#merc!marc spector

[thevelominati]

sorry, what

[agirlwithachakram]

OH man just realized something. Marc chases down the followers in Cairo and he gets charming and funny, "are we dancing, we fighting, what are we doing?" which is the first and basically last time we ever see him joke around like that. it almost looks like a performance in contrast to the rest of what we get from him.

that's gotta be a line from his prizefighting years. some bookie was like "you're pretty and you can throw a punch. you are small but you can win and that is very good for hustling. now I am going to teach you some lines to use so they like you anyway when they lose their money. repeat after me." or maybe he even came up with them himself. But he's so uneasy in nearly every other scene that I think he's used this line before. a bunch of times, even.

[moonknightblog]

Moon Knight Fallout Au?

[age-of-moonknight]

“Dead Reckoning,” Moon Knight: City of the Dead (Vol. 1/2023), #3.

Writer: David Pepose; Penciler: Sean Damien Hill; Inker: Jay Leisten; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[kingcrow01]

DC/Marvel Pool Noodle Party 2024

Week 5 | Mercs & Murder Husbands

Marc Spector & Harley Quinn, 0 fics!

@dc-marvel-crossovers

Here’s the outline of the event for those interested. TLDR, This event celebrates relationship tags that have less than 30 works on ao3, both platonic and romantic. The rarest of rarepairs!

Inspired by Harley harassing interacting with Marc and Damian in chapter 20 of in labyrinths of reflections by @blackkatmagic, specifically these lines:

“Fuck the hell off,” he growls, and gets a hand on her face as she tries to kiss his mask. She’s wearing a lot of lipstick, and he'd rather not run around the rest of the night with a black lip-print on his face. 

and

Harley blinks at him, big eyes and blond pigtails and smeared makeup that makes her look like a raccoon with a hangover, and then laughs. 

Ho-ly-shit, I cannot begin to express how happy I am with this piece! Initially I was having a hard time with MK’s suit, to the point that I was contemplating just dropping the whole project. (I hate drawing superhero suits, why do I keep on doing this to myself) Like always, all it came down to was retaking my ref and utilizing that handy-dandy line of action, and I finished it pretty easily after that.

Damian was a last minute add-on, and I wanted to draw him on Marc’s right side and a head taller (kids are bigger than you think!) but I ran out of room on the page. I ran into the same problem with Harley’s mallet; I wanted it to be bigger, but with the angle it had to sit at to rest against her thigh, I kept it on the smaller side. 

This piece has made it very clear how limiting my sketchbooks’ size is. For example, I have an idea for another week in this event, but it literally wouldn't fit in this sketchbook so I’m not going to make it. Digital art 1: traditional, 0.

I tried out a new lining style as well, and I’m never going back. Before, I was making every line the same width, but it’s SO much more impactful with alternating line thickness! I attached the lined final sketch below. Do you see how much of a difference it makes?? (Written early May, so I've been using this style since.)

Details:

I think it’s silly that Harley’s boots are covered in blood, but not her actual weapon lol

Harley is as tall as she is because she’s standing on her toes in platform boots

The tattoo on Harley’s midsection is of ivy leaves (though, it’s not poison ivy) as a sort of homage to Ivy. Not that she’s dead or anything. They’re just. Lovers. So, tattoo.

I got to put NO WORK into shading the black parts of MK’s suit, and that was FABULOUS

I wanted to give her colored shoe laces, because I love small details like that. I would love to give characters any color of laces, but some of them seem to have negative meanings, especially on Doc Martens, so I went the safe route and gave her purple laces, which represents gay pride. Yes, I know she’s bisexual, but I felt like I didn’t have many options.

[luke-o-lophus]

In Your Image, In My Eye

Marc Spector x Reader (Minors DNI)

TW: Allusions to child abuse and neglect, and to past eating disorders (nothing descriptive), body image issues, very minor talk of food controls, mentions of sexual activities and some innuendos

Prompt by @apollo-enthusiast: Imagine settling down with the moon boys, just living a calm and stable life without khonshu to bother you. You bake and cook a lot, and are really good at it. As a result, Marc gains a bit of weight and now has a little tummy. You catch him judging himself in the mirror one day, maybe fighting over it with steven and jake, maybe they're feeling the same way, and find out he's feeling insecure about it and needs some love

Word count: 1541

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"For the thousandth time, Steven, we have the same body."

Marc sounds exasperated. He looks exasperated. Just out of shower and towel wrapped low on his hips, he usually doesn't spend this long in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom. But today, Steven got his attention. "You still look handsome", he'd muttered. And refused to budge when Marc pointed out the obvious.

"You don't get it. I've got this...ugh", Steven hides his face in their shared headspace. "This thing. I have a..a pooch belly."

Marc mentally groans and pinches his forehead. "Steven I can assure you we're doing fine", he grunts.

"Are we though Marc, are we?" Steven throws up his hands. "Look at this." He incredulously points to his midsection. Marc tilts his head with a raised eyebrow. Steven's fashion in the mindspace is similar to when he's fronting. All Marc can see is the body swimming in a shirt three or four sizes too large, in a pattern that hurts his eyes.

"Steven I literally can't see anything", he sighs and turns to remove his towel and start getting dressed. That's when he sees it. A soft..chunky roll in his belly as he bends to pick up his t-shirt. He slowly turns back to the mirror, shirt in hand, and pokes his finger in his belly. Nearly two segments of the finger sink in easily, and the flesh springs back as he removes his hand. Marc's never seen anything like it on his own body.

Here's the thing. Marc Spector in the past has never really eaten. He's consumed food in order to sustain. In the army and as a merc, he had standard rations and a standard body type he had to maintain. And before that, he had always been a skinny kid. It's no secret he wasn't exactly nurtured at home. And he's even starved himself to points where Jake has had to step in to take care of the body. Until quite recently, actually. Until he met you. Or rather, three months into meeting you.

You'd brought a tupperware of chocolate cupcakes to your fifth date. You were meeting after nearly a month, a month of thinking Marc is going to ghost you. That day Marc came bearing a harrowed guilty face, and you came bearing cupcakes. Who does that? Marc wondered as he bit into one. And almost forgot to chew. It already tasted so, so good he stared at you with wide eyes. You giggled bashfully, a shy finger wiping away ganache from the side of his lip. Later that night those same lips had devoured you over and over until all the tension of the month prior was forgotten.

It had never even occurred to Marc it is possible for the body to gain some stomach fat. And it damn well had never crossed his mind, that would be what's bothering him when he looks at his reflection. But here he is. He can almost hear Jake groaning somewhere in the depths of the mindspace. A groan of "Here we go again".

They moved into your apartment a month later. Steven still kept his, and turned it into a library slash workspace for them. Your place was home. With your warmly lit study, kitchen that always smelled good, the eclectic wooden chandelier in the living room, and the twelve pillows on your queen bed: it was a better home than marc had ever seen himself living in. And then there was you. Who had given him so much love, so much grace, so much understanding. Because of him, you had moved away the large full body mirror to your study the day before he had moved in. The men liked having mirrors around, mirrors made it easier to communicate, but just...smaller ones. It took Marc a long time to be able to look at all the scars and marks on the body without feeling sick in his stomach. The day he asked if you could move the mirror to the bedroom to make dressing up easy, you'd hugged him and kissed him silly. And later baked a batch of apple tarts as a treat.

"Maaarc what's taking you long?" your call sounds impatient. He can hear faint muttering coming closer and your head appears in the doorway. Marc's instinct is to quickly cover his torso with the t-shirt in his hand, almost letting loose an embarrassing squeak.

