#my bb marc

[jakelockleysdoll]

i need to see this scene or I’ll start chewing on the fucking desk like a dog. RELEASE IT MARVEL

I will never let this go.

[newfives]

WIP 2 😉, follow me to keep updated!

[bezzpez]

[ivystoryweaver]

A slap is so freaking condescending and I just love that for you, Marc.

Marc Spector + that slap™

[moonknightly]

i've gotten used to sleeping here without you—

pairing: marc spector x reader

wc: 2.1k

warnings: pulling an ao3 and giving you a no archive warnings apply tag

except: marc has settled down a lot in recent years, ever since your daughter was born. he’d bought your family the apartment you’re still living in without him, landed a military operations consulting job that doesn’t involve him leaving for weeks or months at a time. he stopped drinking every night. 

thank you @poetic-solo for beta reading bb ahhhh i'm nervous

Your apartment is quiet when you walk in. You kick your shoes off by the door and abandon your bag on the floor, forgoing your usual routine of putting each item away where it belongs and opting to cut any and all corners necessary to get into your pajamas quicker instead. The sigh that leaves your lips as you trudge down the hallway hardly conveys how tired you feel, in fact it comes nowhere close. All you can think about is getting out of this stupid dress and crawling between your fluffy blankets. 

You sigh a second time as you push open your bedroom door, heading straight for your closet. You’re not even halfway across the dark room before your dress is discarded on the floor, left in a heap for you to deal with the next day. Your bra comes next, and then your panties and you’re so glad that you’d thought to lay a change on top of your drawers so all you have to do is slip into the new ones. You automatically reach for a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, not caring if they’re a perfect match, just wanting to be cozy and knowing the combo you’d grabbed was perfect for comfort. 

The makeup on your face feels sticky and cake-like, so you decide that’s one corner you don’t want to cut as you exit your closet and walk towards the en-suite instead of towards the mattress. You take a disposable cloth and remove the mascara and concealer from your face with a cleanser, tossing your hair up before you get started to keep it dry and out of the way. Once your face is clean and makeup free, you opt to brush your teeth, reminding yourself that no matter how badly you want to climb into bed, you need to take care of these few things first. 

Finally, you’re ready for bed. You allow your shoulders to sag as you walk back into your room, almost missing the soft light now illuminating the space. You’re sure it would’ve been easy to convince yourself that you turned on the lamp and just forgot you did so, and you were so tired you probably wouldn’t have thought much about your decorative pillows now being discarded on the floor and your duvet pulled back either, if it wasn’t for the familiar body sitting on the edge of your sheets. 

“Marc,” you sigh, gesturing for him to scoot over, past your ability to ask questions, yet. “Come on, move.”

The man so unexpectedly in front of you snorts but does as he’s instructed, giving you enough space to finally crawl between the sheets, which you do without another glance his way meanwhile he’s watching you the whole time.

He’s quiet while you start to settle in, but so are you - you think you might be past your ability to talk at all. You weren’t expecting to see him in your bedroom, let alone in your apartment, and honestly? It’s a little jarring, a little too close. It takes a few more seconds for you to finally shake yourself and speak up.

“Thank you for watching her,” you say, voice quiet as you situate yourself upon your pillows, finally looking towards your ex-husband once you find a comfortable position. “I wasn’t expecting anyone home, I thought you would’ve taken her back to your place.”

Marc hums, and for a second you don’t think he’s going to say anything in response but he eventually finds his own voice. 

“Of course,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders back to stretch them out. “She’s my kid too.” 

He skips over why he’d brought her home and not to his apartment.

“I know. But it isn’t your night and I didn’t expect to get stuck at work.” 

“So?”

“So…” You try to think of your words carefully, wondering if he’d brought your daughter home because maybe... “I didn’t ruin your plans or anything?”

He furrows his eyebrows, a soft snort following, absolutely catching the duality of your question. “My plans involved takeout for one and my TV.”

Marc has settled down a lot in recent years, ever since your daughter was born. He’d bought your family the apartment you’re still living in without him, landed a military operations consulting job that doesn’t involve him leaving for weeks or months at a time. He stopped drinking every night. 

You nod slowly, trying not to show that his answer secretly pleases you - he didn’t have plans with a girl. You try to push that thought away quickly, it wasn’t healthy for you to think that way and you know it, remind yourself of it. You’re divorced, have been for over a year by this point. He can spend his time with other women if he wants.

“Still,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. “Thank you for picking her up and bringing her home.” 

