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sarahghetti · 7 months

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moving day; m.k.

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

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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jasminebythebay · 2 months

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ouroboros follows samsara 🐍

#lego monkie kid #lmk #mk #qi xiaotian #nuwa #lmk nuwa #something something lmk taking inspiration from jttw's buddhist influences when writing nuwa #and how one of the foundational doctrines of buddhism is the cycle of reincarnation aka samsara #and the ultimate goal is to break the cycle of reincarnation aka achieve nirvana #as well as the concept of ouroboros the snake that eats its own tail representing the cycle of death and rebirth

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crimsonbubble · 1 year

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cw. nsfw, afab!reader, oral, overstimulation, sex toys, face sitting, mentions of squirting, inappropriate use of sento/powers, temperature play *not proofread, just pure horny

[the horny got to me,, can you also tell who my favs are🛐🛐🛐]

kinktober masterlist

MINORS DNI!!

Johnny is a clit kisser. A pussy eating menace. You will not be able to push him away from you. He’ll happily drown himself in you if you let him. An avid enjoyer of face sitting. He has a nice nose, so you can sit on it if you want to. His face and lap are your personal thrones, sit where you want. He'd have a full-blown make-out session with your pussy, it's insane. But seriously he lives to eat you out. Always makes you cum at least twice with his mouth and fingers. Also loves to press a bullet vibrator to your clit while he tongue fucks you. And everyone's a squirter if you try hard enough.

Kenshi seems like one to be impartial to giving or receiving oral. If you offer him head, he'll happily let you blow him. If you want head, he'll kneel before you. Anyway, this is about you. I'd say he wants eye contact but given his current situation, I'll refrain from it. Has used Sento's ancestral guidance to aid him tho. As long as he can feel your eyes on him, then he'll give you the most toe-curling head. Once fucked you with the handle of Sento while his mouth worked on your clit. He doesn't want to admit how much he liked to use the ancestral sword on you.

Bi-Han makes great use of his powers. Pressing a cold tongue against your clit, sucking the nub into his mouth. Cold hands are pinning your hips down to the bed when you attempt to squirm away from him. Grinding the pad of his thumb into your clit while he fucks you open on his tongue. Can't help but laugh as you struggle against him.

Kuai Liang struggles to maintain his composure as he lapped at your slit. His restraint is wavering as you writhe and twitch under his ministrations. His body is radiating more heat than needed, leaving you sweaty and out of breath. His hands feel like they're going to burn you, the pain coming off in waves. Kuai would press a hand flat against your stomach, keeping your hips on the bed while his other hand held your thigh up. He'll leave nail marks on your skin before he dares to use his powers on you but sometimes he loses himself in you a little too quickly.

Tomas wants you to sit on his face more than anything. Don’t worry about if he can breathe, just sit on his face. He gets really handsy. Like he’s moving from your thighs to your hips, to your waist, to your ass and up to your chest. Loves to grab any and every part of you because he loves how you shudder and squirm under his touch.

Syzoth has an interesting tongue. Thin and forked, perfect to wrap around your sweet clit and flick over the sensitive bud as he pulls orgasms out of you. If you really want it, let him fuck you with his tongue. He'll hit every sweet spot that he can while grinding his nose into your clit. Savors the taste of you on his tongue for as long as you'll let him. He'll lick, suck and bite your thighs as he does so.

Raiden is pretty straightforward but that doesn’t mean that he doesn't like to spark things up a little. Toys with your clit using his thumb and sends you little shocks here and there. While Johnny is a teasing and arrogant clit kisser, Raiden is a kinder and more loving clit kisser. Holds you down by your hips or by pressing his hands flat against your stomach. Enjoys eye contact so he can see how your face contorts in pleasure.

Lui Kang is much stronger than you, so it’s easy for him to take over once you start getting tired. So when the speed of your grinds against his tongue slows down, he immediately takes hold of your hips and moves you himself. He devotes all his time to focusing on your pleasure, he wants to see you lose yourself before he even considers giving himself some relief.