"You haven't dressed? We gotta do a grocery run quick or we'll get very late for lunch!" you whine with your hands on your hips.

"I don't want lunch", Marc mumbles and you pause in the midst of your woeful rant of delayed lunches.

"What..why? Is your stomach upset? I told you that fish tasted funky, Marc, I swear.." you immediately start fussing over him, coming close and checking his forehead for a temperature.

"No..no...I'm fine. Just ... not hungry" he shakes his head away.

You were familiar with Marc's 'not hungry'. It could mean a lot of things, but very rarely the fact that he actually wasn't hungry.

"Everything alright, bubba?" you ask, hand moving down to caress his cheek. Marc sighs and smiles wryly,"Yeah..yeah don't worry. It's just...it's silly..."

You raise your brows in question, egging him to go on. "It's just...I have this thing.." he rubs his neck and moves the tshirt from his torso slowly, as if revealing the deepest darkest secrets. You blink owlishly at the display, then back up at him. "Honey...uh..I'm sorry but....what am I..looking at?" you ask.

"This!", Marc almost whines, poking indignantly at his belly. You look just as lost, helplessly staring. "Does it..hurt there or something?" you offer with concern.

Marc doesn't look convinced so you prod a little further, asking if that's something that feels uncomfortable or just...looks different to him. "I..I've always been skinny...before the army and the...Khonshu." he sighs, head hanging. "Didn't really have someone cooking me a three course meal every time."

"No...I'm...I have...this..." he bends over to a side and pinches his tummy roll between his fingers. You stare at that for a few moments before it clicks. "Oh honey", you call with adoration, gently prying away those fingers and kissing the tips. "But your tummy looks so nice. So healthy. You look so nice and healthy"

You take a cautious pause at that, almost hurt for a moment. Marc catches onto it quick, and stumbles directly into an apology. "No..no...that came out wrong. I love that you cook, I love everything you make, I'm so grateful. You're..., baby..please..."

It always breaks your heart when Marc apologizes, because of the way he does it. He says sorry for a simple slip of tongue as if you'd be packing your bags and running off before he had a chance to finish his sentence. So you smile at him, a cheeky little smile.

"You like my cakes?" you ask him innocently, a playful glint in your eye.

"Huh? Of course I do...yeah? The...the one you made on my birthday, and...and.."

"No no no...", you stop him, moving closer. "I mean, do you like my cakes" You give your butt a playful wiggle. Marc stops in his tracks, then groans at that awful joke. "Babe!" he groans. You giggle and wrap your arms around him. Your head nestled in the crook of his neck with practiced ease, you mumble softly,"You look great. If you feel healthy, and enjoy what you're eating....you're good. Okay?" You pause a bit then sigh. "I...I can't see you starve yourself again, bubba. It...hurts to see you like that." You still remember when Marc had showed up on your fifth date with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, looking like he's missed half his meals the past month. It's an image you can't get out of your head: him standing with a small souvenir clutched so tight in his palm the packaging was ruined, looking all shades of tired and starved.

Marc stays quiet, but he holds on to you tight, kisses the top of your head. "What's for lunch?" he mumbles meekly after a while. You pull back and smile wide, eyes shining, and continue your grocery run rant. From the increasing price of eggs to the doubtful durability of milk, this new meatball hack you want to try, and a vegan substitute idea you'd just gotten. You follow Marc around the room as he gets dressed, talking a mile a minute. He takes a last glance at the mirror and rakes back his curls, then swiftly pulls you closer. You squeak and hold him on instinct, and he laughs softly while nuzzling the side of your face. "So...remind me the plan. We...are getting groceries, making lunch, so...after eating.." He pauses but you can hear the laugh in his voice. The laugh and the shyness.

"What, Spector?" you tease. "What do you want after lunch?"

"Well maybe you....you can show me how good you think I look?" he says hopefully. You turn around to kiss him, nodding excitedly. "Deal", you whisper, before pulling back and giggling. "I thought you're about to ask me to have you for dessert"

Marc facepalms with another groan.

[lizzie-is-here]

lonely is a man without love

part i- the mission

“and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness.” - mahmoud darwish

summary: you’re an ex-black widow, assigned to observe marc spector. instead, you find steven grant

wordcount: 1.4k

warnings: language, violence, idk british people?

a/n: and so it begins again :)))) this series won’t be very long, but i’m gonna have fun with a black widow reader. if you’d like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask! love you, hope you enjoy! <3333

taglist: @thefictionalgemini @ravenz-hope

series masterlist | next part

“Britain? Come on, Rogers, seriously?”

You groan as you throw the file down on the kitchen counter. After several months of recovering from all of the shit with the Blip, Thanos, Tony’s recovery, and catching up after being fucking dust for five years, you finally got to go back on missions.

And they send you to fucking. Britain. London, to be more specific.

“Steve, the food is absolute shit. They eat like they’re still rationing their food for the war,” you rant. The man raises a brow at the mention of his past, but shrugs.

“It’s something easy to start you back up. We can’t send you guns blazing into space.” He sets a yogurt bowl and some fruit in front of you. “Eat your breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, thanking him as you grab the food. “Thanks, grandpa.” You flip through the file. “Who’s the mark?”

“Not a mark, a target,” Nat corrects.

You shrug. “Same thing.”

“He’s some vigilante called Marc Spector,” she says without looking up from her phone. She’s texting Yelena, no doubt. Likely planning the younger girl’s visit. You haven’t seen her since your own escape from the Red Room, but you’re more than thrilled to meet up.

The two of you had been inseparable, even with Dreykov’s strict rule. And now that Nat had gotten into contact with her again, it was only a matter of time before you got together to cause trouble.

And make mac and cheese. ‘Lena made really good mac and cheese.

“He used to be in the Army, but went AWOL and started working as a merc,” she continues. “Seems enhanced.”

Shoveling the yogurt into your mouth, you narrow your eyes. “So is this, like, a ‘Clint-style-recruitment’ situation or a ‘beat-his-ass’ situation?”

Steve hesitates, considering the question. “Uh, depends. Entirely up to you.”

“Great, you’re very prepared.” You set the bowls in the sink. “So, how long until I fly out?”

———————————————————————

You’re good at your job. Amazing, really. And you know it.

Of course you are. The Red Room didn’t make second-bests, and you’d been cycled through three separate times. You and Yelena headed missions, racked up kills, and obliterated organizations with ease.

When Nat had destroyed the Red Room back in 2016 and Yelena, Alexei, and Melina had left to free the other widows, the redhead offered you a place with the Avengers. You weren’t stupid, so you’d accepted.

Then you’d disappeared in Wakanda and woken up five years later.

This was very jarring (no shit), so the team had ordered a 3-month recovery for anyone who had been dusted.

No one else seemed very enthusiastic to get back to missions, but you were.

So, when you touch down in a bustling airport, you send the jet back to the compound, grab your ID, and sling your bag over your shoulder. TSA lets you by with ease, despite the absurd amount of weapons you have, and you work on blending in with the crowd until you can reach your rented motorcycle.

Your Russian accent makes it a bit hard, but you manage a convincing enough Cockney accent to slip under the radar.

Now to find the target. Your coordinates lead you to a small apartment building (you will NOT call them flats), and a fake enough smile and forged documents gets you a flat one floor above the target room.

Huffing as you unpack, you set out countless guns, knives, and weapons that would really suck to be killed by. A loud thump resonates from the floor.

You slip one gun into your waistband and a knife in your boot before listening closely. Annoyed British mumbling follows.

