#and of course he recognizes marc

[squireofgeekdom]

Oh no. Don't let me start plotting out a Leverage Redemption / Moon Knight crossover. I don't need more wips. Help.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

From the kitchen, Valentino catches the tail-end of an argument, fluttery and high-pitched, unserious—Marc has charred the garlic, or something. Àlex seems indignant. Àlex’s girlfriend has not stopped cackling. Marc’s voice rises over both of them, his ugly, honking laugh.

Valentino hasn’t been included. Rather, Roser Alentá had taken one long, flat look at him and invited him to sit with her, on the porch.

His palm is wet around his wine glass, but she hasn’t touched hers yet—the Grans Muralles bottle Marc said she’d like—so he hasn’t either. Feels his stomach churn, acid and bile rolling around.

“You’ve made it,” she says.

And he could make his way in pieces to the sewers, he gets the impression. Or at least find his way back from whatever hell hole she thinks he crawled out.

Her Catalan is pointed at him, unfamiliar, the vowels only familiar enough to feel alien when Valentino tries reaching out for them. He gives up, settles on Spanish, but even that language slides soapy in his dumb, numb mouth.

“Marc loves spending time with his family.”

It’s easy to wave Marc around, the proverbial white flag. They both know why he is here. They both know Marc never gives up on anything until he can’t take it anymore. Exhibit A: Honda. Exhibit B: Cervera. Valentino isn’t—for some reason—exhibit C.

She raises her eyebrows, though. “And does he need your permission to be here?”

Valentino startles, despite himself. Remembers to smile a moment too late. “Of course not,” he exclaims, his finest smile on show, who? Me? “But he says it’s better when everyone is—ah, involved.”

No sign of thawing. Even the sip from her glass is neutral, cold.

“Do you agree?”

Valentino swallows around a chokeful of bleach. Stefania lives in a house he built for her, carefully tucked in the space he and Luca allowed for her, often with his dogs and his cat, often not. Graziano calls a few times a year, on the wrong days.

“It’s nice,” he lies.

Rather, it’s not something Marc will compromise on—never did. Before, when he’d been twenty and liquid and eager, one of the few times Valentino had managed to really stumble on a knife was when he suggested Marc leave Àlex behind for a couple of days.

Marc is full of things that he will not compromise on, now.

Roser snorts, a quiet, unimpressed noise. “I’m sure you think so. But no matter, are you liking Cervera, Valentino?”

“It’s very much like Tavullia.”

Wrong answer, or wrong language, or wrong everything. Roser only stares. He gives himself permission to drink, does it until his tongue stops tasting like something died there. The wine—Marc likes it just the same, acidic and fruity, rich in the aftermath. Valentino drinks his whites when they’re together.

It is like Tavullia. Small and unimpressive at first glance, dust-drenched dirt tracks dotting the roads nearby, very delighted with its champions. The museum, the murals of Marc. People—overfamiliar—seem happy to leave them be, though. If they have something to say to Valentino, they won’t do it while Marc is around.

But he recognizes when they talk about him.

A cousin, her eyes sliding over him, chilly, before she turned to Marc with raised eyebrows. An aunt, halfway done with her cigar, if I were Roser, I’d spit that asshole out of my house—he’d felt proud, grimly, for getting most of it. The unhappy grumbling from his uncles, or great-uncles, who cares, eyes dark and unfriendly.

“I think he’s just waiting for you to fuck up again and prove him right.” Roser’s voice is crisp, sharp. She’s rolling her glass around.

Valentino flinches.

Inside, Marc and Àlex have started calling her, half urgent, half cackling mama! He can’t quite hear it, through the pounding of blood in his ears.

Roser just leaves her glass and stalks inside the house that feel like a memorial of moments that Marc will never talk about, that he keeps rescuing from interviews that sit in his belly like a mouthful of crunched carbon fiber. Here, the stripped bare walls. Here, the empty shelves. Here, the place where Marc wrestled a journo off him. Here, him lying awake at night, in pain.

It will be a rather long Christmas. Valentino remembers, acutely, why he never bothers with his own family anymore.

[justageekk]

IN WHERE : your best friend confesses his feelings to you on his birthday

THIS ONE SHOT IS : fem!reader x marc bernal

INSPIRED BY : USHUBABY, BENY JR ❝ Y to' el mundo ya sabe que por el Jeycob tú te mueres ❞

note: i don't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BERNIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!

w: none!

request open!

Anuel's music was blasting at full volume, shaking the walls of the venue Bernat had managed to get for his best friend Marc’s party. Colorful lights, a table full of snacks and drinks, and a cake with a big 18 in the center. But Marc only cared about one thing: that you were there.

"¡Felicidades, tonto!", you said, hugging him from behind just as he was finishing a photo with some friends. ("Happy birthday, dummy!")

Marc turned, his smile widening when he saw you. It wasn’t unusual for his face to light up with you around.

"Ya soy mayor de edad, cuidado", he joked, raising an eyebrow. ("I'm an adult now, watch out.")

" A lo mejor me pongo serio y formal." ("Maybe I'll get serious and formal.")

"Serio, si", you laughed, giving him a little push. "Ni aunque lo intentes." ("Serious, yeah. Not even if you try.")

At that moment, Bernat appeared with his plastic cup and a smile.

"¿Ya le diste su regalo, eh?", he asked, looking from you to Marc. ("Did you already give him his gift, huh?")

"Si, lo deje en la mesa de regalo", you said innocently, and Bernat let out a laugh. ("Yes, I left it on the gift table.")

"Ah, claro…", he murmured laughing, then brought two fingers to his lips, blew a kiss towards you, and pointed at Marc. ("Oh, yeah...)

Marc looked at him sideways.

"Cállate, tío, anda", he said, squinting his eyes embarrassed. ("Shut up, dude, come on.")

Bernat shrugged but his smile only grew.

"Yo no dije nada, eh", he replied, slowly moving away from both of you. ("I didn't say anything, eh.")

You laughed, a bit nervous. Marc looked at you and shook his head, but a smile appeared on his lips.

"Es un tonto", Marc said. ("He’s an idiot.")

You nodded while covering your smile with your hand.

"Ven. Quiero que saludes a alguien antes de que se me olvide", he said, gently touching your arm. ("Come. I want you to greet someone before I forget.")

"¿A quién?", you asked as you walked through the crowd. ("Who?")

"A mi madre. Me preguntó si ibas a venir. La tienes medio encariñada, no sé si te has dado cuenta", he smiled. ("My mom. She asked if you were going to come. She’s kind of fond of you, I don’t know if you noticed.")

"Oh, no sabía… ¿está aquí?" ("Oh, I didn’t know… is she here?")

"Sí, claro. Ella no se pierde una excusa para traer su tarta de tres leches. Ven, le va a alegrar verte." ("Yes, of course. She never misses an excuse to bring her tres leches cake. Come, she’ll be happy to see you.")

And there you went, holding his hand, crossing the party. Marc walked with you through the crowd until he took you to a quiet corner where his mother was chatting animatedly with a couple of relatives. Upon seeing you, her face lit up immediately.

"¡Mira quién llegó!", Marc said, gently touching her shoulder. ("Look who’s here!")

She turned around right away.

"¡Ay, mi niña!", she exclaimed, hugging you as if she hadn’t seen you in years. "¡Qué guapa estás hoy! Siempre tan bonita tú." ("Oh, my girl! You look so pretty today! Always so beautiful.")

"Hola, señora. Feliz cumpleaños atrasado por haber criado a este cabezón", you said jokingly, kissing her cheek. ("Hello, ma'am. Happy belated birthday for raising this stubborn one.")

"Gracias, gracias, alguien que reconoce el esfuerzo", she replied laughing as she glanced at Marc. ("Thank you, thank you, someone who recognizes the effort.")

She looked you up and down with a soft smile, then at him.

"Se ven tan lindos juntos, los dos", she said, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. ("You two look so cute together.")

Marc smiled, clearly uncomfortable, and you just smiled looking down.

"Má…", he said, shaking his head but unable to avoid the embarrassed smile. ("Mom…")

"¿Qué? Si es verdad", she replied shrugging, then looked at you affectionately. "Me alegra tanto que hayas venido. Eres parte de esta familia, ya lo sabes, ¿no?" ("What? It’s true. I’m so glad you came. You’re part of this family, you know that, right?")

Your eyes softened. It was impossible not to feel loved when she spoke like that.

"Gracias, de verdad. Me alegra estar aquí hoy." ("Thank you, really. I’m glad to be here today.")

"Bueno, los dejo que sigan celebrando. Pero no se escapen sin probar mi tarta, ¿eh?", she said, winking at you before going back to her friends. ("Well, I’ll let you continue celebrating. But don’t leave without trying my cake, okay?")

Marc let out a quiet laugh and ran his hand through his hair.

"Siempre hace eso." ("She always does that.")

"Es adorable", you said. "Se nota que te quiere mucho." ("She’s adorable. You can tell she loves you a lot.")

"Y a ti también. Eso no se finge." ("And you too. That can’t be faked.")

You looked down a bit, smiling, and at that moment he took your hand.

"Ven conmigo", he said softly. ("Come with me.")

You went out together through the back door to the small garden that faced the street. The music sounded distant, muffled by the walls. Everything was calm.

Marc stopped and turned to you.

"Está guay aquí." ("It’s cool here.")

"Sí, bro", you replied with a crooked smile, giving him a gentle push on the shoulder. ("Yeah, bro.")

Marc let out a low laugh.

"¿En serio vas a seguir con lo de 'bro', justo hoy?" ("Are you seriously still going with the 'bro' thing, today of all days?")

"¿Y qué quieres que diga?", you joked. ("And what do you want me to say?")

He looked at you with that half smile that always slipped when he tried to be serious.

"Podrías empezar por dejar de hacer como que no te das cuenta", he started. "Quiero decir. Hoy ya no me apetece seguir callándomelo." ("You could start by stopping pretending you don’t notice. I mean, today I don’t feel like keeping it to myself anymore.")

"¿Qué?", you asked, pretending to be clueless. ("What?")

You had known for years that Marc liked you. Bernat told you when you were 15, but you decided to ignore it.

Marc stepped closer. He didn’t touch you, but he was close. Close enough that his intention was clear.

"Que me gustas. Mucho. Que hace tiempo que dejaste de ser solo mi mejor amiga." ("That I like you. A lot. That you stopped being just my best friend a long time ago.")

"Marc…", you began to say, but he shook his head with a slight smile.

"No hace falta que digas nada ahora. Solo… quería que lo supieras. Hoy. Porque si no lo decía, me iba a arrepentir." ("You don’t have to say anything now. I just… wanted you to know. Today. Because if I didn’t say it, I would regret it.")

