supposed to be hurt and wrote it more emotional but i hope it’s fine anyway. (i’m so bad at following requests i’m so sorry)

if you wanna support me you can buy me a ko-fi.

the two men had come out of nowhere, forcing you into an alleyway under the dark cover of the night. your only comfort was the thought that your boys were watching the city for these exact types of people, maybe they would come save you. and if you managed to hold off the two men for just long enough, you could get out of this alive.

you weren’t a fighter. marc had taught you basic self-defence, but even so you wouldn’t have been able to take on two big, buff men with guns and eyes that spoke of deranged thoughts and lack of care for any life but their own.

the rest was a blur. a white caped hero throwing punches, a body jumping in front of your own, blood on the concrete and on gloved hands.

“let’s get you home, amor.”

jake was angry, you could hear it in his tone, but you were still frozen in fear from the encounter, your mind buzzing yet simultaneously unable to string together any coherent thoughts. so you didn’t respond, and he carried you home in his arms, jumping into the loft through the window you always kept open for him on nights like these, the one you’d forgotten to close before leaving.

you have a routine for when your boys come back from their duties as moonknight. the suit heals their wounds, but it doesn’t wash away the blood. you run a warm cloth over their skin until the blood and grime is all washed off, a slow repetitive process that gives their mind the time to deal with the violence they committed and store away the memories somewhere far back.

it’s easy to let your muscle memory take over.

“you don’t have to do that tonight,” jake says, “let us take care of you. we want to make sure you’re alright after that.”

you shake your head. there’s still a part of you that’s numb, and you don’t think you could put your feelings into words, you don’t think there’s any real way to voice the way you were convinced you were going to die, the way your brain flashed through everything you regret and your friends you haven’t seen in a while and the goals you’d never accomplish.

the suit falls away and it’s just your jake. not the hero of london or the fist of vengeance, just your worried boyfriend.

you clean his knuckles of the blood that always somehow manages to seep through the bandages that make up their suit. his body tenses, and when you look up, you meet marc’s eyes. his jaw is clenched in a way that you recognise, he wants to speak but doesn’t quite know how to say it, he’s worried talking about it might not be what you need right now.

“i’m sorry,” you say finally, “for going out. a friend needed my help and i thought i could walk back home after. i didn’t think…”

“not your fault,” marc replies, “we should’ve gotten them before they even had the chance to touch you.”

“it’s not your fault either, you know,” you put the dirty cloth down.

he shakes his head. there’s no point in having this argument, it’s the same every time. you argue that it’s impossible to save everyone, that london is a huge city and they’re just one body that can only accomplish so much. marc’s dumb guilty conscience convinces him that any person he can’t save in time is blood on his hands, not the fault of the criminals who committed the act, but his for not being able to save them.

you understand why, and the fights always come back to the same thing.

the last remnants of adrenaline are fading and your hands grow shaky. marc leads you to bed, but you know this is the part where he leaves, back into the headspace while one of the others (usually steven) hold you under the safety of the blankets. he likes to take care of you, to provide, but he still struggles to be soft.

“i was so scared,” you finally admit when the lights are turned off and the room is dark and the boys can’t see your face. it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look into the eyes of the men who act as london’s protectors, constantly in dangerous situations. you don’t have to deal with the feelings of inferiority, like comparing yourself to marc’s strong and brave ex-wife who would surely have been able to defend herself.

you don’t even know which one is fronting. maybe they all are. when the tears start to fall, all you care about is the comforting familiarity of the strong arms around you and the scent of the men you love.

[pimosworld]

The sun and the moon

🌙Pairing- Moon boys x f!reader, Khonshu x Hathor

🌗Series summary- You, a long lost descendant of Hathor,  crosses paths with Moon Knight. A chance for Khonshu to reconcile with his past and a chance for the boys to have a future. 

🌘CW-18+,NSFW,MDNI, Friends to lovers,Angst, Fluff, flirting, smut, fingering, unprotected piv, soft dom reader, slight sub Steven, lots of communication.

WC-4.7k

A/N- I know this has taken me forever but I’m back with this story. I was feeling a little discouraged but decided to press on. For those that have stuck around I appreciate you so much.

[Series Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

Not beta read

Chapter 2

Forgiveness is a sign that the person who has wronged you, means more to you than the wrong they have dealt. 

  Steven has said it so many times to tourists and people he’s guided that he loves living here. So much so that he thought he was starting to believe it himself. The city is nice, his flat is nice and everything is just as it should be. Except for days like this when he can’t imagine why he lives here. The umbrella does absolutely nothing to shield him from the sideways rain that pelts his jacket and stings his face as he runs up the steps of the museum. He puts a tight smile on as he reaches the top and closes it, trying to shake off any excess before entering the building. His previous annoyance leaves his brain so quickly he can’t even remember why he was getting so worked up. 

  You’re standing there, leaning against the welcome desk. He has to hide the flush running up his neck at the thought of practically having you memorized from behind. You’re wearing a flowy black dress with small gold hieroglyphics as the print. On anyone else it might look a little on the nose but on you it’s adorable. You're laughing and nodding your head as you speak in that palliative tone, like you’re addressing a toddler who just did something brave or new. He can see now why as he gets a glimpse of J.B. the head of security grinning at you pleased as punch. 

  Idiota

  “Relax, Jake he’s harmless.” 

  Why would the head of security be some harmless imbecile?

  Steven ignores him as he approaches the desk, J.B. waving like…well he can’t say it now or Jake would be right so he’ll just say enthusiastically. 

“Morning Steven.” The man is so smitten with you he actually greeted him by the proper name. 

  You stiffen at that and gather your things from the desk top. You don’t look his way as you offer a sincere smile to the other man. It pricks a little at his heart. 

  “It was nice meeting you James,I’ll be looking forward to the word of the day tomorrow.” You wave him off with your honey sweet tone and saunter away. 

  “You want to know the word of the day?” J.B. flips open a small booklet as Steven feels the panic rising in his gut. Did he do something? That night had been nothing short of magical and then you were gone. He knew you would be nervous and excited about your first day so he chalked it up to that when you didn’t return his texts or calls. He was obviously being stupidly optimistic that you had enjoyed the night in the same manner. 

  “Sorry mate, maybe tomorrow.” He scurries off trying to catch up with you without looking like he’s chasing you. 

  “It’s Kindred!” He yells over his shoulder as a few people look on in confusion.

  He shakes his head as he picks up his pace a little. You can’t move very fast in your cute strappy heels but you certainly try and that tears his heart a little more. He’s thankful the hallway is empty as he finally catches up to you, he gently grabs your elbow as you turn to him and he’s fully hemorrhaging now when he sees your eyes. 

  “Love what’s wrong?”

  You just shake your head and wipe your eyes. “I don’t want to cry on my first day.” A small laugh escapes you. “Well, I don’t want to cry anymore.” 

  Steven

  “Not now Marc.”

  He brushes his thumb against your cheeks, wiping a stray tear, he’s relieved you don’t pull away but you’ve got this far away look in your eyes. “Did I do something to upset you?” 

  Steven 

  “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  He seems distracted and genuinely concerned. You know it wasn’t in his nature to be mean, but you waited for so long. No note or sign that he would be back, or maybe he stepped out for coffee. You waited and waited until it started to feel like you couldn’t breathe. 

  “That morning.” You glance around making sure you are alone. “You were gone and I waited.” The tears start to flow again. It's so embarrassing to be crying in the hall on your first day. 

  Steven, it’s my fault 

  His eyes go wide for a moment as he regains his composure. He doesn’t want to immediately throw Marc under the bus so he scrambles for an explanation. 

  Blame Khonshu, he won’t even know

  DON'T BLAME ME WORM

  Steven ignores the giant bird at the end of the hallway, unsure of why he’s even here. “Well you see Love, sometimes Khonshu needs us at the last minute. I know that’s not an excuse but I promise it’ll never happen-“

  You cut off his rambling as you wrap your arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of him in the process. 

  See I told you it would work. 

  You lean back looking up into his puppy dog eyes. “I thought maybe you were having second thoughts.” 

  “Of course not, never that. In fact I’d like to…we’d like to make it up to you.” He scrunches his nose and you wonder if Jake or maybe even Marc are listening. “Dinner, our place on Friday….I promise no waking up alone.” 

  You peek around him as you start to hear voices down the hall. Your lips meet his briefly as his hands start to wander. “ I’d love to.”You run away before you have a chance to see the awestruck look on his face. You don’t want to get caught kissing a coworker on your first day of your new job.  

  Why is he here?

  You don’t notice the bird leaning against the wall watching you intently as you enter the office now marked with your name on it. 

  ****

  Maybe it was the flirty texts that you kept sending each other all week, or the anticipation of not having seen them because you were so busy with taking on the new duties of your job. Perhaps the cute little notes they would leave under your office door has something to do with it. 

  My word of the day is peeved. 

Peeved that a bloke like j.b. Even thinks he has a chance. 

  You chuckle at the yellow post it that was slid under your door after lunch. It’s cute how Steven has absolutely no clue that you aren’t interested in each other in the least bit. J.B is sweet and unassuming but he doesn’t hold that same charm that you see in them. It is nice however to feel wanted and sought after. It wasn’t that you were trying to make them jealous but they deserved a little shake up after the stunt they pulled that first night you stayed over. 

  In all honesty you knew for a fact that your relationship was strictly platonic, having met the girl that caught his eye that led small exhibit tours. You may have had a direct hand in setting them up on their first date. 

  It didn’t stop you from relishing in the attention from Steven or Jake making the occasional unsolicited appearance at the museum despite their protests. Just to check on you. 

  It’s ironic how Marc catches on first…that day before your planned date when they enter the lobby and he can feel the heat rising in his chest at the sight of you leaning against the welcome desk. The knit brown dress hugging your body in all the right ways and those damn heels that he’s not sure how you can wear everyday and still manage to do your job expertly. 

  It’s then that it dawns on him how J.B. Is looking at you like someone he admires and not someone to be conquered. A prospective he’s never seen until this moment that a man could look at you simply as a friend or a companion. It startles him to think that he’s gone at this all wrong, maybe you look at them as a friend as well. Someone to help you along in your career and nothing more. 

  Marc doesn’t even realize he’s fronting until you catch his eye. Steven is a distant garbled voice in his ear the moment you smile at him. It’s obvious you’re the only one privy to their existence and he should be extremely grateful for your trust and the delicate way in which you handle them. You reach over the desk for a pen and post it as you scribble something down on it. 

  Oy, what do you think you’re doin mate?

  It’s obvious only to you how he squares his shoulders and straightens up. His eyes are clear and focused and he has this permanent smirk about him. The furrow of his brow is like Goldilocks and the three bears, him being smack dab in the middle. 

  Did you forget you don’t work at the museum?Steven pesters in his head but something keeps Marc here, pulled to you and whatever’s unfolding in front of him. 

  “Have fun with Laura, I look forward to hearing all about it on Monday.” You wink at J.B. and the man turns a shade of red that he didn’t think existed in the color wheel. 

  I don’t even hang around this long hermano. 

  J.B. tips his head to you as you round the corner closest to him at the desk. “Th…thanks again.”  He half stammers out but you give him grace. 

  “Don’t mention it James.” You lean in whispering something that Marc only catches the tail end of. It’s with a V remember. You pat him on the shoulder as you make your way towards your office, the echo of your heels clicking along the marble floors. 

  It leaves him utterly speechless as J.B. properly greets his head mate hello for the fifth time this week. The person he’s worked with for three years and could never get his name right and yet now somehow he has it perfectly down to a science. 

  He waves him off, not yet ready to relinquish the body to the true holder of the day. His adrenaline is too high and he’s too set on figuring you out. He was determined to keep you at arms length and now it’s as though he can’t be away from you. He stumbles a little, drawing a few eyes as Steven tries to forcibly take the body. 

  Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast because I can’t hold him off much longer. 

  He picks up his pace a little trying not to seem hasty as you’re almost to your office door. Moving quickly and yet gliding slowly all at once. 

  He ignores the bird once more perched in the corner of the hallway, now a constant presence in your daily lives. Annoying them even in silence as he watches and judges their every move. 

  You stop just before the door and turn to face him, your hand reaching out for him and upon impulse he can’t help but take it. It’s like his body is not his own of course it’s not but in so many different ways. He feels this pull towards you like he would combust if he didn’t follow your every move. 

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you later.” Your breath fans across his face as he closes the gap, desperately wanting to open the door behind you and do unspeakable things to you in that office marked head curator with your name not yet etched in the paint. 

  All he can manage is a nod as a small post-it is slipped into his palm. His heart beats at a dangerous pace as he feels Steven pull to the front just as your office door closes in his face. 

  Word of the day Lecherous

  Steven stands there and stares at it, your perfect handwriting and the curvy letters not making sense in his brain. The brain that he shares with two others who seemed to have stalled at the word. 

  He hurries as fast as he can, glancing down at the watch on his arm. Fifteen minutes until his first tour starts. Plenty of time.

  Just look it up on your phone 

  “Oh well now, where’s the fun in that?” 

  Jake just chuckles at the scene unfolding before him as Steven races to the Museum Library. Heading straight to the dictionaries and forgoing the questions from the librarian who usually knew what he was shopping for.

  “Oxford, Oxford…” he drags his thumb along the bindings until he finds the one he wants. He flips the pages open, finally landing on the word. “Lecherous, having or showing…” The rest of the words die on his throat. 

  Strong feelings of sexual desire. 

  ****

  You’re not sure what came over you this morning, what could’ve possibly possessed you to be so forward with Steven. The growing sexual tension between you has reached a fever pitch and he completely took you by surprise when you arrived tonight at their flat. His mouth was on you before you stepped through the door. The look in his eyes when he would try to focus on his task at hand as every piece of clothing was peeled from your body. 

  The ravenous way he licks up your neck as he has you pinned against the door, the feral sounds coming out of his mouth as you palm at his boxers having nearly undressed him in a hurry. 

  You need him in a way that scares you. Your hands roam over his tan, toned chest as something flashes in your eyes. It’s brief but doesn’t go unnoticed by his head mates. Steven too caught up in finally having you all to himself. 

  “Steven.” You pant against his mouth as he holds you suspended. “Bed…please.” 

  You yelp as he throws you over his shoulder. It still amazes you that this soft spoken, bibliophile has so many secrets. Never wanting to divulge too much into his night time activities. You suppose the job description comes with superhuman strength.

  You giggle as he throws you down in the bed. A bed you’ve been in before under much different circumstances. Always the gentleman letting you have the bed when you stayed over as “just a friend”. You hope after tonight the latter changes into something more. 

  You feel a little exposed as he hesitates to join you on the bed. His eyes roaming over your body as he breathes heavily through his nose. 

  Really he’s thinking how lucky he is. How he could’ve possibly ended up here with you in his bed, looking at him with that slight nervous smile. He hates making you squirm but he loves knowing you’re wanting this just as much as he does. A few deep breaths won’t hurt to keep the lion in the cage a little longer. 

