#if i didn’t make this clear enough like… it’s marc

[steverogers-against-disney]

this is a moon knight post BUT

quick context here before i explain the rest of this headcanon, basically i have an ongoing and ever expanding alternate captain america universe (that i just call redux!verse) where… a lot of stuff happens but one thing that happens is that bucky barnes’s little sister rebecca (mildly) edits and compiles some of his war letters into a book to act as a sort of memoir in his own words type thing (i’ll probably end up putting details from redux! in this, which i’ll mark with an asterisk)

ok now that that’s out of the way, as i said, this is a moon knight post

i think, for a very long time, steven grant had no clue who captain america was. he got lots of jokes, of course, from apparent captain america fans about his name. it usually went like this:

steven: hi~ i’m steven grant. that’s, uh, steven with a v :)

them: ha! steven grant! like captain america!

steven: erm, haha, yeah

eventually, though, his curiosity gets to be too much, and steven finds himself checking out a biography on captain america from the library (which, in the moon knight show, he really has in his apartment). it’s a pretty good biography, if you’re into urban legends and conjecture. it describes a morally upright man, willing to do the right thing above all else. the author seems to be very interested in how good and moral and tenacious this other steven grant is, rather than who he is.

the author notes that steve rogers went to art school, but not what he studied specifically. he notes that steve rogers became a school teacher*, but not what he taught or if his students liked him.

steven found himself more interested in what the author never said. who did steve rogers love?

(more under the break)

steven gets quite hung up on all this, the missing pieces. it feels real to him. there’s so much missing, and his heart aches for the idea of this man. he finds himself re reading this biography, trying to read between the lines, trying to piece together what he’s missing from what he knows.

after he renews his copy the third time, he decides he ought to just buy it.

there’s a very nice person at the bookshop, who suggests several other books to him. they also tell him there’s a whole collection of comic books about captain america. he decides to get a bunch of it. he ends up with the entire original series of comics, a different biography than the one he went for, the biography he went for, and a book called Yours, B, which, while not about steve rogers, apparently revealed more of him, according to the person at the shop.

the comics were rather disinteresting (except the few with a writing credit to one R. Barnes*), and the new biography as lacking in detail as the first one. but the third book is actually a collection of letters sent by one bucky barnes. according to the forward, barnes’s sister was the one who got the whole thing together, though she admits to “slight edits” to preserve some semblance of anonymity for the people he wrote to.

it’s pretty clear to steven when bucky barnes is writing to steve rogers.

he ends up talking to his mom about it a lot, or, well talking at his mom. she’s such a busy lady, and they’re always playing an extended game of phone tag. it goes something like this:

“hi, mum~! sorry i missed you again, but it’s hard with the time zones, haha. hey, i got your card from egypt! i’m really jealous, you had better send me a load of photos. anyway, i’m feeding gus right now, he says hi, don’t you, gus?

“hey, do you know who captain america is? i figure i would have known about him sooner if we were american. but, yeah, he’s a real myth of a guy. though it’s a bit sad reading about him. everyone seems caught up in all that mythology, they’ve forgotten he was just a guy. they always seem to skip over days, and months, and years he probably thought we important. i would like to know what he painted… if he even painted at all.

“oh! but i found one book- i guess it’s more a… i don’t know, collection. it’s letters this captain america fellow’s friend wrote. well, i think —now, don’t get shocked, mum— i think they might have been more than friends. not all the letters are to him, but i think that makes it a bit sadder. it’s like he’s just talking to himself. you don’t ever get to see what anyone says back, or… or if they replied at all. they must have, right?

“…well… anyway, it was good catching up, mum. love you loads. okay, laters gators~”

steven knows, of course, that someone is listening to his messages. he assumes it’s his mother, though he can’t recall the last time he heard her reply. but someone must be listening…

right?

[fettuccin-e]

A Little Show

Kinktober Day 10: Stripping

Tags: Steven Grant x Reader, afab!fem!reader, lap dance, grinding, unprotected piv (don't be silly, wrap your willy), reader is a former stripper, a little bit of possessiveness from Steven, precious husband Steven is so lovely (w/c: 1.3K)

A/N: So I know I'm late with this day, but it took me like forever to come up with something, and then I remembered our collective husband Steven Grant. I adore writing him so much so I had such a grand ol' time writing this. (I am using these prompts for Kinktober from flightlessangelwings!)

When Steven found out about what you used to do for a living, you’d braced for the worst.

Marc already knew, because of course he did. He probably conducted a full background check on you the moment Steven got the idea of asking you on a date. There was no hiding your old life from him, including being a stripper, just as he wasn’t able to hide from you, including Steven and Jake.

You’d known that Steven wouldn’t react badly. You knew he’d never yell at you, call you horrible names, kick you out of the flat. But it didn’t stop the paralyzing fear from kicking in. Of him letting you down easy, telling you that the two of you were just too different, that your morals just aren’t the same. So when you’d told him, you’d braced yourself for the first relationship you’d ever truly loved to go up in flames.

But fuck, you couldn’t have predicted this. For Steven’s eyes to darken as you describe what you used to do for an audience, his gaze dragging down your body in a way that has heat flooding down to your core. He’s silent for a few moments, and it makes you squirm in your seat. He mumbles something under his breath, definitely to himself, but you need to hear it.

“What, Steven?” you ask, steeling yourself against his inevitable rejection.

“Will you show me?” he chokes out, his cheeks flaming red, before he thinks better of himself, his eyes going wide. “Wait, shit, sorry love, no. God, it’s fine, of course it’s fine. I love you, yeah? Nothin’s going to change that anytime soon, I’ll tell you. ‘M just a bit jealous, y’know, in spite of myself, but fuck, shouldn’t have asked that. Just ignore that, yeah? I-”

“Steven,” you cut off his nervous rambling. “You want me to show you?” You can’t help how your voice dips a little deeper, a little raspier, in a way that you know gets Steven all hot and bothered.

“Um,” Steven clears his throat, fiddling with his hands. He won’t meet your eyes. “I mean, who wouldn’t, yeah? Got the most beautiful girl in the entire world, and-”

“You want me to strip for you?” you whisper, nudging his chin up with your hand, forcing him to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, and you watch the motion of his tongue as it just barely wets his lips.

“Please, love,” he rasps, and God, when he begs for you like that, who are you to refuse him?

You rise above him, and his eyes follow you, unable to tear away for a moment. As you stand, you take a long look at him, at the way his cock bulges in his slacks, the way his hands flex helplessly at his sides. Steven doesn’t have the control that Marc or Jake have, he’s fucking desperate for it. 

There’s no music, no pumping bass of the club you used to work at, but God, you find that you don’t need it. The heat of Steven’s gaze is more than enough, watching you with bated breath as you undo the buttons of your shirt, one, by one, by one. You let it carelessly drop to the floor behind you, leaving you in just your bra. You don’t own the same frilly bras you used to, from your old life, but Steven looks at you like you’re wearing the sexiest lingerie he’s ever seen.

You toe off your shoes, grateful for the fact that you just wore flats today, and slowly unzip your jeans. There are so many ways that this is so different from how it used to be. You never started your dances in jeans, never danced without music and dark lighting, without the stench of sex and sweat hanging in the air.

You’ve never danced and needed the man in front of you, loved the man in front of you.

The feeling is heady, lust swimming through your veins and pooling in your cunt. You peel your jeans off slowly, letting them pool around your ankles, stepping towards Steven. Steven, whose mouth gapes open just slightly, watching you like he’s starving for it.

You straddle him on the couch, moving your hips over his crotch in a slow grind that has you both gasping. Grinning at the way he watches your body move like water over him, you reach behind you and deftly unclip your bra in a practiced move. You slide it down your arms, throwing it somewhere behind the couch. You grip onto Steven’s shoulders to hump into him harder, and Steven’s hands flex at his sides as if he’s unsure what to do with them.

“You know what’s different about this than what I used to do?” you murmur, your lips nearly brushing his.

“Hm?” Steven hums absently, watching your body undulate above him.

You smile down at him. “You actually get to touch.”

Pulling his hands into yours, you mold his hands to your skin, nearly shivering at the feel of them. It’s like Steven snaps out of a trace, groaning softly under his breath as he greedily runs his hands over your naked skin, cupping your breasts and thumbing at your nipples in a way that makes your head spin. 

“So- so fucking gorgeous for me, love,” he murmurs, tilting his head up for a kiss. You meet him without hesitation, slipping your tongue into his mouth and drinking him in. You hump into him harder, shamelessly grinding your clit into the obvious bulge tenting the front of his pants. "Can I fuck you?” he gasps into your mouth, “Please tell me I can fuck you, darling.”

You’re nodding before your brain can even think of a proper response, and Steven takes his hands off your body to fumble at the zipper of his slacks, tugging himself out without any kind of finesse. It feels like you’re both teenagers, desperately clawing at each other, trying to get closer, as close as you can possibly get.

You haphazardly tug your panties to the side, letting yourself sink down on his cock, slow enough to let you feel the stretch as he breaks you apart. The moans you both let out as you sink to the hilt are borderline animalistic. The both of you are strung too tight, too needy to take this slow.

“God, you’re so-” Stephen punches his hips up into you, making you claw at his shoulders, “so tight for me, my love.” You can only press your forehead to his, meeting his lips in a sticky kiss as you bounce desperately on his cock. He stretches you so perfectly like this, reaching deep inside and the tip of his cock pressing into your g-spot with every thrust. The moans you’re letting out are downright embarrassing, but God, you can’t seem to bring yourself to care.

“How many of them wanted you like this?” Steven grunts against your mouth, meeting you thrust for thrust. “How many of those men you danced for wanted you just like this, bouncing on their cocks like the needy girl you are?”

“Steven, oh my God,” you whimper, letting him guide you as he fucks up into you, his thick hands braced on your hips, holding you tight enough that your skin pales beneath his fingertips.

“You’re mine, darling, no one else gets to have you,” he snarls, in the way he gets when he’s with you, when he’s lost in the feel of you. “This little cunt is mine, yeah? My perfect girl, can’t believe we found you.”

He thrusts into you once, twice, and you’re curling into him, barely able to hold yourself up, as you gush down his cock. You sob his name as he leans forward to press hot kisses down your neck, and you curl your fingers into his hair as you shake through your orgasm. 

Steven isn’t far behind, plunging deep into your pussy as it contracts around him, filling you up, claiming you in the most primal way he can.

He holds you on his lap as you both try to come down, keeping you afloat. You lean up to press a gentle kiss to his lips as you finally feel your mind come back to you.

“Have you ever actually been to a strip club, Steven?” you ask, smiling.

“Don’t need to,” he sighs. “Don’t want to.”

You hum. “You might change your mind once you see what I can do on a pole.”

[drakesfeelings]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ INFRUNAMI

summary. marc and his girlfriend are living their best lives during vacation.

small drabble - taking requests here

trigger warning. love

IT WAS CALM, the rays of the sun came out of the curtains and crushed on their skins.

the weather was perfect; the clouds were high in the sky and the sun was shining brightly.

the couple was still fast asleep, tangled between each other.

marc’s back was covered by [your name]’s leg, while his hand was attached to her lower back—fingers holding firmly the flesh of her ass; an habit of his.

the girl’s face was smushed against the boy’s neck, her warm breathing rubbing against his tanned skin.

her hair was a complete mess; curls laying on one of the pillows and blinding her boyfriend’s eyes—the consequences of her being lazy and not tying her hair up before sleeping.

however, marc didn’t mind one bit, loving the smell of her favourite shampoo and styling cream.

the room was still very silent; only the breathing sounds and light snores of the two young people being audible, them just appreciating each other’s warmth and presence.

but suddenly, sleep seemed to slowly quit the couple’s bodies, making the two of them slowly opening their eyes—marc being the first.

« mmh… he hummed, bringing a hand to his eyes that were blinded by his girlfriend’s hair. ¿nena? »

he only received a grunt from the girl, making him chuckle lowly.

between sleepy eyelids, marc stoled a quick glance to the girl laying next to him: appreciating her sleepy form—pouty lips that he wished he could kiss till the end of time; gorgeous face filled with sleep and her warm body pressed against his.

smiling lovingly, the boy couldn’t do anything but fall for her again (and again).

giving her more time to properly wake up, marc stretched himself—breaking his back several times in the process, his eyes still trying to adapt at the bright luminosity in the room.

once his view was clear enough, the spanish boy didn’t hesitate to get out of the bundle of warmth that the hotel bed was, and walked to the balcony—not before squeezing two or three times his nena’s ass and kissing her temple briefly.

entering the balcony, only in his calvin klein boxer and his naked back on full display, marc made his way to the very front of it; watching peacefully the greek sea.

his vacation to greece with the love of his life was all he needed. football was his very first passion, but that didn’t mean that breaks from it were bad.

that’s what every footballer need; sunny beach and twelve hours of sleep (and in marc’s case, their partner in crime).

the feeling of waking up at the hour he wants, having the luxury of clinging onto his love much more than the other times, tanning on the beach, swimming in the hotel’s pool and eating some five-stars meals everyday: all of this was the dream.

again, he smiled—still watching the waves in front of him.

« babe… the sound of his girl’s voice came to his ears. why do you need to wake up so early bro, she grumbled while hugging her boyfriend’s waist. »

« ain’t your bro, [your name]. »

he hated when she called him like he was one of her friends—which he really wasn’t.

the girl didn’t say anything, only wrapping her arms tighter around his warm skin and leaning her cheek against his muscles—feeling the need to bite them. not in a creepy way, just her way of showing affection.

« ¡dejar de morderme! he hissed while her teeth sunken onto his skin. she laughed loudly, amused. are you on drugs or something ? he laughed too. »

« didn’t you know ? had some coke last night, reaching back, the boy slapped his hand against the lower back of the girl, making her laugh again. »

« kiss me before i throw you in the sea, he said while turning to her. »

didn’t need to repeat himself twice: her lips already crushing against his, their hands rooming against each other’s bodies.

squeezing each other’s lovingly, the two of them feeling the need to express their love to each other through their touch.

@ drakesfeelings 👩🏽‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏽

[brnesblogposts]

sunday morning

pairing: steven grant x reader summary: you and your boyfriend Steven spend a lazy Sunday morning together.

reblogs appreciated if you liked it :))

—

The sun slowly breaks through the gaps in the curtains as you start to stir. Drifting in and out of a state of sleep as your body adjusts to the light seeping through. Looking over to your right your curly haired boyfriend looks peaceful as gentle snores escape his lips. Steven’s sleeping disorder didn’t allow for proper respite, but when he did get into a deep state of solace you left him be.

You watched him for a few minutes as his chest rose and fell, his curls awry, your love for him was stronger than any emotion you’ve ever known. Gently removing his arm from your waist he stirred and your breath got caught in your throat as you thought you’d accidentally woken the peaceful man up. To your relief he repositions himself into more of a star fish shape. Gently getting out of bed you head to the bathroom to shower before you were to decide what you would both be having for breakfast.

Stepping out of the shower you put one of Steven’ shirts on and a comfy pair of joggers. Today was Sunday and these days were for you and your boyfriend to spend quality time together. Coming out of the bathroom, to your dismay you see Steven at the stove preparing some of his famous vegan pancakes. You’d wished he’d slept a bit longer. Trying your best not to startle him you approach him from behind and carefully wrap your arms around his waist.

“Morning” you say softly, taking in his warmth.

“Morning, love” he replies as his hands meet where yours lay on his stomach.

“How’d you sleep?” you ask as he flips a pancake over.

“Yeah, pretty good actually, one of the better nights for me” he says with a smile. Oh his smile, you adored how his lips curled up and his eyes lit up.

You press a soft kiss to his lips, “I’m glad you slept well, you deserve to be able to rest peacefully.” you say as a tint of red creeps up his face. He pulls you into a hug, cutting it short..

“Oh bollocks this pancake is a bit burn’t.” he frowns a bit, but you quickly reassure him

“That’s okay I did distract you a bit. Don’t think we’ll miss one pancake, you make enough to feed a family!” he giggles at that.

“Always need to make sure I offer Gus some don’t I?” he turns to Gus swimming around in his tank.