“Oh, jeez, I’ve gotta clean up. This is such a mess…”

That doesn’t sound like a mercenary. Maybe he’ll surprise you, you suppose.

You sneak down the stairs, finding the correct apartment and raising your hand to the door. A quick but effective knock later, the door opens.

“Uh, hi?” The guy is cute. A bit disheveled, but when you peer inside his home, you see no weapons, no signs of a violent hobby.

“Hi,” you greet, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “My name is (Y/N), I just moved into the apartment upstairs. Figured I’d greet my new neighbors.”

He looks shocked. “Oh, I didn’t know we were getting any new residents. It’s nice to meet you.” You notice that his accent seems a bit… off. “I’m sorry if I’m not the most quiet neighbor. I’ve got a sleep disorder.”

You nod, noting his posture and how close he holds his hands to his body. He notices your silence and jumps.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m Steven Grant. I work at the London Museum.”

Luckily, the team took enough precedence to give you a fake job. After explaining that you worked from home doing digital marketing, you exchange goodbyes and head back upstairs.

“Ах, дерьмо [Ah, shit],” you sigh, collapsing on the bed. Yes, you’re thrilled to be back in the game, but this?

This was a waiting game, not a hunt-down-a-target-and-snipe-them-from-the-roof kind of game.

And you’ve never been patient.

———————————————————————

It’s a long month, even with Steven becoming your sort-of friend. You’ve scouted out his routine, polished your weapons, and even kept some muggers off his tail.

After visiting him at the museum, you’ve discovered his passion for Egyptology. He knows more than the guides, but is confined to the souvenir shop by his asshole boss.

You offer to kill her, only half joking, and he declines. It’s a shame.

But you’re starting to think he’s the wrong guy.

He lacks any basic survival skills, much less any fighting prowess. A dude held him at knifepoint and he gave him his wallet and phone. Luckily, you’d been just around the corner to grab the guy and knock him on his ass with little fuss.

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?” Steven had asked, gratefully taking back his things. The thief had booked it after you’d judo-flipped him and tugged his arm hard enough to dislocate.

“Do what?” you’d asked, watching him laugh.

He had waved a hand down the street. “Beat that guy up! You were flipping everywhere, and-“

It was your turn to laugh. “I did lots of martial arts as a kid. Good to know they’re coming in handy.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

Despite Steven’s apparent innocence, you’re still suspicious. There’s always noise in the apartment below you, and the door will open and slam shut at odd hours. When you inquire about it, your target/friend (it’s complicated) claims to have no idea.

Except he’s telling the truth. You know when someone’s lying to you. You’ve never been wrong. And Steven isn’t lying.

He really doesn’t know anything about the sounds from his own flat.

One day, you’re sitting at your table with mac and cheese and polishing your favorite knife, when the door below you shuts. A voice comes up from the floorboards, like it does so often.

Instead of Steven’s fishy British accent talking to himself about Egypt or his goldfish, something else comes up.

That’s a Chicago accent.

You shove a gun into the waistband of your sweatpants, hurrying down the stairs. Without hesitation, you pick the lock and kick open the door.

Clicking the safety off of your gun and gripping it with both hands, you step in the apartment.

“Shit,” you whisper, real accent slipping through as you revert to your training.

You clear the main room of the apartment, methodical and precise.

A sound comes from the bathroom and you see the familiar figure. Hiding your gun, you sigh in relief.

You lean against the wall. “Sorry, I thought someone else was in-“

The man whips around, clearly shocked you’re there. He grabs a knife.

Oh, shit.

When he lunges forward, you dodge, grab his wrist, elbow his shoulder to loosen his grip, and grab the tactical knife. With a flick of the wrist, you lodge it in the door you just picked.

“Who are you?” the man demands, readying his fists. He looks like Steven, but acts like the complete opposite.

His posture is confident, tall. He glares at you through the sweat and blood on his face.

“My name is (Y/N), I know Steven?” The man sighs, annoyed.

“Great. Fucking great, now there’s a civilian involved.” You don’t bother to correct him.

You wave your hands around. “Well, who are you? Why are you from Chicago?”

“Why are you Russian?”

“I asked first!”

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m Marc. Spector.”

Your target. The file scrolls through your mind. Ex-Marine, high ranking. Went AWOL and reportedly killed a whole team of archeologists and researchers. Born March 9, 1987. Not dusted. Suspected enhanced, unknown powers.

This just got a lot more complicated.

[thisisarcanereverie]

Cutting Ties (Dark! Moon Knight x Reader) Part 2

A/N: This is Part 2 of a 3 Part fic. (Here is Part 1!) This is also a dark fic so please DNI Minors and others. (I got a little carried away with this idea Anon so thank you for the suggestion)

Now if you can interact or want to, please do! Like, reblog, reply!

DISCLAIMERS/WARNINGS: kidnapping, angst (like a ridiculous amount of it), light cursing, I've never been to London or England in general so I'm going based off of what I've seen, English is my first language I just suck at it. I do not own the picture above but i DO own the header below, it's something that I made. I might make a few others idk. Enjoy!

Summary: You're a former Widow on the run, only in London for a year you meet Steven Grant, a goofy gift shoppist. But is there more that meets the eye?

For as long as you could remember you were not your own. Your name, your face, your mind, your body, even your own autonomy was not your own. It had always belonged to Dreykov and to his Red Room. Then, suddenly, the very color that controlled you, freed you. The red powder burned your eyes for a moment before suddenly it felt like you could breathe again. 

It was strange how one’s life can completely turn on its head in a matter of moments. 

One moment you were another Widow, easily expendable and replaced and the next you were…new. At least that’s what it felt like, you no longer existed at the whim of another. You weren’t a chess piece on the board, you were now a player. 

You remembered the day the Red Room fell as the best day of your life. 

There were so many things you could do, there were so many possibilities. 

You just weren’t prepared for the reality of it. 

That despite the mind control and the lack of autonomy, you still hurt people, at the end of the day it was your finger that pulled the trigger. You would wake in the middle of the night still haunted by those faces with a red mark between their eyes. It felt like you couldn’t escape from the Red Room you concocted in your mind, that no matter how hard you tried you will always be a Widow. So instead of fighting it, you gave in. 

You had offers, from SHIELD to Tony Stark himself. Which surprised you, but in the end you decided you didn’t want the spotlight on you and were a merc for a while. It was gritty, but it was work you knew well. You thought you could do it but the first time you were ordered to kill you couldn’t. They were innocent, they were just there at the wrong time. So you killed your boss instead, grabbed what you could, and left. You made enemies that day, one that would love to see your head gifted to them on a silver plate. 

You called Natasha after that, you weren’t sure what else to do. You didn’t know anyone else, you were completely alone. She gave you this guy's number, said that he would help you disappear and with whatever else you may need. You could feel her wink on the other end of the phone as you wrote down his information. 

Since then you’ve been running, changing addresses and identities every couple of years to stay ahead of people who may want you dead. Her friend would give you new identities and you would exchange with money that you earned at jobs you would work. For a while you were content with being alone, working everyday and coming back to your place to eat food you previously were never able to eat and watching tv. Then you met Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and Jake Lockley. Then suddenly you realized how gray your life had become, how long you had merely survived and what living actually meant—even if you were merely living a lie. All at once you were no longer alone, someone held you at night and kissed your blood-soaked hands. 

For the first time in your life…you felt clean. 

But that had all been a delusion. 

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You woke up in pain, your head throbbed and your limbs felt weighted down, as though someone had thrown two weighted blankets on top of you. You willed your eyes to open and was greeted with an unfamiliar ceiling. You squinted your eyes as you looked toward the open window, watched as the powder blue curtains danced gently as the breeze blew in. You weren’t sure how long you’ve been asleep, last time you remember it was nighttime and….