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hitchyboi · 2 months

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MK1 Boys- How they sleep with you 💤

Syzoth/Reptile

Syzoth prefers sleeping in his original form so he takes up A LOT of the bed

Even if he does try to sleep in his human form, he'll change back as soon as he falls asleep

Big big lizard man

Incredibly clingy

Will curl his body around you as y'all asleep

Partly to feel protective over you and partly because he is cold blooded and craves warm places when he sleeps

Bi-Han/Sub-Zero

Does this man sleep?

In his office perhaps, or in the dojo after training

Wants to hold you close but probably would sleep board stiff on the other side of the bed

Barely moves?

The combination of his low body temperature and lack of movement when he sleeps legit make him look like a corpse at times.

Kuai Liang/Scorpion

THE BEST TO CUDDLE

This man is a living furnace and would be so warm cuddled up against

His strong arms would wrap around you and hold you close to his chest securely as he sleeps.

Arm around his your waist and other is tucked under his head

Strong gentle man

Tomas Vrbada/Smoke

Okay probably second best to cuddle out of the Lin Kuei Siblings

Very gentle and very sweet

Big spoon or little spoon depending how the day went

If he's had a rough day he'll want to curl up and be cradled in your arms but would be too sky to ask outright

Also frequently pulls late nighters training in the dojo by himself until he collapses from exhaustion. Bi-Han has him convinced he'll never be good enough and desperately wants to be better

Other days he's more then happy to hug you close, nuzzling into your neck as they sleep

Havik

Again, does he sleep?

Also pulls late or all nighters plotting against Orderrealm and coming up with plans of attacks

If you do manage to get him in bed he would be the restless kind

Starts off with his arms wrapped possessively around you but will wake up to majority of the bedsheets and pillows on the floor from hid tossing and turning

Johnny Cage

Fuzzy robes, fuzzy slippers, embroidered personalized matching pajamas set and lavender pillowcase spray.

This man's got it all

He's gotta do his skin care treatment before bed, his partner is encouraged to do it with him

He's more then happy to share

The kind to watch a movie before sleeping or having it as background sound too sleep. One of his movies.

Y'all are pampered

Kenshi Takahashi

Takes a while for him to warm up to the idea but sleeping with another person

The Yakuza has him in a constant state of being alert however he is a romantic and loves the idea of sleeping with his partner curled up together

His touches are soft and gentle

Will lay halfway on you with his head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat

Takes his time running feather like touches along your body to memorize every inch in his mind

Always kisses your forehead goodnight

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qdbs-writes · 1 year

Note

You don't have to if you're uncomfortable: but would you do Lao, Liu, Johnny and Takeda having to work with a very attractive MILF who calls them "pretty boy" and such?

MK Lads Get Called "Pretty Boy" By A Hot MILF

Johnny Cage

Now Johnny knows he's good-looking, his decade-spanning career in front of a camera is testament to that. But it's still rare for someone so beautiful to be so bold with calling him "pretty boy".

"Hope you know I'm more than just a pretty face, ma'am" he'll wink in return, while he leans in to match her proximity. "Is that so?" she chuckles, "Well, I hope to get a fill of some of your skills tonight" manicured hands raking across his sculpted chest. "Oh, fuck yes." he gasps while her palm presses into his nipple, the night would be fun.

Kung Lao

Kung Lao lives under the generally erroneous judgement that he's 'top dog' so to speak in any situation. Naturally, when someone like him is reminded that this is not the case, it's... strange, but in this case, in a very pleasant way.

Lao will take being called a "pretty boy" as a fun challenge. "Really? How about I show you just how much of a man I am?" he laughs. She purrs with satisfaction, "Oh I would love to see you try". Lao dives in to kiss her; determined to prove himself.

Liu Kang

Naturally, being the chosen one is a lot of pressure, and Kang is diligent with himself about not letting any of that crushing responsibility or prestige to get to his head, he's still human after all.

But getting called "pretty boy" is enough to make him choke on his drink. "Excuse me?" he coughs, "Was just saying you seemed tense, pretty boy" she hums. "I suppose I have been" he exhales, she steps closer, pulling soft knuckles to stroke his cheek so intimately that he whimpers. "I could take care of you if you like?" she whispers. Pupils blown and chest heaving, he looks at her, and without words, she knows his answer.