“Speaking of, morning my little one finned wonder” he smiles. Oh he was the most adorable man in the world. You leave him to make the pancakes with no more distractions and set the table, syrup, chopped banana, vegan butter.. you weren’t a vegan before you met Steven, but at this point it was second nature.

You ate in silence, Steven’s pancakes piled with banana and a bit of syrup, he didn’t like too much or they’d go soggy.

“How are Marc and Jake?” you ask, you and his alters got a long well, Marc more so as Jake was the quiet type.

“No, yeah, they’re good, yeah. Marc bets he could make better pancakes than me, but I say that’s nonsense. Jake just nodded in approval to say he’s good, you know him.. not much of a conversationalist” he let out a little laugh at that. Once you’d both finished eating you cleared up while he showered and got dressed into a white t-shirt and fresh pajama bottoms.

“Darling” he calls out.

“Yeah?” you respond from your place at the sink.

“Want to watch a movie?” he asks shyly, you’ve been together a few months and knew everything about him and his alters, Konshu and everything. yet he was still shy around you. It was cute.

“Yeah i’d love to! anything in mind?” He paused for a second, tapping his index finger on his chin while deep in thought.

“AVATAR!” he bursts out excitedly. You hadn’t actually seen avatar before you met Steven, as soon as he found out he was quick to invite you over for a movie date.

“Sounds great! Love that film.” you emphasised, Steven tended to worry that you agreed to do things with him out of pity, he was very insecure about himself despite you, Marc and Jake reassuring him that he was an amazing man. It didn’t matter what you were watching, reading or doing, if Steven was with you and enjoying himself that’s all that mattered. You loved every minute with him.

He flicked on avatar as you finished the dishes and headed to the couch, where he patted the spot next to him. You cuddled into his side as he layed a blanket over the both of you, he wrapped his arms around you and rested his chin on your head.

“Thank you.” he says out of the blue, which causes you to look up at him.

“For what love?” you asked softly as not to make him feel bad or anything.

“For loving me, accepting me for everything that I am. The mess that I am. Staying up with me and reading to and with me, you know people at work are rude to me, Donna’s a right knobhead towards me. I used to let her get to me, everytime she mocked me or put me on inventory, but now? with you. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me.. because I have the most amazing person who loves everything about me and that’s all that matters. I love you so much y/n.” he says with a softness in his features, you don’t say anything, you take him into the tightest hug which silently tells him what he already knows deep down. He strokes his hand through your hair as you embrace him.

“I love you, Steven.” you say as you sit back from the hug and look at him, taking his face into your hands. “Listening to you ramble about Egypt and Pharaoh’s, your work days and anything else. I could listen to you talk about anything for hours. You’re the funniest person i’ve ever met, the kindest, sweetest man who makes me feel like the only person in the world everyday. Donna doesn’t deserve you, the museum doesn’t deserve you. You’d be the BEST tour guide if they just let you. The way your face lights up when you talk about Egyptology, I can see the love for the topic in your eyes. There’s no one else more suited for the job than you.

Tears are welling up in his eyes and you wipe them away with your thumbs, landing a soft kiss on his nose. He really was the most intelligent man you’d ever met, intuitive and with a heart of gold. Steven would never hurt a fly, Marc and Jake are more of the fighter types, but Steven. He’s a lover, he wants to make people happy and to see them smile, that’s his gift. He saved your life that’s for sure, you’re the happiest you’ve ever been since meeting him.

Settling back into his chest you take his hand in yours and rub your thumb over his palm.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me” he says and with that he presses play. You squeeze his hand to silently tell him that you feel the same.

About halfway into the movie you felt his body relax, he was falling asleep. Good, you thought. He needs as much sleep as possible, you didn’t move, knowing if you did you’d disturb him, you watched the rest of the movie as he snored quietly from beneath you. Once the movie finished you switched the tv off, Steven started to wake up, causing you to sit up. He took your hand and took you to the bed, laying down he pulled you in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist, an afternoon nap wasn’t a bad idea, it was Monday tomorrow, the beginning of another long tiring week, especially for Steven. you settled into him as his form engulfed you.

“You feel like home” is the last thing you hear before he drifts off, feeling safe enough to fall asleep knowing you’re right there with him. He hasn’t put his ankle restrains on this time, but he knows you’d notice if he got up. His words touch your heart, you’ve never been so in love.

“You are home” you respond, squeezing his arm that’s securely wrapped around you. With that, you both fall asleep. Feeling the safest you’ve ever felt, knowing you’ve found your other half in Steven.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Stitches

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

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

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

A/N: *gestures vaguely*

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

Word Count: 941

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kick him in the dick instead. Steven.

Not in public. Jake. 

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

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

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

Marc glared. 

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

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

“They, well, there was an accident…”

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

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

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

“Yeah, just a few-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did it happen?”

“I fell down, didn’t I?” 

“Baby-”

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

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

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

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

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

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[anonymousewrites]

Burden of Truth (Book 1) Prologue

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Prologue: On the Precipice

Summary: In 2018, (Y/N) discovers grief as people turn to dust and the world turns to chaos.

Mouse Note: Welcome to Burden of Truth! Kind of a rough beginning, but, hey, how else do you become an Avatar to a god? Anyways, housekeeping: This is a platonic fic, so anyone who suggests anything inappropriate between an adult and minor will be blocked and deleted. That's pretty much it, but I wanted to make it clear. As for the actual fic, there aren't any warnings other than the violence that Marvel shows. I'm really excited to share this series! Please feel free to comment since I'm always up to answering questions and replying to comments. Plus it makes me keep writing. Without further ado, though, please enjoy!

2018…

            (Y/N) gasped for breath, but their lungs refused to bring in the air they needed. Every limb ached, and their heart beat against their chest. It stuttered, refusing to work correctly. The edges of (Y/N)’s visions blurred to black.

            Everything had gone wrong. They had thought this summer would be a beautiful one, traveling with their parents. Egypt was lovely, and (Y/N) liked to listen to their parents—anthropology and history professors—tell them about the rich history and culture of the country.

            Plus, they were far away from New York where strange aliens had recently attacked and fought Iron Man and a strange wizard. They were safe with their family and free to enjoy themself.

            And then people turned to dust.

            Screams echoed as loved ones disappeared before people’s very eyes. Cars crashed without drivers. Buses overturned and threw out people and sand. Cries went out as crashes sent metal through limbs—through torsos.

            Through (Y/N)’s torso.

            (Y/N) couldn’t even move to cover their chest as it bled. They didn’t try to. They knew they were dying. They didn’t want to (gods, please, no, I don’t want this I don’t want this) but they were.

            And they couldn’t even reach out to hold their mom and dad’s hands. (Y/N) felt like a child again, but unlike nightmares, they couldn’t run to their parents’ arms to feel safe. Even if they could, the chill of death had already taken their parents’ warmth and comfort.

            (Y/N) wished they’d all turned to dust. This was violent, painful, agonizing. Their parents had laid beside them in distress, calling out for help and rescue, dying. No one had come.

            And now (Y/N) was alone—the world hadn’t even been kind enough to let them die before their parents.

            This was just so wrong. Unfair. Unjust.

            “It is unjust.” A calm voice spoke.

            (Y/N) didn’t move. They couldn’t, and they were already dying. Their situation couldn’t get worse.

            “I can feel your pain.”

            This time, a woman, taller than humanely possible, appeared in their line of sight. She knelt among the dust and bodies of the bus and gazed at (Y/N).

            She was Egyptian, dressed in a red gown, and wore an intricate necklace of gold and turquoise. Multicolored Sleeves swept out with her arms like wings. Silky black hair fell around her shoulders, and her eyes were lined in kohl. An ostrich feather stood in a circlet and swayed in the wind.

            (Y/N)’s eyes landed on the feather, and something in their chest pulled towards it.

            The woman tilted her head and watched them in assessment. “You sense the truth.”

            “Who…” (Y/N)’s hoarse voice died.

            “I am the goddess Ma’at.” The wind whipped around her as she spoke. “I am in search of a guardian. To uphold justice in the face of wrongdoing. To protect harmony from discord. To defend truth from falsehood.”

            (Y/N) coughed, and Ma’at tilted her head.

            “I can see the truth in your heart. You want justice for everyone who suffers like you,” said Ma’at. She leaned in. “Pledge yourself to me, pledge yourself to the truth, and I will give you the life to do so.”

            (Y/N) looked into Ma’at’s eyes and summoned all their strength left.

            “Yes.”

l

2023…

            (Y/N) crouched on the roof and dropped onto the balcony below them. The house around them was quiet. The security guards were clueless to their approach, which was just fine. They didn’t want any attention.

            (Y/N) opened the sliding door of the balcony and slipped into the display room. They glanced around themself in distaste. None of the artifacts in glass cases belonged to the owner of this house. He’d “acquired” them in the aftermath of the Blip left countries in disarray, just so like many others.

            After the return of the Blipped, the problem of stolen artifacts had only gotten worse since the chaos had begun again, letting more people profit off the displaced people and their possessions.

            (Y/N) had spent years repatriating the stolen relics from the aftermath of the Blip. This man, Mr. Medrano, was among the worst offenders. He lied about his findings as an “archaeologist” and stole what he needed for glory. And along the way, he removed any competition. A thief, a liar, and a killer. Medrano was a man who brought injustice of all kinds to the world.

            And that was precisely what (Y/N) stood against—what Ma’at stood against.

            (Y/N) stopped in front of a case of Egyptian artifacts. Their eyes scanned the contents for the relic they were supposed to bring back to Egypt (send back, really, by way of another person. (Y/N) was still just a teenager, so they couldn’t send it back themself without raising suspicions. Luckily, putting something in a hidden box and not showing their face did the trick).

            (Y/N) frowned. The hieroglyphic tablet of Tethering wasn’t on the wall. It seemed they were later than expected, and Medrano had begun to work on translation.

            Which means it’ll be in his office.

            (Y/N) went to the door of the display room and peeked outside. No light, no movement. They moved into the hall and crept down towards the room at the other side of the house. Making sure their gloves were on—no sense leaving fingerprints—(Y/N) reached out and felt the door handle.

            The door was unlocked.

            Gently, (Y/N) opened it.

            Shick!

            (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they took a step back. A man in a white, bandage-like suit stood above Medrano. He pulled two crescent-shaped blades from his chest, and Medrano’s body slumped to the ground. The man paused and looked towards the door, the moon sighting the crescent-illusion in his hood and the symbol on the forehead and chest.

            “There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here,” said the man, but (Y/N) felt in their heart that he wasn’t speaking to them.

            “Does it matter? Your job is to punish the wrongdoers in this mansion.”

            (Y/N) blinked as they heard a voice echo from behind them. It was a god’s voice. Not Ma’at, no, but most definitely a deity.

            “I won’t hurt a kid, Khonshu,” snapped the avatar, and his hood folded back.

            (Y/N) turned around and found themself staring up (really up) at a half-man, half-bird skeleton in white wrappings. This was Khonshu.

            “I’m not a wrongdoer,” said (Y/N) to Khonshu, holding up their hands. “I’m, uh, an Avatar.”

            At that, Khonshu and man stopped.

            “You can see him?” said the man, frowning warily.

            “I’m the Avatar of Ma’at,” said (Y/N). They shifted. They weren’t used to saying that. “She’s the goddess of truth.” They could see the “truth” of the world more than others, and that included the gods that walked among them.

            “That ostrich is interfering with my work,” said Khonshu, irritated.

            “You are the one who is not supposed to interfere with human business,” said Ma’at’s calm voice, and (Y/N) glanced at the office’s large window to find her sitting on the sill.

            Khonshu’s avatar looked at the window but saw nothing. “Is another god here?”

            (Y/N) nodded sharply. This was a little too much. They were used to working by themself.

            “You are doing the exact same thing,” said Khonshu.

            “I am returning artifacts to our people,” said Ma’at. “I am not interfering in human life more than that.” She glanced at Medrano’s body. “Unlike some.”

            Khonshu tsked. “I am delivering justice.”

            “A type, yes,” said Ma’at.

            “Ma’at,” said (Y/N) quietly. “I’m going to take the tablet..”

            “Go ahead, (Y/N),” said Ma’at. “Khonshu will not harm you. You have done no wrong.”

            “They interfered with my work,” said Khonshu.

            “Irritating is not wrongdoing,” said Ma’at.

            (Y/N) decided to leave before the gods continued to argue. It made them uncomfortable. Then again, a lot of interaction did. (Y/N) hadn’t really gotten to slow down and make friends after 2018, so they’d grown used to their own company (or Ma’at’s). Everything else was business, and anything more was out of their realm of understanding.

            (Y/N) opened their bag and slipped the wrapped tablet carefully from the table inside. They looked decidedly away from Medrano’s body, glanced at Khonshu’s avatar, and left the room.

            If that’s what Avatars and gods outside of themself and Ma’at were like, (Y/N) didn’t want to meet them.

l

2025…

            “(Y/N).”

            The now-seventeen-year-old raised their eyes from the book they were reading. “Yes, Ma’at?”

            “I have an important job for you.”

            (Y/N) frowned. Ma’at never described anything as “important.” Necessary? Yes. Important? No. Everything was equally pertinent to upholding justice and order to Ma’at.

            “I need you to retrieve a scarab.”

            “Who stole it?” asked (Y/N).

            “You are.”

            (Y/N) looked at Ma’at in surprise. “What?” Ma’at disliked any injustice or unlawful actions.

            “You are stealing the scarab of Ammit,” said Ma’at.

            Ammit.

            Ammit ruled the scales in the Judgement of the Dead. Ma’at was the Feather of Truth against which human hearts were weighed. One had abandoned true justice; one continued to defend it.

            And (Y/N) was stuck in the middle with the burden to protect the truth of it all.

Taglist:

@jaytheaceenby

@severussimp

@dmitrytherat

@slytherinroyalty16

@grippleback-galaxy

@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

@aew-kun-age-regression

[melodygatesauthor]

The Dark Side of the Moon - Chapter 1: Intoxicating

Vampire Marc Spector X f!Reader

Beta Read by @xbellaxcarolinax - Masterlist - AO3

Chapter Summary

Marc sees you for the first time and can't understand why you smell the way you do. The aroma is intoxicating, and he's determined to get closer to you, despite Khonshu's rules.

Tags/Warnings (for entire fic)

Major Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death - Non-con - Dub-con - Violence Minor Tags/Warnings NSFW, smut, Khonshu is human turned vampire, Ammit is human turned vampire, sex with characters other than the main pairing (Marc X f!Unnamed Character - Khonshu X f!Reader), p in v creampie, furniture grinding, scent kink, blood kink, vampire/human relationship, blood drinking, rough sex, oral sex, coming untouched, coming in pants, panty sniffing, angst, fluff, smut, forbidden relationship, secret relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, Marc does NOT have DID Dead Dove Do Not Eat - This means that what you see in the tags is what you get in the fic. If you read the tags and see "non-con" and then see non-con in the fic, don't be surprised!

Word Count: 3.2k

When Marc first saw you, he was overwhelmed by your scent.

The blood coursing through your veins held an aroma so sickly sweet that he found himself dizzy from the smell. He stepped into the lofty, spacious room where an oversized, and over-embellished, chair sat at the back. The enormous windows behind the chair faced out to the ocean, stretching on for what felt like forever. Khonshu liked to call this his ‘throne room’; a pretentious name fit only for someone who thought all too highly of himself.

“Marc, isn’t she wonderfully fragrant?” Khonshu asked from where he sat in his chair, touching the small of your back. His deep voice broke Marc from his thoughts.

Marc cleared his throat, scowling at the display in front of him. You were there, standing timidly with your wrists and ankles bound by enchanted gold chains, and Khonshu was next to you, seated like a king, legs spread wide as though he didn’t have a care in the world. You were dressed like the other cattle: ivory-white, flowing dress covering your body, though leaving your neck well exposed in case Khonshu felt hungry on a whim.

“Yes sir,” Marc agreed, body stiffening as he tried to fight his primal urges against your intoxicating smell.

“Found this pretty thing walking home from some dead end job, sobbing, living a meaningless life, isn’t that right little dove?” He started rubbing your back, and Marc saw your body tense in response. He hated when Khonshu got new servants. He hated to see how nervous they all were in the beginning.