  “You are absolutely gorgeous love.” He licks his bottom lip as he dips down onto the bed. He leans down kissing up your thighs and stomach as you let out a contented sigh. 

  He kisses up your jaw and your lips meet his all soft and warm. His chest blooms with pride as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and you instinctively lift your hips. “So good for me love.” 

  You gasp as his fingers rub through your slit, groaning at how wet you are for him. You tug on his hair as he dips two fingers in, giving you no time to adjust as he curls them hitting that spot that makes you go dumb. 

  “Fuck…Steven.” You moan as you arch your back into him. You can feel the wet patch rub against your thigh as he ruts into you. 

  He’s making you sing, like he’s known your body for years. He pumps them in and out as you cry out his name louder, plummeting towards your first orgasm. You’re both too caught up to question why he’s working with expert precision. Like a book he’s read a million times he’s got you memorized. 

  The way you say his name spurs him on even more. The feeling is intoxicating, having you at his mercy. The louder you get the more he can feel the growing presence looming in the background. The ones that have been so quiet as to not disturb this moment. They never discussed being around and yet it turns him on even more knowing they can see how he’s got you all worked up for him. 

  Perhaps he should tell you but he wouldn’t dare ruin this moment. As you grip right onto his shoulders growing closer to your end. You whimper softly in his ear as he presses his thumb down on your clit. A soft cry as your climax washes over you like a warm bath. 

  You’re bathed in a soft sheen of sweat as you come down from your high. Your body is so hot…yes you are beautiful but physically you’re burning up. It would be concerning to anyone else if you didn’t look like you were in absolute heaven. He kisses your forehead as you smile sweetly at him. He’d be perfectly content with this being all you did tonight, but when you pull him down to you licking into his mouth as you pull down his boxers he knows you have other things in mind. 

  “Steven, can I ride you?” The most sinful words leave your mouth the most innocent look on your face. 

  Mierda 

  He nods frantically ignoring the first thing Jakes said in hours as you switch places. You swing your leg over his hip as your hands are on his chest, gently guiding him down against the pillows. You lean forward kissing him as you rub your pussy along his impressive length, not yet wanting to put it in. He groans against your mouth as you grind your hips nearly coming at the sweet friction.

  “I’m on the pill, unless you want to wear a condom.” 

  “No!” It’s said more desperately than he intended as he grips your waist helping you rub deliciously along his cock. “I need to feel you.” 

  You slide forward just enough to notch his tip at your entrance before you sink down, taking him all the way to the hilt in one swift movement. He chokes on his words as you bottom out. Pushing against him to sit fully upright. His hands are sure to leave bruises as he fights the urge not to come just looking at you, seated perfectly in his lap. 

  Your eyes are hooded as you wait for him to catch his breath. One hand comes to squeeze your breast as you bite your bottom lip, clenching down on him. 

   She’s a fucking goddess 

  “Ya she is.” 

  It wasn’t meant to be said out loud but you don’t seem to notice or mind that you might be being watched by more than his eyes. 

  You experimentally roll your hips, reveling in the way he looks so wrecked beneath you. The slow drag of him through your walls as you trace your hand along his jawline. He may be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and right now he’s at your mercy. 

  He’s babbling nonsense as you pick up your pace, bouncing up and down on his cock as his strong hands lift you. He throws his head back as he meets you thrust for thrust and you’re not sure how much longer you can last like this. 

  The word Jake is looking for is completely lost on him. Impressed doesn’t seem to cut it at the moment as he watches you take what you’ve wanted for months. He has to hand it to Steven for lasting this long with the way your tits bounce and you moan his name he’s not sure he’d be fairing the same. 

  Marc knows he fucked up the other day and yet here you are, all forgiveness and peace. You’ve been that way since the beginning, since that first day they met you. Any small part of him that was trying to keep you at arms length because of how things ended with Layla is out the window. 

  “Steven…I’m so close.” You whine out as he pulls you down to him. 

  His arms wrap around you tight as he pulls you into a messy kiss, his hips punching every breath out of your lungs as he takes control from the bottom. It’s intoxicating how he grunts in your ear with exertion as he hits that spot over and over. Your pussy clenching around his cock as he bites down on your shoulder. 

  You hope he’s not gone deaf from the scream you let out as you reach your climax. 

  “Oh fuck, love where?” 

  “Inside me Steven.” 

  He groans as he spills himself deep inside you, an obscene sound of skin on skin as you ride out your high echoes through the room. He rubs your back whispering praise into your ear as you shake in his arms. 

  “Steven that was…”

  “I know love…it was for me too.” He kisses you softly as you bask in the afterglow. Not yet wanting to break this spell. You wonder what he’s thinking right now as he smiles up at you, brushing your hair back from your face. 

  Steven rolls you slightly to deposit you under the sheets. He retreats to the bathroom, running a warm washcloth under the tap and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. 

  Bravo hermano

  Not that he needed the praise but it makes him swell with pride nonetheless. 

  You’re already nearly asleep when he returns to clean you up, gently brushing the towel over you trying not to wake you too much. You look perfectly divine in their bed and he knows they’re all thinking it. Even if it’s too soon, they hope that this will be a permanent thing. 

  You stir a little as he slides under the covers, wrapping his arms around you as you nestle closer to him. 

  “Sleep love, I’ll be here in the morning.” 

  ****

  There's a slight knock on your chamber doors before you beckon the visitor to come in. You recognize the small stature of your servant girl but her face is shielded by the large cartouche adorned with flowers. She sets it down on your table along with the rest you’ve received each day this week, which would make this the fifth. 

  She sends you a knowing glance as she sets them right to face the sun shining bright from the west doors. “Hathor, you must have done something right.” 

  “Watch yourself.” You point at her. “I’ve done nothing of the sort.” 

  “My apologies.” She dips her head as she bows to you. 

  You approach her and lift her chin slowly with your finger, the timid look on her face is not one you’re used to. You weren’t like the others and it came off harsher than intended. “You’re forgiven, I just don’t want people getting the wrong idea.” 

  “Forgive me….but Khonshu is hardly one to try this hard.” 

  You laugh at her forwardness but decide she needs a lesson in things above her comprehension. 

  “My dear, that’s exactly my point. He’s trying very hard and it’s all for me. Why would I make it so easy for him to stop trying?” You release her chin as she weighs your words. “You can go now, I won’t be needing your assistance until the feast.” 

  She bows her head and exits your chambers leaving you to admire the newest addition of flowers. 

  The scent of jasmine fills the air as you run your finger along the orange mandrake petals. In the center of each ornate bouquet was a large blue lotus flower. Perhaps a coincidence on his part that it happened to be your favorite. 

  You pluck out a small sealed papyrus placed in the soil. You brush your fingers along the delicate paper not wanting to miss a detail. 

  My dearest Hathor, 

  I have waited a thousand years for you, and I will wait a thousand more. 

  Mer Khonshu 

  ****

  You wake just as you did that first morning after spending the night with Steven but this feels much different. You’re wrapped up a little tighter than when you fell asleep. You’re hugging a pillow that must be theirs as the smell of musk and pine hits your senses. 

  Another smell is working its way to you, nutmeg and vanilla with a hint of coffee. You sit up and stretch your sore muscles and find a small pile of clothes next to you on the bed. You can see a shirtless Steven humming something in the kitchen, his back muscles rippling as he stirs something in the bowl. His sweats are hung low on his waist and his shoulders are  squared back and for a brief moment you wonder who you are actually looking at. 

  It sounds like he’s talking to someone…more like bickering so you take this moment to slink out of bed and freshen up in the bathroom. 

  You stare at your reflection in the mirror and to your surprise you look refreshed. Dare you say even glowing, despite needing a shower. You splashed some water on your face and used your spare toothbrush that they insisted you leave here and it dawns on you how normal this all feels. Over the months you’ve weaved your way into their lives and they gladly accepted whatever form of this they could get. 

  You pull on the gray sweatpants and breathe in the fresch scent of the gently used museum gift shop t-shirt Steven lent you before pulling it over your head. 

  You notice when you exit the bathroom he’s wearing a shirt now and you silently wish he was still shirtless so you could run your hands along his toned chest. His posture is much more relaxed now as he cautiously smiles at you. “I hope you like French toast.” He says as he serves you up a plate of golden brown goodness. 

  “I happen to love French toast, although I’m sure whatever you make would be amazing.” He blushes at the compliment as you take a seat at the kitchen island, not wasting a moment to dig in. In your haste you both had forgotten dinner the night before and you didn’t realize how starving you were. 

  You moan as the syrupy sweet flavor hits your tongue and his eyes widen a little as he leans against the counter gauging your reaction. A quick glance to his left that you almost miss and he clears his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for breakfast darling.” 

  “Oh.” 

  “Ugh ya…Marc figured it would be best I don’t burn the house down trying to impress you.” He nervously rubs his hand along the back of his neck. 

  “Well consider me impressed, and tell Marc to stop cooking for me and disappearing.”You reach over, taking his other hand pulling him towards you as he kindly obliges. You spin the chair as he settles in the spot between your legs. His hands instinctively go to your waist as his warm breath fans across your face. “Steven…can I kiss you?” 

  He huffs out a little in laughter as you tilt your head in question. “Love, after last night. You never have to ask.” 

  He closes the space between you as his lips meet yours. The taste of mint and syrup mixing together as he cups your jaw with his palm. Your chest blooms as you revel in the way he already has you like putty in his hands. It’s a moment before you break away for air and if you have a repeat of last night you’ll die from starvation. 

  “I hope you slept well.” 

  You humm as you resume your breakfast, he’s leaning against the counter again, completely content with just watching you enjoy your breakfast. “I did…but I keep having these bizarre dreams.” You think back for a moment just staring at some object on the counter. 

  “Care to share it with me.” He asks as the presence of both head mates are at attention. 

  “Tell me more of your god Khonshu?” 

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Fic Rec List - Sex Worker AUs

if your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and we will remove it immediately, no questions asked. we have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop us a message🤍

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Lando/Oscar

nsfw: dancing on quicksand by @tearstrung | E | 3.3k Lando is outrageous, and Oscar struggles to understand what's a joke and what isn't - until he sees a link on Twitter. This fic is red hot, very funny, and perfectly characterised! Oscar's special brand of bamboozlement is especially wonderful here, as he comes to terms with Lando's job on the side. The ending is like a beautiful punch to the gut. Love it!

'Though, the guy’s skin is similar in color to Lando’s—olivey, the natural tan Lando wears year-round, even if he’s barely been in the sun with his shirt off. The same big hands, which don’t really match up with his small stature, rippled with lithe muscle; followed by a wide ribcage that slips down into a tiny, tapered waist. Nipples, shades darker and always hard from what Oscar can see from a long scroll. At the tips of the guy’s fingers, Oscar notices leftover chew marks, the skin pulled back, nails bitten short into nubs.'

Carlos/Lando

nsfw: when the time comes by @venerat | E | 7.6k Lando asks his friend Carlos, an escort, to arrange an appointment with another male escort for him. Lando has never been with a man and wants to have the experience. When Pierre falls ill and has to cancel, Carlos decides to go in his stead. Only one problem, though - Carlos is in love with Lando. Will he be able to keep his emotions in check? This situation could have been awkward but Lando is nothing but sweet and kind with Carlos. The encounter results in a lot of revelations for them both, and although they seem to start the next phase of their relationship a bit backwards, they clearly have a future together.

Time doesn’t seem to be very real. Carlos thinks. He thought it would be different than this, that’s all. Different from the way it’s—happening. Because the way it’s happening feels like sex. Real sex. It doesn’t feel like work. It doesn’t feel like a transaction. It feels like—trite; cliche, of course, but—it feels like passion.

Charles/Pierre

nsfw: pièce de résistance by @capsize (copenhagenborn) | E | 14.5k Pierre, a sex worker, is approached one night by the assistant of someone calling himself Marc. Marc, it turns out, is really Prince Charles of Monaco and is looking for an arrangement. This is quite low-angst for a royalty AU (don't get me wrong, I love my angst) but this fic just has them slot together so easily. Pierre is rather happy as a sex worker, which is actually a nice change when it comes to sex work fic. The relationship side of things is slow burn and even the inevitable miscommunication part of the story is done so well I enjoyed it.

'Pierre does spend the night. He sends Charles a picture of his gateau marcel and soaks in the tub as he finishes the bottle of wine they were supposed to share. The house is predictably a mess when he gets home: George is crying on the couch with his eyes glued to the television, a small Union Jack pulled from somewhere and now proudly displayed in front of him. Alex is sitting by his feet, badly hiding his laughter as he scrolls through what Pierre can only imagine being memes. Lando is passed out in the corner, a bottle of vodka close to his hand, while Oscar stares at him with an oddly closed-off look in his eyes. Pierre isn’t quite up to date on the current geopolitical relationship between Australia and the rest of the commonwealth. Pierre sits down next to Max at the dining table, sips his water and goes, “What does it mean if someone has to be summoned after the death of dear old Lizzy?”'

nsfw: cause baby, I'd be satisfied forever by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 88.5k Pierre, retired from racing after a career-ending injury, is closer to 40 than 30 now and has reinvented himself as a designer. He's also venturing out of the closet. He is put in touch with Charles, who gets by as a sugar baby, and decides this is a perfect way to get some experience dating another man. Pierre finds himself developing feelings for Charles. I'm at a point now with @wolfiemcwolferson fic where I just gesture wildly at whatever they've written and make vague noises but in the interests of trying to sound like the sane person I pretend to be, this fic is a perfect distillation of the Pierre/Charles relationship. What if they didn't meet until later in life? What if Charles never went beyond karting? What if the age gap was larger? All of these, and yet, it's still them. There is a "soulmates in ever universe" theme in the Piarles fandom and this story absolutely embodies it.

'He’s beautiful and he smells like cologne and something fresh and he’s still not let go of Pierre’s hand - the cool leather underneath Pierre’s hand seems so…foreign. So flipped. Pierre considers all the time he touched other people’s hands while wearing leather gloves. “I hope I am not late,” Charles smiles at him still. “I missed my train and I -” “Charles,” Pierre says, realizing that Charles seems a bit nervous - a bit ruffled. “I only just arrived. “Come and let’s go inside. We can get warm.” His smile makes his perfect face less so - a mere mortal instead of the god he is and Pierre gets it immediately.'

Charles/Sebastian

nsfw: Be Snoozing That Lust In The Morning by @sebchalex & @meova101 | E | 14.5k When Formula 1 decides to clean up their sponsors, teams are left scrambling to find money. Ferrari finds an unconventional way to get more budget – Charles starts an OnlyFans. The initial premise of Charles having to get an OnlyFans to help Ferrari is just unhinged enough that it could be real – but this fic has a lot more to offer than just comedy. The way it follows Charles personal growth from not believing he could actually make money of OF, being embarrassed when Seb subscribes, to them working together to produce record breaking content and falling for eachother in between – its like a modern day fairytale, if Cinderella had to sell nudes to help the evil stepmom with money.