Marc nods, and you thought maybe, he’d take that as his cue to leave, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even speak up again. You just look back and forth towards each other in silence, stealing glances, sometimes locking eyes and quickly looking away. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and you find it just a little bit startling. It feels so natural, like he was simply saying goodnight, that he was going to stay up for a while longer before he comes to bed but this isn’t his bed anymore. You don’t share it with him like you once did.

You’re the first to break the silence again. 

“It’s late,” you mumble finally, catching the subtle way he seems to deflate at your attempt to get him to leave. 

He nods again, but doesn’t make any move to get up. Not really. 

You give him another moment or two before you speak up again. “Marc what's going on?” you ask softly, voice gentle like it always is with him. Even in the worst of arguments, he’s not sure you ever spoke to him in a way that wasn’t kind. 

Marc rubs the top of his thighs, something you know he’s doing just to keep his hands busy. He doesn’t want to say what’s on his mind, he never does. It was the cause of so many of your fights.

And you’re not doing it again. You can’t.

“If you’re not going to talk to me, I think you should leave. It’s late.”

His eyes meet yours again and you watch something flicker, so subtle and quick you would’ve missed it if you didn’t know him so well - you’d sparked his anger, but he’d been able to bring himself back down quickly, before he snapped.

You look at him expectantly. He must really have something weighing on his shoulders because he hasn’t bolted yet. 

He finally gives you something. 

“Being here tonight felt normal.” 

His confession makes your eyebrows furrow, and you understand without him needing to elaborate - you’d felt the same when you’d seen him sitting on your bed, but you hadn’t let yourself think about it for too long until now. You push it away again quickly though. 

And while you don’t need him to elaborate, you want him to.

“What do you mean?”

He knows you’re asking him just because you want to hear him say it, and he gives you a stern look that you ignore. 

“I mean it felt…normal. Watchin’ her while waiting for you to come home. Coming to bed and waiting for you…seeing you in my clothes.”

You break eye contact, cheeks turning hot at the realization that you’d subconsciously picked out his hoodie and his flannel pants to sleep in because they were the most comforting combination you could find, picking a random spot on the wall to stare at because his brown eyes made you weak and now wasn’t the time to let your guard down. Something somewhere slips though, and Marc catches the moment it does. 

“I mean, it was our routine. When I would work late and couldn’t get her after school.” 

“Yeah, it was,” he mumbles, more like whispers. He clears his throat. “And then we’d get in bed and you’d let me kiss you until you fell asleep.”

“Which was as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

He chuckles, forcing air out of his nose in a rush. “Yeah, I’d only get a couple in. Maybe that’s what put you to sleep.”

There’s another lull in conversation as you chuckle - the silence doesn’t last very long, and Marc is the first to break it. 

“Do you need help falling asleep tonight?”

You pause, taken aback by his question, his offer - honestly, it stuns you into silence but fills your stomach with annoying butterflies at the same time.

Marc is your ex husband, you remind yourself. You shouldn’t get butterflies around him anymore.

He doesn’t give you the time to expel them from your belly.

“We can just sleep,” he says quickly, a hint of pink tinging his cheeks. “We don’t have to, I mean I wasn’t- I,” he stutters, trying to cover himself, a rare nervousness and maybe a hint of embarrassment tainting his words. 

Stuttering. So uncharacteristic of him. You take him out of his misery pretty quickly.

Sort of.

“You want to sleep together?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow as Marc continues to splutter.

“Not like that, I mean not that I wouldn’t want to but I, uh…shit.”

He’s really embarrassed, you can tell. You’ve always been so good at reading him, even now.

You’re not sure that sharing a bed with Marc is the best idea. You don’t want to get his hopes up, because you can tell that he’s eager for…something. Something to happen, something to fill the gaps, maybe. You’re not sure what exactly. 

But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hoping for the same something. 

“So you want to sleep together, but not sleep together, but maybe sleep together?”

“Yes,” Marc deadpans, just glad that you hadn’t thrown him out yet. 

You’re still apprehensive, still on the fence. You can think of a million reasons why you shouldn’t sleep next to him again but God, you want to ignore every single one of them.

Just for tonight. Just one night. 

“Get in bed, Spector,” you sigh finally, starting to adjust and situate yourself into the blankets, hoping you can get comfortable and drift off before you have time to realize that his head is on the pillow beside yours.

But the clank of his belt coming undone, the thud of his jeans hitting the floor - that distracts you from your dreams, for sure. 

He’d always slept in his boxers when you were together though. This isn’t anything new, you suppose. 