Takeda Takahashi

With the amount of mommy AND daddy issues swimming around in Takeda's head, calling him a "pretty boy" would have him ready to drop to his knees and start barking if you so wished.

He may also entirely miss what was said if a particularly voluptuous pair of breasts are involved, being far too distracted to meet your gaze. In this case, please feel free to grab him by the chin and pull him in close while you repeat yourself. "'Pretty boy', huh? You're not so bad yourself" he smirks. Nose to nose with a beautiful woman, Takeda can't think of a better place to be.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat headcanons #mortal kombat imagines #mortal kombat x reader #mk x reader #johnny cage #johnny cage x reader #kung lao #kung lao x reader #liu kang #liu kang x reader #takeda takahashi #takeda takahashi x reader #qdbs writing #queuedbs

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shangsclaws · 1 year

Text

Romantic Intro Dialogues

with Shang Tsung, Syzoth, and Reiko

don’t be fooled y’all i am still very much in writer’s hibernation lol. besides that tho, THANK YOU FOR 960 FOLLOWERS?! u guys r crazy. and i like crazy

tw: suggestive

Shang Tsung: Of all the things you’ve pitted against me in this timeline, you were generous to give me y/n.

Liu Kang: Be thankful only for the disarray. You two should not have met.

Johnny: I call bullshit. There’s no way anyone found you boyfriend material.

Shang Tsung: Well if you’re such a charming actor, care to tell me why your wife left?

Syzoth: Y/n?! So all those groans coming from your testing chambers were-

Shang Tsung: None of your business.

Reiko: Y/n has distracted you from the general’s orders.

Shang Tsung: Have you ever been in love with more than just your duties, little boy?

Y/N: If I win tonight, you shapeshift into whoever I please.

Shang Tsung: And if I win, I get to test my newest set of claws.

Shang Tsung: Either way y/n will have you, you’ll always be a freak.

Syzoth: Who’s to say they don’t enjoy freaks?

Johnny: So uh…what happens in bed? Skin or scale?

Syzoth: May you never know the answer to that.

Kung Lao: I still haven't recovered from what we saw in those dungeons, Syzoth.

Syzoth: Y/n has been kind enough to hear my burdens.

Syzoth: How did your court discover my relations with y/n that quickly?!

Mileena: They have their ways, Syzoth. I know this far too well.

Y/n: You used to do shows with Shang Tsung, is that right?

Syzoth: Win this fight, and I can do more than answer that question.

Shao: Of all the things we’ve won in war, I'm surprised a partner is what now satisfies you.

Reiko: To the victor go the spoils, general.

Bi Han: A true warrior would have no time for pointless relations. You’ve gone soft.

Reiko: You’re a fool to think they don’t invigorate me.

Shang Tsung: If it makes you feel any better, I don't think the general heard you sparring with y/n last night.

Reiko: Say another word and I’ll slit your throat.

Johnny: So the tough guy’s got heart eyes? I bet you’re a huge softie.

Reiko: All earthrealmers speak utter nonsense...

Y/N: Don't lie to Johnny — you’re softer than you think, Reiko.

Reiko, lowly: Have you forgotten the marks I've made on you?

masterlist

#i take great pleasure in writing shang tsung like a little bitch #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 1 #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mk #mk1 #shang tsung #shang tsung x reader #syzoth #syzoth x reader #reptile #reptile x reader #reiko #reiko x reader #x reader #imagines

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azul-marie · 1 year

Text

— a touching of souls.

their kisses with you. fem. reader. suggestive. feat. bi-han, kuai, tomas, syzoth.

bi-han —

steady and sure, grabbing at your waist, wrapping a hand around your throat to keep you still as he indulges himself in your lips. although he is not the most affectionate man, bi-han has an exceptional fondness for kisses. perhaps it’s the breathless sounds you make, or the soft gasps in between his tongue — perhaps it is simply that he prefers you at his mercy, a pretty little thing caged beneath or within strong arms. typically at night, when the moon is high and all is silent, he allows himself to calm, to open before you and allow you to initiate. bi-han tends to lose himself in these moments all too easily, an annoyance at his expense. most times, without even trying, simple kisses from you lead to sleepless nights and sore bodies.