"This was the only way," Charles says. "I know this could tarnish the Ferrari legacy and everything, but I want to help my team. I will do anything to make them stay on top." Once he finishes his sentence, he looks straight at Sebastian. It's already disgraceful enough that he had to do this in the first place, but this type of rejection coming from Sebastian is making him feel worse. Finally, Sebastian raises his hands in a yielding gesture. "Fine," he says, sending a breath of relief through Charles. "I still have a problem with it." "Seb, I know. I wish there was another way as well, but—" "It's not about that," Sebastian says, looking even more pissed. "Have you realised that your pictures are terrible?" Well. Charles certainly hadn’t expected that. "What?" "Charles, if you are charging that much in the first place, then you should at least put in a little bit more effort," Sebastian explains, extending his hands out. "Your lighting was horrible, and it was blurry. Why did no one offer help?"

nsfw: With you I'm in real danger by @jean----ralphio | E | 55.5k Charles, a well-known porn actor, shelters from a mob of fans by hiding in a rare books shop. The bookseller recognises him but is too considerate to say anything about it. Charles notices and they strike up a friendship, and more. Charles and Seb are from such very different worlds. Charles is accustomed to sometimes being judged for his line of work but Seb treats him with utmost respect at all times, which should be a low bar but isn't. Things get a bit rocky for them in true romance story fashion, but all is well by the end.

Sebastian feels himself go bright red, as Charles’ mischievous smile turns gleeful. “I can tell the instant I meet someone whether they know who I am or not,” he explains. “So I knew right away that you know of me.” “Ah. Sorry.” Sebastian feels foolish, guilt settling over him for not having been honest about it from the beginning.

Pierre/Yuki

nsfw: your mouth makes me reconsider where my heart lies by @yukierres | E | 10.4k Pierre, still an F1 driver, discovers a streamer who plays video games while using sex toys and is immediately fascinated (and hugely turned on). He lavishes gifts and money on the man on his screen, and finds himself falling in love with someone he hasn't even met. The guys are so well characterised. Yuki is unashamed, he loves what he does, is brilliant at it and gets well paid for it too. You can see why Pierre couldn't resist. Pierre is confused and ashamed as hell to begin with (that darned Catholic guilt again) but can't stay away. The author grows the relationship to a point where it seems inevitable that Yuki will one day feel comfortable enough meeting Pierre in real life.

"That was -" Pierre says around breaths, a laugh in his voice, disbelief in what has just happened. Yuki himself has flopped back on the bed, laptop now beside him as he lies against the pillows. His eyes are wet and pink looking, a content sheen in them. "That was something else." A pleased cat-like expression forms on his mouth. "You enjoyed that Pierre?" He says with a blissed-out face, attempting to bat his eyes temptingly at the camera before yawning tiredly, the whole face scrunching up. It is more cute than seductive in the end, but it doesn’t matter because Pierre is head over heels either way.

Daniel/Max

nsfw: chemical highs and clear blue skies by @yekoc | E | 43.5k Daniel is a porn actor, which is where he meets newbie Max. Max, along with his cats, crash on Daniel’s couch whilst they continue to shoot various scenes together. They get to know each other and get to miscommunicate on the way to comfort. The pacing of the plot was really pleasant to read, as was the dialogue. Max is flippant but also careful and cautious at the same time. Daniel is self assured and kind and perhaps a little too trusting. Both of them keep their cards close and all of it makes for a very gratifying read.

'Max laughs, just a little bit, something that in someone else you might call a giggle. Daniel hasn’t seen him laugh before. He’s seen him come—in person, and then over and over again on video that one night, which he should probably forget about really quickly. Max laughing is oddly similar; it breaks something hard about him all to pieces.'

nsfw: Fly Fast (With Broken Wings) by @mysticalbreadcollective | E | 44.2k (ongoing) Max is an escort who turned to sex work due to lack of options. Daniel is an F1 driver, and Max's first ever customer. Daniel quickly becomes obsessed with Max - but the Max that Daniel first knows is a construct - the real Max guards his feelings out of necessity and can't afford to go all in with Daniel. Daniel doesn't understand the precariousness of Max's situation, or why Max would choose to keep working and earning his own money - keeping his independence - rather than agree to become Daniel's kept man. This fic digs deeply into the power imbalance and dubious consent issues of sex work, the necessary artifice of it and the need for emotional armour and distance on the part of the worker. Daniel, sadly, proves Max right with some of his behaviour - he can be selfish and spoiled, and sometimes outright cruel. There is love on both sides, but this relationship is a minefield they each misstep in more than once.

'“You think you are saving me, but it will be someone else. And maybe they will not be so nice.” Emilian says, and oh fuck, his voice is cracking a little at the end and Daniel can’t stand it. Because Daniel knows. He knows the types of clients, can imagine them, the ones that would pay extortionate amounts of money for Emilian. He feels sick hearing Emilian’s voice shake a little, wonders how nervous Emilian has been for this. What he was expecting, who he was expecting. When the agency told him that he was meeting someone who’d pay extra for him. If Emilian had built it all up in his head what he’d be asked to do. And then to say he’d been hopeful that it had been Daniel. Shit.'

Daniel/Lando

nsfw: asunder, asunder by @ladyeggplant | E | 53.3k Lando is very socially awkward, highly intelligent and cashed up. He decides the best way to lose his virginity is to hire an escort. The progression of the relationship here from transactional to something more is not smooth. Lando really doesn’t have much of an understanding about how a relationship should work and makes a few big missteps, especially later in the story as the emotional stakes get higher. Daniel is professional and gentle as he gradually figures out exactly what Lando needs. Lando is physically inexperienced and emotionally awkward and nothing about it is easy.

Silence settles over steeping tea and half-eaten fruit, and he wishes he’d left the music on, because at least it would make this awkwardness bearable. He’s had super wealthy clients before, but none of them this young, and none of them this achingly insecure where it was practically bleeding out of them. Everyone who has ever booked him as wanted him there, obviously—it feels like Lando would rather eat glass than sit in the same room as him. Daniel clears his throat. “So, first time, huh?” Lando chokes mid sip.

Carlos/Charles

In for a penny, in for a pound by @f1-stuff | M | 7k (ongoing) Charles, smarting after being unceremoniously dumped by his girlfriend, hires an escort to take as his plus one to Arthur's wedding. A dashingly handsome man turns up to the rendezvous, and they figure out Charles checked the wrong box when he was making the appointment. He's spent the money, Carlos is easy company, so he decides to roll with it. This fic is amusing and sweet. Carlos is wonderful at his job - perceptive and empathetic and kind, and is probably way ahead in understanding of Charles's sexuality than Charles is himself.

“Charles...listen,” he says, shifting slightly in his chair. He looks self-assured and confident with one leg crossed over the other, hands loosely clasped over his knee. Charles is annoyed and jealous of him all at once. “I probably shouldn’t say this, considering why you hired me. But you are trying to prove to your ex that you aren’t sad and lonely by hiring someone to pretend to be in love with you...” The man raises his brows at him. “You do see the irony, no?” Charles scoffs, shaking his head down at his lap. But he can’t deny that this guy sort of, possibly, has a point. Great, even the escort he’s paying to not make him feel so pitiful is calling him out.

Mark/Seb

nsfw: pleaser by @alltimecharlo | E | 34.6k Seb is a student struggling to make rent, and Mark is a very successful lawyer. They enter a mutually beneficial agreement. This story is fantastic - the author characterises them both beautifully, and they are the perfect balance of sweet and hot and funny. I particularly loved Sebastian's first trip to Mark's house... A gorgeous story, with lots to love.

Mark’s sitting right there. Like, directly in front of the changing room in one of the extremely comfy-looking armchairs, his eyes latching directly onto his form once it’s revealed and lingering there so heavily that Sebastian almost feels the need to hide his entirely clothed body. The older’s green eyes flick up and down his lithe frame so intensely that Seb can feel his stomach doing flips and a burning heat instilling under his skin. It only worsens when he watches Mark’s tongue dart outwards to wet at his lips.

In order to keep this list organised we have chosen to categorise it as 'Sex Worker AUs'– note that we understand that some tropes here are not always sexual in nature nor are they always categorised as sex work. We respect any and all sex workers and non sex workers alike!

[juneknight]

•.Be Lost.• 2

Chapter One | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter Two | Chapter 2.5

*

“You talk about them often enough. I feel like we should formally meet. What’s the equivalent of putting a face to a name, but with sex toys?” Marc asks, voice warm with mirth from the other end of the phone. It’s the only thing warm about living up here in the constant snowstorms. Your feet ache today from stomping around in the fields on the frozen earth. Even though Spring approaches on the calendar, you don’t yet feel it in the air. 

You dread the thought of possibly having to delay your return home, to Marc, because of the weather. 

Your box of sex toys (it’s a shoe box, yes, some nice Cat’s boots with steel in the toes and thick insulated soles, a half-size larger than usual to allow for thick wooly socks which you favored) sits on the bed. You no longer even owned the shoes, but the box was heavy, the lid bulging from two years of collecting an eclectic set of sex toys. 

“I’ll show you. But I have rules,” you say, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. 

“I’m listening.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and it drives you nuts. 

“One–absolutely no naming them. I’m serious. The last thing I want is to be trying to get off and remember that you named a certain dildo Colonel Mustard.” 

“I’m more of a Professor Plum kind of guy anyway, but consider your objection noted.” 

“No making fun of me of any kind. Not even light teasing.” 

“Agreed.” 

“And no questions.” 

“That’s…yeah, I don’t think I can agree to that,” he says, surprising you given how amicable he’s been so far. “Can we agree on premeditated questions? Some basics that you answer for each of them?” 

You purse your lips and sit down heavily on your bed. The box rattles beside you, lid almost coming off. “Depends on the questions, I guess.” 

“When was the last time you used it, and your personal rating out of ten.”

You relax somewhat. Whatever you had been worried about Marc wanting to know—’gross, why that?’ or ‘who used that on you?’—disappears. Maybe it says something about the men you’ve been with lately that your first fear is that Marc will become jealous or judgemental. You should have known that Marc would be different. “Yeah, okay. That’s fine.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice growing firm. “I don’t want you to say something’s okay when it isn’t. That’s a big deal to me.”

“I’m sure, dad.” 

Marc snorts. “Okay, champ. FaceTime. Let’s go.”

You press the button, and while it connects, you experience all five stages of grief, chewing on one of your thumbnails as you shift from one socked foot to the other. At last his face appears, and it’s like a punch to the gut. Marc is so handsome: his brows, the curve of his nose, his whiskey-warm eyes, the curls spilling onto his forehead. His hair is longer now than the last time you saw him, and it makes your heart clench. You find yourself smiling without meaning to. 

“Hey, beautiful,” Marc says, eyes squinting with his smile. “Long time no see.” 

“Too long,” you admit. You study the picture in the background, trying to piece together where he is in his apartment. Judging by the lighting (warm but dark) and the lamp in the background, he is in his bedroom. This is confirmed when he rolls over onto his side and props himself up onto his elbow on one of the fluffy pillows. 

Once, you had gotten too drunk to drive home and Marc had let you sleep in his bed. You had spent the whole night rolling around on the soft sheets, breathing in his scent, aching but too guilty to touch yourself. 

“You okay?” he asks, brows lifting. His mouth settles into a soft, more neutral position, like he is being careful not to convince you one way or another. His lips are so full and soft looking… “If you don’t want to do this, we can say forget it. I just like to know what my options are.”

His options—oh fuck. 

Your face burns hot. You slap one palm against your cheek, feeling the heat your skin gives off, knowing that Marc is watching you (which makes your face burn all the hotter). Fuck, how can he just say stuff like that, calm and casual in his soft, warm voice? You think about turning the camera away for a moment just to catch your breath. 

“You’re so shy right now,” Marc says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “God. It’s cute.” 

“Quit,” you groan, parting your fingers so you can glare at the phone. His grin just grows. “I’m not shy, I have a strap-on.” 

“If you think having six inches between your legs makes you immune to shyness, I’ve got news for you.”

“Is that all you’ve got? Six inches?” 

“You want to see?” The way he raises his brow, the way he so expertly calls your bluff makes your thighs clench together. Like a great neon sign flashing behind your eyes right now are the words MARC’S COCK. You’ve never seen it, but you know Marc is well hung. You’ve seen him adjust his hard ons before—in the morning after waking up, during a particularly steamy scene on Netflix. The bulge in his sweats has made an appearance or two in your dreams, yes. 

“Maybe,” you admit, wondering if he’ll show you. Right now. On FaceTime. Just whip his dick out for you to drool over. 

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he says, mouth quirking into a smirk. “But really. Go on. I have work in the morning, and I want to see every last toy.” 

You bring out plenty of things that are “normal”. G-spot vibrators. Clitoral vibrators. Rabbit vibes, and pretty glass dildos. Most of the items get a high score—you have narrowed them down to your favorites. A natural selection amongst sex toys, if you will. 

Sometimes you glance to Marc and get flustered at the solemn, studious expression on his face. He hangs on your every word, committing the things you say to memory. No man has ever given you attention the way Marc does: whole-heartedly. Singularly. Unconditionally. 

Your throat gets choked up for a moment at the thought. God, you’re falling in love with him, you think in terror to yourself, as if you haven’t already. As if your knees aren’t skinned and palms bloody from the fall. 

“You okay, honey?”

You jump a little, having gotten lost in your own thoughts. You clear your throat. 

“Yeah, no, I’m good.” You pick up the next item, a candle. When he asks you what scent it is, you laugh a little. “The wax melts at a safe temperature for wax play. You know. Pouring wax on somebody.” 

“Rate it.” 

“It’s…maybe a four. May-be.” 

Massage oil (8), cuffs (10), collapsible spreader bar (9), bite gag (5), blindfold (10), harness (7), all come and go. It is easier to continue once you get talking, and by the end you feel like late night Dr. Ruth. 

At last, the box is empty. 

“That’s all she wrote,” you tell Marc. He looks a little sleepy, though his eyes are still sharp where they focus on you, tracing over your features. He is quiet. You prod: “Well?” 

“I’m going to have to use every last one on you,” he says, eyes on your own. “And until I can, I’m going to be thinking about you using every last one on yourself.”

His shoulder shifts, arm moving off screen—adjusting his hard cock. 

“Fuck, Marc,” you sigh brokenly. “You can’t say shit like that.” 

“That wasn’t one of your rules,” he says, eyes going heavy-lidded. You thought he was just adjusting himself, but the motion continues. Not enough for him to be full-fledged jerking off, but you think that’s he’s teasing himself. Massaging himself maybe. Your thighs squeeze together. Would he notice if you did the same? “Thank you for the show-and-tell. You’re such a good girl for me.” 