Hell, you’d made a kid together. You can handle sleeping next to him in his boxers and his stupid hair a mess and oh fuck he took his shirt off too-

He can feel your eyes as he lays down, but you miss the way he bites his lip, because that’s not where you’re looking. “Is this okay?” he asks.

It’s weird, hearing him ask if he can have his shirt off around you - he never needed to ask before. 

That’s right, before, you remind yourself. 

“It’s okay.”

Marc lays down next to you, so close you can feel the warmth off his skin and you think you might be able to feel his heart pounding but maybe that’s just your own. It’s quiet again, and maybe a little sad, a little weird, maybe a little something you can’t quite put your finger on.

There’s something off. Something that just isn’t right. And it’s not the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings anymore, even though that is weird. 

“Can you-”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he’s dragging you closer, draping his arm around you like you had wanted, the way he used to.

He takes your leg and hikes it over his hip. He’d told you once that the pressure, the reminder that you’re asleep next to him makes him feel safe. He’d actually admitted that to you, the man who never touched his emotions. 

Marc was right - it feels normal. It’s just the way it was before. 

Except it isn’t. Except it never will be again. 

Except you want it to be. 

Neither of you say anything for the rest of the night, and you both drift off eventually, sleeping better in those few hours than you had in months.

[whatthefishh]

house of balloons.

Marc Spector x f!reader

Warnings: unprotected p in v, spit, choking, slight breeding kink, Marc’s sweaty neck, cream pie, Dom/sub dynamic if you squint

Word count: 1.4K

AN: nobody asked for this but I’m giving it to you anyway. Beta’d by my bb @moonknightly ❤️

The way Marc was taking his time with you tonight was getting the best of you.

It wasn’t a particularly healthy relationship but it was what each of you could handle. He’d message you in the late hours of the night and conveniently for you, it would be on the nights you were too restless to sleep, in need of what only he could give you.

You don’t think he loves you. You definitely don’t love him, but you love the way he fills you up, his cock hitting the precise spot inside your hot and needy cunt that neither your fingers nor your toys could reach, the smug face he wore telling you everything you needed to know.

Your hands squeezed his shoulders where they were sweaty and bare, his own hands gripping your ass every time you sank down on his cock on the couch in your living room.

One of his hands moved to grip your jaw, thumb tugging on your bottom lip until you opened your eyes in question only to get caught in the most intense eye contact you’ve ever had with him. Marc continued to watch you as he pulled your pliant mouth open wider, and, while keeping his eyes on yours, leaned forward to fucking spit in your waiting mouth.

And God, you were so easy for him, you swallowed it down without hesitation.

At that you both groaned, and he leaned forward to do it again, kissing you tongue first right after letting it dribble down into your mouth. Suddenly, the pressure in your abdomen skyrocketed, your leaking pussy clamping down on Marc’s thick cock. Your spine seized up, hands reaching to entangle themselves in his hair as you neared your climax, desperate to ground yourself against the wave of pleasure threatening to drown you.

“Marc, ohh—“

“Fuck sweetheart, is that what you want? Huh?” He punctuated his question with a squeeze to your jaw, shaking your head a little.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him to squeeze you tighter, choke you a little harder until you passed out. You were getting close to the edge, the wet sounds your pussy made loud in the otherwise silent apartment. You weren’t aware of the noises you were making, completely lost in the feelings Marc was bringing out in you.

“You know, I think about you sometimes. Whether you make noise when it’s just you and your fingers… you’re so loud, honey. How does nobody complain?”

Your thighs burned, for sure to be aching the next day to serve as a reminder of this moment. Pulling his face into your neck from his hair was your attempt at shutting him up, being more aggressive with it than usual but it only served to make him groan with pleasure.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this pussy all day. I think she missed me, too, leaking all over me. Such a mess,” he bit and licked at the junction in your neck. “I���ll clean you up after, don’t worry.”

You squeezed around him tighter at his words while Marc’s hands squeezed your ass on your way down, holding you there for a second before lifting you up and repeating it until he was basically using you like his own personal toy.

“Please,” you managed weakly.

You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Something, anything to free you. You needed the release and he was the only one who could give it to you now. You had a feeling Marc knew this, was using it to his advantage as he continued to grab and pull at your flesh with borderline animosity, channeling all of his feelings from the day and towards you into his large fingers, pressing and pressing and pressing.

“You gotta ask me, baby, c’mon use your words.”

Oh, fuck him.

Pretending to lean closer to whisper in his ear, you switched at the last second to pounce and bite down hard on Marc’s meaty shoulder, not being gentle while gnawing at his golden flesh. A loud groan was heard in your ear, encouraging you to repeat the action on the next space of golden tanned skin available to you. And while his fingers continued pressing bruises into your skin, his thrusts became all of a sudden erratic, pulling you down and grinding you on him, selfishly in search of his own release.