There was an awkward silence. Then he added:

"Y no, tranquila, no te voy a besar. Todavía no. Pero quiero hacerlo. Cuando tú quieras también." ("And no, don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss you. Not yet. But I want to. When you want to, too.")

"Tú me gustas desde que te conocí, Marc." ("I’ve liked you since I met you, Marc.")

For a moment, he seemed unsure if you were serious or if his mind was playing tricks.

"¿Cómo dices?", he asked nervously, with a small smile. ("What did you say?")

"Lo que has oído." You shrugged slightly, as if it was nothing, although your heart was pounding. "Me gustas desde que te conocí. Solo que… era más fácil hacerme la tonta. Fingir que no pasaba nada. Que no sentía nada." ("What you heard. I’ve liked you since I met you. It was just easier to play dumb. Pretend nothing was happening. That I felt nothing.")

"Pero si Bernat me dijo cuando tenías quince que tú…" ("But Bernat told me when you were fifteen that you...")

"Lo sé", you interrupted. "Él me lo dijo: 'Marc está pilladísimo por ti, tía. No sé cómo no te das cuenta.' Yo me reí. Le dije que se callara. Pero sí me di cuenta. Solo que me daba miedo cagarla contigo." ("I know. He told me: 'Marc is totally into you, girl. I don’t know how you don’t notice.' I laughed. I told him to shut up. But I did notice. I was just afraid to mess things up with you.")

"¿Y ahora?" ("And now?")

"Ahora me da más miedo quedarme sin saber qué pasaría si no lo intentamos." ("Now I’m more afraid of not knowing what would happen if we don’t try.")

He took another step closer. This time he did touch you: one of his hands went to your cheek, soft and warm. He didn’t do anything else. He just held your gaze, as if waiting for one last sign.

And there, you took the step he didn’t dare to take.

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss. You stumbled a bit, you laughed against his mouth, and he let out a sigh that seemed years in the making.

"¿Quién te enseñó a besar?", he asked, pulling away from you and giving you a little soft slap on the cheek, just like he used to do when you said something silly. It didn’t hurt, but the intention was felt. ("Who taught you to kiss?")

You pulled back a bit, putting on a mock offended expression.

"¡Eh, que no fue tan mal!", you protested, though a smile escaped you. ("Hey, it wasn’t that bad!")

He frowned, amused, and just as you were about to reply, you gave him a second slap, this time stronger, right on the cheek.

Marc was surprised, blinked, then rubbed the spot where you’d hit him, a mix of pain and fun.

"¡Joder, vaya que sabes defenderte!", he said, still smiling. ("Damn, you really know how to defend yourself!")

Without wasting time, he grabbed your hips firmly, pulling you close, and effortlessly lifted you in his arms.

"Vale, vale," he murmured as he brushed his lips against yours, "esta vez te voy a enseñar yo." ("Okay, okay, this time I’m going to teach you.")

And then he kissed you again.

❝ justageekk, 2025 ❞

[ant-zzam]

If we're talking about Marc as a current F1 driver, we can't overlook the Miami GP. Kym Illman has recognized it as the favorite race for drivers' girlfriends and wives to attend, so of course (a retired) Valentino Rossi will be hanging around. Who would question a former world champion returning to the paddock?

Marc loves posting photos after each race, snuggled up with Vale in some expensive hotel, so deep in his daydream that he wouldn't even notice the photos coming to light. It's Alex who wakes him up posting some tweets and later texting his brother, but it's already too late; the fans aren't as dumb as them.

Vale ofc is coming up with a solution: post his own pics 😁😁😁 no one could know who snork with him 😁😁😁 in miami 😁😁😁

[soldiersareyourprotectors]

Marc Marquez had just completed the first round of the MotoGP race at Mugello, leaving the crowd roaring with excitement. His Honda RC213V performed flawlessly, and Marc felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The race had been intense, but he was confident about his chances in the next round. As he walked back to the paddock, he felt a sudden urge to visit the restroom.

Marc slipped away from the crowds and entered the secluded bathroom area behind the pits. The noise of the roaring engines and cheering fans faded as he stepped into the quiet, dimly lit restroom. He was just about to close the stall door when a figure in a pit stop worker's uniform suddenly appeared behind him.

"Sorry, Marc," the worker muttered.

Before Marc could react, he felt a sharp prick in his neck. His vision blurred as he turned to see the worker holding an empty syringe. Marc's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, the world around him turning dark.

When he came to, Marc found himself tied up, his mouth gagged. He was still in the restroom, but his racing gear was missing. The pit stop worker was standing above him, holding a strange scanning device that emitted a soft blue glow. The worker’s appearance began to shift, morphing before Marc’s eyes. In moments, the worker's face transformed into an exact replica of Marc’s own. The imposter smiled, a chilling mirror image.

The fake Marc then methodically began putting on Marc's racing leathers, boots, gloves, and helmet, each piece fitting perfectly as if custom-made for him. Marc struggled against his bonds, trying to shout through the gag, but it was no use. The imposter had planned everything meticulously.

"Don't worry, Marc," the imposter said, adjusting the helmet visor. "I'll take good care of your motorcycle. And your life."

With a final glance at the real Marc, the imposter left the restroom, leaving Marc tied up and hidden in the stall. Marc could hear the distant roar of the engines starting up again, signaling the beginning of the next round. Panic surged through him as he realized the enormity of what was happening. An imposter was out there, pretending to be him, racing under his name.

Suddenly, Marc heard footsteps approaching the restroom again. Hope surged within him, thinking someone had noticed his absence. But as the door opened, his heart sank. Three men entered, their expressions cold and determined. They were dressed like pit crew, but Marc didn’t recognize them.

One of them, a tall man with a scar across his cheek, sneered down at Marc. “Looks like the boss was right. He said you’d be here.”

The men quickly untied Marc, only to bind his wrists and ankles even more securely. Marc thrashed and tried to yell through the gag, but it was futile. They hoisted him up, carrying him out of the restroom.

Marc was dragged through a series of back corridors, away from the bustling paddock area. They finally reached a storage room at the far end of the complex. It was dim and cluttered with old equipment. The men shoved Marc into a metal chair and tied him securely, making sure he couldn’t move.

“Make sure he stays quiet,” the scarred man ordered one of the others, who immediately produced a roll of duct tape, silencing Marc further.

Satisfied with their work, the men stepped back. “The boss said to make sure no one finds him,” the scarred man said, casting a final glance at Marc. “He’s got big plans, and there’s no room for two Marc Marquezes.”

With that, they left, locking the door behind them. Marc was left in the dark, his mind racing. The realization hit him hard: the imposter had allies, and they were intent on making sure the real Marc Marquez never resurfaced.

Out on the track, the fake Marc continued the race, flawlessly mimicking Marc’s style and movements. To the outside world, nothing seemed amiss. The crowd cheered as “Marc” sped off, ready to dominate the next round.

[rainyenemypoetry]

Tech Moguls Want to Build a Crypto Paradise on a Native American Reservation And hope to gobble up some land near you.

Early last year, a group of entrepreneurs and tech enthusiasts from around the world gathered inside a newly built dome on the Honduran island of Roatán to grapple with a problem: For thought leaders who want to move fast and break things, what can be done about laws that get in the way? The conference, sponsored by the Salt Lake City–based Startup Societies Foundation, was being put on in Vitalia, a longevity-themed “pop-up city” that caters to American medical tourists sidestepping cumbersome FDA regulations. Its motto: “We’re here to make death optional.” ­Vitalia was in turn located in Próspera, a semiautonomous city on Roatán. Imagine a nesting doll, a city within a city within a city—all on a Caribbean isle.Próspera, the project of entrepreneurs funded by venture capital firms backed by PayPal founder Peter Thiel and venture capital mogul Marc Andreessen, was established in 2017 and continues today, despite repeated efforts from Honduras to shut it down. An example of a “special economic zone,” Próspera is an autonomous jurisdiction with limited regulations. The general idea has been around for years—Mother Jones wrote about a failed Thiel-backed effort to build floating cities at sea back in 2012, for example. But in recent years, Silicon Valley founders, as they like to call themselves, have reworked the concept into the “network state,” as coined by entrepreneur and investor Balaji Srinivasan, a close friend of Thiel’s and a former colleague of Andreessen’s. As journalist Gil Durán observed in a New Republic piece on Srinivasan last year, “Balaji’s politics have become even more stridently authoritarian and extremist, yet he remains a celebrated figure in key circles,” including multiple Signal chats that, Semafor reported in April, helped radicalize the Silicon Valley elite.In a 2021 essay on his website, ­Srinivasan laid out his vision for people seeking to build a new utopia or, as he put it, “a fresh start.” Sure, there were conventional ways to do this—forming a new country through revolution or war. But that would be, well, really hard, not to mention unpredictable. A cruise ship or somewhere in space were appealing options, but both presented ­logistical challenges. Far simpler and more practical was “tech Zionism,” creating an online nation, complete with its own culture, economy, tax structure, and, of course, startup-friendly laws.Eventually, Srinivasan mused, such a community could acquire actual physical property where people would gather and live under the laws dreamed up by the founders—a “reverse diaspora,” he called it—but that land didn’t even need to be contiguous. “A community that forms first on the internet, builds a culture online,” he said, “and only then comes together in person to build dwellings and structures.” Acknowledging that the idea might sound a little goofy—like live-action Minecraft—he emphasized that it was also a serious proposition. “Once we remember that Facebook has 3B users, Twitter has 300M, and many individual influencers”—himself included—“have more than 1M followers,” he wrote, “it starts to be not too crazy to imagine we can build a 1-10M person social network with a genuine sense of national consciousness, an integrated cryptocurrency, and a plan to crowdfund many pieces of territory around the world.”A network state would, like a kind of Pac-Man, gobble up little pieces of actual land, eventually amassing so much economic power that other nations would be forced to recognize it. Once that happens, laws in more conventional nations could become almost irrelevant. Why on earth would, say, a pharmaceutical company with a new drug choose to spend billions of dollars and decades on mandated testing when it could go to a deregulated network state and take it to market in record time? As Srinivasan argued in a Zoom talk at last year’s conference, “Just like it was easier to start bitcoin and then to reform the Fed,” he said, “it is literally easier to start a new country than

[loudcreationbluebird]

Tech Moguls Want to Build a Crypto Paradise on a Native American Reservation And hope to gobble up some land near you.