“Y-yes,” you said, voice sounding small compared to the bass of Khonshu’s tone.

“Not so meaningless now. You have such an important job here.” He looked up at you with such adoration it made Marc’s stomach turn. “Harrow,” he said loudly, looking at the man on Marc’s left. “I need a report, did you succeed in delivering my justice tonight?”

Arthur Harrow looked over at Marc, long face twisted into an expression of disdain that he reserved only for the right hand of Khonshu. When Harrow looked back at their master’s face, his expression changed to one of admiration, but Marc knew the man’s hatred for him still festered just under the surface.

Marc listened to Harrow’s recollection of the evening’s events. It was a brief retelling of their struggles and successes, structured in a way to make Arthur sound like the heroic protagonist of the story, leaving Marc to look like his inept sidekick. Marc chuckled under his breath when Harrow mentioned rescuing a woman from a mugger. What he failed to add, was that the man doing the mugging was in his late sixties, frail, and nearly starving to death in an alleyway, just trying to get enough money to eat for the night. In other words, Marc wouldn’t have needed a suit or vampiric abilities to deal with him.

“Is something funny, Marc Spector?” Arthur asked, turning to look at his counterpart.

Marc shook his head, “not at all, continue with your very accurate and completely true story.”

Marc looked at you, heartbeat racing at the sight of your pretty face. A smirk threatened the corner of your mouth, you must’ve noticed him, but you kept your eyes on the ground. Marc’s lips turned up for only a split second knowing he’d entertained you. He hated Khonshu for always making the servants of the house avert their gaze, as though the undead were a superior race to the living. He hated Khonshu for many other things as well, but not being able to see the sparkle of amusement in your eyes at that moment was one of them.

Marc shared his own account of the uneventful evening. They’d saved some other ‘travelers of the night’, as Khonshu called them, and made sure to deliver justice to those who hurt them. He didn’t always see eye to eye with Harrow, but both he and Marc served one man, bound to him forever in an unfortunate blood pact, and for that they were very alike. He wondered sometimes if Arthur hated their master as much as he did, but Marc didn’t dare ask such a question out loud.

Khonshu looked up at you, smiling contentedly as he did before letting out a sigh, broad shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Very good,” he said, finally addressing both Marc and Arthur. “I’m hungry, so I’ll be taking my leave.” He looked over at Marc as he stood, running a hand through his thick black hair. “Marc, please attend to any queries as I would.”

Marc nodded, watching Khonshu rise, putting his hand on your upper back as he led you out of the room. Your scent left with you, not fully, but enough to allow the fog that weighed heavy in Marc’s mind dissipate. He was certain that if you smelled that good, you must taste equally as delicious…right?

~~~~

Why the fuck did you smell like that? Marc wondered moments later, sitting in Khonshu’s lavish chair in his absence. There was no reason for you to smell like that. So sweet, so delicious. Marc found himself salivating, quickly wiping his lips. It was embarrassing, the way you had made such a mess out of him after only moments of him being in your presence.

“Are you hungry sir? I can get your cattle for you,” one of the servants nearby asked, noticing that he’d wiped his mouth.

“No, no I’m…” he wasn’t fine, “I’m fine.”

He’d lived a hundred twenty-six years, and not once had he come across a scent like that. It didn’t make sense, and yet, it was permeating the air around him, making him feel mildly intoxicated once again. Harrow chuckled on Marc’s left, taking the man out of his daze. He scowled and looked over at him.

“What?” Marc questioned, tone laced in frustration.

Arthur shrugged, “hm? Oh, nothing. It’s just interesting to me, how much your age shows when you're faced with something unique, like the new cattle girl.”

“She just has a strong smell, it’s nothing,” Marc said firmly, bouncing his leg as he became more anxious.

“Right, of course,” Arthur’s expression was smug, condescending toward Marc in an attempt to rattle him.

“Why don’t you go find something to keep yourself busy, Harrow. I’m sure Khonshu wouldn’t want to think you were bothering me while I conduct his business.”

That struck a nerve, and Marc knew it would. Harrow had served Khonshu for many, many, years longer than Marc had. Hundreds longer to be more precise. Arthur was an arguably better servant as well. He would kill without question, spending no time on nuance and weighing the gray area brought on by guilt. Harrow would kill if he simply felt that someone was deserving. Marc didn’t like to fight that way, it felt wrong, and morally corrupt at its core. Marc would only kill if he thought it was a just punishment.

Despite Harrow being Khonshu’s loyal and unquestioning knight, always doing their master’s bidding without question, Marc was the one Khonshu favored most. Neither of them understood it, and both of them wished it were Harrow in that position rather than Marc. He never wanted to be Khonshu’s right hand, and when he was turned he didn’t know that’s what he was signing up for. Khonshu was good at keeping information from his servants. In fact, that’s how he managed to recruit so many. If he’d been upfront with them all, no one would have joined him.

“Khonshu is preoccupied at the moment, I’m sure–”

“Ooh,” Marc taunted, “then it would be really awkward if I had to go knocking on his door to tell him that you were being a pain in my ass, wouldn’t it?” Marc looked at Harrow, both eyebrows raised in anticipation for the rebuttal that never came.

Once Harrow left, frustrated and grumbling to himself, Marc tried to find other ways to occupy his mind, and to get his thoughts off of you. He spoke with the servants, making small talk about the weather, as though he gave a shit about whether it was raining or the skies were painted in blue. He just needed to take his mind off of you, because the more he thought about you, the more he felt his body aching with hunger.

There were so few rules that Marc needed to abide by that he’d be labeled a moron if he couldn’t manage to follow them. He could come and go as he pleased, so long as he did the work Khonshu required of him. Marc wasn’t allowed to turn someone, unless of course his master bid him to do so. And there was one rule, a big one that was upheld above all else…

Touching Khonshu’s cattle was absolutely forbidden.

That was how Marc got there, replacing the last Moon Knight that was dumb enough to try and pull one over on Khonshu. When his master claimed someone, by auction, coercion or otherwise, they were his. Marc had heard that Khonshu was kind to his servants, only taking what he needed, never drinking more than his fill. If one of his designated meals were tired or still recovering from a feeding, he would allow them time to rest before he used them again.

Marc also knew that they ate well. He saw the meals sometimes in passing being brought by the cooks to the rooms of the cattle. That’s how Marc learned that you liked strawberries, especially the large ripe ones. He would see the way the cooks made a point to pick through the smaller sour ones and toss them aside before bringing them to your door.

Were you spoiled, or did you figure that if you were going to be stuck there for the rest of your life, that you might as well enjoy yourself? Either way, a week after your arrival, Marc still wasn’t used to your scent, and it called to him both day and night. It was faint, unless he was in the same room as you, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to figure out why you smelled like that, even if it killed him.

Marc didn’t need the enchanted armor Khonshu had blessed him with to climb the wall outside to your bedroom, his jeans and dark t-shirt would do just fine. The armor only afforded him protection at will, and the crescent darts he used to deliver Khonshu’s justice. As a vampire, there was no mountain too high for Marc to climb, and no distance too far for him to run. His strength couldn’t be surpassed by even ten men, but everything came with a price.

He needed blood to live.

Without that iron flavored liquid, Marc would die. Not much could kill him, but the thirst for blood certainly would if he didn’t satisfy it. And the smell of yours was making him fucking feral.

Marc didn’t know what he was thinking, standing there in your room, watching you while you slept soundly. He had all he could to stop himself from draining your body of every drop of your blood in front of Khonshu, so what was stopping him now? Your master wasn’t around to save you, but Marc knew he could never forgive himself if he hurt you.

He knelt down by your bedside, touching your warm cheek softly with the backs of his fingers. Your breathtaking eyes fluttered open, meeting his in a gaze with a look that was as frightened as it was confused. He put a finger to his lips, shushing you, hoping like hell that you wouldn’t alert the household to his presence in your quarters; something that would surely land him in the thirst room for a minimum of half a century.

You nodded as you slowly sat up, rubbing your eyes and pulling away from Marc. It was a smart decision, he had no noble reason for being there. He just wanted to smell you. He wanted to feel you. You were doing well in your attempt to hide your fear, though he could tell you were petrified. Your breathing was ragged, and your pupils blown wide.

“Why do you smell like that?” He said in a low growl, leaning forward on your bed, nuzzling your neck and inhaling deeply, “so fuckin’ sweet I…fuck.”

“W-what are you do–”

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you, I just…” he inhaled again, breath ragged and harsh in your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeated, not sure who he was trying to convince more, you…or himself.

“O-okay,” you said in the softest, and shakiest, voice he’d ever heard.

Marc really wasn’t going to harm you, though it took every ounce of his strength not to. He wanted to devour you, drink you dry, absorb your warmth into every cell of his cold body. He leaned in more, pushing you back against the mattress, feeling every neuron in his brain firing with desire. He felt your hands, pushing gently against his chest in protest, but you clearly weren’t brave enough to try and fight back.

Marc felt his cock aching as it sprung to life against his jeans. Your legs were around him, though he could feel your knees digging into his waist in an attempt to close them. The heat from your cunt was maddening, radiating off of you through his clothing and making his dick leak profusely.

“Why the fuck do you smell like that?” He asked again, throat vibrating with a primal rumble. He breathed in your fragrant aroma some more, feeling his fangs extending in preparation to bite. “Never smelled someone so…hmmmm.”

“L-like…like w-what?”

That’s when he realized just how much you were shaking. As if he were awoken from a trance, Marc shook the delirium from his mind and slid off of you quickly, backing up to the wall, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. He gulped, looking you up and down. You looked terrified, eyes wide with fear. Your bottom lip was trembling while you sat up and stared widely at him, like prey coming face to face with a predator. 

“I’m sorry,” Marc said, still panting heavily. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt so breathless.

“You’re M-Marc, right?” You asked, looking him up and down, “I’m…” your name rolled off your tongue beautifully.

Cattle didn’t have names. Once someone was branded as livestock, a human whose job was to provide blood to their master, they were stripped of their previous life, including their name. Marc had been to other households. Some masters replaced their servant’s old names with new ones. Others had a numeric system, the numbers getting higher and higher the longer a vampire had been alive and using servants.

Khonshu preferred to keep his nameless. It made it less personal when it was time to dispose of old or sickly livestock, or when he got too carried away while feeding, leading to the unfortunate demise of a perfectly good food source. Marc knew you were privy to the rules. You knew damn well that you weren’t supposed to ever utter your birth name, and yet you were speaking it freely to him.

You trusted him.

“Look…I was never here, alright?” Marc swallowed hard, looking out at the moonlit sky. “I…I didn’t mean to scare you, I just…I couldn’t help myself. I’m so sorry.”

Without another word, and without looking at you again, Marc climbed through the window and dropped back to the ground, moving quickly around the side of the manor and back to where his quarters were. The pain of his cock pressing against his zipper ached like never before. He could still fucking smell you, and now your scent was on his damn clothes. It was a mistake going there, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad he did.

~~~~

He got into bed that night, stripped down fully, planting his feet firmly against his mattress, cock in hand and jerking himself off to the thoughts running through his mind. He balled up his shirt, holding it against his face and smelling your aroma still saturated in every fiber. His grip was firm around his girth, gliding over his length at a slow pace, imagining what it would be like to feel you on top of him.

Marc ran his thumb over the precum leaking out of the slit on his fat tip, using that to keep his palm slick while he worked. A pathetic whine left his lips, throat closing as he gripped the sheets and arched his back upward. You’d take him so well, he could tell just by the way you looked underneath him earlier. You’d cry and whimper but you’d love every second, begging him to fuck you until you couldn’t walk right.

He rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his cock between his abdomen and the mattress, grabbing the sides of the bed and rutting his hips forward. The grind along the smooth sheets was enough to electrify his entire body. Marc choked on the groan that threatened to leave his lips. He put the shirt on his pillow, burying his face in it, fucking the bed faster. If you had been under him, he would’ve broken you in half…or shredded you to pieces.

He bit into the shirt, growling lowly and continuing to roll his erection over the soft mattress  in an attempt to curb the growing need to have you. Your voice was so small, so sweet, so pretty. Fuck, fuck… The way you looked at him, afraid, timid, like he was going to hurt you. He wished he could say with confidence that he would never hurt you, like he had promised you earlier in your room, but he knew that was a white lie. He would always try never to hurt you.

He shuddered on his next snap forward, the friction becoming more slick as his leaking head left a mess in its wake. His grip on the sides of the mattress was tight enough to make his knuckles ache, aiding in his speed. He didn’t even care that the bed scraped against the floor with a loud shriek on every pass. He kept his nose deep in the fabric of his shirt, inhaling deeply, intoxicated with your smell combined with his. It smelled right, like your fragrances belonged together.

You belonged with him.

“Why does she…why does she smell so…so-fucking-good-ohgodohgodohgod…!”

Marc’s hips finally came to a stammering halt, warm sticky ropes of cum shooting out from his throbbing cock, making a mess of his bedding that he knew the servants would mumble about amongst each other when they thought he wasn’t listening. He huffed through his nose, hips still sliding his dick over the glob of slippery white that he created while thinking of you. 

He wasn’t a fool, but Marc hoped desperately that masturbating his nights away would be enough to satisfy his needs. Deep down though, he knew that was bullshit, and he knew that as long as you were around, his life was at risk.

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[illusioninfnty]

day 2 ; choking

↠ marc spector x reader

fandom: moon knight word count: 685 warnings: nsfw 18+, mention of sex with steven, dirty talk, slapping, no aftercare mentioned, mean!marc

kinktober m.list || read on ao3

Sex with Marc was always sweet. Simple, but sweet. You loved Marc, truly, but sometimes you just wanted something a bit more rougher.

Lately, you and Steven had been experimenting more in the bedroom. You’ve been figuring out what exactly makes you tick, and you’ve been wanting to try it with Marc, too.

But Marc never got the hint whenever you would suggest toys, or handcuffs, or even when you asked him to slap your ass. It was sweet, really, that he didn’t want to cause you harm. Maybe you just had to…motivate him a bit.

Marc currently had you in missionary, kissing you in between his thrusts. He was going quite slow. It wasn’t bad at all. Marc’s cock always filled you well, and he always made sure you enjoyed yourself and finished. But it was always a journey to get you there.

“Harder!” You wrap your legs around his thighs. Your heels dig into his skin, feeling the taught muscles as he pushes his cock in and out of you. “Harder, Marc!” you whine, encouraging him.

He pistons his hips faster, but does nothing further. You take one of his hands that was resting next to your ear and holding him up and move it down to your throat. Marc jolts and pulls away.

“I want,” you swallow, ready to make your intentions clear. “I want you to choke me.”

Marc’s eyes widen in realization and he blinks. “I—I don’t want to hurt you, baby.”

You smile gently at his concern. You understood where his fears came from, but you knew that this wasn’t something he needed to be worried about. “I can handle it.” The crinkle in his brow intensifies. “I wouldn't ask you if I didn’t think I could.”

“But, still—” Marc protests. His thrusts begin to slow as he grows even more concerned and unsure.

You knew exactly what you needed to say to get him riled up. You rolled your eyes and looked off to the side, faking your annoyance. “Even Steven fucks me harder than this.”

Marc paused completely, almost as if he didn’t hear you. But you knew he did. His nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched ever-so-slightly—a telltale sign he was pissed.

“You want me to treat you like a piece of crap so bad?” Marc pushed you farther back on the bed, and restrained your wrists with a single hand above your head. “Fine.”

His hands wrap fully around your throat and you let out a choked gasp.  

“Is this what you wanted?” Marc sees the way your eyes roll back to expose the whites and how you clench even harder around his cock. “Fucking slut.”

You let out a garbled moan through your constricted airway. Your legs came up to wrap yourself around Marc, wanting to be as close to him as possible. He thrusts widely, balls slapping against your ass. His hand squeezes around your neck and you can’t help but moan louder from it.

“Since you want to be slapped so badly—” Marc takes a palm and slaps your ass hard, the sound ringing in your ears. The hand on your throat grows tighter and tighter, your vision turning white. Your now free hands come down to grab onto him pathetically. Your nails dig into his skin, and Marc hisses before restraining them again. 