You groan. 

He laughs, the sound gentle and teasing. “That gets you, huh?” 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you bark, endeavoring to cover your face as best as you can with one hand. The truth of his observation doesn’t matter; it’s the principle of the thing. Peeking through your fingers, you catch his expression, and your breath hitches. Marc looks at the phone screen with something unbearably tender in his eyes, something so terribly soft. 

Marc looks at you like he loves you. 

“Which one’s your favorite? Let me see it again.” 

Your favorite. Hmm. You step back from your bed and look at the toys spread out so neatly, your brain turning over the question. All of them get you hot in one way or another, but there is one that stands out. You end up choosing a relatively simple rabbit vibrator. It’s ol’ Faithful; what else can you say? 

“Is this what you grab when you want to blow your own mind, or is this what you grab any old night?” 

“I want to blow my own mind every old night, Spector.” 

“Noted. But you’re not pouring hot wax on yourself every old night,” he says. It is utterly distracting how his shoulder still tenses periodically, hand moving off-screen. You spend an inordinate amount of time watching those small muscles flex, trying to recreate the image of what his hand must be doing in your mind. “What is it about this one? What do you like about it?” 

“I like that it fills me up,” you admit. It is a little easier to talk when you’re so distracted by him. “I like that I can use it without hands. Sometimes I put the spreader bar on and bind my hands to the headboard so I can feel like—” 

Marc’s arm has stopped moving. His eyes are sharp, burning hot, like iron from the furnace. How voice is quiet but brooks no room for avoiding the question when he asks: “So you can feel like what, baby?” 

“I…I don’t know,” you say. It isn’t a lie, either. You aren’t sure where the sentence was heading, and so much about your relationship with being submissive eludes you when you try to put it into words. You chew on the inside of your cheek while you think, and Marc is utterly quiet and still while you contemplate. “Like…like I’m suffering for somebody. Like my pleasure belongs to somebody else. Whoever tied me up. I don’t know.” 

Marc nods a little, quiet for a moment himself. “From now on, it belongs to me, yeah? Even if you’re the one tying yourself up—you’ll be doing it because I tell you to, alright? And you’ll be doing it safely. It’s dangerous to tie yourself up when you’re alone. That’s not like my good girl. I don’t want to hear you doing that again.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper. You kneel on the floor, bed too covered in toys to lay on. You rest your head against the edge of the mattress, adjusting the phone so that he can still see your face. 

“I’ll forgive you when I hear that you won’t do it anymore,” he says. His hand is moving again. Maybe he is jerking off. “Promise me.” 

“I won’t tie myself up when I’m alone. I promise.” 

Marc lets out a breath, a literal sigh of relief. His eyes go squinty as he smiles, pride evident in the curve of his lips. “There’s my good girl.” 

You groan again, turning to bury your face in the mattress. 

“Are you on the floor right now?” he laughs. 

You groan in an affirmative. 

“Kneeling for me?” 

You hadn’t intended it that way, but now that he says it, you realize that you are. You nod your head, face still hidden. 

“Thighs apart?”

You peek an eye at him and hope he can tell that you’re scowling. Determined to follow his rules (even if your sex positively aches between your thighs) you shift your legs apart. 

“You make me feel so powerful,” he says, voice a little shaky. His eyes are looking just off screen, like he can’t make eye-contact with you right now. “Kneeling for me, following my orders. So powerful. But so, so small. You know that? Because you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. And I like it.” 

“I like it too,” you murmur, head a little foggy. 

“Why?” 

“It feels real safe,” you admit. “Like you’ll take care of me. Like you’d never have me do something that might hurt me or embarrass myself.” 

“I wouldn’t, baby, I swear I wouldn’t,” he says. Then he sighs. “You’re driving me fucking crazy. I’m jerking off twice a day just to function.” 

“Marc,” you say, your voice literally shaking. “Are you—right now?” 

He hums and lets his arm grow bolder. The motion is unmistakable now. Marc Spector is masturbating on the phone with you—because of you. The knowledge is like an electric zap that you feel from your head to your toes. Is his dick out? Does he have a hand beneath his sweats? All of this is too much; your own hand falls between your thighs. 

“At-at,” says Marc. His shoulder stops moving. “No touching yourself.” 

“What?” you whine. “That’s not fair!” 

“I stopped too!” 

“You’ve been jerking off for twenty minutes though, you owe me!” 

“That’s not how this works,” he laughs. “Not to mention, there isn’t a chance in hell you’d last twenty minutes even if I did let you touch yourself. No—we’re going to wait.” 

“Til when?” 

“Spring. The first time I hear you cum, it’s going to be with my fingers tucked inside you. I want to kiss you and swallow every sound.” 

“Then can we hang up?” you ask, shifting on your knees. “I need to touch myself.” 

“Use your cute little vibrator,” he murmurs. You both hang up. 

He’s right. There’s no way you could have lasted twenty minutes when you barely make it to two. 

Spring is never going to come. 

*

Except it does. Of course it does. There is still the occasional snowstorm, but they are irregular enough that you are no longer needed. You book a flight back home, and send Marc a screenshot of your ticket. 

I’ll pick you up. 

The thought makes your belly flip with nerves. You decide that as eager as you are to see Marc, you are just as anxious too. You would rather prolong it a fraction more, would rather it took place on more familiar turf (outside your apartment rather than the strange unfamiliar-familiarity of an airport). So instead you tell him to meet you back at your apartment. If he brings some basic groceries, bonus points for him. 

Though planes don’t often make you nervous anymore, you find yourself gripping your folded hands so tight that you leave marks from your fingernails. What are you doing, agreeing to have sex with Marc? This could ruin everything: your most valuable friendship. The one person in the world who had stuck beside you through thick and thin, even when you had lost people you thought you’d die without. 

Even more frightening: what if everything goes right? 

Landed, see you soon!! You hope that your exclamation points cover up your anxiety. 

Don’t be nervous, he sends back. Fuck. 

The Uber is the longest of your life, familiar scenery passing by as you leave the airport and enter the city you’ve called home for so many years. The city where you met Marc. The city where you meet him again and again in the spring, like Persephone coming home. It always happens like this too. 

The Uber pulls up to the curb outside your apartment, and Marc is sitting there on the steps. Today is only different because he’s pacing—maybe you aren’t the only one who’s nervous. He’s dressed for spring in just a light jacket, t-shirt, and his jeans. He doesn’t recognize the car when it pulls up, but he recognizes you in the passenger seat. God. His face lights up. Marc goes to the car door and opens it for you, draws you out and into his arms. The first hug he always gives you is bone crushing. He lifts you off the ground and twirls you in his arms before helping you regain your footing. 

“Long time, no see,” he says—like always. 

“Too long,” you say, clinging to him. 

“Uh. Don’t forget your bags,” your Uber driver calls through the open window. 

“I got them,” says Marc. He insists on carrying them inside and up the stairs—nice to see that the elevator is still out of order even after the winter. On the way up, Marc fills you in an the uneventful time he spent popping into your apartment every other day to collect your mail, to dust, to water your plants. 

You wonder if he slept in your bed. If he laid amongst the scent of you and wanted to touch himself, like you had that night you were too drunk to drive home from his place. You hope that he did—you hope that he touched himself. You—

“Bed,” he says, giving you a jumpscare. At the wide-eyed expression on your face, he misunderstands. “Not for sex! Just—your exhausted. That’s what you get for taking such an early flight. You should nap. Then we should get dinner, my treat. Then we should—”

“Talk.” 

“Exactly.” 

At his mention of it, your exhaustion (which you had been adamantly pushing back with nerves and adrenalin) resurfaces. He’s right; you always take the earliest flights you can manage, to get home as soon as possible, and yes you arrive to the airport way too early. You’re a woman with anxiety; it’s a given. But the last thing you want to do right now is part ways with Marc. A part of you believes that if he leaves, then you might chicken out. You might never let him back in…

“Stay?” you ask. 

“For a nap?” he wonders, mouth stretching in a grin that reeks of fondness for you. 

“Sure.” 

“In your bed?”

You swallow past the sudden knot in your throat. Fuck, it feels so real. You’re going to have Marc in your bed tonight—for more than just a nap. You push the thoughts away with violence, feeling the way heat rises in your face at the thought alone. Come on, get it together! The way you’re pining for this guy is ridiculous, like you’re a virgin on her wedding night!

Fuck, but can you help it? 

“Just sleep,” Marc says, interrupting your spiraling. “Then, dinner. Then…we’ll talk.” 

Something inside you relaxes, your shoulders drifting away from where they had been climbing to your ears. Just sleep. You can do that. You’re certainly exhausted enough. A trail of you is formed throughout the apartment: your keys left in the dish by the door, shoes toed off at the shoe-rack, suitcase left haphazardly outside your bedroom door. 

Inside, your room is as pristine as you had left it. The sheets are fresh. You have suddenly never been more tired in your life. Taking the last few steps to your bed—a full, larger than the twin you had suffered on during the winter—you collapse on top of the blankets. Who needs to be underneath them? You’re tired enough to sleep just like this. 

But Marc pulls the blankets and the sheets back, working them free from beneath your body. He tucks you in, and he climbs into the bed on the other side. Peeking one eye open, you see that he is on his side, watching you. He grins when he catches you looking. 

“Sleep tight,” he says sweetly. 

God, you do. 

When you wake up, the shadows have changed on the wall. It is early evening, your sleep schedule properly fucked. Marc has come to spoon you sometime during your sleep, and you relish the feel of his strong arm looped around your waist, his warm chest pressed flush against your back. The both of you had fallen asleep in your jeans and socks, and neither one cared. For a moment, you let yourself lay there, enjoying the intimacy. It’s easy to pretend you are lovers when he holds you like this. 

Then his nose brushes a line up the side of your neck and his breath is hot against your ear as he whispers: “Sleep good?” 

“Holy shit, I didn’t know you were awake.” 

He snickers, unapologetic. 

“Yes,” you say, twisting in his arms. “I slept great. But now I’m starv—...ing.” 

As soon as you had turned in his arms, Marc’s eyes had gone molten. Outside, a car alarm goes off. There are horns honking. Someone plays music, but it doesn’t matter. Inside you room, the only sound is the heaving of near-silent breaths as you both lean precariously over the ledge of friendship—whatever rests below, who knows!

“I’m hungry too,” he says, innuendo in his words. His hand on your back traces a line down to the curve of your hip and then up to your ribs. His thumb barely brushes the space beneath your bra. He whispers your name. 

He kisses you, a soft press of lips on lips. Again, heads tilted a little differently. Again, noses brushing in a way that has him smiling against your mouth. You part for a single heartbeat before he is leaning back in and kissing you deeper, tasting the seam of your lips with his tongue. Eager, you part your mouth and let him in. Fuck the uncomfortable angle of your neck—you’re kissing Marc Spector. 

And God, what a kiss it is. He explores you in a way you hadn’t been explored before. Oh yes, you’d been plundered: had men whose tongues were like their cocks, thrusting away at your mouth, no finesse, no savoring of the moment. Marc kisses you like this is the first and last time he might get to. He traces the line of your teeth with his tongue. He softly nips your bottom lip. He coaxes your tongue into his mouth just to suck at it sweetly. Never have you felt so worshiped from a single kiss—nor so aroused. 

Your hips rock against him, finding that he is already erect. You manage to loop one leg around his waist before he breaks the kiss, laughing breathlessly. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he teases. 

“Aren’t we—?” you blink. 

“I said dinner first.” 

“But I’m hungry,” you remind him, arching your back to drag your sex over his hard cock. You’ll never forget the sight of his eyes rolling back, his mouth going a little slack as he takes a shuddering breath. 

He rolls you over and straddles your hips, hands finding your wrists and pinning you to the bed. His cock tents the seam of his jeans. Like this, you suddenly feel so small. Something inside you gets small and soft and says, ‘Be good for him. Do as he wants.’ You have long come to terms with the instincts inside you that make you crave this, knowing that they do not make you less of a modern woman but God, it’s still so embarrassing how easily you want to fold!

You argue instead, arching up to rub yourself against him, a spark in your eyes. A challenge. Marc’s own eyes narrow. He kneels up off of one of your legs, gripping your thigh to push it up-and-out, spreading you open for him, and God for a moment you think that you’ve convinced him, swayed him with just a wiggle of your hips, and the coming satisfaction will be (almost) as strong as your disappointment. 

Instead, he brings his hand down on your pussy in a spank. You yelp. Muffled as it was through the denim, you could still feel the strength in his hand, and you are sensitive enough that it leaves you with a brief, stinging ache. He cups your sex with his palm, soothing it with the warmth of his hand. 

“Dinner first. Where’s my good girl at? The girl who fell to her knees a thousand miles away without me even having to ask her, huh?”

You’d cover your face, if your hands were free. Suddenly you are shy and embarrassed at your own behavior. You don’t even allow yourself to rub up against his touch, light though it may be. Looking at him through your lashes, you say: “I’m sorry, I just…” 

“You need it,” he says, thumb smoothing along the sensitive stretch of your inner thigh. “I understand, baby. Was I harsh?” 

“No.” 

“No, what?”

“No sir,” you whisper shyly. 

His grin is broad, beatific. It turns teasing almost right away. He leans down and brushes his nose against yours before releasing your wrists and rolling off of you. 

“I want to be just friends for just a while longer,” he admits in a whisper. “Throughout dinner. There’s something important I need to tell you.” 

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [3]

description: With Marc and Steven captured by Harrow's men, Layla has no choice but to work with her ex-husbands mistress to get them and the scarab to safety. But things take a turn when Seth comes to reap his reward. word count: 9.4k trigger warnings: GORE, blood, Dove absolutely wrecks the jackals I won't lie. Very explicit imagery used for their deaths. Swearing. Layla thinks Dove is the mistress and is angry, talks of dove not owning her body anymore, talks of having bodily autonomy taken away. Quick hint at Dove's dark past. main masterlist | series masterlist

authors note: I hate writing action scenes so if this seems rushed or bad I'm sorry, action is not my strongest point!

Please reblog and comment for your authors!

She watched as Steven was led in cuffs to the black BMW that gave away no hint at being a real police car, eager to scramble back into his apartment from off the moss covered rooftop that had her second death of the week written all over it. 

Layla was quick to hop back inside behind her, nearly shoving her out the way to get to her backpack. 

“They wouldn’t kill him, would they? Marc said-” The younger woman started, trailing after Layla like a lost dog. This was way out of her depth. The way Marc had described it made it seem like he had it under control. About as under control as Egyptian Gods and resurrecting dead people goes, that is. He had said nothing about his ex-wife showing up or Steven being taken hostage by police impersonators. 

Layla stopped at the sound of her husband’s name leaving the girl’s lips. 

“Mention Marc one more time and you are walking to wherever Harrow is taking him, you hear me?” Layla seethed, looking at her with eyes cold as ice despite being a beautiful, warm brown. 