Early last year, a group of entrepreneurs and tech enthusiasts from around the world gathered inside a newly built dome on the Honduran island of Roatán to grapple with a problem: For thought leaders who want to move fast and break things, what can be done about laws that get in the way? The conference, sponsored by the Salt Lake City–based Startup Societies Foundation, was being put on in Vitalia, a longevity-themed “pop-up city” that caters to American medical tourists sidestepping cumbersome FDA regulations. Its motto: “We’re here to make death optional.” ­Vitalia was in turn located in Próspera, a semiautonomous city on Roatán. Imagine a nesting doll, a city within a city within a city—all on a Caribbean isle.Próspera, the project of entrepreneurs funded by venture capital firms backed by PayPal founder Peter Thiel and venture capital mogul Marc Andreessen, was established in 2017 and continues today, despite repeated efforts from Honduras to shut it down. An example of a “special economic zone,” Próspera is an autonomous jurisdiction with limited regulations. The general idea has been around for years—Mother Jones wrote about a failed Thiel-backed effort to build floating cities at sea back in 2012, for example. But in recent years, Silicon Valley founders, as they like to call themselves, have reworked the concept into the “network state,” as coined by entrepreneur and investor Balaji Srinivasan, a close friend of Thiel’s and a former colleague of Andreessen’s. As journalist Gil Durán observed in a New Republic piece on Srinivasan last year, “Balaji’s politics have become even more stridently authoritarian and extremist, yet he remains a celebrated figure in key circles,” including multiple Signal chats that, Semafor reported in April, helped radicalize the Silicon Valley elite.In a 2021 essay on his website, ­Srinivasan laid out his vision for people seeking to build a new utopia or, as he put it, “a fresh start.” Sure, there were conventional ways to do this—forming a new country through revolution or war. But that would be, well, really hard, not to mention unpredictable. A cruise ship or somewhere in space were appealing options, but both presented ­logistical challenges. Far simpler and more practical was “tech Zionism,” creating an online nation, complete with its own culture, economy, tax structure, and, of course, startup-friendly laws.Eventually, Srinivasan mused, such a community could acquire actual physical property where people would gather and live under the laws dreamed up by the founders—a “reverse diaspora,” he called it—but that land didn’t even need to be contiguous. “A community that forms first on the internet, builds a culture online,” he said, “and only then comes together in person to build dwellings and structures.” Acknowledging that the idea might sound a little goofy—like live-action Minecraft—he emphasized that it was also a serious proposition. “Once we remember that Facebook has 3B users, Twitter has 300M, and many individual influencers”—himself included—“have more than 1M followers,” he wrote, “it starts to be not too crazy to imagine we can build a 1-10M person social network with a genuine sense of national consciousness, an integrated cryptocurrency, and a plan to crowdfund many pieces of territory around the world.”A network state would, like a kind of Pac-Man, gobble up little pieces of actual land, eventually amassing so much economic power that other nations would be forced to recognize it. Once that happens, laws in more conventional nations could become almost irrelevant. Why on earth would, say, a pharmaceutical company with a new drug choose to spend billions of dollars and decades on mandated testing when it could go to a deregulated network state and take it to market in record time? As Srinivasan argued in a Zoom talk at last year’s conference, “Just like it was easier to start bitcoin and then to reform the Fed,” he said, “it is literally easier to start a new country than

[oddballwriter]

Moon Boys w/ Reader who is on their Period

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Warnings: Mentions of periods, cramps, and other period symptoms (of course). Reader is kept gender neutral for all my he/hims and they/thems who still have their periods. Mention of Layla, I know that’s not really anything but whatever.

Author’s Snip: Guess who’s on his period! Me! So might as well use this as something to help fill out my MoonKnight masterlist.

Notes: There is no dysphoria talk in here but if anyone wants that they can request it.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Steven Grant

Steven of course knows what a period is but he’s never actually been with someone long enough to come to the part were they would get their period or see them while on their period

He’s great support though

If you have any issues while on your period like bad cramps or fatigue he’s right there to help

Steven actually reads up and researches as much as he can about periods and menstrual cycles to actually understand what’s happening and how to help you

If you hold up fine on your own then he respects that but if you need something he’s on it

Literally nothing is too big of a task for him. If you want a specific snack then he’s going to go get it and some extra things

He’s had a cashers look at him after noticing all the stuff he’s buying and say “You’re a good man.” or just give him a knowing look

Steven does get a little scared if your moody because he doesn’t like feeling like you’re mad at him. But he understands.

I mean you’re bleeding against your will for several days and can sometimes be in pain and still have to go on with your day like you’re not. That’s defiantly not comfortable. He’d be a bit snappy if he had to go through that. 

Steven is a huge cuddle bug so if you want him to hold you while you sit through a cramp he’s right there and holding your heating pad for you

He’s just a sweetie the whole time

Marc Spector

He was married to Layla

He knows how it goes

Marc isn’t doting like Steven (very much) is, but he’s not going to tell you to walk it off either

If you’re stuck in bed because your period isn’t going easy on you he’ll get you what you need, but he’s still very much Marc about it

“Alright. Think of what you need because I’m not gonna walk back and forth repeatedly.” 

For the most part he leaves you alone and lets you come to him since he doesn’t want to get in your space and bother you

Marc memorizes and remembers when you usually get your period and so he’s able to prepare for it so that you don’t have to worry about running out of pad/tampons or painkillers

Again he’s not going to treat you like your sick and dying but he still very much cares about you and wants to make sure you’re okay

You can twist his harm into getting you a specific snack if you do puppy dog eyes and hit him with the “pretty please”

Is he aware that you use that against him? Yes. Is he mad that it gets him every time? Yes. Is he still going to drive all the way to the store? Also yes.

Jake Lockley

“Beba, I’m in the period aisle. What pussy size you wear.” energy

You know he would. Jake’s the type of man to do that. Don’t argue with me

So all the boys know your cycle and what time frame you get your period. But Jake is able to be most on the dot

It’s kind of creepy because he knows exactly when you’ll get it but Jake’s just used to being observant and so he just recognizes it more than the rest of them

This also leads to him telling when you’re really going through it with your cramps and just trying to keep a brave face

When he sees that he just picks you up and puts you on the couch with your heating pad, pills, and a blanket

Whatever you were doing before doesn’t matter, he’ll do it. You go ahead and just lay there and relax as best you can

To all my Mexicans and hispanics reading this, if you’re cramps are bad then he puts his hand on your stomach and does “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana” to help you feel better and also make you laugh if you know what it is

For context to any non hispanics, “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana” is a rhyme that parents will do while rubbing where their child got hurt or feels pain

[mlqueen89]

fandom: hurt!jake lockley (moon knight)  

rating: 14A

warnings: descriptions of injuries, swearing. very small bit of sexual tension. not beta read, srry! 

word count:  3,778

summary: jake lockley never goes to the hospital. he has people for that. 

A/N: this one almost wrote itself. Thank you to @sejanusxfan for the prompt/request! chapter two of (i love you) it’s ruining my life is in the beta reading phase. should be out soon! in the meantime, i’ll be completing those requests that came in through the november prompts. still have a few prompts left so shuffle on over and request if you want to see more from me!

❥ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ requests ❥  

Jake Lockley crouched in the shadowed doorway, his back pressed against the cool brick, hands steady despite the pain coursing through him, as he attempted to open the antiseptic he’d picked up from the pharmacy a few blocks over. He’d slipped out the door without paying when he’d realized the blood was seeping through his fingers, squelching under his dress shoe on the greyed tiles as Closing Time played through the tinny speakers overhead.

His side burned with every touch of his clothing against it, and he gritted his teeth, peeling back his leather jacket just enough to see the gash along his ribs in the dim light.

He knew where it had come from, a brush with a young thug looking to prove himself as Jake quickly dispatched his associates. It had been easy, maybe too easy, and that was why he had been slow to take care of the threat of the young man. He hadn’t even needed Khonshu’s armour and maybe that was why he was where he found himself now, huddled in a doorway, bleeding like a dog because of his own cockiness, courtesy of a baby fucking knife.

Lucky for him, the bleeding had mostly slowed, but it wasn’t a clean cut, the fucking punk hadn’t even had the decency to try to attack him with a sharp knife. Clean cuts were easy to heal, easy to repair—this one made every shift or breath sharp and painful.

This would be a valuable reminder for Jake: level heads prevailed. Don’t underestimate stupid punks with dull knives, too much fucking balls and not enough brains. Not that it mattered now. He’d left none alive. Khonshu demanded it—Jake complied with too much gusto. This was why it was him and not Steven, not Marc.

Jake was so lost in his work, pressing gauze against the wound, when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. He tensed, muscles coiling, ready to move if needed, but the figure that rounded the corner was… different.

The woman, caught off-guard when her gaze fell on him in the darkened doorway, stared with widened eyes, taking him in. For a fraction of a second, Jake assessed, watched as she looked at him with a mix of something between concern and caution, her hand that wasn’t holding a bangle of keys hovering near her jacket pocket, as if she meant to reach for her phone.

“Are… you alright?” she asked carefully, her voice soft with the edge of wariness Jake recognized, as if she couldn’t decide if he was a threat or someone who needed help.

“Yeah,” he muttered quickly, allowing his clothing to fall back over the wound, straightening as he pushed the bottle of antiseptic back into his jacket pocket. “Just a scrape.”

Her eyes moved to the dark stain on his light shirt, her brow knit together as she assessed the blood already seeping through the hasty bandage job. Jake watched as she hesitated for a moment, and then took a small step forward, her gaze sharpening, focused on his wound. “That’s not just a scrape.” There was an authority to her voice, a quiet but certain confidence he recognized. “I’m a nurse… I can help you, if you let me.” Her eyes flicked up to catch his in a way that most would avoid, but she didn’t, holding his gaze.

Jake shifted, breaking the eye contact, his jaw clenched as he weighed his options carefully, his side throbbing beneath his shirt. Part of him wanted to tell her he was fine, that he didn’t need anything from her, from anyone. But she was still standing there, watching him with a focus he wasn’t used to—a focus that was without the suspicion or judgment he often saw.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, though he didn’t move to leave and she didn’t stop looking at him.

With a short nod, she moved toward him carefully and Jake tensed as she reached past him, using the keys clenched in her hand to unlock the door behind him, pushing it open with a creak.

Tipping her head inside, she sighed, almost as if this happened to her on a routine basis. “Come in. At least let me get that cleaned up.”

She stepped inside, entering the darkened space and quickly flicking on a light, a warm glow seeping out onto the paved stoop where Jake stood, watching.

He hesitated, but something about her calm aura made him follow, his steps cautious at first, hands twitching toward his pocket, toward the small switchblade he kept there. When someone had lived a life like he had, one could never be too careful.