kuai liang —

ardent, unrestrained, grasping at hips and breasts and hair, unable to keep what little space remains between the two of you from heating up — figuratively, literally. his lin kuei ways may have taught him restraint, focus, but kuai’s hotheaded tendencies always get the best of him when it comes to you, only for you. his kisses trail like fire all across your body, his teeth leaving scorches in their wake, a tongue like that of flames licking at tender flesh until you melt like caramel in his hands. kuai is unrelentingly keen on smothering you with every bit of adoration he has; his lips alone are more than capable of proving it. you are a goddess worthy of worship, and he a devotee all too willing to bow down and serve, evermore shall his love burn for you.

tomas —

soft like daytime mist, cupping apples of cheeks, the tremble of fingers when his lips touch yours. he has little experience with romancing women, much less the gift of their kisses; you are his beginning, his end. it is precisely why tomas pecks, rather than lose himself to your lips, for a bashful nature keeps what eager will he has in check. his boyish charm only adds to the endearment, and often he finds you to be the one most content in initiating them. it’s a strange comfort, that you still pursue him despite his meeker approach to affection and love. assuring him that he is wanted sends his self-confidence soaring, and gradually does he ease into the idea of receiving and giving kisses on a more constant basis — privately, of course.

syzoth —

quick and light, flurries of kisses, all about your pretty face, your petalsoft lips, sometimes at those sensitive sweet spots across your décolletage if he’s feeling cheekier than usual. syzoth, fairly new to the concept of kissing with warm, wet mouths, tongue and teeth and all, hadn’t expected warm-blood affection to be so pleasant. he is cautious of physicality, having grown to live without its softer aspects for years prior to you, but kisses are easy, innocent enough to practice. you have made it this way for him, precious as you are. he kisses you hello, goodbye, as luck before either one of you leaves for calling duties, and simply when he feels like it, even if friends are around to witness and tease. he doesn’t mind them, as long as you don’t.

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glorysbox · 1 year

Text

bihan x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 1.1k

warnings: explicitly 18+, bihan is mean, slight mention of power imbalance, slightly possessive bihan, coming inside, brief breeding mention at the end

Your Grandmaster is stressed.

It’s evident in the way his hips snap into your own, his cock buried in the warmth of your sex. Evident in the way he has little regard for your feelings or your own pleasure—clearly displayed in the cruel way he fucks into you and the punishingly cold grip that he has on your body. It stings—the icy feeling of his fingertips dug into the flesh of your hips.

“You belong under me,” his voice is low and even, nearly drowned out by the obscenely wet sounds that have you clenching tightly around him. “Be glad that you have this opportunity.”

You don’t respond. It’s not like you can, anyway—your face is buried into the mat of the floor, lips bitten as you desperately try to prevent any moans that Bi-han forces out of you. Your wetness pools around the base of his cock, sticky strings breaking with each pull out of you and reforming with each brutal push inside of you. It dribbles down, down your thighs, staining the mat under the both of you. Messy enough to be clinging to his balls and painting his thighs. Had you not been turned away from him—face down and ass up—you’d be able to notice the way he’s struggling to hold back the noises that threaten to escape his throat. You’d be able to see the way he bites his lip; see the way that his eyebrows are so tightly drawn together and see the way his cheeks are painted a rosy shade of pink. There’s a reason why he only fucks you from behind.

You are glad, though. It’s beyond you why Bi-han has taken such a liking to specifically you—despite being Lin Kuei, you perform significantly worse than your peers and struggle to keep up with the intensive training that you’re all forced to endure every day. It’s clear that he only keeps you around for one reason. Stress relief.

There’s a part of him that secretly relishes in the way you’re so much weaker than he is.

Bi-han doesn’t ever touch you. Doesn’t truly ever lay claim to your body through possessive touches as much as you secretly would like—but you don’t complain. You never complain. The fact that your Grandmaster comes to you of all people to relieve his stress is enough—and you do your best to help him. You really do. It’s not shown on his face, evident in his words or displayed in his actions, but Bi-han does truly enjoy how easily you bend to his will. He finds himself reveling in how easily controlled you are—and you don’t mind. You never do. It’s okay for him to use you… he is your Grandmaster, after all.