Dove choked on her words for a moment, swallowing whatever she was going to come back with and instead choosing to nod once. 

“Yes- Sorry-” 

“Good,” The woman hissed, turning on her heel and heading for the front door. “And remember what I said about talking,”

“Gotcha- right,” She stammered in reply. Layla was more intimidating than Marc had been, more than Donna even. He was annoyed when they’d spoken, sure. Cold? Absolutely. But to Layla, she was actively a pest. A bug. A rodent that had crawled into her marriage bed and weaselled her way into her husband’s life. Which wasn’t true of course. But she understood that Layla had more than enough reason to be upset with her. 

Heading after the woman, hot on her heels, she bit her tongue the entire minute they spent in the elevator, neither of them willing to start a conversation with the other. Whether it be pride (Layla) or sheer wanting to avoid getting punched in the stomach (Dove), the two women stayed silent until the metal box dinged and released them from the horribly tense atmosphere. 

Layla set off for her moped that she’d parked on the road, unlatching the red leather seat upwards to reveal a spare helmet in the cubby. Shoving the smooth, maroon hard hat into the younger woman’s arms, Layla strapped her own onto her head and swung a leg over the caboose. 

Dove followed suit, hopping onto the back, her arms faltering slightly as she looked for some kind of handle to hold onto. 

“What now?” The driver’s annoyed voice snapped as she caught on to the fussing from behind her. 

“Where do I put my arms?” Said a quiet tone, hating the helplessness in her voice yet the embarrassment was too much for her to have asked otherwise. Layla rolled her eyes, grabbing the woman’s hands and bringing them around her waist.

“Just hold on,” She ordered, a hum of energy blasting into the engine as she kicked off the curb and set off. The motor jumped to life, and the two women were speeding after the fraudulent fed car in no time. She clutched onto the front woman for dear life; she had always hated amusement park rides, and she was sure Layla was at least somewhat tempted to stage an accident with the way their morning had gone. 

“I’m really not sleeping with Marc, you know,” She braved to speak, gripping tighter in fear the single comment would tip her counterpart over the edge. 

“What did I say about-”

“I know! I know!” She called, loud enough for Layla to hear her over the bustle of London traffic, “I just wanted you to believe me. You’re more than right to be unhappy with him. Truth be told, the one time I’ve met him, he’s not exactly been a charmer.”

That seemed to perk up his ex wife’s ears. “You’ve only met once?”

“Yes. Like I said, I work with Steven at the museum. I only met Marc this morning when he told me-” She cut herself off, unsure of just how much he would want Layla knowing. How much she already knew. She didn’t even know he had a dissociative disorder, it wouldn’t be wrong for her to assume his wife wasn’t privy to other things too.

Maybe that was why they were divorcing? But that was none of her business. 

“Told you what?” Layla pushed, which only caused the girl at the rear to sigh heavily. Layla didn’t need to know much. And besides, it was her burden to bear now, not Marc’s. She could tell her if she wished. Hell, perhaps Layla could even help her seeing as she already knew so much about the scarab. 

“He told me,” She paused, coming to terms with how insane she was about to sound if Layla didn’t know much about her husband’s second, well third, life. “He said I died being chased by one of Harrow’s jackals, and the only way for him to save me was to give my body up to Setekh in exchange for becoming his avatar,”

Layla was quiet for a moment, the car Steven was in not too far ahead of them as she hung back to avoid suspicion. 

And then, after a few seconds, she laughed. 

Loud and bitter, but laughed at her nonetheless. 

“I just told you I fucking died, and you’re laughing?” Her passenger asked, aghast, which only made Layla laugh again. “Well, fuck you too,”

“No, sorry, it’s just,” The woman shook her head, taking a semi sharp right in order to stay on their tail, “Trust Marc to meddle in someone’s life and end up keeping her around because he feels guilty,” 

Her face warmed. So Layla really did know her husband then. 

“His meddling saved my life,” She tried to protest, the image of Marc’s eyes softening slightly when she’d grabbed his hand that same morning flashing in her mind. Without Marc, she wouldn’t be here. She tried to pretend the idea he was only keeping her around because he felt responsible for her now didn’t sting. 

At least Steven wanted her around. For now, that is.

“Did it?” Layla asked, all remnants of humour gone, replaced with a cold seriousness. Not mean like she had been all day, moreso a sobering tone of reality, “My father told me every story there was about Seth.”

“He’s a historian?” Dove asked, curiosity winning over her bitterness that the woman had laughed at her. She thought now maybe it was out of disbelief, maybe even pessimism at hearing the nefarious god’s name.

“No, an archeologist,” Layla replied, “He said Setekh was once worshipped as a way of protecting crops and villages from the storms he created. He said it was thought because he was the god of foreigners he was responsible for all the oppressors attacking the people. He became the one who caused all the bloodshed, the evil, the barbarity. Every bit of chaos and violence was down to his hand,” The woman said, speaking with a passion for her country it was clear she had lived, slept and breathed everything her father taught her, “It was said while Anubis was the first God of the Dead, Osiris took the role during the later centuries. And when his brother, Seth, slaughtered him and scattered him in pieces around the world, he took on the title of God of the Dead,” 

“Glad I’m not invited to that family reunion, then,” The other girl muttered from her place at the rear of the bike. Layla smirked to herself, not willing to let the younger woman know she’d drawn a small smile from her.

“They were always at each other's throats. And when they weren’t, they were usually marrying their sisters.” To which Dove recoiled in horror. The BMW started slowing down ahead of them, which they were both quick to notice as it took a right hand turn into a less populated area. The sky had been quick to overcast shadows, the April air turning cold and darker fast. As if someone up there knew what was coming. 

“Lovely,” She mused, “Well, my family doesn’t talk to me anymore so I’m sure we’ll be okay as far as incest marriages go,”

Layla’s expression faltered. She hadn’t expected the quiet mouse of a girl to drop something so heavy, yet it was clear from her widened gaze she didn’t quite mean to say that so bluntly. To set off such a bomb on their already awkward ride. The striking woman wheeled up onto a curb around the corner from the narrow street the car had pulled into, trying to avoid the gazes of the few people they saw communing there. 

Cutting the engine and hopping off the seat, Layla held the bike steady as the other woman did the same, all but falling off the back of the moped with a newborn fawn-like grace. 

The two women looked at one another, the younger one handing the helmet over sheepishly. “Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” Dove murmured, unable to quite meet the beautiful woman’s eyes, Layla’s lips neither drawn into a sneer nor a smile. More a mix between pity and as if she were still weighing up the girl who picked at the loose skin around her nails anxiously.

“It’s alright,” Layla said with a long huff, swinging her bag over her shoulder, “Marc tends to leave people to deal with the shit he gets them into,”

The girl bit her tongue, pleased that she didn’t seem to be on Layla’s hit list anymore. They had bigger things to worry about now, like the fact Steven was essentially kidnapped or that they had yet to find somewhere to keep the scarab hidden. 

She felt it burning in her pocket, as if it were buzzing with the glory of being what everyone had their sights set on; of being such a harbinger of trouble. 

“Maybe so,” She said, handing the jewelled bug over to Layla to keep it safe, “But trusting him is the only hope I’ve got right now. Marc said Seth will be coming for me any day now,”

Layla looked at her for a moment, dark eyes raking over her forlorn figure some few years younger than her. The girl's eyes were soft, new to the world and the shit storm that was about to hit her, but her hands were what gave away her condition. The slightest touch of her fingers to her own where she handed her the scarab and Layla was able to feel just how cold her skin had become. Dead. Corpse like. As if the life truly had been drained out of her ten times over.

She wondered how her younger accomplice would fare as an avatar. Though Layla had swore that once those papers were signed this was not her fight anymore, she couldn’t help worrying just how badly her ex had seemed to mess up this young girl’s life in the space of one evening.

Seth was not a god you wanted to upset. Nor was he one you wanted to be of interest to. If everything that Abdallah El-Faouly had told his sweet daughter was correct, then that girl, barely mid twenties as she was, was in for a lifetime of torment and pain.

“Well, if that’s true, I hate to be the one to tell you to run and hide as soon as you can,” Layla said, her voice empty of emotion but her eyes genuine, “If Seth is the one looking for you, I can guarantee you’ll wish Marc had left you for the jackals,”

“Where is the scarab?” Harrow and his followers cornered Steven, still as lost and dazed as he had been all day. He just hoped that wherever Dove was, she was safe and far away from this mess that his other self had dragged her into. 

“We have it.” Steven’s head whipped around at the sound of Layla’s voice, clear and commanding and filling the abandoned building. 

And sure enough, his sweet friend stood next to her, eyes wide and clearly thrown off by the El-Faouly woman’s plan to draw attention to them. 

“What the hell are you doing?” She whisper-yelled as the two women trailed through the crowd of Ammit’s followers, both of them watching carefully for anyone getting ready to attack them. 

“I’m drawing their attention, Marc will deal with them easily,” Layla replied under her breath as they neared the two men in the centre of the room. It seemed Harrow and his followers had renovated some kind of church or antique building to become a communal hall. Community food lay out on tables around, a projector playing an old documentary on the dusty wall. 

Harrow’s followers didn’t seem to have anything particularly off about them. In fact, they seemed like regular citizens you would see around the streets of London. Nothing about them screamed evil, yet that only served to make them more menacing. They could be anyone, anywhere.

Dove knew all too well villains and monsters didn’t look like Ancient Egyptian mummies or jackals. They looked like regular people, like the man sitting next to you on the train. Like your family friend. Like your milkman. Or your school teacher. Or the shop clerk. Or young, female gift-shoppists that had a hopeless crush on their seemingly married co-worker. 

It didn’t matter who they were, what they looked like, they were tainted to their core. 

“That’s a great plan, except he’s not Marc, he’s Steven,” The young girl hissed, as Harrow stared at her with a smug twinkle in his eye, holding out his rough hand to Layla. 

“You couldn’t possibly understand the value of what you’re holding. Let me have that, I’ll keep it safe,” Harrow asked calmly, though it was clear with the way his focus trained on the jewel that he wasn’t quite so relaxed as he was making believe. 

He was clever with his words, manipulative. Making himself seem honest and responsible to anyone who didn’t understand the scarab. But Layla did. She wasn’t like the ordinary woman Harrow took her for. She was smart beyond belief, and knew more about the legends than Arthur could ever learn from seeing into people’s souls.

“Summon the suit,” Layla ordered under her breath as they reached Steven’s shaken figure. Her almond eyes scoured around the building for the nearest way out as her younger accomplice shook her head in despair and picked at her nails with furrowed brows. 

“Sorry what?” Steven asked, just as Dove had suspected. He had no clue what any of this meant. 

Layla’s brown gaze cut to his, chagrin mixed with a hint of fear boiling up in her expression. “Summon the suit,” She said again, stepping closer to the man who gawked at her with a lost look.

“‘Summon the soup’? What are you saying?” 

“The suit,” She said again, shoving the scarab into his chest, before turning to where Harrow was reaching for his staff. “And keep this safe,” 

“So be it,” Harrow said tiredly. Deciding they were in too thick to continue this little joke of Marc’s, she reached behind her for the younger woman, dragging her towards the only available exit she saw. 

Layla’s frantic brain caught sight of a flight of stairs that led to the first floor: a wide ledge that overlooked the rest of the room and had tiny archways where passageways wove into the sandstone walls, scaffolding and more of the plastic tarp scattered over and around the steps. 

A quick loop around the top of the stairs took them to a second set of steps that led only to an upper ledge and a large arched hallway with natural light coming from the end of it. A fire escape maybe? An open window? Bingo. 

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Layla hurried, grabbing Steven on the way as one of the men lunged at her. She was quick to rip his hand off her arm, shoving him into a table so hard he went tumbling over the edge and knocking into another of his men. 

Forcing Dove ahead of her, Layla directed the young girl towards the first flight of stairs, ducking around the scaffolding that lead to the first floor seemingly still mid-renovation. Steven trailed behind them quickly with a gasp as he dodged another of Harrow’s men. 

Practically swinging around the railing on one hand, Dove felt her tired legs ache as she ascended quickly, the only thing keeping her from stopping being the two people behind her breathing down her neck, relying on her to keep going. The temporary staircase wobbled for a moment as the floor shook, small chunks of brick crumbling free from the delicate wall at the movement. A flash of amethyst purple light reflected around the building, filling the space with something odd; something tense that crawled up her spine, like a foreboding that cut her right through her gut. 

Reaching the first level, she was quick to stop in her tracks as a man ducked out from one of the tiny corridors woven into the stone walls, and lunged for her. She felt Layla dart behind her and start scaling the second flight of stairs to the open door that hopefully spelled freedom. The man was quick enough to grab her wrists, but Steven's arm was swiftly wrapped around her waist, holding her from being thrown off the edge of the barrierless ledge. 

She kicked at the man a few times, desperate for him to let her go. That is until she got one of her hands free and was able to grab him by the collar of his coat. 

Remembering how tightly she had been able to grip Marc’s arm that morning, she found it unnaturally easy enough to lift the man a solid few inches off the ground, the stitches of his clothes ready to give way at his body weight. The menacing look on his face dropped when he realised with a cold slap to the face that no amount of holding onto her arms could do anything seeing as she had him scruffed and held like a little dog that was misbehaving. 

He let out a sharp squeal as she threw him with ease over the edge and down the ten foot drop, not enough to kill but enough to hear a loud crack from his ribs and legs.

“How on earth did you do that?” Steven asked, his baffled breath rolling over her neck in a way that had her stomach churning up a storm. His arm still held her tight to him as he guided her the way Layla had taken off to, the warmth of his hand alone seeping through her top and onto her bare skin underneath that was still as cold as a cadaver. 

His touch gave her a taste of life again, of humanity.  Like she didn’t exist again in this world until he touched her. As if his hand alone could find her in the afterlife and pluck her back to mortality.

Which technically he had. 

“Come on,” She brushed off his question, urging him towards where Layla was now pummeling the shit out of another assailant that had tried to make a grab for her. She made equally quick work of the attacker, shoving him off the same way the other woman had and sending him flying off the building frame and into a pile of wood that cracked easily with his weight. 

Grabbing both their arms, Layla led the two stunned watchers through the open archway that luckily expanded into a long corridor. Tarp lay around the bottom of the huge windows, moonlight filtering in through the surprisingly clear glass panes being the only thing allowing them to see their way. 

The three sets of footsteps pounded down the stone hallway, Harrow’s chants chasing them through an echo, spoken in Coptic the younger woman had surmised. It seemed her degree in Ancient Languages wasn’t entirely a waste. She was able to grasp at bits and pieces of what he was saying despite the rushing of blood in her ears from her running. 

Something about Ammit’s wrath, eradicating enemies. Calling on the ancient goddess to help him carry out her justice. 