As he stepped over the threshold, he quietly closed the door behind himself, his eyes assessing the space. In the corner, a small sofa sat wedged between a side table and a large bookcase, each book aligned perfectly, colour coded and she guided him to it without a word.

Lowering himself into the cushions, he watched her as she moved away and buzzed around the small space, opening cupboards here and there, reaching and crouching to gather supplies with quiet efficiency.

Everything in the space was small, neat. Soft lighting, a cozy throw blanket draped over an arm chair, a few photos in frames on the floating shelf above the darkened television across the room.

“Okie dokie,” she murmured, bustling back to sit beside him with her assembled first-aid kit. Jake’s body sunk toward her naturally on the small sofa, “let’s have a look.”

Jake watched her carefully as she began her work, lifting the torn fabric of his shirt to uncover the wound and his patchwork job, too much medical tape and too little gauze. Her movements were sure and careful, her expression focused and unreadable and Jake found himself relaxing, if only slightly, as she cleaned the wound. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry or press, just did what needed doing. She dabbed the cut with antiseptic, the kind that looked professional, not the kind that sloshed around in his pocket, pressed the gauze to it with a steadiness that made him almost forget the pain.

When she glanced up at him, through her eyelashes, Jake thought he caught the faintest flicker of something—concern, maybe? But she didn’t hold his gaze long, refocused on securing the gauze, snipping the tape carefully instead of ripping it with her teeth like Jake had done many times before. Carefully, she pressed the tape on, pulling her hands back as if the next words she would have said in any other situation would have been ta-da!, a satisfied nod pulling her chin down. “There. You’re good to go now. See, not so painful, right?”

He only grunted in response, pulling his torn shirt back down, feeling the strain of the bandage that held his side together. He wanted to thank her, but he caught himself, staying silent instead, his features hardened into a mask that yielded nothing.

“Take it easy,” she brushed off her hands theatrically before she folded her arms, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “Try not to get yourself hurt again, mysterious stranger, I might not be home next time.”

Jake gave her a short nod and rose to his feet, the ache of the wound flaring as he did. “Thanks,” he murmured, meeting her gaze for just a moment, seeing the calm intensity in her eyes that lingered longer than he was used to. He took one last look around the apartment, feeling a strange pang at the warmth of it—sometimes he wondered if this would have been nice in another life. “Jake. My name.” He offered quietly and he was thankful that she didn’t respond.

With another nod, he slipped out the door and back into the shadows of the quiet street. As he disappeared in the night, he found himself thinking about her, the quiet warmth of her space and the feeling that, just for the briefest moment, he’d found a simple peace.

Jake’s knuckles were already sounding a single rap on the peeling blue paint of the apartment door before he knew why he was here or what he was thinking that brought him here. Still, here he was, bloodied knuckles leaving a smudge of rouge against the port, his breath sharp from the ache tearing through his side. He leaned against the doorframe, the feeling of his relatively fresh wounds pulsing pain out from his center until he felt it in the tips of his fingers, all the way down to his toes. This was the last place he wanted to be. Hell, he’d meant to patch himself up in some dingy bathroom in the back of a shit hole pub, teeming with germs waiting to infect his wounds, or limp up to the back door of a clinic that didn’t ask questions in the face of cold hard cash or a shiny trinket.

But here he was, leaning on her door, watching the light spill out from a small round window above the door. She was home. Right now, she was the best option, and somewhere, deep down, he trusted her, though he wasn’t sure why and he wouldn’t willingly admit it. Not in words, anyway. This second visit, was telling.

Just as he thought she might not come to the door, it swung open, wide, and she stood in the threshold, her eyes widening when she saw him. No words, just a faint intake of breath, a flicker of surprise that she quickly pressed down. He could feel her gaze sweeping over him, taking in the blood, the ripped shirt, the bruises forming on his face, his jaw swollen.

“Jake?” Her voice was soft, calm, but he could hear the concern that was thinly veiled underneath her carefully composed self. It felt strange to hear, to have someone looking after him, like he wasn’t some reckless, disposable vagabond, living in the shadows.

“Got a little banged up.” He forced a grin through a bloodied lip, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “’fraid your door’s the only one I thought to knock on, querida.”

She stepped aside without a word, a silent invitation. He stumbled a bit, catching himself on the wall as he moved past her, trying to hide the wince that flickered across his face. Every step sent pain reverberating through his body, clenching his jaw, his teeth gritting, unwilling to let her see just how much he was hurting this time.

“Sit,” she motioned toward the armchair with the blanket folded over the back, her voice steady and laced with a firmness that brooked no argument, left no room for petulance. Even if it had, Jake wasn’t sure that he had the energy to fight back. A thrill passed through him as he complied, quietly slumping into the chair, his fist balled as the wound pulled from the movement, a new gush of warm blood leaking down his side.

She knelt down beside him, her first aid kit already in her grip, moving quickly and efficiently as she pulled on blue medical gloves. It was almost unnerving, the way she slipped into the role of caretaker so naturally, not shying away from the way he presented—rough, broken, bloodied.

He looked away as she lifted his shirt and he let her, staring at an unmoving spot on the wall, an old nail hole beside what looked like a divot from where a hammer had missed hitting the missing nail on the head. Her touch was gentle, methodic, but even the slightest pressure on his wound made him flinch, and he cursed under his breath.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her fingers carefully pressing around the wound, probing, her brow knit together in concentration, fresh blood already coating the blue rubber of the gloves.

“Is this how you treat all your late-night visitors?” He chanced the question and though it sounded like a bit of a joke, Jake was curious. Was there someone else who graced her doorstep, coming to her broken and bruised, bleeding and alone? Or was it just him? If anything, it helped to ease the tension he felt creeping into the space between them. The pain was manageable, raw in its simplicity—it was vulnerability that bothered him. Vulnerability meant weakness and Jake Lockley was not weak.

She scoffed before shooting him a look, just a flash of exasperation mixed with something softer, just behind it, “only the reckless ones who end up bleeding all over my carpet. Serves me right for getting a white shag, right?” There was a bit of humour behind her words, her eyebrow quirked up as she continued to focus on his wounds, trading and swapping tools and aids to patch him up, a tapestry of pain, accentuated by marks of her care. Despite himself, Jake felt his lip split open anew as he grinned, thankful she wasn’t looking at his face just then.

As she continued to work in silence, the occasional huff breaking the silence, Jake allowed his mind to drift, lulled by the steady movements of her care. Something about this seemed safe in a way he hadn’t thought he could be before. He was always the protector, the muscle, the devil called in to do the dirty work Steven or Marc couldn’t, wouldn’t do. Jake was the one Khonshu relied on when Marc’s conscious got in the way of the sensible path. Jake wasn’t ever meant to feel safe—so here, now, at his most vulnerable, it was strange, foreign, that he did.

He was shaken roughly from his drifting thoughts when she pressed a bit too close to the wound and he jerked away, reflexively, his next words little more than a growl, rough as they ripped from him. “Careful, cariño.”

Her eyes snapped up to his then, and the slight smirk he saw on her lips stirred something low in his gut, something primal. “You’re a big boy, Jake. I think you can handle it.”

“Hmm—that so?” Jake’s eyes narrowed, feeling the violent part of him bubble up, just under the surface, ready for the fight, always ready. It softened again under her touch, the pull of her hands lulling the beast within him into submission again, her fingers weaving the song that quieted his inner darkness as she met his darkened gaze with a steely, determined, unwavering resilience. Behind her eyes, there was a familiarity, a warmth he wasn’t accustomed to and maybe that scared him. More than anything he’d come across in all his years. Maybe it scared him that she didn’t back down, didn’t shy away from his roughness.

With a shake of her head, she was back to work and he allowed himself to relax, to breathe through the pain. It was strange, allowing someone outside of his own body have so much control—even if, just for a few stolen moments, he found peace in letting go.

Then, just as it had begun, it ended too quickly.

The feeling of her hand on his shoulder shook him from his relaxed state. When his eyes found hers, her concern was evident. “Jake,” she quietly constructed his name and it sounded sweet, but serious. He could feel her eyes studying him, as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together, a piece wedged in at a wrong angle. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”

“Guess I’m bad at stayin’ outta trouble.” The reply was easy, a brush off. He couldn’t promise he wouldn’t be back here, falling apart in a new way, just to feel the warmth of her hands, putting him back together.

The blue gloves snapped as she peeled them off before adding them to a pile of bloodied gauze, cleaning up their pop—up triage. The sigh that escaped her was deep, but she shook her head, her eyes reaching his. There was no judgment there, only something else—something that made his chest ache with another unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling.

Jake hadn’t remembered much of the walk to her apartment, his vision framed by a blurred vignette.

He’d lost more blood than he wanted to admit, and every breath made his ribs ache, the pain sharp and relentless.

This time, it was bad. He knew when he stumbled into an alleyway closer to her apartment, careful to make sure that, even in his altered state, he wasn’t being followed.

When he reached her building, the warm glow from her window propelling him forward, pulling himself up the steps with the help of the railing, his fingers slipping on the metal, his hand coated in a layer of cold blood. Mostly his own, some that wasn’t. When he reached the door, his vision was tunneling and shifting, and as he found himself standing there, staring at the paint chipping, he couldn’t remember if he’d knocked or not. He was leaning on the doorframe, eyes closed for only a moment when he heard the door unlock.

“Oh my god, Jake…” her voice was soft, steady, even as she reached out to guide him in, tucking herself carefully under his arm to support his frame that dwarfed her own.

She helped him through the space that was now familiar to him, carefully lowered him to the couch, her fingers brushing his bruised arm, delicate but firm. As he lowered himself, a sharp exhale escaped his lips, the pain washing over him in waves that threatened to pull him under. She left from his line of view for only a fraction of a moment, returning quickly with a glass of water and her first aid kit that had grown steadily over the last month or so since their first encounter.

Reflexively, she moved through her usual motions, dabbing at the visible wounds first, a deep laceration across his cheekbone this time, as she sighed, almost frustrated. “You’ve been here more times than I can count now, Jake. Each time in worse shape. What—what are you doing to yourself, Jake?”

He held her gaze, saying nothing, though he could see the concern etched in her expression, folded in the lines of her furrowed brow as she searched for something, anything that might tell him what he did in the night that left him like this. He didn’t respond and she didn’t push, so she moved to remove his shirt entirely, the white of it almost entirely red now. Her hands skimmed his abdomen, leaving trails where her hands wiped away the blood and he hissed when she pushed a bit harder than necessary against his side. She let up slightly, but her eyes met his with a directness that left him feeling unusually exposed.