The pressure of your orgasm was building up so quickly as Marc continued to choke you. Between his cock pounding harder than ever within your walls and the sensation of his thick hand encompassing your neck, controlling your breathing, you knew you were about to cum.

But just before you were about to reach your peak, Marc lets go of your neck and slaps you across the cheek, light enough to be harmless but hard enough to still feel a sting afterwards.

“Sluts don’t get to cum.”

You whine pathetically, bucking your hips up but he presses them back down as he pulls out of you completely, walking away to the bathroom. You lay on the bed, spread open, in disbelief.

You’ve created a monster out of him.

[spacecowboyhotch]

Not Enough

summary: you try to talk to Marc about your connection— he’s not ready.

prompt: rainy day

pairing: gn!reader x marc spector (the tiniest bit of jake at the end)

contents: angst, requited love but wrong timing, longing, pining, crying, low self-esteem (both parties), ptsd if you squint, no happy ending

wc: 1,023

an: i know it’s Valentine’s Day, but this is just kinda where i am rn. this is pretty vulnerable and sad so just a heads up. disclaimer: as a mod/organizer of @moonknight-events, my participance in this event is purely for promotion and i will NOT be entered into the drawing for any prize.

moonknight masterlist | SP BINGO 2024

Marc has never considered himself dramatic. And he certainly has never considered himself a romantic. He hates the heavy rain, hates the way that water pelting down on his skin makes him feel so tiny. So small. Like he’s just a helpless boy again.

So why is he running through mud and greenery in hopes of finding you in this soon-to-be thunderstorm storm?

This is not the time, not the place, and you’re not the person he should be getting involved with. Marc stopped pretending he didn’t want you a long time ago, but that hasn’t encouraged him to make a move. You deserve better. He deserves to have his shit figured out before pulling you into the tornado that is his life— the life he feels like is sometimes not his own, the one he shares with an ancient bird. He’s out here looking for you to keep you safe, not to tell you how he truly feels. Not to finish the conversation you’d practically cornered him into. Not to be honest. He had abandoned honesty the moment his mother turned on him.

Khonshu’s latest target has brought you all here. Somewhere in the grassy wilderness, rolling hills dotted with small ponds that are tucked between towering forests. It's beautiful, or at least it would be if you all weren’t here to kill someone. If you weren’t overstimulated, stomping (and occasionally tripping) through the muddy forest trying to put as much space between you and the man you’ve accidentally fallen in love with.

At this rate, you’re soaked to the bone, and your clothes are sticking uncomfortably to your skin. But, as you peer up through the trees letting the rain hit your face, it feels like it’s washing everything away. It feels like for just a moment, you get to sit in anonymity. After attempting to be so vulnerable with Marc back at the cabin, it's exactly what you need.

You’re just a small being in an expansive forest and it feels good. You have no desires, no words, no feelings. It’s just you and the rain. You stop walking, focusing on the cold raindrops, teeth chatterng. Cold as it is…it feels like a temporary peace.

Peace that is quickly taken away when you hear Marc’s voice echoing through the trees, calling out your name. You start walking again, though this time your feet have less force and more speed. You don't want him to catch up with you, you're not ready to be seen again just yet, not even at face value.

As you continue to trot forward, Marc’s voice waxes and wanes behind you. Sometimes it’s softer, allowing you to relax but then it grows louder and your heartbeat picks up along with your pace. You know that he’ll catch you, whether he uses his abilities or not. But you’ll outrun him as long as you can, the same way he’s outrunning his feelings for you.

It isn’t long before you end up in a clearing. You’re more out of breath than you would like to be, but in all your training you hadn’t prepared to run through your tears. You’d take physical pain over the gnawing feeling in your chest any day, unfortunately, you don’t have a choice.

This is your reality. With words so sobering echoing in your mind you finally stop, hunching over to slow your breathing. You hear his footsteps behind you over the rain and for a long time, neither of you says anything.

Marc breaks the silence. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don't know why I can’t be honest with you.”

You stay quiet, stay turned away from him because even in this heavy rain he’d be able to recognize the renewed tears that stream down your face harder than before.

“That’s not true,” He murmurs, to himself, to you after the silence grows on too long. “I know why but I can’t— I’m not ready yet.”

You still aren't talking, practically frozen in place under the sheets of rain. He shivers again, trying to block out the discomfort, the tightness in his chest. This isn't about him. For the first time in a long time, he’s sacrificing his safety for someone else’s. It's still not enough…no not yet. He’s not sure when it will be.

With a deep breath, you turn towards him and for a moment Marc thinks that the two of you will get somewhere, that there will be some understanding. That fades when you don’t meet his eye and walk right past him without a word. Before it’s too late, he reaches out, catching your hand in his own.

It stings, a temporary warmth with the promise of nothing.

“I won’t ask you to wait for me,” He says, squeezing your hand gently.

You know that it's meant to be a comfort, but it simply makes your heart ache more. How he could look at you with such regret and still break your heart, it's cruelty at a level you want no one to experience. Because you know that even as he says those words and offers his comfort, even as he lets you off the hook, that you’ll wait for him.

You’ll be subject to this torment as long as you can look into his eyes. As long as you can remember his name, and be by his side, you’ll love Marc. It’s never been a choice for you. If it was…you aren’t sure you’d be able to make the right one for you anyway.

You pull your hand out of his, raising your chin high as you pointlessly wipe away the tears that stain your cheeks— they simply reappear.

“I’ll see you back at the back at the cabin,” You whisper with finality, turning a way that is distinctly the opposite direction, hand tucked into your pocket to fetch your compass.

Marc lets you go. The piece of him that longs to reach out to you is too small, too weak. It has no claim. Helpless once more. It feels like someone else starts to take the steps back towards the forest. He can’t find the strength to care or be afraid.

moonknight taglist: @ninebluehearts, @rmoonstoner, @later-gators12, @foreverinwanderlustt-blog, @aleeb, @eyelessfaces, @marc-spectorr, @missdictatorme, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @campingwiththecharmings, @whatthefishh

[hoedamn-eron]

sweet talkin'

Marc, in the throes of a Valentine's panic, receives your gift.

Warnings: 18+. Merely for the message on the chocolate having ✨ suggestive themes ✨. Worries of not feeling enough (Marc spirals a little bit). No mentions of Jake or Steven, or Khonshu, but it doesn't mean they're not there 👀. Not proofread, as usual, so there will be mistakes. Word count: 1,586 GN!Reader, no use of Y/N.

For the love of God, please go and take a look at Salty Mail on Insta.

You were a very emotional person.

Well, no, that’s not strictly true, but you have no problem in expressing yourself. You tell people how you’re feeling if you feel like the moment needs it.

Which is why you find Marc Spector to be such an enigma.

When you first met Marc, it was a struggle to detect what he was feeling. He was friendly to you, of course, but you weren’t even sure how he actually felt about you until he’d asked you out. Even throughout your dates he was always stoic, but now, after all this time together, you like to think that you read him pretty well. Now you can tell when he was feeling stressed, or going through a tough time, but every time you tried to get him to talk to you about it, he always ended up pushing you away, telling you he’ll deal with it.

He did eventually open up about his past (sans Jake, and Steven, and the Big Bird), and that explained quite a lot. Because of this, you’ve come to accept that he just had some issues he needed to work through, and that was okay.

The thing was, he had no problem listening to your gripes and whines, since you were such an open book. But what Marc seemed to have a problem with was when you tried to tell him about how you felt about him, how amazing he was, and how you practically worshipped the ground he walked on. He always seemed to curl in on himself when you did, and it broke your heart to see how he didn’t see how great he was.

It didn’t make what you said about him any less true. You’d mentioned going to a therapist, and you were fully supportive of him, telling him about how much it would benefit him. He still wasn’t set on the idea though. He didn’t seem all that thrilled about it, but at least he was thinking about it.

Now, it’s Valentine’s Day, and Marc had been thinking about it all week. He wasn’t sure what your stance was on it, you’d never really spoken about it before, but he was sure you’d mention it at some point during the day. It was your first one together after all.

He was thinking of just getting you some flowers, and your favourite treats, but he already does that for you on a regular basis.

Maybe you could go out to dinner? You’d mentioned you wanted to try out that fancy new place a few streets over. Oh but it was too late for that, he’d be lucky if he could book a table on Valentine’s Day.

He was so caught up in his head, he hadn’t even noticed you placing a plate of pancakes, with a side of fruits, in front of him, only coming to when you were giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a million miles away, are you okay?” you ask, your brow furrowed lightly, stroking his hair.

“Yeah, sorry,” Marc said, giving you a small smile as he looks down at the plate. “Looks great, baby.”

As he tucks in, you make yourself a plate. “I’ll be home for 5pm, we can check out that new TV show you wanted to watch.”

Marc nodded, a mouthful of pancakes and syrup. He chewed quickly before swallowing. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, and I have a parcel coming today. Can you just leave it on the side for when I get back?”

Marc nodded again, giving you a small smile. “No problem.”

You finish your breakfasts, talking about Marc’s plans for the day, which included a few errands he’d been neglecting (his favourite jumper had been at the dry cleaners for weeks; they’d rang him every other day trying to get him to collect it), and clearing up your plates. After you dressed for work and Marc was washing the dishes, you leave a kiss for Marc that made him want to drag you back to bed, intending to keep you there all day, but you managed to pull away from him with a giggle before telling him you would see him later, and you left for work.

Then he was left alone in your flat.

As he continued to do the dishes, the silence brought back the earlier anxiousness about the stupid holiday, causing his brow to furrow and his palms to become clammy. It was just a hallmark holiday, why was he getting soworked up about it? You hadn’t said anything to him about it, you both hadn’t even made plans to go out, so why was he panicking? Obviously, it must just be another day to you.

But what if you were expecting him to surprise you with something?

He shakes his head. No. You had no issues telling him what you wanted. You would have asked if he wanted to make plans.

Shaking his head, suddenly feeling angry with himself, leaving a bitter, acidic taste in his mouth, he abandons the remaining dishes, draining the water. Marc wipes his hands dry on a tea towel before looking around your kitchen, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He needed to get out. A walk will do him some good…he needed to go to the dry cleaners anyway. He could pick up some stuff from the shop and make you dinner, just the two of you, in your flat. At least do something for Valentine’s Day.

Yeah, he’ll do that.

As he walks around the streets of London, seeing all the sickly red and pink hearts decorating the shop windows, he starts to wonder to himself; how the fuck he managed to have you. You could have had anyone, and you wanted to be with him. He was a mess, a broken man, he didn’t deserve good things, he didn’t deserve you.

It was almost as if he was on autopilot, making his way to the dry cleaners, where they gave him an earful about late collections (he paid the fee without saying a word), and he went to Tesco to pick up some ingredients, and just to top up your cupboards (he noticed you were running out of coffee and your favourite biscuits). He soon made it back to your flat, bags in hand, when he noticed a simple white package on the floor, the shape of a thin rectangle.

Shit. He’d forgotten about that. Thank God the postman could just slip it through your letterbox.

He puts the bags on the kitchen counters, tossing his dry cleaning over your dining table before picking up the package. He was about to toss it onto your side table when he noticed that it wasn’t addressed to you…it was addressed to him.

His brow furrowed. Why would he have something addressed to him go to your place?

He stared at the parcel. It didn’t feel heavy; actually, it barely weighed anything. But it must be something, since you asked him to take it in for you. Maybe it wasn’t for him, your autofill might have put in the wrong name when you ordered it. It was your property; he shouldn’t look at it.

He placed it down on the side table, before he started unpacking the shopping. Not long after, his phone vibrated, signalling a text (it could only be from you). He takes out his phone, before his brow furrowed reading it.

Did you like my gift?

Oh shit, it was for him then.

Marc glanced at the parcel again, then made his way over, picking it up. He shook it lightly, before he slowly opened it. He sauntered into the kitchen, before pausing at the gift, before snorting in amusement.

It was a milk chocolate bar, sprinkled with mini Reese’s Pieces and peanut M&Ms (his favourites), wrapped in clear film. In the centre, it had large, white writing, spread across:

You’re my forever fuck

Marc suddenly felt hot, his heart skipping a beat. You tell him all the time, how much he meant to you, how much you adored him, but he never could really believe it. He always thought you’d said it out of pity for him, but he couldn’t ignore his feelings for you. He knew it got you down, how he couldn’t be as expressive; he actually believed you hung the stars, that you were too good of a person for him.

He replayed the moments of tenderness shared between the two of you, each memory etched with the permanent mark of your love. Yet, despite the reassurances whispered in the stillness of nights shared with passion and pleasures, where your bodies danced together, Marc grappled with the notion that he might never measure up to the idealised image he held of you.

Amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, one truth remained steadfast: your presence illuminated the darkest corners of his soul, offering solace in a world full of evils and maliciousness. As Marc stood at the crossroads of his emotions, he yearned to bridge the chasm between his doubts and the faith you held in him.

And now you’ve expressed it in his favourite chocolates for Valentine’s Day, and it just made him fall in love with you more.

He grinned as he opened it, taking a bite and groaning as the chocolate melted in his mouth. It was damn good.

His phone vibrates again with another text from you. He merely sends a selfie back of him taking another bite, with the caption:

Delicious.

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [5]

description: Marc and Dove adjust to their new mission in Cairo: catch Harrow before he can release Ammit and for the love of gods don’t let Seth have the body again.

word count: 8.1k

trigger warnings: major gore and violence warning (he is the God of violence after all :/) hints at Dove’s dark past, hints at prostitution/sexual exploitation. All involved are of age however. Feelings of worthlessness. Swearing.

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Do you ever feel dirty afterwards?” The soft voice asked from her right. She’d know that voice blind. Know it in any darkness. A call to a home she could never go back to.

“I feel like taking ten showers and walking through a car wash naked, and it still wouldn’t be enough.” Her own voice came. There was a tinkle of a laugh like a bell, yet the bitterness was clear in the single note. Her head turned to see her, her, the blonde girl that haunted her every thought, her every breath.

Grace.

Her face as supple and innocent as any nineteen year old, unmarred by the horrors of the world despite their place in it. Her eyebrows curved high on her face, forget-me-not blue eyes that watched the world outside their window with a longing she, herself, was more than familiar with. The two of them sat opposite each other on the wide window sill, legs bunched up to their chests, the gentle, first rays of morning sunlight falling on their faces. The two of them stared out into the rest of the world, a world they were not permitted to go without his say. The small trees that dotted the street swayed, the slow, warm breeze washing over them. The rare chance they had to take in fresh air. The two girls preened to its caress instantly.

“I sometimes think at least I’m useful here,” Grace said, her honey locks falling as she rested her head on the window, if only to get closer to the freedom on the other side, “I could be sleeping on the streets or in a place half as nice as this, alone, but at least here I’m with you,” She said, her bluebell eyes following as a pair of collared doves wove in between one another, their small, grey figures dipping through the air freely.

“It sounds fucked up, and maybe it is,” Her own voice came, her eyes also following the birds that seemed to be gloating about just how untethered they were to any place other than the winds that carried them, “But part of me, the disgusting part that I try ignore, feels wanted. Like those men want me, so much that they would even pay hundreds to see me.” Her breath steamed up the glass as she took a deep sigh, the confessions rolling off her lips. Because she knew Grace wouldn’t judge her. Grace would never. “It makes me think that maybe there’s some part of me that is actually worth wanting.”

“I’ll always want you,” Came the soft reply, her heart jumping into her throat with a small choke. She could never deal with mushy words, blatant affection from another being, the one way they differed. Grace was all about kind words, telling her how her heart felt, “Every bit of you,”

A tired grin spread on her face, “I wish it could be this easy with other people,”

“Why? Are you planning on replacing me any time soon?” Grace asked, leaning up to open the window further to let in the breeze. They only had a couple of hours before he would be back, and he hated when they sat in the window. Too many eyes, too many people to see them for free.

She chuckled, nudging the other girl with her leg in a small chastise.

“Never.” She said earnestly, watching Grace’s cerulean eyes follow a leaf fall to the ground elegantly. “Although, if we’re making requests, I’d like a best friend that would stop stealing my bras,”

“Maybe if the machine didn’t wreck all mine I wouldn’t have to-”

“Oh, give over, you like the lacy ones. Just admit it.” Grace blanched, her eyes flicking to the girl before a guilty smile appeared, showing off every one of her perfectly straight, white teeth.