Cold fingers snake their way up your body, resting on your back—dipping in the center to push you further towards the ground. You shudder. Bi-han, for once, decides to not be (so) rough with you. This time, he won’t bury your face into the mat and grip your hair and force you to take the brutal pace of his cock until you’re cumming all over him. He’s in a good mood today.

Bi-han takes advantage of the way he’s forced you to arch under him, his cock drilling into you faster and a tad bit harder than before—the loud noises of your arousal probably audible to anyone who’d walk by the room. You can’t help but whine at this. It’s unintentional. Something that you can’t hold back… usually, you’re better at keeping yourself quiet. Bi-han likes it when you’re quiet. That’s what you thought, at least.

“Who’s your Grandmaster?” Bi-han’s hand grips your hair, pulling you back and forcing your neck to crane. He’s not feeling so benevolent anymore. His pace increases, his cock pumping inside of you harshly enough to the point where you can’t help but moan. He makes an effort to tilt his hips ever so slightly—the blunt tip of his cock rubbing alongside the spots he knows makes you cream around him. For someone that claims to only care for his own pleasure… he knows your body very, very well. Your walls flutter and clench around his cock, hands clawing at the mat below you as his grip in your hair tightens. His tone is gravelly—low—and you find a strong feeling of need throbbing in your lower body at the sound of his voice. “Say it. Don’t disappoint me.”

You could never dream of it.

“B—Bi-han…” Your voice comes out as a long, drawn out whine. You’re usually more mindful of your volume—but the feeling of him pressing into you like this, so relentlessly—you can’t help it. Hands gripping the mat to steady yourself, there’s nothing to stop the sounds that you make from escaping. You try to bite your lip—but he just presses deeper into you. Making you whine more. Your body trembles under him—legs shaking—as he draws back to plunge further into you especially roughly.

Bi-han is starting to find that he doesn’t mind listening to the sound of you moaning under him like this.

“You belong to me,” he reiterates, his hand moving from your hair towards the junction of your legs. Cool fingertips make their way towards the bud in between your legs—two of his fingers rubbing your clit in soft circles, a stark contrast to the punishing pace that he’s set for you. “No other man can have you like this. Say it.”

“Y—yours,” your words come out in babbles, barely intelligible as you struggle—squirming and writhing under him as he toys with your clit and drills inside of you. “Yours—I’m—”

The feeling is too much. His cold fingers ghosting along your clit—the other hand gripping your hips harshly enough to leave bruises. It doesn’t take a long time for your squirming to become borderline uncontrollable; matching the way your walls flutter and tighten around him like a vice and matching the way your cream and arousal stain his cock. Bi-han fucks you through it. He always does—more focused on finishing himself than having any regard for you—his hips stuttering at the feeling of you creaming around him and his grip on your hip tightening even more.

He stuffs his cock inside of you, burying himself to the hilt—leaving no space between the both of you. You can feel his seed leaking inside of you—it’s warm, and hot, and unfamiliar.

“You’ll give me a son.” He tells you, voice akin to a demand as his grip on your hips keeps you in place.

Who are you to deny your Grandmaster?

#there arent enough mk fics i intend to deliver.#syzoth next #mk #mortal kombat smut #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 1 #mk bihan #bihan smut #bi han x reader #bi han smut #mk1 #mk1 smut #mortal kombat 1 smut #nsydfw #writing

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iliketangerines · 5 months

Note

Hii! I was wondering if you'd be comfortable writing a smutty thing between Syzoth and afab! reader where Syzoth is in heat and just *needs* to taste reader? And he makes her squirt?? And then he breeds her because he's in heat?

love you and your writing!!!!