Rain

Pinching

Jake.

You took a sharp breath in and shot up from the bed as your hand went to the side of your neck, Jake had drugged you–and from the look of things–abducted you as well. Why would he do this? Did he act alone or did Steven and Marc help him? All these questions swarmed your mind but one question stood out. 

Have you been blind?

You shakily made your way to the open window, sure enough it was morning, and sure enough you weren’t in London. As far as you could tell you could be miles away from the nearest village let alone London. How long had they been planning this? To already have a second place squared away, ready, were you the first to be here or the latest addition. 

“You’re up.” 

You swerved your head as you looked beside you, your skin crawled and blood turned into ice as you looked at him. Upright posture, hair a little less unkempt, and a twinge of a chicago accent dripped in his voice. 

Marc. 

You opened your mouth to speak only for a small, pathetic squeak to sound instead of words. Your hand reached for your throat and realized for the first time how absolutely parched you were. Like you hadn’t had any water in days. 

“Here,” he handed you a glass of water which you greedily accepted, you didn’t bother breathing as you chugged the glass he gave. After the soreness in your throat subsided a little and hummed to warm up vocal cords that had not been used in a while. You put the glass on the window sill  and looked  at him and at the tray he was previously holding. Turkey Bacon and Eggs, it was Marc's favorite breakfast, one he had made you dozens of times whenever he was sorry for something. 

You were silent as you looked at him further, he wore sweatpants and a t- shirt, both clearly slept in. The tan of his skin glowed in the morning light and it looked like he ran his fingers through his dark curls once or twice. There was something unsettling about him though, one that made the hair on the back of your neck stand, something that wasn’t there before. 

Those eyes. 

You flinch a little as he raises a hand, only for him to retract it. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, his voice uncharacteristically small. You debated on what to say, what was there to say? You had so many questions and yet you could not speak. You weren’t even sure if you were just dreaming, it almost seems like a dream. A house far away from everything and everyone, and your boys were right there with you bringing you breakfast in bed. You were partially worried that you would wake up and find yourself sleeping in a plane seat millions of miles away from them, but the other part of you worried that you would never wake up. 

“How long?” you finally spoke, voice still hoarse. A moment of silence fell before he answered. 

“I can’t tell you.” Marc says lowering his eyes, something he does when he has something to hide. 

“Did Steven or Jake tell you that,” You fidgeted with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Neither.” 

“You have to let me go,” You finally said, voice getting a little less hoarse the more you speak. “Please.” 

“Stop,” He said looking at you finally with a hard look in his eyes, “Stop saying you have to leave. You don’t need to leave.”  

“Yes I do,” you emphasized, you held his face in order to hold his gaze, “there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, things that I’ve lied about. That person you fell in love with isn’t me, I’ve done horrible things-” 

“I know-” 

“No you don’t.” 

“Yes,” he said, grabbing your wrist with an intense look in his eyes, “I do.” 

It was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on you and stuck a fork in an outlet all at the same time. There was no way he could know, at least, not everything. 

“I know that you used to be a Black Widow,” he said, taking a step towards you, the grip on your wrist tightening, “you’ve killed, lied, and stole from many people including me.” his nose brushed with yours as you tried to steady your breathing. 

“How could you know all that?” You asked, whispered, your mind was pounding in time with your heart as he leaned closer to your ear. 

“I also know you used to be a mercenary,” you heard him whisper in your ear, his breath ghosting over the goosebumps that formed on your skin, “that’s how we met.” you stopped breathing as he leaned slightly away from you, far enough for you to look him in the eyes. Dark eyes that held the sun in them. 

Oh

Oh. 

The last job you went on you worked with a team, you never saw his face and he was never much of a talker. You just remember his eyes as he held a gun to you ready to shoot…only to lower the gun and let you get away. 

That had been Marc. 

Without a second thought you ripped your wrist from his grip and grabbed the glass laying on the nightstand throwing it at him. Your heart pounded as you made your way through the open door, sure to close and block it before he had time to reach it. You were sure by now you were on the verge of a heart attack with how loudly your heart was pounding. You could hear Marc on the other side banging the door with his fists. You had no plan, your heart was breaking all over again and your entire body has gone into a fight and flight zone. You made your way down the wooden stairs skipping every other step, unafraid of the small fall you have on the last step before you regained balance and ran straight through the front door. Even from outside you can still hear him banging and screaming, you tried to decide where the best place to run to when the banging stopped. It wasn’t in Marc's nature to give up so you look behind you, he wasn’t coming down the stairs either. What the hell? 

Then you heard a familiar grunt and footsteps above you. 

The open window. 

All at once it didn’t matter where you ran to as long as you ran. Your feet carried you swiftly into the tree lining of the woods surrounding the house. The adrenaline coursing through your veins hid the pain of the cuts and barbs that scratched you as you pushed them aside. Your goal was to run, or to find a pointy enough stick or a sharp enough stone to throw at him, but mainly run and hide. 

You weren’t sure how long you ran, all you knew was that your lungs were on fire and you couldn’t feel your limbs. You knew you couldn’t run much further, at least, not at full speed. So you went to the nearest, sturdy tree you could find and climbed, you grabbed one branch after another. The bark dug into sensitive parts of your hand but you didn’t care, you could see your arms shaking as they pulled you up to that final branch. It seemed strong enough to hold your weight and shielded enough to provide cover. 

One of the things the Red Room taught you was to assess weakness and who had the advantage. Marc had the advantage when it came to muscle mass, but you had experience–granted those were mainly espionage missions that required more brains than combat prowess. You always carried a gun on you,  but if he was smart (which you know he is) he took that away and was carrying it with him now.  

All this time, you thought he loved you and that you were protecting him. You never even suspected the truth, he seemed so familiar and you had that gut instinct that something was up but you ignored it. All this time everything had been a lie, he didn’t love you, he was finishing the job. How long did he have his eye on you before he made a move? 

Stop! You didn’t have time to mourn, you had to focus on surviving. 

You halted your greedy intakes of air as you heard rustling in the leaves. Careful not to make the slightest sound as you saw him run past, calling your name. You waited until you slowly couldn’t hear the crackling of the leaves before beginning your descent. Time was of the essence, at some point Marc will come back to retrace steps, so you had to make another break in a different direction he had gone. Maybe back to the house and hotwire the beat up jeep you saw in the driveway. Once there you would make it to the second nearest village because the nearest would be the first place he’ll look, use one of those grimy old payphones to call in your ID guy. 

Your feet had barely touched the ground before you felt the wind being knocked out of you as you tackled the ground. You were pinned before you could push Marc off of you, unable to do much but struggle in his grip. 

“Do it,” you growled while still fighting, “I’m not going to stop fighting but if you’re going to do it, do it now.” 

“Do what now?!” His eyes wide and intense, his grip becoming tighter on your wrists again. 

“Kill me!” You yell, “that’s what all this has been for, hasn’t it? I killed your boss and stole a lot of money and relics from the people who hired us. A lot of different people want me dead, a lot of powerful people who can make things happen want me dead for more than this. Once you kill me you’ll have your pick of the litter. Whatever you want.” You see his brows furrow as you feel his breath ghost over your lips. 

“Have you ever thought that maybe what I wanted was you?” He pecked your lips once before continuing, “that I intended to keep you for myself rather than sell you to the highest bidder.” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“Cause I love you,” Marc said, pinning your hands above your head with one hand while the other caressed your cheek, “I have since we met on those desolate dunes, that has never been a lie.” you can feel his heartbeat as he lays his weight down on top of you, like so many times before, as his words swirl around your head. Your first thought was that he was lying, how could he not be? Deep down, however, as you looked him in the eyes you were reminded that Marc was many things–but a good liar was not one of them. 