“I didn’t realise they were so dear to you,” The girls giggled, the sun stroking both their faces, warming their cheeks gently. “I was wondering why I could see your nipples through your top,” A smack to the ankle closest to her.

“I’d like them back please. I’ll have you know the desperate ones pay extra for that shit,” She replied, the carelessness in her eyes dropping at the thought of their evening. He’d be back with clients, one for each of them, sometimes more.

He always came back with clients.

“And to think, I get to see them for free,” Grace teased, nudging her socked foot into her friend’s thigh to try garner some kind of amusement. But the moment was gone. The small bit of heaven they’d had between one another was gone. Because they knew this was it. This was all it would ever be.

Her bottom lip quivered. She wanted her brothers. She wanted her home, her real home, she wanted her old bed, her old room. She wanted her mother, she hadn’t wanted her mother in years. She even wanted her father, even if he was drunk as a skunk like the last time she’d seen him. She would take it. She wanted her normal job back, she swore she’d never complain about waitressing again if it meant being away from this. She wished she could bundle Grace up, disappear, just the two of them, far far away from all of this. Where they would never be able to touch either of them ever again. Where they would never be used as slabs of meat for his amusement.

A small, pale hand slipped into hers, her fingers warm and grounding as they intertwined with hers. She hadn’t realised she was crying until she looked up and saw Grace with her eyes welled up too. The pair had never been able to stand seeing the other cry without choking up.

Grace’s summer sky eyes were wide; fat, remorseful bunching tears on her perfect lash line. They were still in their pyjamas, hair still messed up, love bites and mysterious fingerprints lining her throat from where last night's customer had gotten too rough.

She was dragged into a hug, an embrace she only ever felt from Grace. Those men, those vile men only ever sought pleasure, cold, aggressive pleasure that soiled the very meaning of the word. But Grace was soft. Warm. Gentle. Grace was everything she needed to keep her head on her shoulders. Grace was every bit of her she wasn’t, like the pair had been cleaved apart atom by atom at birth and when they hugged it was as though their bodies knew one another the way you only know yourself. Like two halves trying to stitch themselves back together.

And they were both crying. Crying for the lives they’d had before all of this. Before those men that came at night, handing him money at the door, before they put on their bedroom voices and sultry eyes. The performance of a lifetime. She missed her brothers, she thought of what she was going to write in her next letter home, though she knew she would never get a response. She wished she hadn’t been so hard on them. She wished she’d gotten a chance to say goodbye properly.

“I want to go home,” She sobbed, a calming hand running through her hair as Grace soothed her, though she could tell by the way her face nuzzled into her neck that the sentiment was shared.

The two nineteen year olds held each other, the only solace they had in this world being one another’s gentle embrace. The only person they would ever need in the cruel hands of a world like this.

“I’ll be your home,” Grace mumbled, the words dying on her skin as the tears fell down her own cheeks, “I’ll be your home as long as you need one,”

She nodded, a silent thankyou for the selfless offer. Golden curls surrounded her vision, Grace’s arms squeezing her tighter. As if to assure her that this was it. This was all she would need. That she was never, ever letting go.

And then, silently, tiredly, Dove woke up alone.

“Good morning,” She chirped, Marc wincing at the perky nature of her tone. He sat up with a wince, his back screaming in aches from the hard sofa. It was a wonder he’d gotten any sleep at all, let alone not woken up when she’d seemingly left the room for a wander around.

“Where have you been?” His voice was gravel, a rumble of fatigue erupting from his throat. He took in the flowy bottoms she wore, the basic white shirt she’d thrown on over it and the sunglasses perched on her messy hair. In her hand was a loose, netted bag, entirely crammed with fruits. Mangoes, pomegranates, bananas, the biggest oranges he’d seen in years. He remembered Layla feeding him one at their wedding, remembered thinking they were the best thing he’d ever tasted. As if to read his mind, she took one for herself and handed him the entire bag.

“Exploring. Getting breakfast. Your phone’s been buzzing, I think your friend needed you,” She said, the spirited tone in her voice never dropping as she slumped on the bed, “I still stink of airport,”

“Go take a shower,” Marc resolved quickly, peeling back the orange, the sticky juice running over his fingers immediately. Fresh, better than any fruit he’d had in England that had been packaged and stored and frozen.

He barely saw the way her eyes twitched at the word as she tucked into her own fat slices of the citrus. “Can’t, there’s only a bathtub,” She said, cheeks full with syrup, “I think they were expecting a honeymoon, there’s all petals and candles and shit,” She said, her eyes flicking to the window to see the outside world.

“So just have a bath-”

“What’s your friend say?” She cut him off, though there was no malice in her tone. Only intrigue.

Wiping his hand clean, he reached into his pocket for his crappy burner phone. The single text from his friend with a thousand connections all over Cairo read:

Harrow is here. Aali’s waiting in Khan el-Khalili for you and your friend, said he’s got insight where they’re heading. Said some of Harrow’s men are on his tail. Better hurry, Spector.

Marc expected as much, though he’d have thought he’d have at least enough time to have breakfast before the day’s stress would already begin.

“One of his informants is waiting for us not far from here. I’ll call us a cab,” Marc replied, scarfing down the last of the tender segments, trying not to groan at how they exploded in his mouth.

“Informants,” She echoed, her eyes wandering the ceiling as she herself let the saccharine juice slide down her throat, “Makes us sound like James Bond. Although I’m pretty sure the movies would have gone a lot different if Bond got killed and resurrected by some ancient deities,”

Marc said nothing, focusing his attention on looking for a nearby taxi rank.

“I mean I suppose they do kind of have him die over and over again, when they need fresh meat to keep their movies running. I never really understood the whole thing for Bond, he seems narcissistic, arrogant at best. If you ask me, the movies don’t need more men fucking the pretty women and killing anyone they can get their hands on. The entire thing is just sixty years worth of men tugging themselves to fast cars and blood and the two dimensional women getting seduced by the hot sociopath-”

“Something’s wrong,” Steven said from inside the body, the first he’d spoken up in two days, “Something’s wrong with her,”

“Aside from the fact she doesn’t know when to shut up?” Marc asked, though he too had noted the unusually chatty mood she was in today, “No wonder you two get along so well,”

“Marc,” He snapped, his brown eyes large and concerned as he stared at her from the mirror, “I’m serious. She never waffles on like that unless she’s bothered by something,”

“And the whole shaken not stirred thing? Talk about pretentious-”

“She’s talking about the politics of a martini. I think she’s just had an extra dose of sugar this morning,” Marc shut his phone off after confirming a cab, his own hardened eyes flicking to where the woman seemed to be lost in her own spiel to even notice he hadn’t yet said a word.

“Talk to her,” Steven ordered, though his eyes never tore from her troubled gaze at the ceiling.

“And like, were it any other franchise, twenty seven movies seems ridiculous. Imagine twenty seven Harry Potter movies? Everyone would be old as hell by the time they finished. Harry Potter and the Midlife Crisis sounds shit-”

“Are you feeling okay?” Marc cut her off, her head snapping to his as if to be yanked out of a train of thought. Her eyes looked bleary, as if she still had yet to fully awaken.

“Huh?” She asked, briefly looking away to grab a plump, fuzzy peach out of the netted bag, “Yeah, I’m peachy,” She snickered to herself before realising he wasn’t laughing at all. Not even a small smile. “Come on, that one was too obvious,”

“Steven said you’re trying to distract yourself,” He said, a hint of an accusation in his tone. He caught the moment her innocent expression faltered for a slight second, before the mask slipped back on and her bright smile was plastered across her too tightly scrunched cheeks.

“Nonsense.” She brushed off, though her eyes quickly trailed away from his, leaning for a small backpack of her belongings. “Are we heading out now?”

With that, the woman strode towards the front door, dropping her sunglasses back over her eyes.

“I’ll meet you down there,” She said over her shoulder, briskly leaving Marc to get some real clothes on for the day, having only slept in an old shirt and some shorts.

“I’m telling you, mate. There’s something up,” Steven said, finally turning to his alter who stood, lost for words, his eyes softening at her retreating figure.

And Marc knew he was right. He could deny it all he liked, but it didn’t stop it from being true.

And just like that, the woman had become a total mystery to him once more.

“So where exactly was it you said your informant was?” She asked, the two of them standing in a back alley, Marc’s eyes glued to his phone as he awaited further instructions.

“Somewhere around here- you know it’s kind of difficult to type these things when he’s being tracked by trained mercenaries,” Marc snipped, making the woman roll her eyes as she leaned against the sandstone wall. Sighing through her nose and pursing her lips, she readied to open her mouth again, no doubt about to say something that would only serve to piss him off more when her ears caught the sound of a muffled scream.

Head flicking up to the top of one of the buildings, she scanned Marc’s face for any sign of alarm, only to find him still staring at his little black phone in frustration. Thinking she was simply imagining it, she readied herself to brush the sound off, when she heard it again, a moan of pain accompanying the yelp.

“Did you hear that?” She asked, standing up straight, her ears pricked to the rooftops.

“Huh?” Marc sounded annoyed, though his face melded into concern when he saw the focused look in her eyes, attention caught between the terraces, “What? Hear what-“

“Shhh,” She raised her hand to silence him, slapping her hand fully over his mouth when his lips parted with a pissed off quip ready to roll off his tongue. Her head snapped to one rooftop in particular, her eyes wide and worried as she heard the switch of a blade, a gasp of a beaten man and a chuckle of five, sinister voices. “They got him, they got your friend.”

“Where?” Marc asked, phone long forgotten as he grabbed her hand off his mouth, barely needing to question how she knew. His senses had become so far enhanced with Khonshu’s suit as well, it was only natural that she’d started to feel the full effects of her powers too.

“Over there,” She pointed in the general direction as Marc immediately set off for a fire escape leading to the upper levels.

“You stay here, I’ll go get him-”

“What- Stay here?” Came her immediate protest, “I can help! Let me help,”

“Absolutely not, you’ll just slow me down,” Reeling back in offence, Marc cast her a glance when he saw the hurt in her face, her lips pouting slightly and eyes drooping in sadness, “Don’t give me that look. I just don’t want you to see something you might not like,”

Marc knew what those mercenaries would do to his informant, what they would do to them if they so happened to stumble across them. The thought of their dirty, blood stained hands on her, hurting her, it was enough to have Marc disregard any kind of puppy dog eyes she gave him. No matter if it did make his chest twinge with guilt. He should be nicer to her, he chastised himself.

“Let the mutt have a chance,” Teased a booming voice from behind the two of them. Dove whirled around, stumbling backwards into Marc’s chest when she saw a ten foot tall skeleton of what seemed to be a bird-man type animal. Its concave eyes leered down a long beak at her smaller figure, the huge creature seemingly quite relaxed as it leaned in, its chest broad covered in wraps of linen as if he were once mummified.

Jumping back in freight as the bird got closer, Dove yelped as she felt Marc’s arms wrap around her biceps to stop her from stumbling over herself, “What the fuck is THAT?”

Khonshu only laughed, his deep timbre shaking her to her bones.

“This is Khonshu, I’m his avatar. Same way you’re Seth’s.” Marc said bitterly, glaring at the stupid bird that seemed to find her terror hilarious.

“I think my little lamb would do nicely, Spector,” Came another voice, and a dark phantom emerged from behind the silhouette of the bird headed god. The air escaped her lungs, and she would have stumbled even further back had Marc not been behind her, Seth’s dark face coming into view as if he had been summoned by the very mention of his name, as was the rule with every child’s nightmare.

His night black eyes peered down at her from atop a set of grinning, blade-sharp teeth, jaws pulled into a mix of amusement and threat. His body towered over even Khonshu once he stood at full height, broad arms muscled and fleshed out unlike the skeleton, his own staff also grinning at the horrified woman.

“Come now, little lamb,” His dark growl of a voice had her knees weakening and bones shaking the moment she heard it. The voice that had been haunting her since that night in London, when she’d woken up with blood covering her head to toe. “We’ve got a job to do,”

She couldn’t go back, she couldn’t go so easily this time.

“Keep away from me,” She hissed, Marc releasing her as she trembled and retreated when Seth began prowling towards her, “I’m warning you, I am not going back to being your little puppet again- this is my body- you’d do well to get that into your head real fast-“

Seth simply laughed, Khonshu echoing him, making Marc’s head whip towards the moon god with an irritated frown. It was clear she was terrified, as would Marc be if he had a master so cruel and heinous to be controlled by. The thought only twisted the knife of guilt chiselling away at his gut further.

“Can’t you get him to leave her be?” Marc snapped, turning his attention to his own god with a sneer and a cold look in his once soft eyes, “We’re more than capable of handling a few mercs, why drag her into this?”

“I am not the one who dragged her into this, I would remind you, Spector,” Khonshu’s words cut deep, hardening the man’s expression more, “And even if I wished to stop this, Setekh is brother to Osiris. He holds more power, both in the eyes of the Ennead and in his own being, than I ever will. To go against him would be a death sentence for us both.”

Marc sucked his teeth, not ignorant to the commotion between the two to his right. Seth leaned in, a large, clawed hand outstretched as if to stroke her hair in an unnervingly gentle fashion. The same way he had the first moment he’d met the god of death. It reminded Marc of a patronising father, caressing a dimwitted child, or even an unsuspecting dog heeling for treats. The hand was met with a swift strike away by the human woman, eyes wide with fear, chest rattling with dread, akin to a cornered cat lashing out in self defence.

The four beings seemed to stop with her action. Marc’s eyes went between her and Seth, and for once Khonshu seemed to have gone quiet. And then, after a moment of painful emptiness, Seth chuckled once more. Not amused anymore, but a bitter rumble of fury, one that had Dove’s heart plummeting into her stomach, feeling as if the entire contents of it would come up any second now.

“The little lamb has fire?” Seth’s canine like head tilted, his tall, pointed ears going with it. Though, they didn’t flop like a dog’s would, no. They seemed to point towards her, sensing the unfiltered terror that washed through her bloodstream. A predator locked in on its prey. A wolf descending on a lone sheep.

“Keep away from me,” She repeated, the anger still in her tone, though it had now been diluted by the fear, the tremble in her throat giving her away. Seth grinned, though the smile was tainted. The jaw pulling into a snarl, his face becoming all the more sinister.

“I told you. You’re mine now, lamb,” He barked, his hand darting out and roughly grabbing a thick knot of her hair from the back of her skull, a mewl of shock slipping past her lips, “You’d do well to obey me next time,”

Obey. Obey him. She could think of nothing worse. She wanted to just kick and scream and spit and lash out all the more, writhe away from his touch, his touch that reminded her of his. As if he was no longer a ghost from her past, but was now haunting her still through the God of Death. She was tired of her body being taken from her; tired, so fucking tired of being told to sit and obey. She had obeyed. She had sat patiently, been the compliant little girl bending to a man’s vile words, she had been putty in his wretched palms.

She had obeyed him before, and now Grace was gone.

There was a single second where her gaze cut to Marc’s, eyes pleading with his coffee brown irises that seemed to diminish in all of their anger the moment she locked eyes with him, begging for help with a childlike terror, mouth pursed open ready to scream.

“Mar-” Was all she whimpered, before Seth’s claws latched onto her and her expression froze.

Marc was sure he’d killed her, was sure he’d crushed her fragile cranium in his bare hand just to prove to her the consequences of lashing out, the breath escaping his own lungs as he watched it happen, half guessing he was about to bite down on her soft face with those monstrous teeth of his.

But there was no blood, no chunks of flesh ripped from her as he thought. No scream of pain and torture.

Instead her scared face morphed into one of an entranced nothingness, eyes drooping from their usual expressive nature, chest evening out into calm breaths. Her pupils swirled in their pools of inky blackness, growing, devouring the rest of her iris, the whites of her corneas disappearing as the darkness took over, until she, too, looked down at him with malicious black sockets.

Her suit grew around her. Spreading over her clothes: a tight, black second-skin, gold bone-like details spindling around her limbs as the sable suit spread down her entire body. The muzzle slipped over her mouth and nose, as if she were a dangerous mutt in need of chaining. Controlling. Being taught to heed to its master. Marc knew it was Seth’s way of making her feel even less in control.