Grabbing a cloth, she dipped it into a bowl of warm water he hadn’t remembered her getting, the sound of the water wrung out and returned to the bowl filling the silence between them. She wiped carefully, cleaning his skin delicately before returning the cloth to the bowl, now tinged pink from his blood and repeated. She did this quietly for a moment before she paused, swallowing hard, as if she meant to measure her next words carefully.

“Is your name really Jake?”

The question caught him off-guard and his eyes flashed to the side of her face, immediately cautious.

Still, she continued. “I saw the IDs in your pocket last time…. There’s Jake. And Marc. And Steven.” Her hand drifted up to motion to her brow and Jake knew what moment she was talking about.

A week or so ago, when he’d come to her with an injury that hadn’t really needed her attention if he was being honest. The moment where she offered him the use of her shower because she couldn’t figure out where all the blood had come from because he didn’t have any other visible wounds. The answer, simply, was that it wasn’t his blood.

Instead, he accepted the offer of her shower, relaxed for a just a moment under the warm water as he closed his eyes and imagined what it would have been like to have her under the hot spray with him. Imagined what it would be like to thank her in a way he wanted to thank her. A way that didn’t involve words.

If it was then that she’d seen the IDs in his pocket, she hadn’t let on.

“What’s the truth?” Her soft voice now, brought him back to the present and she looked at him, steady, unwavering.

When he met her gaze, feeling a flicker of something tense just below the surface, something he couldn’t quite pin down, he searched for a moment, looked for fear, doubt. “You afraid, muñeca?” His voice was low as he leaned in, despite the pain, his words laced with the edge he knew people backed away from. But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, her lips curved slightly, into a small smile. “If you wanted to hurt me,” she began, her voice measured, calm, “you would have by now.”

A beat passed, a moment or two when he didn’t back away, and she moved a hand to his cheek, her fingers brushing the bruises, tracing them softly as if she could erase them with her touch, feather light. Jake didn’t pull back, letting her touch linger, feeling a comfort in the contact that pulled him in closer, a gravitational pull and the space between them grew smaller, more charged. The air shifted, thic with tension he knew had been building long before this moment.

When he leaned in closer, he hesitated for only a moment, testing the unspoken trust between them before he allowed his lips to brush hers. She didn’t hesitate in closing the rest of the distance, her lips warm against his, gentle, steady in a way that made him ache. His hand found her waist instinctively, pulling her closer, flush against his body and she sunk against him easily.

His hands, rough and steady, were up her shirt, pressing the thin cotton up until it caught just under her breasts and she sighed into his mouth. Jake moved to pull it off completely when she leaned, hard, against his wound, sending screaming pain through his body. He flinched without thinking, hissed against the unwelcomed feeling. 

“I think we’d better slow down….” she whispered, pulling herself away as if coming out of a haze, straightening her pajama shirt as she stood. When she moved back, it was only to slide the folded blanket off the back of the couch onto his shoulders. “But you should stay, at least for tonight.”

As always, let me know if you want to be tagged in anything!

[milaisreading]

🌱🩷: ITH STORY IS HERE! CLAP FOR ME MEETING MY DEADLINES! It's like 5 minutes before midnight here!

Pairings: Yukimiya Kenyu x Manager!Yn (Post-Blue lock)

Warnings: Reader uses she/her

⚽️Blue Lock belongs to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura ⚽️

🎄Dec 17th🎄

"Marc! You can't run away like that! You give me a heart attack whenever I can't find you!" (Y/n) scolded the 10 years old boy, who pouted up at his aunt.

"Buuut~ I am so excited to see Santa again! Please, I don't want to be late." The boy said as he earned a sigh from the older.

"I understand, but please understand me too. Munich is a big place, and these Christmas markets are always so crowded, you can easily get lost. Especially when you don't know the language, Marc."

The boy pouted a little more before eventually nodding his head, albeit very slowly.

"I promise, we will see Santa tonight, we just need to wait for a friend of mine. He really wanted to join us."

"Who?!" The boy asked, his eyes brightened from curiosity.

"You know him, he plays for Bastard. Yukimiya Kenyu."

"The pretty player?! Uwah! He will really spend the night with us?!" Marc asked in excitement as (Y/n) chuckled and nodded her head at his eagerness.

"Of course. Now, let's go back to the entrance of the market. Yukimiya said he will meet us there." Marc nodded his head, grabbing her hand tightly as she dragged him along.

"I can't believe I got to meet so many pros! Your job must be exciting! Working with them and all."

(Y/n) smiled softly at Marc, shrugging her shoulders as she thought over his words.

"Well, they are my friends first of all, so I don't see it much as a job.  But yeah, I kind of am lucky knowing such great players." (Y/n) laughed as they finally approached the entrance. To her relief, Yukimiya wasn't there, yet.

"Now, be patient while waiting."

"I will! I will! I can't wait to meet Yukimiya! I want to ask him so many questions! Mainly how he plays so well and how he developed those skills."

(Y/n) looked at Marc, nodding along as she thought of the brunette.

'I wonder how Marc will feel after he hears our announcement later this week.'

☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄

1 month prior...

"So, when do you think we should tell our families we are engaged? My mom will probably faint from those news." Yukimiya chuckled as the two left for their apartment after another day of paperwork and training. (Y/n) hummed, looking at the night sky and back at Yukimiya.

"I don't know yet, Kenyu. I really want to tell it to the whole world, to be honest with you. But I don't know how to approach this with my dad and big bro." Yukimiya chuckled at her words, trying not to move closer, just in case someone recognized either of them.

"Come on, I am sure they will love me. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? Them telling me they will break my bones if I hurt you?" He said it in a very joking manner that (Y/n) felt bad for dragging him into all of this.

'If you knew.' She chuckled nervously, looking up at Yukimiya again.

"How... how about next month? Both of our families will be here for the holidays. We can invite them all to a dinner and rip off the band aid, you know?" (Y/n) suggested, in the back of her mind already prepared to see her dad and brother faint. Yukimiya hummed thinking the plan over.

"Not a bad idea. Our families can meet each other and the engagement can be announced that way. I like the idea, actually." Yukimiya agreed as (Y/n) sighed in relief.

"Good. Now, enough of that. What should we make for dinner?"

"I don't know. I feel like eating out or ordering tonight. How about some pizza? A new pizzeria opened not too far away from out apartment." Yukimiya suggested.

Afterwards, the couple talked about different things from today's work and plans on how to host their families.

☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄

Present time...

As (Y/n) kept on listening to Marc's rambling, she felt a soft tap on her shoulder, causing her to look back at the person.

"Ah~ Kenyu, you are here. Was it hard to get here?"

The brunette smiles softly and fixed his glasses as Marc grew quiet, staring up in awe at the man.

"Well, it was. The traffic is crazy, and with all the snow that fell it made it even harder." Yukimiya admitted.

"But, I am here now! What are the plans?" The footballer asked as (Y/n) placed Marc in front of her.

"Marc here wanted to see Santa first, afterwards we could walk around a little and get food at the end. My treat-"

"Nope! I'll be paying." Yukimiya quickly interrupted her, then got down to Marc's level.

"Hello there, I am Yukimiya Kenyu. Your aunt told me a lot about you. Is it true you want to be a pro footballer?"

"Yes!" Marc exclaimed, letting go of (Y/n)'s hand trove closer to Yukimiya.

"I am also a huge fan of yours!"

"Really? Your aunt forgot to say that." Yukimiya laughed, glancing at a flustered (Y/n).

"I am! I am! I really enjoyed watching your last play! That goal you made with Hiori's assistance was so spectacular."

As (Y/n) watched the duo interact like they are close friends, she felt like some weight was lifted off of her shoulders.

'Hmmm...' She chuckled and smiled softly at them.

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

"Marc, look over here." (Y/n) said, taking a picture of the boy while he sat on Santa's lap. Yukimiya quietly watched them, waiting for (Y/n) to return to talking to him.

"He is a really sweet kid." Yukimiya said to (Y/n), who looked away from her phone and up at him.

"He is." She nodded.

"He also likes you a lot."

"Well, I took care of him a lot when he was younger and my bro and sister-in-law would visit Japan. I think that's why he is so close to me, and I love him, too." (Y/n) admitted, discreetly moving closer to Yukimiya as Marc talked to Santa.

"And he likes you a lot, too, Kenyu." The words surprised the brunette and he looked over at her.

"Really? But, he just met me."

"Doesn't matter. He really looks up to you and your passion for the sport."

"Well, he will be over the moon to have such a handsome and talented uncle, soon." Yukimiya said, faking a smug look as (Y/n) hit his arm softly.

"You just had to go there." She rolled her eyes as Yukimiya laughed a little.

"You love it, don't lie."

"True." (Y/n) shrugged her shoulders. The brunette smiled in victory, but then his face turned serious.

"So, do you feel a little easier about the dinner in 2 days?" Yukimiya wondered, moving his hand to grab hers, making sure nobody saw it. (Y/n) took a deep breath. For a moment she watched Marc get up from his spot and saying his goodbye to Santa.

"I felt like throwing up the whole day, but now that I see how well you and Marc get along, I feel a lot much better." (Y/n) sent a soft smile towards Yukimiya.

"I am glad. If it continues bothering you, just tell me, ok?" Yukimiya said seriously, earning a nod from (Y/n).

"Aunt (Y/n)! Yukimiya! Can we go and eat now?!" Marc yelled as he ran up to them.

"Sure!"

"Yeah, let's eat now." The two adults agreed, letting go of each other's hands before anyone could see them.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

sorry, i have another one: marc/luca with 28 + 37

no pressure to write any of these of course!!🫶

It’s not a bad picture, overall.

A bit suggestive, though. Marc’s large, tan hand spread low on his bare back, his crooked pinkie exactly over one of his largest moles. Nothing else in frame other than Marc’s neutral gray couch, the peek of an unbranded, unremarkable red comforter. It’s high enough that he could maybe be fully naked, but also maybe not.

Luca raises his eyebrows rather pointedly. “Are you sure?”

Marc shrugs, hawk-eyed, unblinking. The feeling of being sized up for being eaten doesn’t fade. Luca knows something insane is coming and isn’t disappointed. “It’s not like you can be recognized from it,” he says, deliberately.

“Am I making to your Instagram before you ask to date me?”

“You haven’t asked me either,” Marc replies—casual if Luca were a little more stupid.

Luca downs the rest of his coffee like a shot of pure Russian vodka, feels it scalding and unsweetened as he makes himself swallow. Marc is still staring at him. There’s a challenge glimmering in the suit of armor flatness of his expression.