the heat off your skin

a/n: busy af weekend

pairing: syzoth x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), breeding kink, mating press, pussy eating, nipple eating, fingering, overstimulation, nipple play

you squirm around in bed, trying to get comfortable, to try and nap off the feeling of need growing inside of you

but with the growing wetness in between your thighs, and the growing cloudiness in your head, you decide that trying to sleep it off wasn’t the greatest idea

you have a busy day tomorrow, training and organizing and initiating, and it’s already so late in the night, not enough time to properly satisfy your needs

and well, lately, getting yourself off just wasn’t cutting it anymore, you needed more than just your fingers and muffled moans in the middle of the night

getting up off the bed and opening the door, you head to the kitchens to fix yourself a cup of tea, perhaps that would help you fall asleep

as you wander the hallways of the academy, you try to ignore the wetness between your legs and pass by the various bedrooms of the other mentors and trainees to get to the kitchens

a door creaks open to your side, and you look to see a glowing pair of green eyes staring you down and the sharp gleam of their teeth in the moonlight

it’s Syzoth, but he looks more animalistic tonight, if by any indication how his pupils were slitted and how drool gathers in his mouth

he grabs onto you, sniffing the air, and pulls you in close, breathing in your scent as if it was only thing he needed in the world

you stutter and try to get a word out, but you can feel something pressing into your thin nightgown, his hard cock pressing into your stomach

the wetness between your legs pools, and Syzoth can seem to sense it because he takes in a deep breath of the air and growls into your ear that he can smell you, can smell your want

he doesn’t wait a second longer and drags you into his room, sliding the door shut behind him and sucking hickeys into your neck as he walks you backward

the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall backward onto the plush bed, blankets and pillows littering the bed and giving you a soft cushion to sink into

it contrasts with how his fanged teeth scrape against your skin and sink into your flesh, making you squirm and let out a small whine, your legs wrapping around his waist

you grind into him, the haziness in your head returning in full force as he grinds into your barely clothed cunt, kissing your neck and leaving dark bite marks all over your skin

the feeling overwhelms you, and you grip onto his back, nails digging into his skin as your breathing becomes labored and heavy as he guides his kisses downwards

his claws tear through your nightgown, exposing your soft chest to his mouth, and he latches onto your nipple, pressing his forked tongue into the sensitive bud and nipping at it with his fanged teeth

his hand comes up pinch your other nipple, squeezing your chest and rolling the nub between his fingers, and your back arches off the bed into the air as all coherent thought starts to melt in your head

Syzoth bites your chest, looking up at you with lidded eyes, and he lets a deep growl out of his mouth at the sight, making vibrations travel through your chest and up your spine

it makes your head spin, and your hips buck into him, desperate to feel some friction on your needy clit

he gives your nipple a punishing nip, a warning to stay still, teeth digging into the flesh before he detaches with a small pop and goes to lavish your other nipple with the same attention

Syzoth tells you that you look so pretty, all nice and wet all for him, perfect for him, perfect to take him, perfect to breed, to carry his heirs

his words become slurred as he sucks and bites your chest, telling you that it’ll look so pretty filled with milk, all swollen and full to feed his children

you can feel your pussy clench around nothing as he mumbles about filling you with his seed, making sure that it’ll take, and he gives your nipple one final nip before pulling back to admire his work

you’re sure you look disheveled, nightgown ripped in half and hair strewn about the pillows and blankets

but his eyes look at you with wonder and stars, as if you held his future in your hands, as if he wanted to kiss you, worship you, love you

he shuffles downward, hooking your legs over his shoulder and holding tight to your plush thighs as he buries his nose into your drooling pussy impatiently

his nose bumps into your clit, grinding up against it deliciously as his long forked tongue slides into your wet cunt, pressing up against something sensitive inside of you

it makes your head tilt back and your hand fly down to dig into his short hair as he moans into your pussy, eyes closing as he loses himself in the taste

he digs his nose into your clit, causing sparks of pleasure to spread through your sprint, and you whine into the air, begging him for more

Syzoth just hums into your cunt, lapping at your wetness and fucking your needy hole on his tongue as he chases for your taste

a haziness spreads through your head, and your thighs squeeze Syzoth’s head as you let out a cry, cumming on his tongue

the pleasure washes over you, sending your vision white as you tug at the strands of his hair and whimper loudly, and he moans into your cunt, lapping up your release desperately

his tongue continues to fuck you, pressing into that sensitive spot, and you whine, grinding your hips into his face as pleasure continues to buzz through you

you whimper loudly as his fingers dig into your thighs, bruises forming on the soft skin, and he doesn’t seem to care, too lost in your taste to care

as your last orgasm fades away, Syzoth brings you to another one, tongue pressing into your clit firmly and one of his hands coming away from your thigh to slide two fingers into your needy pussy

the stretch makes you moan, and your hips attempt to buck up into the air as you cum on his tongue again

he moves his arm to pin your hips down, keeping you close to his mouth, as he starts to fuck you on his fingers and circles your clit with his forked tongue

the overstimulation makes your mind buzz and go blank, but the pain starts to set in with the pleasure, making you pant breathlessly into the air and squirm in his grasp