He said her name, taking a wary step in her direction, approaching a cornered animal in a snare. Her head seemed to tilt, midnight eyes locking in on his wary figure, though there was nothing behind those pools of darkness that gave hint to any recognition from the woman.

Because she was not there anymore. This was not her. This was Seth’s pawn, his puppet. His mongrel of a marionette. His Hellhound.

He called for her again, raising a large, olive hand in her direction, even if to lower the muzzle, even if to make her more human and less animal, only to be met by a husky growl from behind the wretched thing, a warning to keep away.

Marc’s chest felt pierced seeing her like this. Entirely not herself, entirely Seth’s play thing. A wild beast that would rip him to shreds if she got the chance. The healed bite on his thigh burned where she’d attempted it last time.

Seth laughed again, releasing his grip on her skull, where the two, upright ears now grew out of the hardened metal mask, no doubt an ego boost to his own handsome features.

“Don’t bother, Spector,” The god rumbled with sick delight, the woman’s head lowering at her master's voice, “She is entirely mine until I say so,”

Marc’s chest puffed out in annoyance, daring to stare down the God of Death for the offending comment. She was not his, she was a person. She was her own person, with her own mind and body that had been stolen from her, if a mind and body could even be taken from someone. Her soul; her sweet, gentle soul that Marc had started to adore was lost from those eyes, those feral caves of shadows that scanned the rooftops for their target. The life was gone from them, smothered by the darkness, by the bloodlust. The Hellhound was all that remained.

She stopped at one particular point as she had done when she was once again herself, waiting obediently by her master's side for a command.

He gave none, simply looking down at her approvingly before nodding a head in the direction of the mercenaries. That was all the signal she needed.

Marc had barely any time to prepare himself before he was scrambling after her darting figure, a black streak in front of his eyes that seemed to move faster than even his own brain could keep up with.

The hunt was on. The Hellhound had smelled blood.

She had given him a run for his money, quite literally. The Hellhound was fast, lithe, stealthy. Silent even when running at full pelt towards her target, even when jumping between buildings and sliding under thick planks of wood left over from decaying furniture. Never ceasing for breath, never slowing down for her partner in crime who was struggling with his human lungs to keep up with her.

Finally, the five mercs came into view, along with his informant who had certainly seen better days. His bloody nose and busted eye seemed the least of his worries however when Marc caught the glint of a switchblade in the sunlight, the knife being plunged into his gut before the two of them could get there, no matter how fast they had been.

Hellhound made the vault between the buildings in one, landing on the edge of the rooftop effortlessly, her demonic eyes narrowing in on the five men that stared back at them. Marc was shortly behind her, hopping down the short wall to the rest of the terrace he huffed as he caught his breath, coming to stand beside the woman.

“Oh shit,” Marc started, the mercenaries turning to look at the odd pair that watched them tensely, “You killed him? We needed to talk to that guy about a dig site,”

The men smirked, eyeing up the Hellhound with malicious intrigue. They missed the way her gloved fingers extended out into deadly claws, or the way her eyes honed in on the large blades they wielded, thinking of every way she would be able to disarm them.

“Guess I’m gonna have to talk to you instead,” Marc sighed, taking a single step towards the men as Hellhound widened her stance, two of them breaking away from their group to come near her.

“You’re too late. You’re never gonna find Harrow,” The tallest one commented, tossing his blade into the air in a gloating fashion, his smirk never leaving his face.

“Really?” Marc asked, watching the display with a tired eye roll, “Oh, what are we dancin’? We fightin’? What are we gonna do?”

The man carved a line in front of him with his blade stepping towards Marc while two of the others headed for the woman who had yet to show any sign of alarm at the scene. Marc readied himself to avoid the blades, his fists coming up to block his gut, hoping she would leave some part of them for the crows to pick at atleast.

He had seen what she had done to those Jackals. Men with knives wouldn’t touch her.

As if on cue, the men lunged for each of them. Marc busied himself with the three coming his way, a boy no older than sixteen following his peers blindly with a knife that looked uncomfortable in his young palm. But the bloodshed came from Hellhound.

The more broad of the two went first, serrated blade outstretched from his meaty arm. His hand was soon stopped by four blade-like claws digging into his wrist, slicing his veins down to the bone, blood spurting from him near immediately. He squealed, though the shock of his hand nearly being ripped off was nothing when her other palm was brought across his face in a slashing motion.

A centimetre higher and his eye would have been taken clean out.

The knife was dropped, a petrified look in the man’s eyes as thick blood streamed down his jaw, the second man ducking out from behind him with his own knife ready. He threw one slash towards her neck, already protected with a thick layer of the leather like suit, making the small weapon effectively useless had he even gotten close to her.

Which he didn’t.

She’d already easily dodged his advance, coming up to grab the back of his shoulder and smash his face against the stone wall behind them with a sickening crunch. Three of his teeth spilled onto the stone floor, nose flooding with the metallic liquid that dripped into his mouth. Claws dragged up into his hair, pressing harder than Seth had when he had grabbed her in a similar way, until she felt flesh squish and blood trickle over her palm. The man screamed, squirming under her grasp, which only had her holding on tighter, wrenching at his skull until he dropped to his knees and the knife slipped from his grasp with the white hot pain he was in.

Her gaze dropped to her left where Marc was still fighting the men that had headed for him, only to hear the younger boy behind them.

“In your face, foreigner,” He spoke in his Arabic tongue, throwing his smaller blade towards Marc’s head as the man was busy fending off an attacker.

But the blade never made it far. Her black, leathered hand snatched the knife by its serrated edge, though the woman did not show any signs of wincing at the sharp blade. Why would she? When all she felt was a lust for revenge watching the boy shrink back in fear, realising he was now without a weapon and had drawn the attention of the wolf looking creature.

She was a picture of a nightmare as she tossed his knife to the ground effortlessly, the darkness of her eyes swirling with rage as she stepped towards him. Hellhound wasn’t sure who that man was, the man who had tried to touch her infront of her master, the same man who had tried to caress her last time she was freed. She didn’t know him, but there was part of her writhing with anger that he had almost been harmed. Didn’t care for him, but was ready to rip this boy to shreds for attempting to hurt the man.

“Wait!” Marc called, knowing what she was about to do to that child. The two men that cowered, soaked in blood, were evidence enough that she was just as brutal as she had been the last time she’d been freed. But that boy was just a kid. Hellhound may not have a moral compass but he sure as hell did. As did Dove. And he knew she would hate herself if she knew what she was doing. If she hurt a kid. “Stop!”

But he didn’t have to intervene as the other man he’d been fighting tackled her from behind. The distraction seemed to have been her downfall as he managed to restrain his arms to her sides. She let out a snarl of anger, throwing her head back in an attempt to fend him off, only for him to wrestle her towards the edge of the building. Digging her heels into the floor, she squirmed, thrashing in his hold enough to have him loosen the slightest amount. She managed to dig her claws into his thigh, the man yawping in pain, shoving her hard to the side, aiming to have her over the side of the rooftop.

Call it luck on the man’s part, but his desperate strength seemed to be enough to toss her over the sharp drop, over the edge of the four story building, high enough for anyone to break enough bones to cause serious damage. If not death.

Marc had barely been able to stop her, though he knew better than those men that Seth would heal her, since he’d been so preoccupied fighting his own challenger, one he’d only just been able to disarm before she’d been thrown.

“Marc, don’t do it, Marc” Steven begged from the reflection of the knife, “Stop it, go help her. Just stop this,” The English man pleaded, his eyes worried as Marc began to feel a pull from inside the body.

His breath drew short, his head switching between the alters as Steven used his moment of weakness to take over, his only thought being to help his Dove.

Marc took over the body once more, ripping his consciousness back from Steven, to find himself in a taxi?

Taking a quick moment to understand where he was, he turned to the driver with a panicked tone, “Stop, please!” He asked, his Arabic rusty from what he’d been able to pick up on his missions and through Layla.

“You’re speaking Arabic, eh?” The driver asked, bustling around in his seat to glare at Marc. “Why are you acting like a foreigner?”

“Where are you taking me?” The man demanded, sure he already seemed batshit crazy to the innocent driver who looked just as confused as Marc felt.

“You said picking up your friend?” He replied, a pissed off look on his face. As if to have summoned the beast herself, a loud slam hit the bonnet of the taxi. It happened almost too fast, Hellhound stood tall on the car, a dent where she had dragged herself up onto the metalwork, her targets back in her sight. It wasn’t until Marc ducked out the car that he saw the five guys coming out of the building, seemingly relaxed until they saw the seething woman staring at them.

“Let me talk to you,” Marc yelled over the bustle of the traffic. The men looked at one another, the two of the more bloodied men taking one glance at where the woman hopped off the bonnet and scrambled to get away, leaving their other three partners on their own.

“You just let us go man,” The youngest said, watching the two with confused eyes, though the mercenary that had thrown her off the roof seemed to sicken visibly at the sight of her standing alive and well, looking more than furious.

The trio booked it before either of them could take a step further.

Taking off into the crowd, a whippet of a dark phantom once more, gaining on the three perpetrators faster than they could have imagined. Her boots were silent as they pounded on the stone floor below, as if she were a wraith coming to haunt their souls for running, a demon chasing their shadows. Inescapable. Inevitable. A hunter descending on its kill.

Marc took off after the leader and the youngest one as they skidded around a sharp corner of the bazaar, Hellhound pouncing after the other who decided to take the next corner in a desperate attempt to lose the two pursuers. But he was not so lucky. Hellhound was faster.

Two clawed hands latched onto his shoulders, shoving him roughly to the wall. The man was lifted clear off his feet, the beast of a woman scraping his body against the sandstone as if he were dead weight. He could do nothing but squirm as her grip tightened, thumbs sinking into his collar bones beneath his thin jacket. He hissed in pain, eyes widening as she leaned in with those sinister black sockets.

“Where’s Harrow?” A deep rumble came from her feminine chest, Coptic falling from her muzzled lips, the sound of it so vile he worried of pissing himself. Unlike anything he had heard before. Something so ancient he cursed whoever the being was that had disturbed the monster within her.

The man whimpered like a babe, squirming under her hold, only to have her force him harder into the wall until cracks appeared behind his frame where her strength concaved the material.

“Where is he?” She snarled in Arabic this time, her muzzle dropping around her jaw to reveal her elongated canines, snapping at his jugular in impatience.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He mewled, his head twisting to get away from the creature, eyes squeezed shut in the hopes of his death coming quick and painless. “I swear, Abdulla, th-the one your friend went for, he was the one hired by Harrow. I don’t know anything,” He begged. She took a moment to stare him down through those soulless eyes of hers, before she gave a final grumble of feral anger and dropped the mercenary onto his shaking legs. Within a single blink, she had tore off to find wherever Marc had gotten to, not sure who he was yet but knowing he was different from these other men she saw through her puppeteered mind.

When Marc came to the second time after being dragged from fronting, his face was wet with sweat and something thicker, more copper smelling. His hands were sticky with the same substance, and it took him just a moment for his eyes to adjust to realise he had plunged a knife into Abdulla’s chest, a look of distant terror on the man’s face that soon dissolved into lifeless eyes rolling back as he fell to the ground.

The knife dripped with the last moments of the man’s life, Marc’s hand gripping the weapon tightly as he tried making sense of where he was. Somewhere out of the city, further away from prying eyes and civilians that a scene like this would alarm. A rocky causeway, a clearing atop a cliff of sorts, deserted and quiet where he could have his crisis in peace.

That is until he heard the laboured breathing behind him, a grunt echoing through the clearing. A dragging sound across the grainy sand beneath his feet, scraping against the rock that jutted out of the embankment.

Marc whirled around, Hellhound standing over the body of the man she had gone after, whether he had returned to help his friend or she had killed him on the spot he didn’t know. She stood eerily still, watching his face for any sign of life, to which Marc saw there was none at all, as if waiting for anything else to cross her path and end up on the receiving end of her claws.

A yawp of pain snatched their attention before Marc could approach her, though he was still unsure if that person receiving her wrath would be him. The man’s heart fell to his feet when he realised it was the kid, the young boy who had no clue of the world he was getting himself into, that had decades ahead of him to change his life around. He saw himself in those scared, almond eyes; saw himself at seventeen angry and hating the world, wanting only to hurt and be hurt by everyone around him as if to prove his bitterness right.

But there, on the sandy floor, the boy tried to crawl away with whatever strength he had left in his tired limbs that already seemed to have taken a slashing. By his own knife or Hellhound’s razorblades, he wasn’t sure.

A mean look settled on the man’s face, knowing what they had to do with the sole remaining witness, the last person who could give them information.

“Where’s the tomb?” Marc bit, but the boy was not listening.

His eyes were settled on the Hellhound, her figure silent, still. Black eyes trained on him, never wavering, never blinking. The boy, too scared to so much as rip his attention from the woman, dragged his lame leg away from the creature, knowing she would take the single second he looked away to strike. A jackal circling a rabbit in a snare.

“Take him to the ledge,” Khonshu murmured behind the two of them, Marc’s eyes turning down for a split second in sadness. He didn’t want to do this, he thought he was better than this. Hurting children, threatening little boys for problems that weren’t their’s.

He was no better than his mother.

“He’s just a kid,” Marc all but whispered, as if he knew how pathetic it made him seem to the god. But it was true. The boy couldn’t have been older than his late teens. He was just a boy.

“He’ll talk,” Khonshu reassured, though Marc knew he had no problem hurting those that endangered their mission, all in the name of protecting the greater good. But Marc knew better. There wasn’t a single bone in his body that wanted to threaten that kid any longer.

Just as the man pursed his lips to refuse, drawing a line in the sand that even he wouldn’t cross, another behemoth figure appeared behind the three of them, the warmth seeping from the humid air as if he had washed the group in a numbing haze the second he arrived.

“Go show him your bark is as bad as your bite, little beast,” Seth purred into her ear, his figure towering over her statuesque body. The two were a mirror of one another, her demeanour a projection of Seth’s darkest wishes. A phantom of chaos. An angel of death. A reaper of whoever Seth condemned to her paws.

A dog now with a command, Hellhound stalked forward, yanking the boy by his front with a single hand, dragging his body across the rough terrain as if he were no more than a sack of flour. Lifting him into the air, he was held by little more than his shirt and tie, the fabric snatching against his throat tightly.

“Where’s the tomb?” Marc reeled back, the voice that erupted out of her chest was not her own at all, was not even of this earth. It was a dark hiss, and gave his body the same goosebumps as Seth’s had the first moment he heard it. The boy stammered, moving his mouth as if to want to give her the answer but to come up empty. It only served to anger the girl as she scruffed his collar tighter, snarling into his face for a response, “Where is it?”

But the kid swallowed whatever words he was going to give, pulling a switchblade out from his trouser pocket.

“Praise Ammit,” He murmured. It came out forced, as if he’d been told those words by the people around him, as if he didn’t entirely believe them himself but had been programmed to cut his losses if he were at an interrogation like this.

Swiftly, before Marc could intervene and save the poor kid’s short life, the boy brought the knife up to the shirt that seemed to be the only thing stopping him from plummeting off the cliff edge and slit the fabric clean in two.

As expected, his body could do nought else but fall, fall silently and morbidly down the twenty-foot edge until something cracked with a loud thud as he hit the ground.

Which was exactly the moment Dove returned to her body.

Her consciousness was all but dragged from the pit of her mind, a surge of breath entering her lungs as if she were coming up for air from being held underwater. Where the hell was she? Why was she stood at a cliff’s edge?

Her face felt sticky, hands coated in a honey like wetness. In fact her entire body felt tight with the stuff. And the smell, the bitter iron that burned her throat with every breath.

A frown settled on her features, looking down at herself only to see a tight black suit that covered her entire body, metallic prongs ribbing the gear like bones. But that wasn’t what caught her eye. It was the reddish sheen reflecting off the black in wet patches, the viscid liquid entirely covering where her hands were exposed, the only trace of the suit being more boning up to her fingertips where lethal sharp claws lay, dripping with more of the claret vermillion substance.

Blood. She was covered in blood. Why was she always covered in blood?