“You can love me,” you say, “and still betray me.” you hear him let out a frustrated groan as he drops his head to your shoulder. You can feel his grip tighten before he lets your wrist go, and his weight on you is gone leaving you strangely cold. For a moment you think he’s letting you go, a foolish thought, one full of hope. 

You were wrong. 

No sooner had you gotten off the ground yourself, your feet were dangling above the ground as you were swung over his shoulder like you weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Had this been ANY different situation your knees would be weak for a different reason. 

Once again you fought, kicking and screaming. He wasn’t going to kill you, not yet, but you were honest when you said you weren’t going down without a fight. You didn’t even register entering the house until he sat you on the couch with an unceremonious plop, his hands gripping your shoulders and a frustrated look in his eye. 

“What is it going to take to get you to believe me?” He said, voice low edging on a growl. 

“Give me one good reason to believe that you wouldn’t give me up.” You said, eyes narrowing, “a reason that I would believe.'' There was a beat of silence, you see his brows furrowed together as his brain itches for an answer that you know he wouldn’t have. He has betrayed you and has all the reasons in the world to sacrifice you to the altar. 

Then the lights starting flickering, 

The hairs on your neck stood on end as you felt a shift in the air, the lights flickering and a hum of something else. Something you’ve never encountered before. Then you see the bandages wrapping themselves around Marc like snakes and his eyes were no longer the dark color you used to adore. They glowed now like moonlight reflecting off of water. 

Of course. 

You’ve seen the small articles in the paper passing by or clickbait news in the media about London’s vigilante who called themselves Moon Knight. You usually never paid much attention to it, you rarely were out past dark anyway why would you? Maybe you should’ve. 

“If I wanted anything that they have,” You hear him say as the mask unbound itself to reveal his face, “I would’ve just taken it, and they couldn’t have stopped me.” 

“You’re moon knight.” Of course the first person you fall in love with is not only a mercenary, but also a superpowered vigilante. Your life hasn’t been ordinary, why would your love life be?! You groaned in frustration as you leaned your head back against the couch, “well that explains why you always look exhausted and always came back home at weird hours.” 

“You knew about that?” He asked, you gave him a deadpan look, “...of course you did.” You look at him for a moment and replayed every moment in your head leading up to this, he had a point. With these powers he really could have walked into any place, taken what he wanted, and left. He wouldn’t have needed you, but why keep you?

“Ok,” you start, “so you don’t intend to sell me or kill me or whatever.”

“I’ve been telling yo-” 

“But why keep me?” You ask, “Why bring me here? Based on this house and location it is-”

“Everything you ever wanted.” Marc finished, his grip softening on your shoulders, “a small house with a sunroom, far away from everyone, a place to plant flowers and a lot more sun than what you got in the city…A home.” 

“This would’ve taken at least half a year to build,” you say, “and another few weeks to a month to draft up the plans. So that means that you have been planning on bringing me here since-” 

“Since fate decided to give us a second chance,” he said, “I couldn’t follow you before and lost you, trust me I tried to follow you but you were so damn good at running and hiding that I couldn’t find you. Then, one day, I see you on the bus. I was a fly on the wall, Steven was in charge, but I saw you. You have no idea how badly I wanted to talk to you, but seeing how you fled before, I knew I had to be patient. I told Steven everyday to talk to you, building him up until he eventually sat next to you.” You see him laugh a little, “I really shouldn’t have kept him up the night before, but it all turned out alright.” 

He was sick, you knew this from the beginning, you just never looked below the surface of it. He needed help, something you couldn’t give him here. 

“Baby,” You said softly, holding his hands as he knelt down in front of you, kissing the tops of his still bandaged covered hands, before leaning your forehead against his, you had to be calm. You had to convince him with honey and not vinegar. “Thank you so much for doing this, it must have been so much work.” You start, lowering your voice to barely a whisper, already sensing the tension leaving his body, “you must be so tired.” 

“I am.” 

“I’m just worried for you,” you said brushing your nose against his, “maybe we should see someone hmm? Like a specialist or a doctor, get you some melatonin or some medicine to help you sleep.” You feel him shake his head before you gently shush him, bringing a hand to cup his stubbly cheek, “just to help you sleep.” 

“I don’t need them.” He says definitely, “I have you.”

“And you’ll always have me.” You promise, “let’s just call and make the appointment, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help.” 

“No,” he mumbles quietly at first, “no” a little louder, “I don’t-” 

“Do it for me?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and giving him a small smile, “please baby.” gently moving your hand to scratch the nape of his neck you knew he was putty. 

“Ok,” he agrees. 

“Ok,” you quietly repeat, trying to keep your tone even, “how about we call them right now and make an appointment?” 

“No.” 

“Ok,” you say, rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck, “we don’t need to call them right now but in a short bit here, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

You breathe in, “yeah.”

[eyelessfaces]

Okay so one thot/trope I constantly have is being a colleague of Marc Spector’s like being a merc/assassin and getting into situations where you have to flirt with a target to get information/to get close enough to them to take them out or get access to somewhere. And Marc getting insanely jealous but pushing it down bc it’s work. Be professional and all that. But then then then you have one night where he just snaps. Like you have to go undercover in a strip club and dance for a target or like you’re all dressed up and have to flirt with the target at the bar. And after the mission Marc just grabs you and goes FERAL with lust. 👁️👄👁️

oh fuck

maybe he fucks you right there in a relatively secluded area of the club and at some point you get really close to getting caught and fucking the whole mission up but he truly couldn’t care less

there's a tension between you for the next days and the rest of the mission, but if you have to flirt with some people again you definitely are more insistant and teasing with it now that you know how marc will react at that👀

(send me thots!!!!!!!)

[god-complex-12]

Can i request, "No just...I can't believe you're wearing my clothes." And "You are my love" with Marc from Moonknight.

My Love

— Paring; Marc Spector x male reader. Fandom; Marvel/Moon Knight.

Prompt; “No, I just… I can’t believe you’re wearing my clothes.” & “You are my love.”

Description; Marc has no place to stay so he calls up the only person he truly trusts. Disclaimer; Reader and Marc are not dating. Talks of pain. Confession.

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

A/N: I changed my layout, is this better or worse? Also, I took the prompts and morphed it into a little confession story. Thank you for your request and thank you for using two of my prompts.

Y/N tiredly slumped in his office chair. His head and gaze descended to the side; looking out the floor to roof windows that took up the wall to his right. He mindlessly watched the birds flee from one rooftop to another. The sun was setting, so he couldn’t see too much. He purposely let his mind drift; trying to find any excuse to not do the pile of work on his wooden desk. His hand ached for a break, and he was gonna give it that.

Y/N zoned out at a nearby apartment balcony. The railing was laced with vines and various plants dripping down the side. A cat walked along the metal pole. He, from what he could see from the distance he was at, assumed it was a Japanese Bobtail.

Y/N’s attention was urged to his screaming phone on the desk. It rang throughout the quiet room; loudly vibrating against the desk. Y/N looked at the name: “Marcus”.

Y/N subconsciously smiled. His hand raced to the phone — answering it, and putting it to his ear. He straightened up his posture — his mood immediately brightened.

“Hey, Marcus. What do you need?” He asked cheerfully.

He heard a groan of annoyance on the other line. “It’s Marc. Not Marc as in short for Marcus: Marc as in just Marc. Stop calling me that.”