He doesn’t bring it up—if he should actually ask to date Marc.

“It’s a good picture,” Luca says instead, neutrally, feeling his heartbeat on the tips of his fingers, this cold, hard wash of adrenalin pumping in his veins like he’s lining up for a race dead last.

There’s a list of things that he’s learned about Marc, since this started. That he is too much, generally, and can’t stop it—but will try to make himself less bothersome if you aren’t one of the few people that he trusts. That he enjoys pushing buttons. That sometimes he doesn’t realize that he isn’t doing that.

Luca wonders if he makes the cut. Would like to, he realizes.

His hand is somewhat unsteady when he steals Marc’s mug and puts it beside his empty one.

“You don’t have to.” Well, not exactly, no, but Marc’s face slackens a bit, the hardness of his gaze replaced by something human.

He frames a domestic picture. “It’s not like you can be recognized from it,” Luca echoes, trying for aggravating and hoping it lands. “Unless someone is really into your kitchenware.”

“It’s probably safe.”

Luca stares blankly at the mugs—Marc’s fancy, plain white porcelain one, and the chipped, dark green monstrosity that he rescued from the bottom of his kitchen cabinets. He has that, and a small sliver of the closet between dozens of Löwe shirts and Alpha Tauri sweaters, and a MX Honda in Marc’s garage that he likes riding, and a collection of pictures of Stitch and Shira dozing off in odd places.

Marc has his front keys, replaced all of his towels because he didn’t like any.

It’s been, he reckons, heart hammering against his ribcage, five months.

“If I get kicked out of Italy,” Luca says, studiously not naming the ghost between them. Adds the red heart he’d been dubiously eyeing. “Are you going to give me shelter?”

Marc laughs, somewhat startled. “Eh, I’m popular with Italy now, maybe you don’t have to worry.”

[house--centipede]

i love how steven takes upon himself the duty to negotiate the terms of their arrangement with khonshu after witnessing how it happened in the first place.

my take is that steven had finally understood his purpose within the system — which wasn't having a normal, simple, happy life — but be able to deal with what marc could not. steven saw marc's trauma (it's their trauma, but he wasn't the one who lived throught it, so he didn't carry the same scarring from it) and the way it influenced marc's perception of himself and his decision making, and how shitty both were.

even mortally wounded, marc's guilty was so great he was about to take himself out of his mysery before khonshu spoke and, even after listening to his offer, marc wasn't sure if he wanted to live. of course the instinct to live kicked in, but i think the promise of reparation was what convinced him. for a man who killed his brother and who was responsible for innocent people's death, maybe the idea of becoming the "final word against the evildoers", as khonshu said himself, looked like a way to redemption.

steven immediately recognized the god's manipulative discourse and how he used it against marc, so he put himself between them as a shield.

for what i could gather, as an alter, steven had been serving the system in a way to give marc some sort of respite. when they were kids, where marc believed to be bad, difficult, unworthy and careless, steven was organized, smart, cautious and pliant. their mother's ressentment didn't diminish when steven was fronting, but i bet his behavior placated her enough to protect them from her outbursts (the memory depicted on the show aside, i don't think steven's fond memories of their mother are fabricated, not that she treated him with love, but with less cruelty)

maybe when marc left home, steven went dormant, only to be awakened again years later, at the funeral.

but now, at the present moment, conscious of who he is and what he is a part of, as an alter, steven assumes the protector role — as a fighter too — but mostly as a form to shelter marc's deep self-hatred and malignant self-shame from the world. he wouldn't let khonshu or anybody else exploit marc's wounds anymore. and, by doing it, he's giving marc time and space to heal.

[ray935sworld]

Not without you (Pedrenzo, side rosquez)

Chapter 1: Three options

Jorge sat at the hospital bed.

There were tears in his eyes as he stared at the body laying in the bed. His eyes still had a red rim despite the fact that he had stopped crying a few hours ago. Not because his reason to cry was gone but because he simply had no tears left to give.

He had been staring at him for hours. He had been there for hours. Maybe even days. He had lost all feeling for time since the yellow flag turned into a red one and someone had discreetly told him that the reason had been the Honda with the number 26, his husbands Honda.

He couldn’t really remember how he got to the hospital. He remembered running. Someone – a medic or a marshal or god knows who – gave him instruction for a ride to the hospital. It was the same one that asked him to sign something. Some kind of agreement that they were allowed to perform surgery or something. The moment he heard it was for Dani’s treatment, he signed it.

He wasn’t allowed in the ambulance however. Maybe that was the worst thing. Wasn’t the family normally allowed in the ambulance? Why wasn’t he allowed in the ambulance? Was it that bad that he wasn’t allowed in? Why? But it wasn't a question he needed answers to.

In the end he got there. He was told that they were performing an emergency surgery and Jorge had to sit in the waiting area. He just sat there. He sat there feeling the emptiness and uncertainty swallow him.

After a while a few people came by. Someone talked to him. He didn't check who it was. They left again. Someone else arrived. Someone stood right infront of him.

He blinked. He looked up. Marc. It was Marc. He had Dani’s backpack in hand. And Vale. He had Jorge’s backpack in hand and a set of clothes in his others. Vaguely, Jorge recognized them as his own.

Jorge remembered staring at them.

“You’re still wearing your leathers” Vale pointed out. His voice softer than it had even been when they were teammates. Jorge stared at him for a second longer, then he looked at himself. He was right. He was still wearing his leathers.

They were uncomfortable but he hadn’t find it in himself to care. He must look ridiculous for everyone else. But the look in his eyes was enough for people to not judge.

He put his head in his hands for a moment, trying to remember when he head gotten changed. He put a little bit of pressure against his forehead.

"Thanks." he muttered, trying to remember human etiquette. "I should - yeah, I should get changed" The words felt foreign on his tongue. His mouth felt dry and his vocal cords hurt. It was a weird feeling. His mind was focusing on Dani and somehow speaking felt wrong.

He didn't even really mean it, and he didn't really care about it, but it just seemed to be the most logical thing to do, even if this brain refused to come up with anything logical in a moment like that. He took the clothes and went to change as quickly as he could.

He returned to his seat where Vale and Marc were already sitting. "Ricky's packing your bags and dealing with everything regarding the motorhome and stuff, by the way." Vale said, and for a few moments Jorge didn't understand what he even meant.

He forgot that they weren't in Spain but in a foreign country. He couldn't even remember which one so he just nodded. Ricky was dealing with packing so not his problem. Great. But there was another thing he had to deal with.

"I - I need to call his parents." he reminded himself. What time was it even? What time was it in Spain? Were they sleepong? No. No, probably not when Dani was....

"Shit. Do they even know what happened? Fuck, of course, fuck. I'm stupid. It was on fucking live TV and my dumbass - I - shit. How could I forget to call his parents?" he cursed himself, grabbing his backpack to look for his phone.

"Hey, it's ok, don't worry" Marc said. The young man's voice was soft. Jorge refused to see pity in it. If he did, he'd just cry again. "How is it ok that I didn't call his parents while he's in emergency surgery? He could - He could-" His voice broke. His mind was refusing to speak the words his head fear so much.

"He could have serious damage." Damage. It was so much better. Jorge didn't care about damage as long as Dani could still hear him saying that he loved him. He didn't even had to be able to say it back. Just - He just wanted him back.

"And if he does and I didn't call his parents? I really fucking should have done tha already. Like, where's my phone? I'm going to call them right now." He wanted to kick himself. A few years ago he had thrown a fit for not getting information about his boyfriend and now he was the one withholding them.

"Jorge, Puig called them." Marc said and broke his thoughts. He spun around. Puig. He hated that name. "He did?"

"Yes, of course he did. Right after he was here. Remember?" "Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean fucking Puig was here?" He blinked confused. "Yeah, he was here like half an hour ago. He said he talked to you and that you look terrible" "Which you do, by the way." Vale had a need to add. "Oh fuck off, I don't give a fuck right now. And I didn't talk to him. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Puig was here and he talked to you but apparently you didn't really react before he went to the doctors and talked with them and then he called Dani's parents to give them an update." He talked to the doctors? He called Mr and Mrs Pedrosa? And Jorge had missed it all?

"He did what - when? I don't understand." "Listen, it's a lot at the moment, OK? I mean, you probably just weren't paying attention." Something in the way Marc said that, made Jorge snap. "What you got here like 5 minutes ago, you have no idea what's going on!"

"We've been here for over an hour." The Italian jumped in, defending his boyfriend behavior. "An hour?" He hadn't noticed them. "Yes, an hour." "That's it. You know what? I give up." he whispered. He was convinced he was going crazy. A feeling of shame grew in his stomach.

Right now he was the one that should have it together. He was the only that should deal with everything happening because Dani couldn't. But he had nothing under control.

"It's OK, nobody expected you to be at full percent at the moment." "But I have to. I have to manage everything. He's... He would want me to manage everything."

"Jorge, we are talking about you're sweet, caring Dani..." Vale said. "He would want you to let others help you. Trust me. He knows you're not yourself at the moment."

Jorge stared at him. He almost wanted his sassy comments back. Pity from Rossi. That could only mean that they were deep in the shit. "But... I... I still need to call his parents. I mean, I can't - I can't not call his parents in a moment like that, can I?"

"I guess it would be the best thing to do."

So he did. He called the parents, and it wasn't exactly a long call. But it was a necessary one.

He felt like he was just repeating the same thing Puig must have said to them. That he was sorry. The Dani was in surgery. That he would call them after he got new informations. He wasn't even sure that he would be the one calling him, but he liked to think that he would be able to actually do it. He doubted, but he didn't care that moment.

He remembered hearing Dani's mother almost cry. He heard her sobs as she asked him if they had talked before the race.

"Yes, over lunch" he explained. It was always the last calm moment they had together before a race. "Did he - What did he say? Was he okay?"

Jorge felt his breath stuck in his throat. It wasn't like he couldn't remember the conversation. Or that he didn't want to. It was the moment he had been stuck ever since he sat down in the hospital waiting room.

He replayed the scene over and over again. Dani had complained about an interview he had that would cut their lunch time short. Jorge had laughed about it.

"I don't like this. I just wanna go home" he had said, his face scrunched up, the same way it did when they were teenagers. Jorge had laughed about it. "I know. But come on, we're gonna race soon." "Yeah... I know..." "That didn't sound that enthusiastic." He commented. Dani rolled his eyes playfully.