She must have made some sort of wail of freight because then hands were grabbing her shoulders. Yelping, squirming, shrieking some more, she quickly realised the hands were turning her around, hands that were equally as bloodied and bruised. Olive shaded hands she had come to know quite well.

Hands that were stroking her hair, holding her head to try get her to calm down. All sound had run away with her in the midst of her terror, it took her a moment to understand he was talking to her.

“You’re okay, you’re alright,” He cooed, the blaring panic clear as day in her eyes as she drank him in, her mind ticking at the fact he had blood on his face too, trickled from a large gash on the side of his head down his jaw.

“Yo-you’re hurt,” Was all she could say, his big hands encompassing both sides of her head as she raised her own fingers to touch his wound gently. It was then she was reminded, as Marc unintentionally drew away from the sharp claws, that she was indeed a weapon. She would hurt him with a single touch, and then there would be more blood, his blood on her. She couldn’t bare the thought of hurting him. She’d rather cut her own throat here and now than harm him. “Marc, what did I do-”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” He repeated, stroking the side of face carefully, her eyes turning down in utter hopelessness. Her gaze briefly wondered over his shoulder to the bodies on the floor, her breath choking in her throat at the sight of them, the blood, oh fucking god theres so much blood- “Don’t look at that, you don’t need to see that, you’re okay,” Marc shushed her as her face filled with remorse, pulling her head into his chest, circling his muscled arms around her shaking body for a tight hug.

She squashed herself against him, hugging him back just as hard with the need for his comfort, burying her face into his top, eyes squeezing shut as if to hope to erase the nasty sight of the dead in front of them.

“Marc, what have I done?”

-

Taglists.

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[drakesfeelings]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ SO ANXIOUS

summary. you’re invited to marc’s family gathering, and everyone seems to steal you from him.

taking requests here

trigger warning. kids and young love

WALKING TO THE FRONT PORCH OF THE HOUSE, [your name] holds firmly the basket between her fingers while knocking on the door in front of her.

stress start to slowly takes place in her system while she’s waiting for the front door to be opened. it’s not her first time at marc’s house—and definitely not the first she sees his family, but still, she can’t help but be a little anxious.

arranging her outfit, she smiles brightly once the door is finally open—letting the welcoming smile of mrs. guiu make an appearance.

« mi hijita ! come, come ! the woman invites the girl inside, happy to finally see her lovely daughter-in-law again after quite some time. i was waiting for you, i’m happy you could make it, she say, kissing lovingly the two cheeks of his son’s girlfriend. »

« i’m happy to see you too ! i brought you this, the girl hands her the basket full of bouquet of flowers and a box of pastries. »

« oh no ! you didn’t have to ! the woman happily takes the basket out of [your name]’s hands, encouraging the girl to join the rest of the family who is on the balcony. go querida, the boy is waiting for you, she winks, pinching the girl’s cheek. »

with lightly blushed cheeks, the girl decides is the right time for greeting everyone—kissing multiple cheeks, hugging a whole bunch of people and chatting with them.

still blocked in marc’s grandma embrace, the girl can’t do anything except leaning against the sweet woman and listen to the conversation that surrounds her.

almost forgetting about her boyfriend, [your name] see herself chatting with maria—marc’s sister—who seems to have plenty of gossips to share with her sister in law.

« [your name] ! marc shouts, running a hand through his messy hair, lightly sweating due to the previous football matches he had with all his cousins. you came, he smiles with all his beautiful teeth, stealing his girlfriend from his grandma’s hold. »

ignoring the obvious glances that his family is actually giving to them, marc immediately envelopes his girl in a loving embrace—putting his chin on the shorter girl’s head, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist; his fingers playing with the silk material of her sundress.

he missed his girl all day, not having enough time in it to stop by her house.

taking advantage of her presence in his arms, he scans with appreciation his girlfriend—from her slick back bun to her white hermes sandals. the couple is accidentally matching, the white of their outfits and the shiny finish of their jewellery blending perfectly together.

not wanting to let her go, the boy doesn’t seems to give up his hold on her; even when all of his cousins are joining the balcony and excited to talk with marc’s beautiful girl.

« marc, baby, don’t you feel like seating a little bit ? my legs are sore, [your name] doesn’t have to repeat herself, the next second she’s leaning comfortably against her boyfriend’s chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. missed you. »

« missed you too bebe, he smooches his lips against her cheek, letting them seat for three more seconds on the skin before removing them. you look gorgeous, you know that ? she laughs. »

« yeah, i know. you don’t look too bad yourself, she stares into his clear eyes that she loves so much. muy guapo, she mumbles and he can’t help but fall under her charms—pressing his lips on hers. »

« ew… can you stop kissing auntie [your name] ! one of the many kids of marc’s family speak up, putting his hands on his hips. »

« hi matias, the girl sweetly greets him, catching the little boy’s attention. oh ! she groans when the kid suddenly throws himself onto her chest, wrapping his little arms around her waist. someone’s cuddly today, she smiles lightly. »

« ¿pueden dejar de robarme a mi chica? can y’all stop stealing my girl from me ? the girl hear marc grumbling, before grabbing the little boy and separating him from her. oh my god, look, there’s the dora the explorer ! »

« donde ? donde ? donde ? where ? where ? where ? showing a random direction, marc sigh happily once matias is out of sight. »

laughing out loud before getting trapped in the spanish player’s arms, [your name] lets herself sink against the boy’s strong torso.

his cologne invading her nose, she feels at home—surrounded by her boyfriend’s family and warmth.

throwing recurrent glances to her son and hijita—the two of them cutely snuggled up against each other—marc’s mom can’t help but be happy for her boy.

love burn in her son’s eyes; if he had to kill for the girl under his gaze, he would do it and it makes her melt of adoration.

« he’s happy with her, maria mutters in her mom’s ear. »

« yes, they are made for each other. »

@ drakesfeelings 👩🏽‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏽

[howaboutcastiel]

Two Steps Forward (Moon Boys)

[18+ content minors leave please]

Summary: A fun night with Jake ends up backfiring as Marc is triggered to front mid-coitus.

Content: Smut-ish, Angst, Fluff (the holy trinity). Handcuffs, impact play, getting triggered during sex, yelling and sad times. Reader is in an established relationship with moon boys.

Word count: 1.9k (aka the closest to a drabble you’ll ever see from me)

A/N: honestly this shouldn’t exist but now it does. Read it and weep. Also google cleared all of the formatting so UGH may be some mistakes.

“You’re going to stay still for me, right, baby?” You ran your knuckles along Jake’s bare chest, causing his breath to shudder.

“Yes.” He nodded, breathless. You could see him resisting the urge to pull against the cuffs, which were looped in each corner of the headboard.

“Yes…what?” You were straddling his waist, his boxers still on though he was painfully hard underneath. Jake had begged you to overpower him like this. He was so goddamn tired of having to use force to get what he wanted. That didn’t mean, though, that he was going to give into you without causing some trouble.

He knew what you wanted him to say, but he simply smiled at you, his mouth shut in a thin, cheeky line. You ground your hips into him, putting indirect friction on his poor, desperate cock. Jake let out a choked moan.

“I’m not touching you if you don’t cooperate.” You removed your hands from his chest, placing them on your thighs clearly in his line of sight. You were wearing a matching set of lacy lingerie, and you had no intention of taking anything off until you’d done at least a half-decent job of pulling him apart. “Yes what?”

“Yes ma’am.” He said through gritted teeth. This dynamic wasn’t entirely new to you, but Jake just kept insisting that you get rougher and rougher. He got off on being knocked down a peg, enjoying the pain and even pushing you to involve some danger. You struggled to keep up sometimes, but it was exhilarating to see him fall apart beneath you, so you obliged his requests.

“You gonna beg for me, baby? Gonna tell me what you want?” You ran a teasing finger along the fabric of his boxers, causing his cock to twitch underneath. On particularly energetic nights, Jake really liked to be a brat, forcing you to be more aggressive and truly humble him with everything you had. You could tell that tonight was one of those nights, by the familiar unhinged look in his eyes if nothing else.

“No, ma’am.” The self-assured smile wasn’t leaving his face. Jake had had a rough couple of days and he was desperate to use his violent, erratic compulsions for something that would be beneficial to him—like blowing off some steam with his devoted girlfriend. This was ironically enough the healthiest outlet that he could find.

“That doesn’t work too well, does it, baby? You know that’s not what I want to hear.” You grabbed his face in your hand, pinching his cheeks so that his lips pouted out, effectively getting rid of that cheeky grin. Fire flashed in his eyes at the intensity of your grip; if it was up to him, you’d be holding tight enough to leave a bruise.

“Here’s what you’re going to do for me. You’re going to be a good boy and tell me everything you want me to do to you, okay? I want you to be very specific, don’t leave anything out, and don’t forget to use your manners.” In your own head, you didn’t feel that you were that domineering, but the movement underneath Jake’s boxers was evidence enough that you’d gotten your point across.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his laugh was hoarse and patronizing despite his bondage and lack of leverage. He really wanted you to be as riled up as he was, and he wanted to push you into feeling all the meanness that he was asking you to unleash on him. “You know I don’t beg.”

It took a second for you to think of the right way to respond.

“Sweetheart, huh?” His eyes were brimming with satisfaction. As much as he wanted you to have control of him, he also wanted to make you take it. That’s what you were going to do.

“Someone needs a lesson in respect.” Your hand collided with his face with enough force to leave a red mark, but not much else. You knew that was what he wanted you to do—Jake had been very thorough in communicating his limits with you—but the contact shocked him nonetheless. You expected him to twitch again between your legs, but the response you got was far from your assumption.

The shock on his face was replaced by a distant stare. You thought for a split second that Jake might be on the verge of sub-space, but the tension in his body disproved that theory. He shut his eyes for a moment and you dove off of his waist, ready for him to utter his safeword. When they opened again, his eyes were filled with confusion and, to your surprise, fear.

“What the hell?” Marc mumbled as he tried to process where he was. He pulled harshly against the cuffs, hissing when he realized he was restrained by the metal.

“Marc—” You reached to cup his face in your hand, a sign that everything was okay. He cowered from your touch, panicked.

“Get away from me!” He planted his feet against the mattress, pushing himself against the headboard. There were tears in his eyes and he pulled against the cuffs again, though he knew the struggle was no use.

“Hey, it’s okay,” You tried to make your voice as calm as possible as your hand made contact with his skin. It was meant to be a comforting touch, but he jerked his head away to the best of his range of movement, a tear running down his cheek.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” He was trying to make his voice firm, but it wavered around a sob that ripped up from his chest. His whole face and neck flushed red, and he tried to curl up as much into a ball as was possible in his position.

Your mind was racing and you didn’t know what to do. A switch had never happened during sex before—or during foreplay, technically. The boys were pretty good at keeping that part separate, there wasn’t overlap that would bring another of them to the front. Though you were in a relationship with all three of them, sex was distinct with each one and there wasn’t usually a grey area for things like this to occur.

“I’m going to take the cuffs off, okay?” You spoke slowly. He didn’t meet your gaze or even acknowledge that he had heard your words. You tried not to move too suddenly as you leaned to grab the key from the side table. Careful not to touch his skin, you unlocked the pair of cuffs closest to you.

He didn’t say anything as he brought his hand to his chest. When the other pair was unlocked as well, he rubbed the angry skin absentmindedly. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks, though he wasn’t sobbing. His eyes were unfocused, staring right through the wall.

“Honey, I’m sorry.” You started shyly. You didn’t know what to do or what to say. Hell, you didn’t even know what had happened. Marc must have known about Jake’s more untraditional likes and dislikes in the bedroom, but he himself was much more vanilla. It must have been overwhelming to him.

“I didn’t realize you were close to the front. Do you need me to get you something, honey? Some water, or some lotion for your wrists?” He didn’t say anything. After an entire minute, he finally met your gaze. He wore a pathetic, confused, and dreadful look. He looked so small.

“Did you hit me?” His voice was tiny. It was dripping with betrayal as well as bewilderment. You couldn’t find your own voice to respond, and you had to swallow hard before your breath would even leave your chest.

“I, umm…” How would you explain this? You’d figured Jake had touched base with the boys, what with all the bruises you’d left on him previously after a night of fun. “Jake was back-talking me. It was part of our scene. I—I slapped him.”

Marc put his head in his hands, sucking in a deep and shaky breath. His wrists were raw from his fighting of the cuffs, as if he genuinely thought he was captive for the first moments after he came to the front. You felt guilt running through you, though you couldn’t have known this would happen.

“I’m so sorry.” He muttered into his palms. You moved closer to him, though you respected his earlier request not to touch him. His hands curled into fists and he tugged at his hair frustratedly. “I ruined your night.”

“Hey, no! You didn’t ruin anything.” You leaned to pull a throw blanket from the foot of your bed, offering it to him as he tried to steady his breath. “Is there something I can do to help? I must have given you a pretty good scare.”

He looked pained as another sob washed over him. It was unusual for you to see Marc so torn apart—especially when you didn’t exactly know what was wrong with him. His hands covered his face again as he curled into himself even tighter. He mumbled something you couldn’t understand.

“What’s that honey?”

He looked up at you, shame and dread mixed together on his face. Marc was embarrassed and, despite his understanding of the situation now, he was still scared. He swallowed a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut, pondering if he should repeat himself. Finally he opened his mouth while avoiding your gaze.

“I thought you were my mom.”

An ice cold feeling shot up your spine, replaced quickly by nausea. Now you felt really guilty, and you abandoned your promise to keep your hands off of him. You wrapped your arms around his back, feeling him shake as another sob ripped through him.

“No, baby. You’re safe. You’re here with me.” The words fell from your mouth intuitively. Marc didn’t request a lot of nurturing, but you would be stupid to think that he didn’t require it. He tried to put on a brave face in his day-to-day life, but situations like this revealed to you just how much he was in need. “No one’s here but me and you. You’re safe.”

“It’s pathetic.” He sounded resigned, letting the sobs take over but not feeding into them. “I feel like a little kid.”

“It’s okay to feel like that. What’s important is that that little kid is safe. There’s no one here that wants to hurt him.” Marc didn’t like to talk about his past, but it tended to bring itself to the forefront of conversation at the most inopportune of times. He needed someone to do the talking for him.

You coaxed him into laying down, effectively making him the little spoon as you kept yourself pressed against his back. You could feel his body starting to calm down, the tension slowly being replaced with a desperate receptiveness to your touch.

“I’m sorry.” He said again through a more resigned sob. Marc felt guilty for making a scene in front of you. He hated to burden you with his brokenness.

“Please don’t apologize, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You held him for a long while, whispering affirmations of “you’re okay” and “you’re safe” for the first few minutes until the panic subsided. After that, the two of you laid in near-silence until his breathing returned to something near a normal rhythm.

[moonshynecybin]

fco ‼️‼️

okay damn!! short fic (1kish) for forced coming out au set near the end of the story when vale has realized some THINGS ! (not everything. especially about marc's feelings for him...) and they ARE fucking again... which of course is righttttt when hondayamaha PR are like. okay you two can break up now ! and vale's like yall mind if i fall on this sword real quick. would that be fun.

“So, we think that at the end of the season you two should be in the clear to go your separate ways, we’ve built out a separation schedule for you both to use, and emailed it to you and Marc as well. As long as you keep it relatively civil after that, we think we can call the last year a success.”

“This is—“ Vale flips the page back over, finished with it. He looks back at the bland smile of the PR person. She's very nice.

He hates her.

But he knew what this was, going in. It shouldn’t surprise him when he’s reminded of what it’s not.

He gestures at the folder in front of him, smile still easy on his face, his pulse rabbiting anxiously in his throat. He asks for clarification. Finds he needs it, badly.

“This is permission to stop? To break up?”

“Yes!” She says cheerfully, like it’s exciting, and Vale knew that was probably going to be her answer, but he still feels like he’s been cut off at the knees, cold water trickling it’s way down his spine. He digs his nails into one of his palms, making sure his expression doesn’t change.

She keeps speaking.

“You two have done an incredible job, and we got together with the PR team at Honda,” She gestures at Marc, somewhere to the left of Vale’s elbow. “And they agree. After the season ends you can start to move apart. You can put it all behind you.”

Like it never happened, Vale hears, and he twitches.