Y/N chuckled. “What do you need, Marc?” He corrected himself.

He heard the merc hesitate. “Would it be okay if I stayed at your place for tonight?” He asked.

Y/N hastily nodded. He felt stupid when he realized Marc couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I’m not home right now, but I will be. That pad code is 7294.” Y/N said.

“Thank you.” Marc thoughtfully spoke.

Y/N hummed in agreement. “Text me when you get there safe.”

“I will.” The call ended, and Y/N happily placed his phone back on his desk.

Y/N was more than motivated to get back to work now; wanting to get home as soon as possible. He wrote for another 40 minutes before the pain in his hand became unbearable. He made a notice of his leave before rushing out the building door.

—

Y/N entered his dimly lit home. The light from the lamp illuminated the main room; the yellow luminescence gave the room a warm feel. It was night time, but it wasn’t late.

“Marc?” Y/N called out. He was met with no response.

He stalked through the house, making his way to his cracked open door. He peeked into the room and saw Marc laying in his bed. Y/N pillow was enveloped in the merc’s arms. Y/N laughed quietly before heading off to the kitchen.

At the thought of food, Y/N’s stomach grumbled. He didn’t notice how hungry he actually was until now. He scourged through the cabinets for ingredients. He thought long and hard about what his guest would like. He didn’t want to cook a meal and Marc not like it.

He quickly decided, prepping the stove and utensils. He mindlessly began cooking. As he worked, he felt that growing pain circulate in his palm. He ignored it to the best of his abilities.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for Y/N to finish cooking. He heard light footsteps behind him, and a quiet sigh.

“What’re you cooking?” The Chicago laced accent made Y/N smile.

“Hope you like hamburgers.” Y/N called out. “I don’t know what you like, so I chose a classic and hoped for the best.” He then turned to face Marc.

“Good strategy.”

Y/N’s eyes were widened in shock. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth slightly stuttered, opening and shutting in hesitation as he took in Marc’s appearance.

“What?” Marc asked the gawking man.

Y/N gestured to the man’s whole body. Marc instinctively looked at himself, and it all clicked. He was in Y/N’s clothes. Slight embarrassment flooded him as he stammered to explain himself.

“Oh, yeah, I really needed to take a shower and I didn’t have any clean clothes. I can take it off if you want.” Marc tried to reason.

“No, I just… I can’t believe you’re wearing my clothes.” Y/N said. An awkward silence enveloped the room. “Not- not in, like, a weird way, it’s just- I’m gonna shut up. What do you like on your burgers?”

“Whatever you have to offer.” Marc said hastily. He quickly sat at the kitchen island while Y/N went back to work.

When Y/N was finished, he slid both of their plates to where Marc was seated. Y/N cringed at the pain in his hand again.

“This is a big ass burger.” Marc said.

Y/N chuckled, getting both of them water. “I was hungry.” He explained. He picked up both of the glasses, and Y/N’s entire hand was overcome with pain. He dropped the glass in his dominant hand and then the class in his other to comfort his weeping hand. Both glasses shattered against the ground; shards and water painted the floor.

“Shit.” He cursed. “I’m so sorry.” He apologized

“Are you okay?” Marc asked, shooting up from his seat to assist the hurting man.

“Yeah, it’s my hand.” Y/N tried to explain.

Marc grabbed Y/N’s, hand pulling it closer to look at it. “Is it cramping?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine.” Y/N tried to take his hand back, but Marc’s hold stopped him.

“Let me help.” He began gently kneading the man’s palm.

Y/N got slightly lost in the sinsation. He wasn’t used to Marc being this close, let alone, touching him in such a caring way. He memorized the feeling. His hands were comfortingly warm but rough. His hands have been worn down.

“How does that feel?” Y/N didn’t comprehend the words. His mind was focused on the two hands clasped around his.

“Y/N?” Y/N met Marc’s eyes. He said nothing. His gaze was soft and thoughtless.

Marc’s held confusion and comfort, wondering why there wasn’t a single thought behind the man’s eyes. Marc’s hands stopped, now only holding the other’s hand. “Is your hand feeling better?”

Y/N snapped out whatever trance had a grasp on his conscience, and frantically nodded his head. “Yes, yeah. Thank you.” He pulled his hand away, stretching his hand for any pain. “That’s great. Painless. No pain. Awesome. Thank you.” He nervously rambled.

Y/N looked at the mess at his feet. “I’ll clean this up and get you a new glass.”

“I can get the drinks.” He followed where he had watched Y/N get the drinks.

“Thank you.” Y/N awkwardly mumbled as he scurried off to get the broom.

Marc carefully prepared the drinks while Y/N cleaned up his mess. He threw away all the broken pieces and sat down next to Marc.

“So why did you choose me?” Y/N asked.

“Hm?”

“Like why did you choose to stay with me? Why not a lover?”

“A lover?” Marc questioned.

“Yeah. Don’t you have a lover?”

“Y/N, you are my love. You’re everything I got. I needed a place to stay, I can’t go home just yet.” Marc explained.

“I’m sorry. What was that first part?” Y/N questioned.

“‘You are my love’?”

Y/N grinned. “Marcus, you dog. Are you confessing to me?”

Marc gave Y/N a shocked look. “I thought I made it obvious! I don’t just massage random people’s hands.”

“You’re not very good at showing it. Marc, you do realize, you’re a very closed off person. Via physical and mental emotions. It’s hard for people to read you, which, granted, could be a good thing if I were your enemy.” Y/N said with a chuckle.

Marc chuckled along with him. “Yeah. I guess, I didn’t think about that.” Marc stopped for a moment. “So did I just out myself?”

“Yeah, a little bit, but that's okay because, in the great words of you, ‘you are my love’ too.” Y/N said. “I don’t just let any random person massage my hand.” He joked.

Marc chuckled. “Well, what does that make of us?”

“How about we go on a few dates and then we decide?”

Marc nodded. “Can this be the first one?”

“If you want.”

“Do you think we could end this date with a kiss?”

Y/N chuckled. “I’ve never seen you act like this.”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

Y/N’s hand grabbed the side of Marc’s neck, making him look at him. Y/N shook his head before pulling Marc for a kiss.

“I could never say ‘no’ to that.”

—

[tsunami-watch]

Name(s): Marc Spector/Steven Grant

Age: Mid 30's

Occupation/Association: Merc/Netrunner | Streets

Status: Alive

Short Bio/Backstory:

Known to be reliable with a near if not 100% job success rate, regulars at the Afterlife who are trusted by Rogue with tough gigs. Expensive to hire, picks and chooses which jobs they’re interested in. However, they are also very caring of their community and people, protecting and helping around their neighborhood for free. If you’ve got a good heart then in your desperate hour, approach them for help and they might just be convinced to be your knights in shining chrome, fee to be paid at a later date, or not, if Steven convinces Marc to let it go. Not like they’re particularly short on eddies with corpo clients vying for their attention. They’ve got a fair share of blood on their hands, they started like any other mercs with jobs they couldn’t ask questions about, innocents killed in the crossfire, in Night City you have to do what you can to survive. Now, they have the choice, and they always choose what they think is just. Who said NC legends can’t have a heart of gold?  

Iconic Weapon/Item description:

Marc: Vengeance (Power Assault Rifle) Iconic modifier: Damage increases with health below 60%, additional damage increase effect with every hit sustained (any kind of damage taken). Steven: Moonshine (Legendary Quickhack) Effect: Similar to the Cyberpsychosis quickhack, spreads to up to 3 enemies, targets effected by Moonshine will not target V or allies.