"Come on, you love racing." "I do!" "Then? What's going on? Come on, talk to your husband" "I... I've been thinking about a few things. Don't worry, nothing bad, just that I want to spend more time with you." "Okay. I want to spend more time with you too" "Okay" "But... Are you still happy? With how our lifes are at the moment?" "Yes. I am. I am very happy"

Jorge had grabbed Dani's faced and kissed him. He still remembered seeing Dani's smile. He remembered it so clearly. He had seen it for years, decades and he wanted to see it everyday for the rest of his life

He felt like it was a constant in his life ever since they met. To think that there was a time where this smile hadn't been present in his life - where he didn't even know this smile existed - felt wrong.

And there was no future without it. Not for him. None he was looking forward to.

"He said he was happy" he told Dani's parents. "Really. He is really happy." He heard his father trying to be brave.

At the end, he just sat down again. There wasn't much he could do. He could just sit down and wait for things to happen.

He waited that somebody stepped out of the OR and went to him. He waited for the doctor or nurse to show their face and tell him that his husband was still alive. He refused to think about anything else.

And when they did step out, and they did talk to him, he almost wished they hadn't. Suddenly he knew what was going on, he knew what was wrong, and he fucking hated it. He hated it more than anything else.

He was let to the room where Dani was.

When he was sitting in the waiting area, just staring at the same walls all over again, he had wonder what was going on. He had tried not to think about what was going on with Dani at the moment.

He had tried not to think about the fact that his husband was currently laying on a table, unconscious with knives and other stuff cutting into him. He tried not to think about the fact that there was currently blood all over the man he loved more than anything in the world. He tried not to think about the fact that his skin must be torn open and in the inner organs would be poking out, that his bones would be visible.

He tried not to think about the countless machines that he would be attached to. The seemed to be the only things keeping him alive.

He tried not to think about the fact that the doctors operating on him were only humans. He understood why some started calling doctors half gods in white. He really wanted them to have some kind of godly power to save the man he loved.

He knew it was foolish, childish, but naive, but he didn't care. He wanted him to save him. He needed them to save him. In his mind, there was no life without him.

As he sat there, he had thought that being with him would be better than sitting in the waiting room. But now he was there.

Now he was sitting next to him, staring at his lifeless body. His mind try to tell him that the body in front of him wasn't lifeless.

But as he looked at Dani he couldn't find any trace of Dani left. Sure, it was still Dani. He still looked like Dani, even with his face swollen and red, his skin hidden behind bandages.

But a part of him was gone. Jorge couldn't quite place it. He couldn't name what it was. But it wasn't there anymore.

He sat down next to him. He looked at his eyes. There were closed. One of them was covered. He could see blood staining the bandage. He trued to focus on the little unharmed skin.

He had hoped he could flee into an illusion, pretend Dani was only sleeping, but when he saw him like that, he couldn't.

All the words the doctors had spoken that didn't really make sense kept returning to his head. Almost fatal injury. Broken bones over broken bones. Broken tissues. Internal bleeding. Fractured limps. Brain injury.

He looked so small and fragile. Jorge wanted to climb in the bed, wrap himself around him and breath him in. He wanted to cover him with his body, be his human blanket, like they often did.

He wanted to protect him like that. But he was sacred. For the first time in their relationship he was scared to touch him. He feared that whever he would touch him, he would hurt him.

So he just looked at him. Then he leaned down to kiss his cheek. It seemed to be one of the only places he wasn't hurt.

"Hey my love" he whispered. "Don't worry, I'm here. I'm right here and I'm going to stay. I'm going to take care of you. Don't worry, we'll figure this out"

Gently he pushed a strang of hair back. "I love you. Dani, I love you so much. I need you. Please... Please just... Just come back. I swear I'm not asking for anything more. Just come back to me"

He kissed him again. He felt his skin against his lips. It didn't felt like it used to. Not when Dani didn't showed any reaction. His eyes stayed close. His body stayed unmoved.

Slowly he looked at Dani's hand. He wanted to take it, squeeze it, hopefully give Dani any confirmation that he wasn't alone. But both his hands and arms were wrapped in bandages, stabilized with steel.

He wanted to cry. He couldn't even hold his hand.

It all came down to one thing. The chances that he would get his Dani back were low. But he was the man he had cuddled just this morning. The man he had hold close to his heart about 24 hours ago. It all seemed so unreal.

Dani had been fine just the morning. He had made jokes while cooking breakfast in their motorhome. He had complained about the Honda during lunch. He had commented on the moto3 and moto2 babies.

And now he was gone. Now it seemed like there was nothing holding him there except for some machines.

He couldn't remember when exactly the doctor returned to the room.

"Mr Lorenzo" he had said. "I am here to inform you about possible next steps." for a moment, Jorge considered just yelling at him, telling him to fuck off and never show his face again. But he didn't, because he knew it wasn't the doctor's fault and he knew it would change nothing at the situation. It would probably just make things worse and he really didn't need things to get even worse. So he just nodded.

He listened to the doctor talk about the possibility of keeping Dani at the life support, hoping that one day some kind of magic would wake him up. He informed him that this would also bring the risk of having Dani die nonetheless because of his injuries.

There was the possibility of stopping life support. Just letting Dani sleep and never wake up.

It's sounded peaceful. Nothing like the loud, rapid life the two lived. Just laying in bed, sleeping. Keep sleeping. It sounded like there was no harm, no pain, nothing that would touch his lover.

Only him.

It sounded like the worst and the most painful option. It sounded like it would tear right in his chest, ripping his heart out and tearing it apart right on the hospital floor.

It felt like giving up. And the Spaniard hated giving up. And it wasn't just the giving up itself, it was giving up on Dani, giving up on the man he fought so hard for. Giving up hope and Dani.

He couldn't do that. He refused to do that.

And then there was the third option.

The doctor looked at Jorge. "You know, Mr Lorenzo-" he started and he already knew what was coming. It was the one possibility that kept returning in his head. "His injuries are very, very bad"

The doctor's voice trailed off. Both looked at the body in the bed for a few moments before the doctor returned and to him. He nodded to show that the Doctor should continue. As if you didn't already know what was coming.

"His body has taken severe damages. I do not think that a human can survive them. Or at least regain the same living standard he had before. And I'm talking abouts severe cuts."

He turned his head. He didn't need to know that. He knew that Dani might suffered physical - maybe even mental disability. And he didn't care. He didn't care if Dani would need all around the clock care or if he had to make their home wheelchair accessible. He'd do it in a heartbeat. Everything.

But he knew they weren't just talking about that. Dani would need to wake up first and that's already where the problem began.

"So what do you propose?" he asked exhausted. "I'm sure you've heard about the possibility of using robotics" "Of course I do. I have enough technology in my body already."

Most riders did in these kinds of days. Marc had a mechanical eye, his brother a fake shoulder. Jorge had enough, especially in his leg. Vale - actually no one really knew how much Vale had or if any at all. Some said he was fully robot, maybe because his archivements over such a long time didn't seem human. Others said he had none at all. Rossi refused to answer.

And there there was Dani. Dani actually had none. He had always refused. He hated the thought of having tec in his body.

"Would it be possible?" Jorge asked as he stared at Dani.

"His physical injuries aren't a problem. They would be standard procedure. But we'd need to work on this brain first. See if we get a connection and how much need to be restored. Of course, this is not a guarantee that it will actually work. The risk is high. Especially in his case... He... He could die during the operation"

No. No, he wouldn't. Jorge hadn't stopped looking at Dani. No he wouldn't die not when he was so close to surviving. It wasn't in nature.

"I'm going to think about it" he answered. "Of course" the doctor agreed and left Jorge to sit next to the hospital bed. His eyes red with no more tears to give.

[hotmessmaxpress]

in your onlyfans!au do you think vale and marc do some only fans content together? trying to make sure that that nobody can recognize vale of course. i was thinking some of these pov videos (like vale holding the camera while marc's giving him head only showing marc's face and his own dick).

Here, have Rosquez OnlyFans AU, part 10 🤍

I don't think they'd ever post anything, because Vale already fucked up once in terms of keeping his identity secret (lol clown). I also think that Marc sort of slows down the onlyfans content (and eventually stops) soon after he and Vale meet irl.

However they do film a lot. They take a lot of videos. If they wanted to sell their sex tapes, they'd make a fortune and they'd have enough to basically start their own streaming service.

When Marc moves in with Vale, he brings some of his filming equipment.

"Is this all of it?" Vale asks, looking incredulously and the massive pile of cameras, lights, and microphones. There are a few black zippered cases that he assumes must hold various sex toys.

Marc shakes his head.

"About half," he says, ignoring the stunned look on Vale's face. "I left some back home so I don't have to take it with me when I go back and forth."

They're still ironing out their schedule-- Marc refuses to fully move out of the house he shares with Alex, so he's splitting himself between Vale's and Alex's. He plans to stay with Alex when Vale is racing and traveling, and stay with Vale when he's home.

Vale reaches for one of the cameras with a raised eyebrow. Marc grins and takes the camera from Vale. He grabs a long black leather case containing a tripod and hands it to Vale. He also picks up a ring light and one of the microphones that matches the camera Vale selected. 

He gestures for Vale to follow him, and he sets off toward the bedroom. 

Vale follows obediently, and Marc focuses on the feeling of his heart picking up and his cock taking interest. Filming for onlyfans has never been a chore to him; he genuinely enjoys every time, but in the weeks between Vale ghosting him and then meeting him, it was just a little bit less fun. There was an element of loss every time he posted a video knowing it wouldn’t be seen by Vale.

Now, though, he’s focused on filming for an entirely different reason. He won’t even consider posting it, but there’s nothing preventing him from making Vale his own little collection to use while he’s travelling. 

He sets the ring light up first, then sets the camera on the bed and takes the tripod from Vale. He’s pleased to see the front of Vale’s pants tight across his bulge, and he can’t help his satisfied grin as he turns to set up the tripod. 

It doesn’t take him long to set things up in a way that he’s happy with; he’s done this so many times in much more difficult settings than a bed. 

When he finishes, he turns to find Vale gripping his cock through his pants. The older man looks painfully horny, and Marc is proud of him for waiting so patiently. 

He rewards him with a deep kiss, pressing himself against Vale’s front. Vale groans into the kiss, letting go of himself in favor of wrapping his hands around Marc’s waist. 

Marc loses himself in the feeling of kissing Valentino for a moment. Vale is the perfect height to make Marc stretch up, and the taste of his mouth makes him want to drop to his knees. 

“What are you doing with your camera, hm?” Vale asks, when he finally drags his mouth away from Marc’s. 

“You’re going to fuck me,” Marc instructs happily, taking on the role of director. “On the bed. We’re going to record it and you can watch it before your next race.”

Vale groans against Marc’s neck. 