Then came the shriek. Familiar at this point, the vengeful growl that reverberated down the hall and harmonising with Harrow’s hex. 

Summoning pure evil. She caught that part easily as they skidded around the corner awaiting them at the end of the hallway, coming to a set of huge, varnished wood doors. She threw her shoulder into the left one, hearing it give a small creak of protest before it gave way and slowly swung open. 

Her heart dropped as she quickly realised they were at a dead end. It felt almost de ja vu like as they entered the room, her eyes frantic to take in any way out as Layla and Steven rushed to block the entrance off. A thick, brick wall complete with an old fireplace on the right, and two huge windows in front and to her left. By all means it was a beautiful room, but it was an enclosure. A trap. A casket. 

“Here. Bolt the door,” Layla ordered, heaving a metal bar through the handles to give them some sort of protection of whatever it was Harrow was conjuring. 

More tarp over the floors and piles of bricks, dust and building tools, the windows reaching higher than even the ceiling to the museum. Sarcophaguses piled around the room, some fake but most seeming authentic, as ancient as the exhibits she walked past regularly at work, yet they were just thrown to the sides of the abandoned room as if they were not priceless objects. 

A dirty mirror lay to her right leaning against the fireplace, white plastic wrap draped over half of the looking glass, ridden with dust and a deep crack that made it unusable, no doubt why it was dumped here with the rest of the pieces of history they deemed rubbish. 

Layla and her rushed to the windows, Layla taking the one on the left and her heading for the one opposite the door, each attempting to jiggle the bottom of the panes, looking for a latch they could flick open to give them an escape. But the glass was thick. Taking up an entire wall, meant only to let light in and keep air firmly out. Meaning there was no movement from any of the panes. The lit up buildings across the street laughed at her attempts in a silent mocking, the block of flats watching the desperate women struggle. 

“Oh my god,” Steven said with a tone of utter despair, “I’m going to die in an evil magician’s man cave,”

She would have laughed. Any other day and his words would have cracked her up. But she barely heard him over the desperate way she tugged at the white, chipped frames, urging the damn thing to come loose, her nails splinting painfully at the force she used to try peel the rusted metal from their seals.

It would be no use anyway, she realised. Looking down she realised they were up high, on the third floor to be exact, and the only way down was a long fall onto solid concrete. Seeing Layla turn away from the other window, she guessed she had no luck with that either, and cursed under her breath. 

Layla stalked towards Steven’s piteous frame, grabbing him roughly by the arms. “No-no. Hey, listen to me,” She started in a panicked voice, though it was clear she was attempting to be kind to him. The three of them turned to the door as the sound of scratching signalled that something big was out there, waiting for them. Long, sharp knife-like claws raked down the old wood, carving out channels in the barrier, the pieces of timber creaking with the weight of it, like a dog begging to come into the sitting room. 

A moment of silence, before the doors began shaking in their hinges with loud thumps. The animal threw itself against the doors, the metal bar jittering in its place at the sheer weight of it. 

“Your name is Marc,” Layla said calmly, holding onto his shoulders to keep his attention on her, “There’s a suit, I’ve seen you use it. You bring it out,” Her dark eyes pierced him with something cold and scared hidden in them, as his face flustered and his breathing picked up. 

“No,” He mumbled, shaking his head that dripped with sweat, feeling his chest constricting as she grabbed him harder. 

“Where are you? We need you to fight!” She yelled, shaking him now as if to hope to snap him back into his senses. 

“Let me in, Steven!” Marc’s voice came from the abandoned mirror, his reflection twisted into a cruel sneer as Marc watched him freeze in place, Steven’s bright eyes lost and scared. 

It was too much for Steven. He was expected to be something, someone, that he had no idea existed until a few days ago. This was no longer about waking up late or funny dreams, or sand around his bed and tape on his door. This was real. Real consequences. Two very real women depending on him to become this hero and save the day. 

They needed him to be Marc. But he wasn’t. He was Steven Grant. And that was all he’d ever be. 

“No, I can’t please. Stop it both of you,” Steven’s voice snapped Dove out of her focus on the outside, her fingers sore with where they gripped the window frames distraughtly. 

She saw his overwhelmed figure. The way Layla held him in an iron grip, her voice raising in distress as she kept asking him to snap out of it, to bring out ‘the suit’. She saw the way Steven’s eyes flicked between the woman and the mirror, his voice clogging up with unshed tears. 

Finally giving up on the windows as an option, she stormed over to where the two of them stood, grabbing Steven by the shoulder and pulling his arms away from Layla’s desperate grip.

“Cut it out, you’re scaring him,” She growled, feeling Steven make a grab for her hand as she confronted the woman. 

“He should be scared! If he doesn’t get the suit the three of us are going to die, do you not get that?” Layla’s voice raised, but even the younger woman could see her face was rigid with fear. It was fear causing her to be so harsh, not malice. Layla was only human after all. The memory of that thing that had chased her through the museum resurfaced painfully, a phantom stab blooming over her stomach that seemed entirely healed, as if it hadn’t practically ripped her guts through her soft flesh and spilled them onto the marble floor.

“Shouting at him isn’t going to fix that, it’s not his fault. We just find another way out, okay?” Dove snipped, shutting down any other argument Layla could give her, and turned to Steven with a soft expression, “Okay?” She asked gently.

Steven stayed quiet, but he nodded, tears welled in his eyes, his face just as scared as she felt inside. She was shitting herself, her muscles tensing up with every grunt that came from the creature on the other side of the door. But cornering Steven and asking so much of him when neither of them truly understood what was happening was only doing harm. 

“Alright,” Layla mumbled in defeat, her lush brows drawn into a frown, despair lingering in her hazelnut eyes as she headed back to the smaller, side window and peered out to the building below, “I can see a fire escape on this roof-”

But no sooner had the woman come to terms with the fact there was no hero coming to save them from this mess, the barricade had given way with a loud pop as the metal bar split clean in two. 

A single breath, a moment of pure silence where Layla’s head whipped from her fraught attempt at seeking an escape route, where Steven and Dove clutched onto each other just that bit tighter. The doors swung wide on their hinges, smacking into the walls with the force and crumbling the bricks into piles of red dust on the already dirty floors.  

A figure stood in the entrance. She could only think to describe it as a tall man trying to wear a dog’s body. Its limbs were gangly, skinny, mottled and rotted skin stretching thinly over them. Four feet at the end of boney elbows carried dagger like claws, thin wisps of white hairs poking from its spine. Its face was that of a possessed wolf, skeletal and gaunt, its mouth opening into a roaring snarl with two yellow-green eyes staring back at them with a haunting glow. 

The air escaped Dove’s lungs the second it let out a familiar hum of hunger. This was the thing that had attacked her. That had killed her last night. This was the thing that had plunged its hand into her stomach with no remorse, tearing her organs to shreds in a single swipe.

The creature, the jackal, looked ahead at the two of them, holding onto each other for damn near life, her nails digging into his toned arm at her sheer trepidation. Its jaws fell open, saliva dripping from its dead lips as it gathered its legs up and prepared to lunge. 

“Jackal, J-JACKAL” Steven yelled, his hands beginning to shake as he pointed at the creature. 

“Oh my god- Oh my-” His friend could barely get out her words, panic constricting around her heart that thudded through her ribs hard enough to have her choking on her sentence and stay quiet, mouth agape in disbelief at the sight of the thing. 

She much preferred when she couldn’t see the damn thing. 

The Jackal took a breath, and the girl set in its sights could have sworn she heard it laugh, before it bolted at them.

The two of them screamed, Steven shoving her to the floor as its lithe body made contact and sent both their bodies flying through the glass, falling, falling, falling down all three levels and onto the hard concrete. 

“Oh my GOD!” Layla shrieked, her eyes trained on the huge gap in the wall where her ex-husband had been thrown through by some invisible force, before they lowered to where his not-mistress was cowering on the floor after being manhandled away from the danger. She caressed her scraped elbow silently, her gaze also locked on the broken glass.

Realising the girl was in shock, Layla leaned down to a pile of bricks, grabbing one and promptly raising it above her head, bringing it down onto the side window harshly. The glass cracked slightly, before she hit it again a few more times and it gave way completely, scattering across the tiled roof on the other side. Throwing her jacket over the broken glass, she hopped over the window ledge and onto the slanted roof, careful not to skid on the smooth stone. Whipping back to the girl that had seemed to come to her senses and was now looking at her bewildered, Layla yelled a single “Come on!” through the gap in the window, before turning and heading towards the fire escape alone.

Steven. Not Steven, please not him. Steven’s gone. Steven’s dead, or at least he will be soon, no doubt his body crumpled on the floor, practically laid out as a buffet for that monster. 

He’d thrown her out of the way, given his own life for one so undeserving as her own. 

A man so kind and gentle, good, shouldn’t have rescued her, someone entirely not that.

Being dragged out of her daze at Layla’s yell, her head snapped to where she’d managed to create an escape, the woman looking at her expectantly before she turned and headed towards the edge of the roof. 

Steven could still be alive, she told herself, he could be okay. 

Holding that hope close to her chest, she pushed herself to her feet and ran towards the exit Layla had taken. 

Please be okay. Please be okay. I’ll give every life I have to give if it means you’re safe. 

Her hand was seconds from gracing Layla’s jacket when she heard it. Another growl. 

No, not a growl. A chuckle. Dark, deep and rolling, an amused laugh from a thick chest that was loud enough to fill the entire room with its timbre. 

And she knew. She didn’t understand how, but she knew. She knew who waited for her to turn around. To meet his black, inky gaze with fright. 

But she was frozen. Despite her body being cold for the past day, the chill that ran through her spine was enough to have every single one of her hairs stand on end. Her voice was gone, her chest tight, her throat closed up. 

“I know you’ve been waiting for me, my little monster,” 

His voice was a rumble, though a smile laced his words. His every syllable sent a thrum of horror through her veins, her body going numb. As if she weren’t here. She was watching a movie through her eyes, and the villain was coming, the story was ending. The credits were about to start rolling. 

She said nothing. Didn’t dare move an inch, praying to anyone listening that she could become as invisible as that jackal had been. Yet she felt him getting closer. His feet made no sound, but she felt him draw near. The same way a person feels they’re not alone in a haunted house. Like seeing shadows in the corner of your eye. Like feeling something watching you from the darkness when you wake from a nightmare.

A hand trailed down her loose hair, running long, slim fingers through her locks, he gave a growl of praise. “I’ve been waiting for you too,” 

She started crying. Her face got hot, her eyes stinging as she tried to hold the tears back, only for them to scorch her cheeks as they rolled down, her expression pulling into an ugly whimper. 

Closing her eyes, she told herself if she couldn’t see him he was just a voice in her head. If she didn’t look him in the eye he had no control over her. It was just a bad dream. A side effect of the stress. An auditory halluc-

“Oh, don’t cry,” A cold knuckle dragged over her cheek, swiping away a tear. His finger alone took up half her jaw. “I’m here to help you. I’m here to save you, little beasty,” His voice was dark, but gentle. As if he cared. As if he didn’t want her afraid. “Think of what we could do to Harrow, together,” 

She didn’t doubt he had ideas for what torture he wanted to rain down on the man. But that wasn’t her. She didn’t want to be feared, or to hurt people, or to kill. She didn’t want to be bad. Or to feel even more so that there was something crawling out of her soul, a demon that showed everyone just who she really was. What she really was. 

“No,” She whispered, shaking her head and taking a small step away from him. 

“No?” He asked, a deadly calm washing over his voice. “People have taken from you your whole life. Taken and taken for their own selfish needs,” Seth cooed, circling her with his behemoth frame as more tears flowed over her cheeks, her eyes squeezed shut with a frown, “I see your anger, your need for vengeance. To make them hurt the way they hurt you-” 

“NO,” She yelled this time, her hands coming up to grab at her hair, her body giving in to his words. He knew her. He knew her like an old friend, like he knew himself. Like she knew him. Like he’d been there for every bad thing that had happened to her. Like he was there for the whole of that time, he was there that day. 

That day. That body. What she’d done to him. 

“You hurt, little beasty,” Seth said, coming to stand in front of her. She felt his two huge hands hold onto her shoulders, one coming to her chin to tip it up to his face. 

If she opened her eyes now she’d see his sable black eyes looking down at her in an aching hunger. As if he revelled in the fact she was so pliant to his touch, that he could snap her neck within a flick of his finger and she could do nothing about it. She clamped her eyes shut harder, desperate to not fall for his gentle words, or the familiarity that came with his touch. No, he wanted this, he wanted her to concede, to trust him. To give into him.

No. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“I see the way you hurt. I see the fear in you that came long before I did. That they’ll all see you as I do,” He said, caressing her jaw with his sharp claws, a single ounce of pressure too much and her skin would be slashed open. 

“Stop,” She begged, her face wet with tears, her throat closing with a sob that drew out her request like a child. 

“Stop?” Seth’s voice was different now. The semblance of kindness that had been there in a fleeting moment was gone, replaced again with a thunderclap of a laugh, “You poor sweet morning lamb. We’ve not even begun,” 

Her eyes opened for a split second when she felt her body tense up, the feeling as close to rigour mortis as she could imagine, as a dark flash of movement, a row of sharp teeth, and insidious black eyes were all she saw as he took over every part of her body. 

Death took her body for the second time, though this time she felt everything. 

Layla watched its jaws open as its head flicked to her, its deep grunt of annoyance echoing through the empty street, before it's long, slim arms were thrust outwards and grabbed the two of them by the jugular, boney, rough fingers wrapping around their throats and squeezing. 

Steven was lifted off the ground, Layla suffering the same fate after she had thrown an empty beer bottle at the demon’s head, the tiny shards of refracted light bouncing off the glass like a mirrorball and outlining the head of a monstrous creature. 

Layla felt the brick smack harshly against her spine as the thing threw her to the wall, the same way Steven was tossed against a parked car, the passenger window cracking from the pressure and the alarm wailing in protest. 

They both stood up again immediately, Layla’s eyes scanning the floor for anything to use as a weapon, before her almond eyes fell on the neck of the bottle she’d thrown, the jagged edge of broken glass sharp and fatal. Diving for the shiv, she swiped at the area she thought the creature could be stood, though her attempt only proved futile as her wrist was grabbed almost too easily and the weapon was ripped out of her hands. 

The woman made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a cry as she was tossed to the hard ground like a ragdoll, Steven being thrown next to her as he made a move to grab the monster as well.

The two of them gasped as the hands seemed to swipe them to the ground harshly, like a cat toying with its meal, dragging the torture out as long as possible before they gave up and submitted to being ravaged. The two of them looked at each other in alarm, Steven’s eyes a bright white behind the suit, as they felt the jackal grab their ankles and drag. Their bodies scraped against the pavement, the two of them kicking and squealing, writhing to get out of the monster's grip, only to be yanked into the air once more, the blood rushing to their skulls the second they were pulled from the concrete earth. 