Syzoth keeps you firmly pinned down, ignoring your high-pitched whines as he sucks on your clit and looks up at your face with half-lidded eyes

he no longer looks human, he looks like an animal desperate for it last meal, and it seems that you were his prey

your hand pushes at his arm, trying to escape the pleasure as another orgasm floods through you, and you mewl pathetically at the overstimulation

his mouth parts from your clit, just briefly to tell you that he needs you, to stretch you properly, to prepare you properly so that his seed takes

he tells you he needs you to squirt, to have you on his tongue, to taste you, and you whine at his words, still wiggling in his grip

his claws dig into your skin as he latches back onto your clit, flicking the puffy nub with his tongue and watching your reactions as you tilt your head back and whine into the air

a haze overcomes your mind, and you can no longer think, only feeling how pleasure buzzes through your body and leaves your body feeling weaker and weaker after every orgasm

soon, you’re a limp sweaty mess in Syzoth’s arms, and you can feel his fingers pumping in and out of you desperately, curling into your sweet spot, and his lips sucking on your clit

you can only let out a cry as tears start to drip down your face at the overstimulation, and your back arches off the bed as you squirt into his mouth

he eagerly laps down the wetness, praising you, telling you that you’re doing so well, that you did so good, that you’re so perfect for him

finally, shuffling his way back up to you, he places your legs over his shoulders and moves up to be face-to-face with you, pushing you into a mating press

he kisses you, long tongue pressing into your mouth, and you can taste yourself on his tongue and can feel how his cock slides against your puffy clit

Syzoth pulls away, hips moving backward to line himself up with your dripping pussy, and he pushes in slowly, watching your every facial expression as you close your eyes and furrow your brows at the pleasure

your mind goes blank, and he coos praises at you as his hips start to pump in and out of you, telling you that you’re gonna look so pretty filled with his children, with his seed

he tells you how you’ll look so beautiful all round and full with his children, how he can’t wait to see your chest swell with milk, how your thighs will thicken, and how your stomach will be all soft and plush afterwards

Syzoth fucks into you at a brutal pace, hips slamming into your yours as the loud squelches of your pussy fill the air along with your needy whines and his loud moans

his hips angle slightly to bully your sweet spot, and it makes your mind go blank as you nod along to Syzoth’s words, begging him to fill you up, to breed you, to fill you with his children

he leans down, kissing you once more as his hips grow erratic, and his grip on your thighs tighten as he buries himself deep and cums inside of you

your pussy clenches down on him, milking him of his seed, and you cum on his cock, mewling into his mouth as tears drip down your face

his hips never stop, fucking his cum further into your greedy pussy while some of his seed spills out from the edges and onto the bed sheets

the heat is overwhelming, and you’re limp on the bed, panting into the air as Syzoth’s hips slow down as he nuzzles his face into your neck

his tongue traces the pulse of your heartbeat before he sinks his teeth into the skin, and his hips start to thrust into you again, the tip pressing against your sensitive spot

he tells you he needs to make sure it takes, that he needs to breed you, that he needs to mate you, that you’re not going anywhere until his heat is over as he starts to fuck into you ruthlessly again

your mind goes blank at his words, pussy sore and swollen and clit puffy as Syzoth starts to breed you again, eyes glazed over and desperate as he holds onto you tight

he cums inside of you over and over again, his seed spilling onto the sheets and forming a small puddle, and you go limp on the bed, mind drifting in and out of consciousness as he continues to fuck you, cock hard and flushed

finally, as the sun starts to rise again, light peeking through the trees and onto the academy, Syzoth whimpers into your neck at the overstimulation and spills his seed inside of you one last time