Masterlist :

[theshireisburning-so-mordoritis]

hi, i love your writing! can u pls do a smut fix with the prompt sugar coma for steven/marc?

Thank you! And I'm sorry this took so long!

Sweet As Sugar

Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader (hint of Marc Spector x F!Reader)

Prompt: Sugar coma

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: 18+. Oral (fem receiving)

It was a rare break away from fighting, a little slice of normality in between chasing down insane cultists and wayward gods. Khonshu and his persistent drive to punish the wicked that roamed the streets under the cover of dark.

They jumped between small hotel rooms in the quiet parts of large cities, places no one would think to look for the avatar of a god and the pretty merc that was never that far from his side. Lying low like Khonshu instructed, playing tourists and newlyweds and anything else they can think of and Steven had never wanted it to end.

Neither did Marc but he held that little piece of information closer to his chest than Steven, like it was some kind of secret, like he didn't want to give away just how much he craved this very exact thing but for real someday with you.

They both did.

The museum dates where Steven dragged you along beside him, never seeming to take a breath as he reels off facts with an excited grin on his lips about ancient civilizations like he'd lived as a part of them. Eyes going soft on your face, a little lovesick, when he tried to apologise for rambling and you stopped him with gentle fingers pressed to his mouth, a sweet smile as you told him, "I like hearing you talk about this stuff, keep going."

Long drives with Marc that had no real destination. Leaving behind busy streets with their aging buildings for sprawling hills, forests that seemed to go on for miles, painted in the colours of October, and lakes that shone crystal blue under the gaze of the sun.

He'd tug you into him after he'd parked up and you'd both climbed out, seat you between his legs as he leaned back on the hood of his car, back pressed flush to his chest as the world seemed to slow and your heart melted in your chest at the way he finally let himself relax, lips pushing against your head with a lazy, unguarded affection.

And then there was nights like this.

Nights where the wind howled and rain pelted against the windows and you convinced them with little effort that there was nowhere better to be than in the mess of sheets and too many pillows that was your bed.

Steven's mouth was warm on yours as some horror played in the background. The sounds of screams and flashes of red all drowned out to nothing as he gripped your jaw a little tighter, body sinking a little heavier into your own and the taste of caramel and chocolate on his tongue as he licked into you.

You'd laughed when he'd kissed the sugar from your lips, when he chased the sound with softer pecks and an adoring grin as he murmured. "You always taste good…so sweet." Shaking his head at the soft snort you made as you rolled your eyes. 'Pretty sure that's all the snacks we just ate Steven.'

He fleetingly thought this side of you was his favourite, how playful you could be when it was just you and them, the way you smiled, spread out on the pillows as he hovered above you, sleepy and unguarded, looking so cozy in one of their shirts. The hem rucked up to reveal soft, warm thighs that he couldn't resist smoothing a palm over as your legs tangled with his to bring him close.

It had brought a sigh from his lips when you stretched beneath him, arms looping around his neck to tangle your fingers in his curl, movements a little lazy with the sugar coma, as you called it, setting in from all the cookies and chocolate he'd fed to you when you'd lounged against his chest earlier.

And he thought maybe he would have argued how there was no food in the world that could make you taste as sweet as you did. But then you'd brought his mouth back to yours for a kiss that was all slow, aching heat, teasing little nips of your teeth on the plush of his lower lip and instead he had melted, brain short circuiting with the moan that slipped from your lips to his.

You shuddered when he drew back and dipped his head to latch at your neck the way he knew you liked. Lips sucking a bruise under your jaw that made you arch like a bow beneath him, a needy whine bubbling from your throat and thighs trembling whilst his fingers brushed the soft cotton edge of your underwear, just barely slipping under.

He wanted more of it. Craved more of the way you flung your head back, neck bared further for his teeth to graze over, tongue chasing the light sting as a deep rumble of thunder crashed outside. More of the way he could see the gentle heave of your chest with every flash of lightning that illuminated the room, your lip tugged between your teeth whilst he wandered lower and greedy hands pushed your shirt up higher.

It made him feel a little desperate. A little eager to please in the way Steve often couldn't help himself from being around you. He groaned as your fingers tightened in his hair, the soft praise that rushed past your lips as he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to your belly, making his eyes flutter shut, his cock throbbing in his boxers.

His fingers curled into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them down your legs before he threw him to the end of the bed, not paying attention to where they fell as his eyes roamed greedily over the place between your legs that gleamed wet for him.

He felt drunk with the way you stared down at him, eyes glassy on his, lips parted and kiss-bruised, as he sank between your thighs. Nudging your legs further apart with broad shoulders and warm hands that pinned you to him, gripping a little harder than he meant to when your hips jerked at the heat of his breath fanning over your sex.

"Fuck, darling, look at you." He murmured, voice shot, a little ruined in a way that made you moan his name, all pretty and breathless, half begging before you choked at the first drag of his tongue through your cunt.

You jolted like a live-wire, like the lightning that crackled through the air outside had found a new home beneath your skin, pulses of it racing through you every time his tongue dipped inside you, everytime he slid it greedily through the mess of your slick until his mouth sealed over your swollen clit and sucked.

"Oh, fuck - Steven." You cried out, fingers knotting in his curls, sharp little tugs as you rocked desperate against his mouth.

It was enough to drive him wild, to nearly make a mess of himself right there in his boxers as his hips rutted into the bed. Gaze dark and wrecked, transfixed as his eyes flicked up to watch the way your jaw went slack when his fingers slid inside you, curling and stroking until your thighs quivered around his shoulders.

He wasn't prepared for the violence with which you suddenly fell apart. The hot pulse of your cunt around his fingers, the way your eyes squeezed closed, breath stuttering as your orgasm flooded sweet in his mouth and he groaned in response. His name fell like a chant, a sinful prayer, from your lips and with every one he felt himself edge closer to unravelling completely. Pride and arousal burning through him when you finally pressed a foot to his shoulder to push him away.

It was rare for Steven to feel smug but he felt it right then when he looked at you. Any hint of your sugar coma had fled, the laziness you had been wrapped up in replaced by a bone-deep pleasure that truly left you liquid and sunken into the bed, limbs heavy with it, smile soft and sleepy as you reached for him.

It took his breath from him when you dragged him down to you and kissed him, all lazy-heat and messy, a pleased hum slipping past your lips when you tasted yourself on his tongue.

And he couldn't resist the smile that stretched his cheeks, murmuring a quiet, "What did I tell you?" His voice teasing, eyes fond when he drew back an inch to meet your curious gaze before pressing another gentle peck to your lips. "Always taste so sweet."

Main taglist: @autumnleaves1991-blog @ecuadorlady @readsalot73 @acourtofsnakes @justanotherblonde23 @tiffanyblew @alexmarie29 @simsiddy @dihra-vesa @gingerbreadandpaper @sleep-tight1 @prettylilhalforc @mstgsmy @wildmoonflower @aynsleywalker

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Sun in eyes

BONUS COMIC REVIEW: 

Issue 17 mini comic: Marc Spector - The Worship of False Idols

You guys. You guys have no idea. This is it. This is the reason I fell utterly in love with Moon Knight. I'm so excited.

When I found Moon Knight (I'll get to that discovery in a later review) I just had to know who he was. I stayed up all night downloading and reading everything. 

When I got to this piece it must have been 3am and this is what made me obsessed. 

What's hilarious is that this mini comic comes at the end of a really dramatic Marc Spector heavy issue in which he's dark and angsty and violent. 

And then...You get this. This delightful idiot man that's just doing his best. 

Let's get into it! 