“Steven, do something!” Layla wailed, her cheeks pooling a purple colour the longer they were held, though she never relented in her hits, her arms and free leg waving around for any soft tissue she could get at. 

“Marc’s the one who fights these shits, not me!” Steven called back, trying desperately to reach for his batons to inflict any damage he could. 

Layla felt her head building with pressure, her eyes becoming painful to shut as she blinked slowly, the darkened streets turned upside down in her mind. Her thick, dark brows furrowed, her eyes locking in on a figure standing at the other end of the wide street, unrecognisable to her dazed eyesight. 

“Steven?” Layla murmured drunkenly, her hand coming up to grab his arm that was still flailing around. 

“What?”

“Who is that?” The woman asked, pointing to the dark silhouette that stood and watched them.

Steven’s illuminated eyes followed her finger to see the figure still with statue-like grace, silent yet never relenting their dark stare.

His eyes trailed from their body, muscled and in a wide, casual stance, their arms resting at their sides. Their entire body seemed to be in some kind of black, chestplated one piece suit, pads of armour on their vulnerable parts, thin spindles of gold wrapping around the suit in a skeletal fashion. The armour spread over the backs of their hands, opening out into golden claw-like razors at the tips of their fingers that didn’t so much as twitch with fright at the sight of two strangers suspended in the mid air. 

A black muzzle wound its way over their mouth just above where the suit ended at their jaw, their hair falling over the back of their shoulders to reveal more of the golden weaves that fell around their neck and over their breastplate, accentuating the woman’s curves whilst also giving off the look they were wearing a set of bones on their armour. 

Two six-inch shells of armour protruded from their headpiece, curved yet in lithe points, like long dog ears, like a Whippet’s, high and alert. 

“I-I don’t know,” Steven murmured, though he found himself unable to take his eyes off the shadowed figure. He wasn’t even sure they were breathing at the way they were frozen solid, their head tilted slightly as if intrigued by the scene in front of them. 

It was then that it seemed the Jackal realised they had company. But this jackal wasn’t alone. It had brought friends too. 

The figure seemed to cut out of their daze as another of the behemoth beasts came stalking out of the darkness, as if to have been waiting for the scraps of the kill. But it had prey of its own now. This mystery woman. 

Steven’s heart fell into his mouth, which wasn’t too hard seeing as he was still being held upside down by the creature. 

“Run!” Steven called to her, though she seemed to take no notice of his cries, “Get out of here!” 

But the woman stood still, head snapping to where the jackal walked forward, slowly and with a hungry grin on its face as a deep growl rumbled from deep within its chest. This thing was going to rip her to pieces, Steven thought numbly. And it was going to be all his fault for not giving the body back to Marc. 

“Marc,” Steven said with a panic as the thing stepped closer to her still, her head tilting more at the sound of its approach, though that was the only inch she moved, “Marc- take the body- Marc- MARC-”

But he was too late. Steven winced as the jackal lunged towards her, jaws wide open and large enough to swallow her entire skull with one bite. He wanted to look away but his eyes couldn’t tear themselves off the scene, though he knew a blood bath was coming. He felt the bile rise already at the idea of it, though maybe that was the gravity talking.

But Steven’s heart practically stopped when his eyes caught another slight flicker of movement from the woman and he realised exactly what he was seeing. 

The Jackal’s jaws were pried open, stuck in the moment the creature had leapt forward. It took Steven a second to realise the woman’s hands were the ones holding them ajar, her sharp nails latching into its snout and chin, blood already running down her hands at the sheer vigour at which she held onto the dead flesh. The beast gave a whine, its body jolting forward as it tried to overpower her, only to have no luck. She didn’t budge a single hair's width. 

Steven’s eyes widened, the beams of light engrossed with the scene before his eyes. Who on earth was that? How could she see the jackals like he could, let alone wrestle one? 

“Steven, give me the body,” Marc demanded from inside his head, though Steven caught the trace of nerves that rang at his voice like a church bell on a silent morning. 

“Who is that, Marc?” Steven asked, his eyes widening when he saw the figure forcing the jackal to back down a step as she forced herself towards the creature, clearly stronger than the monster twice her size. 

“Steven, I will explain everything later, just please give me the body or she’s gonna get hurt,” Marc said with the same edge to his voice that he had before. The way Marc dodged his question had sirens wailing in Steven’s chest, louder than anything else the American man inside him had said. 

Steven’s voice cut out when he watched the figure grab the beast's jaws even tighter, yanking them apart with a sickening crunch as the joints popped out of their place. She didn’t stop there, not even as the creature gagged and squirmed, a yawp of pain echoing around the street as it scrambled to get out of her grip. But she was relentless. She tugged apart the lower mandible even wider, wider than could ever be natural, and a gut wrenching rip came next. 

The creature stopped moving. Stopped crying. Stopped everything. It slumped to the ground in defeat, the woman standing over its body with no mercy as she held the wad of flesh in her hand, blood running from her fingertips as smooth as water. 

The creature's lower jaw was thrown to the ground, its face a mush of exposed muscle, its throat torn cleanly open. It was then her gaze set onto the other jackal with a slow turn of her head and a low growl echoed through Steven’s bones.

It took him a second to realise it wasn’t the creature that held him that was making the sound. It was coming from her. 

Layla and Steven were dropped to the ground as she approached the creature, the two of them gasping for air, their heads spinning with the blood crashing around their brains. 

The jackal set its sights on her too, eager to avenge its fallen companion, the two of them circling one another for a moment. She made the first move, her black boots near silent against the cobbled street as she leapt with cat-like grace to tackle it to the ground. 

She was able to get her arms around its neck as it met her in the air, her muscled arms quick to begin choking the thing, squeezing until they heard the sound of its shoulder popping out of place. The jackal gave a yelp similar to the other one, only it dragged out into an angry snarl as its huge clawed hand grabbed onto her by the scruff of her neck. 

It threw her away from itself, desperate to get her strong hands off its body, and tossed her a good ten feet away, into the middle of a busy road where she bounced over the bonnet of a car and smashed its left headlight in. 

Steven was quick to jump to his feet as the monster’s head flicked away from the woman, back to where he and Layla stood. 

“Steven, you’re being dumb. Don’t do this, you can’t do this-” Marc protested, though Steven felt whatever bravery he had left collecting together as he clenched his hand together in a tight fist. 

“I think- I think I can,” He replied, the Jackal stalking closer to him with its three good legs. It stepped forward, its confidence shaken by the woman that was now getting back up and pacing her way over to the two of them much too calmly for someone who had been thrown so harshly. “You want some more do you, you mangy, Macedonian mutt?” Steven tried to taunt, though he could feel the tinge of fear still quelling at his chest at the sheer brute size of the thing even when wounded. 

The creature roared in response, gathering its hind legs up to lunge again, as Steven drew back his arm to swing. 

But he was too late. The woman had returned with a silent agility. Steven saw nothing but a flash of black and gold as she dived for the jackal’s throat, clawing and snarling at its chest as she took the thing down with her in one swoop. Steven watched with an agape jaw as she lifted the creature up as if it were nothing more than a sack of grain, and threw the jackal into the same parked car already cracked from where Steven had hit it, the opposite window getting the brunt of the attack as it smashed and the door caved easily. 

The creature lay still for a while, giving Steven time to confront the woman who had helped him, and hopefully answer the questions that Marc had dodged. 

“Oh my god,” Steven started, approaching the woman from behind where she was stood, barely out of breath for what had just occurred, “Excuse me, who exactly are you, you’re just bloody amazing-”

Raising his hand to touch the woman's shoulder gently, Steven practically had the wind knocked out of him as she turned on her heel in less than a blink of his two white eyes, and threw him to the ground as easily as she had the creature. Kneeling over him, his body mushy underneath her sadistic strength, he felt his knees go weak as she grabbed him by his collar and brought him to her face where her eyes trailed over his own face, a horrifically deep snarl emanated from her chest, shaking his lungs with its power. 

“WOAH, Woah wait. I’m not going to hurt you, though I supposed I should be more worried  about you hurting me-” It was then that he actually took in what he could see of her face. 

The colour of the hair that fell around her face as she leant over him, the shape of her face that wasn’t covered by the black muzzle that wrapped around her mouth and over her nose, thin and metallic and yet making her sounds all the more terrifying. Her eyes, the iris gone and replaced by inky black pits of darkness that blinked down at him with famine. 

But that face. He would know that face anywhere, he would know it in the thickest of fogs, the darkest of Winters. He could find her in any crowd, in any life. And if he was to go blind by morning, he’d know her by the way she breathed alone. 

And he did. Despite the fact her breath was laden with grunts, he knew her. He knew her. 

“Dove?” Steven muttered, hands coming to hold her face gently, his brows furrowed with confusion, “Dove, what happened to you-”

His hand had all but brushed her cheek, a gentle action that normally would have had her preening to his touch, had her snapping at the bit, and Steven was sure she would have taken his hand clean off had she not been muzzled like a rabid dog. 

Steven jumped back as she came closer to him, an even louder rumble of fury damn near bursting his ear drums as she warned him off of touching her. She was not his dove. Not the girl he knew. Not the girl he loved. She was a feral beast untamed and wild, eager to hurt him as much as she had attacked the jackal were he to get too close. 

“Dove?” Steven asked one more time, though he kept his hands in surrender as she manhandled him, pushing him to the floor more as she pinned him down, her black eyes empty and raw as she stared at him, “It’s me, Steven. Your Steven,” 

Nothing. He gained no reaction from her, not so much as a blink. This was not her. This was a savage creature that knew no such thing as gentle touches and loving words. 

She did nothing but stare at him, waiting for him to make a move out of line so she could tear him to shreds. And yet, Steven lay there as if to submit his body to her if she wanted to do such a thing. He couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t fight back. Could never lay an unkind hand on her even if it came to his last moments on the earth. He could die by her hands and he would still consider himself lucky to have been touched by such a creature. 

She raised a clawed hand up to bring down on his masked face, a strength in the hit strong enough to tear clean through the ceremonial armour and likely leave him disfigured, if not cleave his skull in two on the spot. But she didn’t get a chance to strike. No sooner had she raised herself up to end it all, the Jackal launched its beaten body at her crouching form, the two of them tumbling away from Steven’s shaking body and rolling amongst one another in a flurry of wails and growls. 

She flew off him spitting and yowling like a feral street cat, a sound no normal human should make as the creature bit down on her arm hard. 

Steven felt two arms dragging him upwards and away from the scene, Layla could only imagine what was going on as the mystery woman’s arm sprayed her own blood over the concrete with every swipe of her claws. 

“What is that?” Layla asked breathlessly, practically yanking Steven away as he trembled under her hands. She froze when Steven said her name, her name, the name of the girl she had left in that room to make her own way out. “What? Is this Harrow’s doing? Turning her into some crazy dog-woman?”

“I don’t know,” Steven said with a defeated tone, his chest aching at the way she had looked at him with no recognition of who he was. “I think…” Steven thought for a moment, “I think Marc will know how to help her,” 

Layla nodded at him, her eyes taking in his broken expression, patting him on the arm gently, “Okay. Okay, bring him out,”

Steven turned away from her, sparing a small glance to the woman who held his life so closely in her hands, who had been seconds away from ending it, who he gave himself to entirely were it to be that he saw her in his last few moments of living. She scrapped with the jackal, two wild beasts gaining on eachother, drawing blood whenever and wherever they could. 

“Marc,” Steven said, his eyes never leaving her blank face, spots of blood now sprayed over her nose like freckles. He felt his alter perk up at the name, his body already tensing up as Marc clawed at the reigns to take over now.

“Yeah, buddy?” Marc asked, though he could see everything Steven was seeing, and his heart already sunk at the unrecognisable thousand mile stare she had. 

This was it. Seth had her now. “Save her,”

authors note: I used an AI to create what I think Dove looks like in her suit and-

These are the vibes we’re going for! Please feel free to imagine her as ANY shape, ANY ethnicity and ANY height however, these were just what the AI generated!

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[hoedamn-eron]

listen okay

been thinking about Oscar's characters and what they're like as dads

Spoke very briefly with @writefightandflightclub about this, months ago (can't even find the post it was that long ago - I'll link it later if I do - FOUND IT)

Poe Dameron is a girl dad

Santiago Garcia is a girl dad (see here)

Steven Grant is a girl dad

And Marc Spector and Jake Lockley

(Jake especially)

But Nathan Bateman

Nathan Bateman oozes boy dad

Because, right:

Nathan created Ava and has the mindset that girls are scary

(And Luna pointed out that he'd be wary after that having a girl after 'the incident' and I agree)

Seems like the kind of guy to say 'first time, guaranteed' after sex, when you both agree to start trying

(he was right, it was)

(you still don't know how he did it)

Anyways, you both have a boy

He needed to find out at your anomaly scan because he hasn't been able to control one single thing during this pregnancy and he hates it

So he voted he found out the gender

Makes you put on classical music for "the foetus" (Nathan's words) because he seems like that type of guy

Not that he doubts the kid'll be a genius, but it can't hurt

When your son is here, Nathan would be a mess

It was one thing knowing you were pregnant, seeing the bump and ultrasounds and all

But now there's an actual kid

A kid that is fully reliant on him

Nathan probably wouldn't sleep for weeks

Just sit and works and watches the kid, make sure he's breathing

He'd mellow out eventually, when you'd told him he needed sleep and can't keep doing this to himself

You took over the night shift after that, mostly

He isn't the kind of dad to rough house

But one that you'll catch talking out coding issues to an infant who just stares at Nathan, just because of the sound of his voice

Your son would look nothing like you, and take everything after Nathan (he's super smug about it too - not only can he make literal lifelike robots, but he has 'superior genes' too)

Would want to call the boy something unique like Silas, or Atlas, something along those lines

You had veto'd them very quickly

But Silas grew on you, so I can imagine you agreed to a unique name

Once your son was old enough, he'd definitely teach him how to box

Since Nathan's sleep schedule is fucked (he's working on it), he's always up first with the kid

You'll always find them on the decking at the punching bag

Nathan was always guiding him, praising him when your son eventually punched the bag

You and Nathan both regularly went out on hikes (he enjoyed them more than you did) even before the kid

When the kid was born, it was easy to carry him around in a carrier on your chests

But when he got older and learned to walk, he never wanted to be carried

And the hikes took longer

So now Nathan's planned out new family friendly routes for you all, where you'll all be out for an hour, tops, and not far from the house

Nathan really hates mess, so will probably follow the kid around once he starts walking, just picking up after him

If he's stressed or hungover (he's working on that too) he would probably yell at you to sort it out

He'd apologise later after you chewed him out, even offering to do bath time and get the kid ready for bed

"I'll read him a story or some shit"

(It's probably Stephen Hawking)

He'd arrange someone to decorate the kids bedroom to look like space or something

You had a field day looking around the IKEA website and choosing what you wanted for your son's dream bedroom, but Nathan had just rolled his eyes and got the more expensive, designer, equivalent and it was delivered within a week

You'd told him off for doing it, but he just shrugged at you wordlessly as he set up the bedroom for your son

This is long enough, I'm gonna stop here, but now I want to write a full series of dad!Nathan 😭😭😭

[anonymousewrites]

Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Eleven

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eleven: At the Sarcophagus

Summary: (Y/N) and Steven find the Sarcophagus of Ammit's Avatar, but Harrow finds it, too.