he lays on top of you, lips kissing your neck softly as his cock softens inside of you

you don’t move, mind hazy with pleasure and overstimulation, and Syzoth tells you that you look so pretty like this, filled with his cum, with his cock

he keeps you filled with him, plugging his seed deep inside of you, but he lets your legs down from his shoulders to wrap around his waist

his hands rub at the muscle, fingertips digging into the muscle to try and get the blood flow moving again, and you whine at the movement

you lay in bed limp, barely hearing the door sliding open

all you can process is the angry snarls of Syzoth and his angry threats to leave him and his mate alone, but he doesn’t let go of you at all, his grip growing tight instead

and then the door slams shut, and Syzoth turns his attention back to you, cuddling into your warm skin and purring

he tells you he won’t let anyone hurt you, anyone else have you, that you’re his, so pretty, his mate, and you fall asleep, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in close

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aweina · 1 year

Text

୨୧. staring problem — mortal kombat one. kameos : sub-zero. scorpion + smoke

when you stare at their arms for too long.

bi-han isn’t particularly amused by other people’s idiocy, but when it came to you — he looked forward to it. your staring problem was painfully obvious, he’s impressed how a person could have no awareness of their prying gaze. it’s when he curiously turns your way after debriefing training modules with his brother that he expected you to flinch at his icy glare and leave in embarrassment, but your dilated eyes remained on his flexing biceps. bi-han’s breath hitched by this sudden feeling of exposure from your dumb, mindless staring. he’s fuming at the fact that he was flustered instead and it isn’t until he sees the glimmer of saliva in the corner of your agape mouth that he believed you are utterly hopeless. with a dry swipe of his thumb over your wet lips, you finally break your hard gaze away from his sinewy arms to realize bi-han was caressing your mouth. “you’re a moron.” he says sternly, but there’s a hint of rare adoration in his insulting words.

kuai liang is constantly amused by your adamant staring at his arms. his pride swells when he catches your blatant gaze memorizing every curve and scar that represented his hard work and dedication. and to save you the embarrassment, he simply never called you out for your staring problem — rather he quite encouraged it. reading off a scroll sent by the fire god himself, kuai liang made sure that you could barely see past his thick muscles, the words written on the parchment shadowed by his strong form. he looks over your direction where you mindlessly hum at his faint words, greedily taking in the image of his arms without any shame. it’s not until he finishes the last words of the letter that you continue to hum at the silence, eyes slowly blinking like you were in a perverted daze. after holding it in for weeks, he finally boasts a vibrating laugh. “you have no shame, huh?” he quirks an amused brow when you turn away in realization, a smug grin on his face.

tomas never felt more confused in his life, were you okay? your constant staring over the past few weeks made him highly concerned over your wellbeing, every possibility swirling in his mind. did he knock you down too hard during training? is there some mind numbing enchantment that lingered down the halls that he wasn’t aware of? he refused to believe your unblinking eyes was on him for any reason other than some minor accident. and it’s when he’s sharpening the blade in his grasp, he feels your familiar gaze burning against his prickling, tense muscles — following each stroke with unwavering focus. after observing you from the corner of his eye for the past few minutes, he concluded that you were indeed checking out his arms the whole time. tomas was flustered, nonetheless, yet he couldn’t pretend to be oblivious much longer. “it’s not very polite to stare you know.” his words were confrontational, but playful. when you profusely apologized, his eyes crinkle as he smiled.

#.୨୧ ina writes #smoke x reader #tomas vrbada x reader #subzero x reader #bi han x reader #scorpion x reader #kuai liang x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mk x reader #mk1 x reader

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tp2-byes · 2 years

Text

LET THE LITTLE MONKEY REST

Hold these little ones too, please

#lego monkie kid #lmk #monkie kid #lmk mk #qi xiaotian #lmk sun wukong #lmk macaque #liu er mihou #lmk spoilers #monkie kid season 4 spoilers #monkie kid spoilers #lego monkie kid spoilers #original images don't belong to me so i'll write the source in the notes #my art tag

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sarahghetti · 8 months

Text

blood on your lies; m.s.

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

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

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