He should have expected this, but he didn’t. He thought that it would be up to Marc and him, when they wanted to call things off. That they could keep up this equilibrium that had the two of them balancing on an edge as sharp as a razor. Push and pull, living in anticipation of a deadline that some part of him thought would never come.

Like it never happened.

What was his relationship with Marc before all this? He knows it well enough, created most of it. The shape that it took, those last few months of the season. All the resentment. What he did to it. The way Marc had folded in on himself for weeks.

He’s only started to act like himself again recently, open and happy with the press, with Vale.

What would it look like, returning to what it was? What would it feel like, to pretend it never happened?

He scratches at the side of his face. He wants to vomit. He doesn't. He shifts a little, glances over at Marc beside him for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. He needs more information on how to react, which way to spin this, where Marc might be, when he thinks about a life without Vale.

And Marc isn’t necessarily hard to read, at this point, though there are nuances that he can— and has—missed. Álex, for instance, always seems to know, seems to have a handle on the degrees of Marc’s smile, the tone of his laugh, when he’s upset or not. But Vale is a more recent student. Has only found it necessary to apply himself this last year or so, obsessing over the angle of his eyebrows and the lines around his mouth, the way he forms his words. The timbre of his voice. Anything to perform better, to gauge how he’s feeling, to perfect the picture, find out what Vale can do for him. A catalog of Marc. 

And right now— Marc’s back is ramrod straight, unnaturally so. He is fidgeting with his hands.

No part of him is touching Vale.

Vale’s stomach bottoms out, he flicks his eyes back to the page in front of him. Thinks. Reviews.

His face, just now. The slight pinch of his posture. The inches between their bodies.

Vale had pressed his knee against him earlier. He must have moved away, sometime in the course of the conversation.

Vale glances back.

Marc looks serious, like he’s staring down the beginning of a race. His face is calm, remote, and the PR lady doesn’t seem to notice, but Vale sees the cracks show through. A stark contrast to the way he was last week, sprawled out in the sheets of Vale’s bed, loose and relaxed, the sun playing on the muscles of his back. Vale had licked a hot stripe up his spine, and Marc had shivered, ticklish. When Vale had placed a hand against the spaces of his ribs, he had laughed, and Vale could feel it against his hand. Had pressed his nose to the warmth of Marc’s skin, breathing deep. Had almost let himself think it was something he could keep.

But here and now, there’s none of that, erased in the gray light of the conference room. Marc’s shoulders have inched their way up around his ears, and he’s jittery, frenetic, picking at his cuticles. His jaw jumps when Vale speaks, brittle, like he’s bracing for something. A hit, maybe. A crash. Marc hasn’t looked this way in months. Since— Probably since Sepang, last year. Maybe Qatar, this season, before that first press conference. Staring down the field of cameras ahead of him.

A thought occurs to Vale, sudden and sickening.

He must be nervous about the breakup. Worried about the media backlash. Vale’s fans. About what people will do to them if they decide Vale hates him again. About going back to that.

Vale thumbs at the paper edge of timeline, stares at the logical sequence of steps. Plan for the Dissolution of Relationship, he reads in clinical font. Calculated to let them both get out of this with minimal damage, please the advertisers. An amicable break up. Mutual, they’ll call it.

But Vale was listening earlier, and he knows it’s not good enough— doesn’t do enough to ease the way. It'll just set them back where they were in the off-season, when Marc was losing sponsors and everyone knew that a photo of him on his knees might be enough to keep him off the bike for good. All because of Vale. And he can’t— that’s not an option.

“What if I'm seen out with someone else, at a bar or a club?” He says, and the eyebrow of the PR lady shoots up. “Would that make it cleaner for us?”

She tilts her head, considering it. Infuriatingly placid. Vale wants to scream.

“Well, you would certainly be in the tabloids again for a few days, and you’d have to be careful not to be too public about it, but–” She ends it by giving him a knowing glance that makes him feel like live ants are crawling under his skin. He doesn’t want to be seen with anyone else. He wants— “That would send a message! If you think it would make things simpler and faster, we won’t stop you if you want to do it.”

“Two weeks you said?” Vale interrupts, before she can open up the conversation any more. He needs to know how long he has left, how long Marc will— how long before he has to see Marc with anyone else. How long he can expect to be able to roll over in the middle of the night and watch him breathe. Count his lashes until he falls back to sleep.

And two weeks is—that’s. That's no time at all. That's a blink, a heartbeat. And Marc will be able to leave, like he wanted to at the beginning, and it’ll go back to how it was. In the off-season, when they weren’t talking.

The world feels distant and immediate all at once, and Vale can see the future stretch out ahead of him—polite smiles on podiums. Spraying champagne anywhere but at each other. Bland platitudes about respect in press conferences. Pretending that he hasn’t seen the freckles on Marc’s back play against his eyelids every time he's closed his eyes since Phillip Island last year 

“Two weeks, yes, and then you two can go your separate ways.” She says, and Marc shifts beside him. He hasn’t pulled further away, hasn’t put any more space between the two of them, but he’s being very quiet. Deliberately so. Cards close to his chest, clamming up like he does, like he did when Vale confronted him after Sepang. When he told him he’d only be remembered for that. They’ve both made sure that’s not the case, now.

Vale leans back in his chair and lets their arms brush, trying to get a read on him, do something— and Marc’s drawn like a bowstring, the muscle of his bicep so taught against Vale’s it feels inorganic—steel or brick. Something hard and immovable. Vale doesn’t look at him, doesn’t want to see his face. That would feel like open heart surgery.

Marc will be okay without him. He was always going to go, competition was always going to find a way between them. But he’s just like Vale, was born to ride a bike, and Vale can’t—won’t— let himself be the reason Marc is getting torn apart by the press again. Won’t let himself be the reason Marc can’t be in the paddock. Can’t be on the track, getting in Vale’s way.

He can’t be the reason this is all Marc gets remembered for.

He takes a deep breath.

“I can find someone by then.” He says.

And he feels Marc shift, and pull away from him completely.

[fandxmslxt69]

Here For You

Jake Lockley x f!reader (Steven Grant x f!reader, Marc Spector x f!reader mentioned briefly)

Warnings: Some swearing, negative self talk um...Jake being so <333

A/N: Can y'all tell I'm running out of GIFs to use I need to rebuild my collection. ANYWAY. This is funny because y'all REALLY liked the first soft Jake Lockley (thank you!!) and i literally wrote that one in like 2 hours and this one took a week + editing and I actually don't like it a lot but...here it is? I will probably write fluffy comfort stuff for the other boys + other characters but that will be to come <3 I'm gonna tag a few people who really liked the first one in this but please don't feel obliged to read!! THANK YOU <3

-Clem

Synopsis: You were starting to feel the negativity creep up and take hold of your mind again, but luckily, Jake is always there to make you feel better.

Word count: 1529 (mm.)

Bad days sucked. Everyone had them, but sometimes it really felt like the world was out to get you more than it was there to help. You were in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables as you waited for Jake to get home from work. It felt childish, to feel so out of your skin, but your mind couldn’t stop running through every small awkward thing that happened, or every wrong step you’d taken.

Maybe you should start working out more.

Maybe you should eat less.

Maybe you need to find a better job. 

Maybe you did need to get better clothes.

Maybe you needed to start putting in more effort. 

Maybe you weren’t doing enough, despite feeling so drained from all the work you did. 

Maybe you needed to just do better. 

You shuddered, feeling the icky feeling snake through your body and cover your skin in an uncomfortable layer. You sighed, putting everything down as you dug your palms into the edge of the counter, stretching out and taking a deep breath. 

It’s okay. It’ll go away soon.

You screwed your eyes shut, trying to ease the overwhelming ache in your chest. It grew and took your body captive, settling a heavy weight over your shoulders and on your heart, making your mind feel sluggish. “Cariño?” You heard Jake’s gruff voice before you saw him as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you steadily and pulling you into his chest. He still had his gloves on and his work jacket, and his voice was laced with concern. “Cariño, are you okay?”

You took a deep breath, leaning your head back as your body melted into Jake. “Mm…yeah,” You mumbled halfheartedly. You hated doing this to him. It was like a broken record. Everything was perfect until one bad day led to all three boys running and crowding over you to make sure you were okay. A day led to a week, and sometimes when you felt really shitty, even more, and it just left them extremely worried and on edge. You always tried, you really did, to keep it at bay and try to keep the bad days away, because you hated seeing them worry and you hated how it always came back no matter how hard you tried, and it made you feel like you just couldn’t be properly happy. It made you feel horrible and guilty for worrying them so much. But bad days always come, no matter how hard you try and of all three, Jake was always the first to catch on. He noticed the way the tension started building, how you’d start sleeping less and isolating yourself. It became clear signs that he tried to catch early, but it slipped sometimes, out of the blue and it constantly made his heart hurt to see you ache so badly.  “Yeah? You sure?” He pressed his lips to the top of your head. “Yeah…I’m sure. Just a little off,” He hummed. “Yeah? Why?” You shrugged, turning around to wrap your arms tightly around him. “Dunno. Bad day I guess,” “Aw, poor bebita,” You could practically hear his mind whirling a million miles an hour trying to run through the past few weeks, to try and maybe catch a problem. You felt horrible, because you had no way of explaining to him that there is no problem, sometimes you just didn’t feel good- but he found that hard to understand. If you were upset, there had to be a reason, right? And he’s going to search for that reason so he can find a way to fix it. 

But when you don’t give him a reason, it makes him feel useless and that makes you feel even shittier. 

“It’s okay!” You tried to reassure him quickly, pulling away to give him a small smile.  “It’s fine, please don’t worry about it. I’m just being a burden again,”  His face quickly changed from a soft pout to a confused look. “What?”  You frowned, detaching yourself from him. “What?”  “The-” He shook his head. “Burden? Who said you were being a burden?” “No one! No one said-it just slipped, bad habit right?” You tried laughing it off, noticing the way he frowned deeper with concern with every passing second. You quickly turned back to making dinner, trying to ignore him and the suddenly awkward conversation. “Amor.” He said firmly. “Hm?” “Look at me,” “I’m cooking dinner, I can’t,” “I’m serious,” “So am I,” 

When he didn’t offer something back, you thought you had won the argument, until you felt his strong arms wrap around you tightly, lifting you and effortlessly placing you on the counter. He reached over and turned off the stove, before turning his attention back to you as he placed himself between your thighs, hands firmly gripping your waist as he searched your face. “Alright princesa, no more avoiding confrontations. What’s up?” “Nothing,” You tried pushing him away, but he wouldn’t budge. You tried wiggling away, but he held you right in place. “Jaaaakeeee,” You whined. “Let me go right this second,” “Absolutely not,” He pouted, his big brown eyes melting into the biggest, saddest puppy eyes you’ve ever seen a man pull before. “Put those away!” You covered his face with your hands as you looked away. “Mi vida por favor…” He trailed a lazy kiss down your jawline. “Tell me what’s wrong,” You grumbled, feeling the fight dissolve in you. “That’s the thing. Nothing is wrong! Everything is perfect! Job’s going great, money is awesome, life’s going absolutely wonderful and yet for some fucking reason I’m once again feeling like shit, even when everything’s going right!”  He deflated a little, surprised by your outburst. “See! You’re even stunned speechless,” You ran a hand down your face, sighing heavily. “I just- I’m constantly dumping my problems on you and you’re forced to put up with them, even when you have your own issues to deal with. I mean- for fuck’s sake Jake, you just came home from work and you’re probably exhausted and need to rest to go out again later tonight and instead of letting you rest and giving you something to eat I’m sitting here complaining and whining!” He looked at you for a solid minute after your outburst, eyes roaming over your face as he stayed silent. “You really think you’re burdening me?” “I-...” “Don’t you always tell us it’s okay to ask for help?” He shook his head, his hands rubbing your side gently. “Why do you go back on that when it comes to you, hm?” He smiled but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “You’re allowed to ask for help, bebita. Especially here,” 

You hummed, kissing him back. “Okay. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be worrying you so much,” He shook his head. “No more apologising. We’re gonna go sit on the couch and talk, and I’m gonna order food-” “-But-” “No buts,” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “And we’re just gonna chill, okay? Until you feel better,” “I don’t deserve you,” You felt your eyes tear up again, and this time you didn’t bother trying to stop as the tears fell over the edge. You weren’t sure why you were crying. The joy of having him by your side? The feeling of relief, knowing you don’t burden them? The overwhelming sense of love you feel for this precious, devastatingly handsome man?  Probably. “I love you,” “I love you too, and we’re here, I’m here for you, through anything and everything, got it?” You nodded and he kissed you again, before pulling away and smiling softly. “Now. Food?” You laughed, feeling the ache that engulfed your body earlier starting to make room for absolutely unfiltered joy. “Yeah, food sounds good,”

[melodygatesauthor]

Hii!! Happy early birthday <3 I hope im not too late. Its still march 12th on my side lol

Could i please request an f reader with steven grant and the prompt “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

A Big Mistake

Steven Grant X f!Reader

Hi Nonnie! Idk why but I pictured brat tamer! Steven when I came up with this drabble. I hope you liked it!

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, brat tamer Steven, orgasm delay, cock warming, creampie, p in v, meanie Steven.

Word Count: 659

It was clear now that you’d made a huge mistake in underestimating sweet little Steven’s knack for brat taming. When you mocked him after a hard day at work, and he told you to watch your tone (in a not so playful way), you didn’t think the eye roll that followed would land you in the position you found yourself in shortly after.

Steven was sitting at the foot of the bed, with you sheathing his erection deep in your slick channel, back leaning against his heaving chest, completely dependent on him for any small bit of friction. Your legs were hanging on either side of his thighs, unable to reach the ground. If he didn’t thrust into you, then you weren’t going to get any of the stimulation that you so desperately craved.

He had one large hand around your delicate throat, and the other was between your legs, two thick fingers just barely brushing against your sensitive clit.

“Steven, please.” You begged with a needy whine to follow, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, love, it's only been a minute. I need to make sure you learned your lesson, yeah?” He was breathing heavily in your ear.

You nodded, “yeah, yes.”

You sounded so pathetic, not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting Steven to believe that you were sincerely apologetic for the way you mocked and sassed him earlier. You were so wet. Your entire body was sensitive under his touch, all you needed was for him to move…even just a little.

“Good, that’s real good darling.” He hummed while his cock pulsated softly inside of you. “You really think you’re something don’t you? Rolling your eyes at me like that.”

“It was dumb. Mm, shouldn’t have done that to you, I’m so sorry.” You shifted your hips, he gripped you tighter.

Even just that little bit felt so fucking good. You whimpered, feeling so helpless and aching with your dripping arousal. Everything underneath you was so slick. You were shocked he didn’t just slide out.

“That’s enough, I told you to stay still. I can get myself off just thinking about you…” his cock throbbed as though to prove his point, “if you want to be rewarded you’d better behave, right?” You’d never heard Steven’s tone so dark.

“Y-yes.”

“Right, I know you can be good f’me.”

Steven let out a moaning growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. He moved his fingers around your clit, not enough to achieve your release, but enough to make your desire grow. You let out a groan, one that compelled Steven to kiss the soft skin of your neck. You felt his cock twitch inside of you.

“Not gonna have you actin’ like that anymore, like a little brat. I put up with enough shit at work, not gonna have you doing it too yeah?”

You gasped as he started moving faster, “yeah, yes anything you want Steven I’ll do it I promise. I’ll be good.”

“Thought so.” He started churning his hips, the head of his cock rubbed against a spot deep inside you that brought you to the brink within seconds. “You’re lucky it was me you did that to, Jake and Marc wouldn’t have been so forgiving love.”

“Thank you, baby, thank you so much.” You were almost in tears. It felt so good.

“Next time I won’t be so nice, go ahead and let go for me, wanna feel it.” His cock hardened and stilled while he started painting your walls white.

Steven’s moan was rough against your ear. That’s all you needed to reach your own orgasm. Between his dexterous fingers working over your clit, and his thick cock sliding upward into you, you were trembling over him, cunt crashing around his girth in waves. He kissed and licked your neck while you nearly screamed from the sensations coursing through you.

You’d do your best not to upset Steven ever again.

Moon Knight Masterlist

Birthday Celebration Masterlist