Mouse Note: Listen...I can't say I'm sorry, but, uh, yeah.

            (Y/N) and Steven continued on their way through the new tunnel. It was a bit caved in with bits of rock fallen in their way, but nothing impeded them severely. Finally, they rounded a corner, and another chamber opened up.

            “Oh my stars,” said Steven.

            “My god,” said (Y/N).

            They stared at the room, lit by a ray of sunshine reflected off pools and trickles of water. Stepping over rocks, they approached the burial chamber of the pharaoh. Statues and murals lined the walls, and the sarcophagus itself stood on a dais in the center of the room.

            Steven stared at the artifacts. “Thutmose III. Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the big ones.”

            “You nearly kissed her,” said Marc, and Steven stumbled.

            “Steven?” asked (Y/N).

            “Just Marc talking,” said Steven, trying to ignore him as they continued.

            (Y/N) frowned and looked at his reflection in the water. They wished they could still hear Marc. It was lonelier without him. They wished they could be with Layla, Steven, and Marc all together again.

            “I should try to drown you or punch you again,” said Marc. “But you also told her the truth about why I’ve been pushing her away. And that was unexpected. And you protected (Y/N).” So he wouldn’t try to hit Steven.

            “Are these Macedonian?” said (Y/N), unknowingly interrupting the conversation. They knelt by the relics and murals. “I can’t remember these symbols or translate them, but these are Macedonian, aren’t they?”

            Steven knelt next to them. “No way. That’s impossible. Only one pharaoh…But he called himself Egyptian.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “No way. No way. Is this really…?”

            “I think we’re looking at the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” breathed Steven, giddy and reverent all at once.

            (Y/N) stared at it. “…Oh god. We have to open the sarcophagus.” It felt wrong to disturb the tomb, but this was Ammit’s tomb. Alexander the Great had been her Avatar. She needed to be stopped. Harrow needed to be stopped.

            “That just feels wrong,” groaned Steven. “Everything inside of me is screaming not to open this thing.”

            “You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” said Marc.

            “Of course I don’t want him to get to Ammit,” said Steven.

            “Marc again?” said (Y/N).

            “Yeah,” said Steven. He looked at (Y/N). “Ready?”

            “As I’ll ever be,” said (Y/N).

            Steven nodded. Together, they put their hands on the lid of the sarcophagus and pushed. It was tough going, but they managed to shit the top end of the lid off enough so that they could see the mummy within. This was the Alexander the Great. In the flesh (literally, since he was a mummy).

            “Where’s the ushabti?” said Marc.

            “He’s not holding the ushabti,” said (Y/N) at the same moment, frowning.

            Steven nearly smiled at the coincidence and answered both at once. “If you’re gonna hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look.”

            (Y/N) coughed and pulled up their sleeves. “Um, I think I know where.”

            “Where?” said Steven and Marc at the same time, though (Y/N) could only hear one.

            “It’s the voice symbolism again,” said (Y/N), grimacing and gesturing to the wrapped head and throat of Alexander the Great.

            “Oh. Oh, gross,” said Steven.

            (Y/N) steeled themself, reached out, and pulled away the wrappings around Alexander the Great’s face. “I am so sorry,” they muttered to the mummy and the memory of their parents. They shouldn’t be disturbing a resting place like this. But it needed to be done.

            “Oh…” Steven grimaced as (Y/N) slipped their hand into Alexander the Great’s mouth and reached into his throat.

            Forcing themself not to retch, (Y/N) felt a wave of relief as they felt a stone sculpture. Grabbing it, they pulled it out. The sunlight illuminated the return of Ammit’s ushabti to the world.

            “We found it,” breathed Steven.

            “Good job, kid,” said Marc, unable to hold back the pride. He deflated as he remembered (Y/N) couldn’t hear him now.

            (Y/N) nodded and smiled at Steven in relief.

            Footsteps approached, and they tensed, whirling toward the passage. They relaxed as they saw it was Layla. She had made it.

            “Layla, look!” said Steven proudly, gesturing to the ushabti in (Y/N)’s hands. “We won!” He laughed.

            (Y/N) frowned. Layla’s eyes were narrowed, and her body was tense as she came closer. Something was off.

            “(Y/N) had to reach down Alexander the Great’s throat, but we found it,” said Steven. He frowned as he finally saw Layla’s furious gaze. “You alright, love?”

            “Can he hear me?” she snapped.

            “Alexander? No, I don’t think so. God, I hope not,” chuckled Steven, trying to keep the good energy going.

            Layla kept going. “What happened to my father?”

            (Y/N) frowned and flinched. They didn’t like the feeling that was appearing in the room. Everything had been going fine. And now, now, something was wrong. (Y/N) stepped back.

            Layla walked up to Steven. “I’m talking to you.”

            “What?” asked Steven.

            “I’m talking to you, Marc,” snapped Layla, trying to get him to come out and speak to her.

            Steven frowned, his eyes rolled up, and when Layla had him looking at her again, it was Marc staring out. He had gotten control of the body.

            “Come on, come on, let’s go,” said Marc, trying to take control of the situation and avoid the conversation. He took (Y/N)’s arm and Layla’s hand, but Layla pulled back.

            “No,” she said forcefully.

            “We need to go right now,” said Marc.

            “What’s going on?” said (Y/N), pulling the end of their sleeves.

            “Marc, no. No,” repeated Layla, refusing to go with him. “What happened to my father?!”

            “Listen to me. We need to leave right now,” said Marc. “I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go.”

            “He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N), trying to help but unsure of themself.

            “No, I want to know now,” said Layla. She glared at Marc. “Did you kill Abdullah El Faouly?!”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and their gaze snapped to Marc. Their chest constricted as the terrible question was left in the air.

            “Of course not. Of course I didn’t!” said Marc.

            “He’s…He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N). “He didn’t kill him, Layla.”

            “But he was there,” said Layla, seeing that Marc was evading the whole truth. “Weren’t you?”

            “Marc?” asked (Y/N), looking at him.

             “I—” Marc couldn’t answer. Lying was impossible, but the truth was painful. It would destroy everything he’d built with Layla and whatever had started to grow between (Y/N) and Marc.

            “Yeah, you were there,” said Layla. She could read him clearly.

            Marc swallowed. Softly, he admitted the terrible truth. “I was there. Yeah. I was there.”

            “Yeah. And how did he die?” snapped Layla.

            (Y/N) covered their mouth and stepped back. “The mercenaries and the archaeologists.” What Fitzgerald and Kennedy had said in the car.

            “Kid—” Marc reached out to them, but he let his hand drop. “I—My partner got greedy.” He spoke quietly, tiredly, as everything he’d never wanted to admit forced itself to the surface and destroyed what he’d built. “He executed everyone at the dig site. I tried to save your father, Layla, but I couldn’t. And I—”

            Layla glared at him. “No. But you brought a killer right to him. Right?” She shoved him back, and Marc just took it.

            He nodded helplessly, willing to take any abuse to make up for the terrible things he’d done. “Yeah. He shot me, too. I was supposed to die that night. But I didn’t die that night. And I should have.” Marc gazed at Layla with so much emotion as she wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’ve tried to tell you since the moment we met. But I just didn’t know how.”

            Layla sobbed. Then, she froze. “Oh my god.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Marc.

            Layla turned on him. “That’s the reason we met.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they clutched the ushabti tightly.

            “You just had a guilty conscience?” said Layla incredulously, and the way Marc stared back at her was answer enough.

            “Layla—”

            The sound of a rolling stone broke through the moment, and they all turned towards the passageway. The rustle of footsteps grew louder.

            “They’re here,” said Marc in alarm.

            “There must be another way out,” said Layla, wanting to stay alive to keep being angry.

            “Okay, go, find it. Take (Y/N). I’ll hold them off,” said Marc, grabbing an ornamental axe from the sarcophagus.

            At the same time, (Y/N) took their moment to go with Layla to stuff the ushabti into the backpack to hide it from sight. The moment that Layla darted to grab (Y/N), though, Harrow and his numerous armed men stepped into the room. Layla had to hide behind a column, and as (Y/N) tried to scramble back, a guard that had snuck around the side grabbed them. (Y/N) yelped. Marc’s eyes widened, and he took a step towards (Y/N) but froze as the guard held (Y/N) tightly and raised his gun. They kicked at him, but the man was stronger, and (Y/N) was stuck staring fearfully at Marc.

            “Be gentle with them. They’re just misguided,” said Harrow to the guard.

            (Y/N) and Marc’s eyes went to Harrow as he stood in the tomb with them. The scarab that had guided him there fell into his hand, the magic having done its job.

            “Just you two, isn’t it?” said Harrow. “The rest is silence.” He strolled closer. “I remember the first morning I woke up knowing that Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating. You’re both free. And, of course, with that freedom comes choice. And right now, you both have a very important decision to make.”

            Harrow walked towards (Y/N), and Marc tensed. He smiled at them, and (Y/N) flinched. “I know it’s been hard.” (Y/N) fought to avoid his gaze. “Being used by the gods. Pushed so far. Being so alone. But you can be alright, now.” They shook their head furiously. “You have nothing to worry about. You can let go of all the pain you feel. All the blame you feel.” He smiled kindly. “I know you think your parents’ death is your fault.” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they let out a sound akin to a whimper, a desperate plea for him to stop. “You asked for them to show you Egypt. You begged them to take you to the place they’d met, fallen in love, worked and learned. And then they died.” Harrow reached out and put a hand on (Y/N)’s head, and they winced back. “That’s alright.” He removed his hand and took theirs into his.

            Marc and Layla’s eyes widened as the cane began to swing back and forth. (Y/N)’s soul was being judged.

            “Stop it,” shouted Marc, taking a step forward, but the guns raised and pointed at him.

            (Y/N) was tempted to shut their eyes as the scales tattoo weighed back and forth. Unable to avert their eyes, though, (Y/N) watched as it settled. Their eyes widened. The scales were green. Their soul had been deemed worthy.

            Harrow smiled. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.” He took back his cane and gazed at (Y/N). They reluctantly looked up at him. “Now the choice lies before you. You have been deemed worthy. Ammit wants you on her side. You can help relieve the pain of so many. You can have a purpose.”

            (Y/N) stared at him, that word pulling at them, twisted around their heart and lungs. Their eyes flicked to Marc, staring at them with such worry that they felt their heart stir despite the pressure on it. (Y/N) looked back at Harrow evenly.

            “I will never join you or Ammit,” said (Y/N), the words as honest as could be.

            Harrow sighed. “I’m disappointed. Nonetheless, I’m afraid I can’t let you and live freely just yet.” He smiled. “We need the ritual to release Ammit.”

            (Y/N) froze, and their eyes widened. Long ago, Ma’at had taught them different rituals, bits of ancient magic that might one day be needed. One was to release the gods from ushabtis. (Y/N) hadn’t understood the significance then, nor had they questioned why Ma’at wanted them to learn it, but now that Ma’at was imprisoned, (Y/N) understood. Ma’at had known her actions in the mortal world could get her imprisoned. She had made sure the Avatar she had basically raised would be able to come and free her.

            Unfortunately, now, that meant (Y/N) could also free Ammit.

            “Leave them alone,” said Marc forcefully.

            Harrow turned to him with a smile. “After I bring Ammit to this world and allow her to create a better one, (Y/N) can live a life free of danger and worry. I just need them for a little while longer.” Harrow gestured to them. “And you could be a part of that world, too. You just need to do the right thing.”

            Marc looked at (Y/N) and then at all the armed men. He knew how to answer. He grabbed the gun of one man and dragged him closer. The man stumbled, and Marc slammed the axe onto his arm before he could shoot. He slashed at the next closest man, and then he threw the axe at Harrow.

            One of his guards stepped it front and took the blow, loyal until death. The man fell, and Harrow pulled something from the man’s belt as the guard fell. Harrow looked evenly at Marc, raised the pistol, and shot.

            Bang!

            (Y/N) screamed as Marc stumbled back, blood pooling on his white shirt.

            “Marc!” they cried, trying to pull away from the guard. “No! Marc, Steven!” They screamed for both desperately, tears burning at their eyes.

            Harrow stepped up and raised the pistol again.

            “Please, please, please, no!” shouted (Y/N).

            Bang!

            Behind the column, Layla covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. (Y/N) let out another agonized scream. The second wound bled instantly, and Marc fell back. He collapsed off the dais of the sarcophagus and landed in the pool of water.

            “I can’t save anyone who won’t save themselves,” said Harrow, daring enough to be saddened.

            (Y/N) let out a sob as Marc’s body lay in the water, unmoving. He was gone. Steven was gone. The tiny bit of good and warmth and connection (Y/N) had gathered in their life had been ripped away once again.

            (Y/N) was alone.

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[honeyvettel]

thank you sm for the love you’re giving to my last edit !!! i just wanted to share some of the first pages i used for the second collage because i think they deserve their post alone (plus as a journalist wannabe i just love these kinds of things)

my favorites. the first one is just— straight up tragic. marca knew what they were doing. ‘the fall of an idol’, that picture framed with a broken glass. poetry.

second one they were just fujoshing it out. like the black and white pics and the subtitle reading ‘the story behind the biggest fall out in moto racing’ ?? royal family drama type of shit.

third one is just funny because they are literally implying valentino has lost his sanity, not only the championship. ‘has he lost it?’ yes, MCN. in every way capable.

some italian unused ones because ….yeah.

first one has the infamous interview (indeed it reads ‘exclusive’ at the bottom) where valentino says ‘marc betrayed me and i can’t forgive him’; lol. nice ‘v for vendetta’ reference. horrid photoshop.

second one reads ‘lucid folly’ and the subtitle goes ‘race direction mistakes and the fight (like literal; rissa means scuffle, something physical) with rossi’. love how they are calling marc insane and implying him and valentino threw some punches in the back room.

third is a little bit misleading in the sense it makes you believe they are admitting argentina 2018 was vale’s fault or at least trying to be impartial about it (lol they are not). it writes ‘SHAME’ like in regard to vale’s fanthom kick but then the sub goes ‘championship ruined. marquez plays dirty and angers valentino. rossi ‘kicks’ the championship away’. love the photo and the big flashing ‘vergogna’ but alas this is always an italian motorsport magazine we’re talking about. of course they gonna fuck it up in the subtitle.

and that’s all ! thank for the attention ! ngl it was really difficult to find these and had to scratch the bottom of the internet for some. but they are super interesting !