“Okay?” Marc asks, before he turns the camera on. Vale nods, and Marc turns the camera on and hits record. He double checks that it’s recording, then guides Vale onto the bed. Vale lets him take charge, and Marc kisses Vale slowly before stripping them both of their shirts. He plants himself in Vale’s lap, rocking his hips sensually against Vale’s. Vale grips his hips tightly, and Marc can’t help but grin at how riled up the older man is. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Marc purrs in his ear. “Knowing that we’re being watched.”

Vale’s eyes flicker to the camera, and Marc grabs his chin to turn his face back to his. 

“Don’t look at it, look at me.”

He rocks his hips in Vale’s lap again, pressing a kiss to his neck, before he scoots back and strips himself of the rest of his clothes. He pumps his cock a few times just to see the way Vale’s neck convulses as he swallows thickly. 

Then he tugs at Vale’s trousers, pulling them off to fully undress his partner. Vale lets his head fall back, and Marc takes the opportunity to lean down and suck and Vale’s balls. 

Vale lets out a strangled noise, and Marc fights a smile as he wraps a hand around the older man’s cock and lavishes attention on his balls. 

Marc isn’t prepped, and for a minute he admonishes himself for the amateur mistake of starting a recording with no prep and without the supplies close by. He reminds himself gently that this isn’t to publish, though, this is for Valentino. 

He presses a kiss to the head of Valentino’s cock, but otherwise doesn’t put his mouth on it. He sees the hungry look in Vale’s eyes, and he can’t stop smiling. His grin is clearly infectious, because he sees a hint of a smile on Vale’s face. 

Marc shuffles over to the nightstand, rifling around for the lube. He considers doing it himself, quick and dirty, but ultimately this is just for enjoyment. It doesn’t have to be perfect. 

Vale makes the decision for him, sitting up to kiss him and slip the bottle of lube from his fingers. He manhandles Marc into the center of the bed, and rolls him onto his back with a pillow beneath his hips. It’s a small but sweet gesture just to give Marc a little extra comfort as Vale sets to work stretching his hole. Marc tugs Vale a little off to the side, hoping that the camera will catch the slide of Vale’s fingers inside him. 

He moans as Vale’s long fingers finally press against his prostate, and Vale takes that for the encouragement it is. It doesn’t take long to stretch him, but Vale punishes his prostate a bit longer until Marc is squirming against the sheets. 

“Vale, please,” Marc pleads. “I need you.”

Vale sucks a possessive mark on the column of his throat, then presses the head of his cock inside Marc. 

Marc groans at the intrusion, fingers never quite comparing to the feeling of a thick cock moving inside. He rocks his hips up, and Vale presses in until he’s flush against Marc’s body. 

“Please,” Marc begs again, and Vale sits up to begin pounding into Marc. It’s a blur from there; Marc forgets about the camera as his thoughts become consumed by Vale and the feeling of his cock moving inside him. All he feels is Vale, above, around, inside him. 

He knows he’s making noise, and he can feel Vale huffing and grunting. Marc pulls Vale down for a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. He keeps his mouth open, pleading with his eyes for Vale to sense what he wants. Vale, ever on the same wavelength, grins before spitting forcefully into Marc’s mouth. Marc whines, tasting Vale on his tongue, and feels his balls tighten. 

“Vale, I’m–” 

Vale bites Marc’s lip then slips a hand between them to pump Marc’s neglected cock. It only takes a few jerks before Marc is arching off the bed, crying out as he cums. He cums up to his chin, vision whiting out for a moment. He’s vaguely aware of Vale grunting and his hips stuttering as he fills Marc with his own cum. 

They linger like that for a few long moments, Vale still inside of him, before Vale collapses next to him. Marc is quickly disgusted by the feeling of cum coating his body, and he knows he’ll have to shower, but he focuses on breathing for a bit. 

“I love you,” he says sweetly. 

Vale leans up on an elbow to kiss him gently. “I love you too.”

Marc eventually gets up to turn the camera off before it fills his storage, and then they take some time to shower together, wasting entirely too much water. Marc idly hopes they’ll have to shower again later, because he knows round two will come when they rewatch what they just filmed.

[anonymousewrites]

Burden of Truth Pride Special 2024

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Pride Special 2024

            “So, what adventures did you get up to today?” said Steven, smiling at (Y/N).

            “I found a skatepark. I met other teenagers,” said (Y/N), taking a bite of their apple.

            “That’s lovely,” said Steven. “I keep telling you to try to meet new people your age, make friends. Will you see them again?”

            (Y/N) tilted their head. “How would I know?”

            “…Well, you make plans with friends. Or, well, you make friends first, and then you make plans,” said Steven.

            “How do I do that?” asked (Y/N).

            “Uh, you—”

            “Don’t act like we know how to make friends,” interjected Marc from a mirror.

            Steven grimaced. “Okay, maybe we don’t…Still, that doesn’t mean (Y/N) shouldn’t have friends.”

            “You guys are my friends,” said (Y/N) plainly.

            “I feel bad for you if we’re your only friends,” said Marc.

            “I have Layla,” said (Y/N).

            “She’s cool,” said Steven, brightening.

            “Can you name literally anyone who wasn’t involved in illegal activities?” said Marc.

            “I don’t meet people outside of illegal activities, so how would I know anyone like that?” said (Y/N), tilting their head.

            “Maybe we should have insisted you go to school…” said Steven.

            “I already know everything, though,” said (Y/N), blinking.

            Marc sighed. This was going in circles because (Y/N) still had no idea that the way they interacted with people wasn’t what most considered “normal,” and, as a teenager, they should have friends their age who don’t nearly get themselves killed. Unfortunately, (Y/N) simply did not see things in that way and did not see social expectations as anything more than a confusing script they didn’t have.

            “I’m going to send you to a karate dojo or something. Maybe that will help,” muttered Marc.

            Steven chuckled. Marc was so protective but wanted (Y/N) to have a good life. They both did. “Despite all that, I’m glad you had some fun. Any plans for adventures tomorrow?”

            (Y/N) pulled on their sweater sleeves, and Marc and Steven recognized the telltale sign of anxiety.

            “What is it?” said Marc, instantly on edge.

            It wasn’t like (Y/N) to put make stupid decisions, but they did have a bad habit of putting themself in danger in order to help others, so he didn’t want them to start doing that again if he could help it. (Y/N) was in London with them to have a normal life, free of danger. He wouldn’t let (Y/N) lose that.

            “London Pride is tomorrow,” said (Y/N) quietly. “I…I wanted to go.” Still couldn’t lie.

            Steven smiled. “I’ll take you. Or Marc. Whoever makes you feel more secure.”

            “You would want to come?” said (Y/N), glancing at him.

            “Yes,” said Steven. “Marc and I support you. Every part of you. Of course we’d want to come.”

            “We don’t care about that,” said Marc. “You’re (Y/N). That’s what matters to us.”

            Truth.

            (Y/N) smiled slightly. They were glad they had Marc and Steven.

l

            (Y/N) and Marc walked towards Pride. Steven and Marc had bickered over who got to front while they went to the parade, but they ended up agreeing to let Marc go with (Y/N) in case someone was rude to (Y/N) due to their identity. Marc was the right person to handle that—and he’d do it with pleasure. No one hurt (Y/N) on his watch.

            (Y/N) walked hesitantly towards the parade, and Marc nudged them forward. As it went by with music playing and confetti falling through the air, Marc kept an eye on them. If this was too overwhelming a crowd, Marc would get them out.

            But instead, (Y/N) began to smile. And Marc did, too. In the reflection of a window, Steven smiled as well. Marc noticed a stand beside them and stepped over. Quickly, he bought something and brought it back over to (Y/N).

            They were still staring, spellbound, at the people celebrating their identity. After so long with just having a purpose as an Avatar, (Y/N) got to be themself. More accurately, they were discovering who they were. And they knew part of it wasn’t like some people. Their presentation to others didn’t fit the binary, and the way their brain worked was different, too. (Y/N) understood that.

            But they could be who they were. And these were people who were proud of themselves. (Y/N) could be proud, too.

            Marc returned to their side and draped a rainbow flag over their shoulders. “There you go, kid.”

            (Y/N) looked at it, blinked, and held it closer around their shoulders. “Thank you.”

            “No problem, kid,” said Marc, smiling.

            “We’re proud of you,” said Steven, smiling in the window.

            (Y/N) smiled and leaned into Marc. They were discovering who they were. And they had a good family support group with them.

Taglist:

@jaytheaceenby

@severussimp

@dmitrytherat

@slytherinroyalty16

@grippleback-galaxy

@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

@aew-kun-age-regression

@oscarissac2099

@amberforest08

@kyalov

@yyourmotherr

@im-making-an-effort

@the-toskaverse

@wra-1-th

@noodleryworld

[avenirineva]

°•○ parallels between mark scout (severance) and marc spector (moonknight series) a thread.

1. Initials and sound of name

It may seem silly and obvious, but it's really funny how similar they are-

Mark Scout. 🤝 Marc Spector

•

2. They have fish in an aquarium and this serves as an analogy for their own lore

In Moon Knight, Steven's goldfish (which later become two) are an analogy to his childhood trauma (who remembers the fish's fin knows what I'm talking about) at the same time that it served as a trigger for Steven to learn the truth about the strange events of ep 1. In the end, the pair of fish represents the harmony between the two after overcoming their trauma. In Severance, Mark's blue and red beta fish signal his duality and innie and outtie conflicts, as well as the well-known color language "blue: dominance, red: love or rebellion."

3. Duality

The dynamics of Marc/Steven and Outtie Mark/Innie Mark at the beginning of their respective series are similar. The dominant (marc/outtie mark) wants to keep his other half (steven/innie mark) separate from him so that she can lessen his pain without him having to deal with it while he tries to live his own life. Of course, this only makes things worse and leads both of them to confront their pain in the worst way possible (through a painful flashback).

Innie Mark/Steven literally function as an escape valve (or antistress ball, who knows, you know) for their respective outties, being a sweeter and gentler version of them, "raised" to not know the outtie's pain and just "stay in their roles."

But the more they get to know each other and work through their conflicts, the more they stop distancing themselves, they recognize each other's need until they become one to fight against something bigger (in Moonknight when Marc rescues Steven and they fight in perfect synchrony and in Severance which, even with the reintegration underway, is something that can happen)

Bonus for those from Brazil: Moon Knight would have the same voice actor as Mark, but he was replaced due to scheduling conflicts:

That's it for now, folks, if I remember more things I'll put it here

Note: I didn't put Jake here for obvious reasons, the entire series focused on the development of Marc/Steven and that son of a bitch only appeared at the end-