I wonder if this image of Marc might be what inspired Doctor Grant from the show. 

We open with Marc holding a machete and making his way through a jungle in South America. 

Narration: Long before there was a Moon Knight, there was Marc Spector. Though he wore but a single name, he operated under many guises... Soldier of fortune, treasure seeker, courier, mercenary, were a few of those guises. 

He was a man whom Moon Knight can now look back on with only slender pride - A strong man, yes, and thoroughly determined, but often a ruthless man, one who braved danger only for money. This is one of his stories." 

Such lovely narration. Painting a picture of a gruff killer for hire out for a buck and not afraid to get dirty for it. 

We see him hacking his way through a jungle and complaining the whole time. 

"Must've hacked my way through thirty miles of this green hell..." 

He had previously met with a drunken archeologist (probably at a bar) who told him about a beautiful ugly idol made of solid gold. 

He finds a clearing and there sits the idol 

He doesn't find this suspicious at all. 

There's going to be a lot of screenshots in this review. 

(flat in the dirt again.) 

The dog apparently belongs to an archeologist nearby. His wife comes out of the tent, remarking that he's probably out drinking again. (Marc's info source). 

She looks around and notices the Idol is missing. She shrugs and goes back to the tent. 

She has a busy day tomorrow if she's to keep looking for a big discovery that she thinks is very near. 

Marc wakes in a dark underground cavern. 

Now we get to watch this poor man try to think this through. 

"But I can't carry any more than I've already got.

Maybe I should substitute-take something else-something better...

No-The archaeologist in the bar said this idol is the choice one--the one that'll command the highest price from collectors and museums--worth far more than its weight in gold.

But if I leave now, I'll never find this place again. Not before those archaeologists do--and by then they'll have armed guards swarming this place... 

Got to decide now-cuz I won't be able to change my mind later..." 

Marc decides to keep the one he already has. 

He follows a draft and finds himself in a bat cave with Guano up to his calves. 

Oh Marc…Oh no…

Oh no.

Oh no

Marc no…

Marc no…stop…

Buddy…pal….Beloved hero of my heart…

I mean…He saves them. Marc isn’t as heartless as he thinks he is. Just cause he’s having a bad day doesn’t mean they have to have one too. 

And now… I give you my hero. The light of my life. My obsession. My sweet cheese. My good time boy.

Damn Marc, that’s a nice leg. 

Marc makes it back to the town. 

He staggers towards where he's staying, looking forwards to a week in bed and then cashing in his idol for the sweet sweet dough (get that bread Marc). 

Suddenly, his thoughts of rest are interrupted by someone shouting "Three Dollars American!" 

He looks over to see the archeologist and his wife talking. 

She admonishes him for taking so long to get back to the newly discovered temple....then asks him why he keeps guying the cheap plaster idols. 

Marc looks over to a stand with a man selling "Genuine Inca idols straight from the temple of the sun!"

This is Marc Spector everyone. Mercenary dark and tormented and angry and violent killing machine Marc Spector. 

The man that can’t forgive himself and that no one loves easily. A man that is hated and feared. 

I don’t read Moon Knight for the dark action. I read Moon Knight for moments like this. 

This is what made me fall in love. Not the white cape, the mental health, the DID, the religiously tortured soul, the hero that needs saving…

This man that is having the worst time and still he stumbles into the sunset because DAMN IT he worked hard to get there and he’s going to get something out of it… But at the end of the day, he’s no further along than the rest of us. 

He probably had a drink and went to bed after this. Maybe laughing to himself. Maybe laughing about all the close calls. Maybe crying a little. 

But he didn’t go back to rob the excavation site. He said “Not today. Not this time.” and went on with his life. 

And he told no one of this, because he’s Marc fucking Spector and he has a reputation. 

So I leave you with this. The best image of Marc Spector I’ve ever seen. The true meaning and mood of Moon Knight I’ve ever seen. 

This pretty much just sums up his life: 

(And somewhere, Khonshu looked at this mess and said “That’s the one. That’s the one for me. My son!”)

[silverjetsystm]

616 tag updates:

'Welcome to the Midnight Mission | 616' is still the current era tag.

Can be set in the time of publication. Open to the "it was X years ago" approach too.

Jet and Silver Nights: 1975-1994. Set in the time between first appearance and the end of MS:MK. Has the first supporting cast. Includes origins from death 1, rogues, Wackos, and two more deaths.

Crescent Moon Rising: 1998-2002. Two Minis and Mar.vel Knights. After his third death. Includes being dug out of his grave, C.I.A. assassinations, helping Black Pan.ther, and being a "Team." Brief snatches of retirement. Also is for the '97ers.

From the Depths: 2006-2011. The Grim Dark aughts featuring both MK 2006 and the first Vengeance of the MK. Face Ripping, Crescent Carving, Killer. After a two year retirement, Marc climbs out of the Bottom for a second chance. Civil War (1), Faking One's Death, a Spector-Acting Lockley, Secret Avengers, and return of brothers. Final goodbyes to the first supporting cast. This is the darkest point of Marc's post-merc life with content warnings for addiction and gore.

What Happened Next: 2014-2020. Ellis' run to the whole Age of Khon.shu thing. Isolation, confronting Khon.shu, and self acceptance.

[age-of-moonknight]

“Danse Macabre,” Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #25.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Pencilers and Inkers: Alessandro Cappuccio, Alessandro Vitti, and Partha Pratim; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[sl33pyperson]

hang on i think i have a bunch of screenshots from trying to speedrun this terrible series. these r like from a month ago so idk if im getting context right

it is insane how much i hate the shadow council. they are Trying to implement like, “ooohhh look at this character and theyre actually in the council!!” but gods its just. i dont like ittttt

sorry this is like all part of dooms plan but seeing him take a grenade for Marc Fucking Spector is rly funny to me. like damn. didnt know yall were that close

serving cunt

right they gave mk a suit of armour! he does look cool ngl

idk why seeing mr fantastic is entertaining. get lied to asshole. mk also rly got a skin eating disease from (checks hand) a fucking other alternate ghost evil identity of some merc that he knew. idk whats going on man.

ass

and it SUCKS bc he looks SOOOOOOOO good here!!! this series doesnt deserve it!!

this is such a spector move o7 love being paranoid. hate that the comics were like “ohhh but if ONLY he DID stalked his loved ones more he couldve saved them earlier” like no dont say that this couldve been a good thing. leave marc alone (also frenchie :( )

omg i just love the panel on the left. yes let the mask emote nothing is sexier (good boy…..)

i forgot what this was for. infinity war? infinity crisis? i dont fucking know. our man also doesnt fucking know. he is so lost.

why did i screenshot this. i think it was bc agatha. is she still getting her own show. i hope not. also hi wondy <3

another mk oh boy. 2. he is just hiding in the corner help him. 3. hehe dd <3333

“shadowkeep” i fucking hate it i haaate it. what i do love is mk not knowing anyone else except for the ppl who hes met directly. idk who that is either king

HI GAMBIT!!! i used to love him from that one animated xmen show. what a guy. thank you sir.

this still hasnt rly come to fruition in the series yet (hopefully after the crusades :/// )

hehe get fucked cap <3 also mk shut the fuck up let gambit talk to u u asshole

finally

wheres that post of someone going like “damn mr fantastics kid is just constantly fucked up we should put him down”. i want to hear the other ways this kid is fucked up

even og mk is like “fuck this shit man i dont deal woth multiverse stuff” ALSO WEREWOLF MK?? YES??? why hasnt anyone focused on this more. i need more werewolf mk stuff in my life. please

hang on i hit photo limit