“Inside, inside,” you said breathlessly.

And with one last thrust, his hands still gripping your hips hard enough to hurt a little, he threw his head back. Your cunt fluttered around him as you came on his cock before you felt his warm cum trickling down and around where you were joined.

Marc’s bulging neck and heaving chest enticed you to lean forward again and lick at the sweat beading on his collarbone before he pushed your head away with a hand on your sternum. Sighing and pulling out, you both went quiet watching his spend leak out of you, twitching when he shoved it back inside with two fingers and fucking you with them a couple of times for good measure.

“Mmm.”

Whimpering when he pulled out again, you collapsed on your side against the cushions, focusing on evening out your breathing. Meanwhile, Marc was trying to fight his sudden instinct to stay with you and hold you, curl you up into a ball so that you may fit softly against him the way he dreamed about.

Deciding to cover you with a blanket instead, he quickly got dressed and hovered above you, avoiding eye contact before dropping a soft and lingering kiss on your forehead, only serving to confuse the fuck out of you. He never acted this way after sleeping with you, albeit tonight was a little more … intense, you could say.

You had to admit, it felt nice. Good, even.

Fuck, okay, it felt amazing. And now there was a look in his eye, kind of like he didn’t want to leave, kind of like he wanted to go again, stay the night, whisper sweet nothings to you while you lay in his arms until sunrise. Or maybe you were projecting.

A crease developed between his brows before he swiftly made his way to the door, his walk stiff and jaw set. You were probably projecting. He didn’t want to stay. Why would he? Like you said, you weren’t in love. You were just one of his girls.

“Uhh, yeah, well. See you around.���

Even his tone sounded more awkward than usual. Hovering near the entryway, shuffling, hands twiddling, he looked nothing like the Marc you knew for a moment. His shoulders hunched forward and for a split second his eyes went ridiculously soft.

Unlocking your door and making his way to the elevators, he headed down the hall, hearing a few heavy steps before your door swung shut. Just like that, he was gone.

You don’t know what you thought you saw, or if it was just something you wanted to see. You felt like a child again, a rejected little girl who’s crush wouldn’t play with them on the playground. The one time you let the silly hope shine in your eyes while looking up at the gorgeous man who you’ve come to realize you do sort of have feelings for, at least a little bit, was the only time Marc needed to see it before running away.

You’re not sure how long you lay there naked under the throw with his cum drying on your inner thigh before a couple of unsuspecting and quiet knocks sounded at your door. The weight of the hand behind the door didn’t sound familiar; maybe it was a neighbour who came to complain about the noise.

Wrapping the blanket around you like a shawl, you awkwardly (and sorely) padded to the door, opening it an inch before seeing the man who just bolted from your apartment back and looking uncomfortable. Maybe he forgot something.

“I forgot something.”

Opening the door wider for him, fully expecting him to immediately go looking for his wallet, keys, whatever it was, you don’t intend on watching him like a kicked puppy.

But Marc surprises you. He enters your home, shuts the door and still has that face of confusion on from earlier before he pulls you into his chest, his arms going around your waist as he hugs you close.

“Promised I’d clean you up, remember?” He whispers in your ear.

[orestesimp]

Issue #6

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You and your unfriendly neighborhood Spiderman wind up far from your usual neighborhood and you need to find a way to leave before it's too late.

Word count: 2,600 words.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [TBC]

Your home is gone. 

Everything is gone. 

All you can see is white. A vast, empty space surrounding you, blank and endless as far as the eye can see. 

You suck in a surprised breath, already flinching because you expect a place so white and sterile to smell like sharp stinging disinfectant, but to your surprise it's the opposite. It smells of nothing in here.

“Mierda!”

You turn at the sound of his voice, and find Blue-Spiderman behind you.

“Shit!” he growls out. His hand comes up to his hair, fingers fisting into the poor strands as he starts tugging at them in frustration again. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Wha– What happened?”

There was a helicopter, you think… darkness... a loud noise... the wall of your apartment exploding into a cloud of dust and rubble.

"Did... did a fucking helicopter just crash into my apartment!?"

He ignores your question, opting to fidget with his wristwatch instead, swearing and muttering to himself, while you try to make sense of what’s happening. 

“And… And then…” And then the otherworldly light show. At the time, you thought you were dying, but you’re clearly not dead. You’re just… someplace else. “What is this place?”

“We weren’t supposed to end up here,” he says, ignoring your question once again. He smacks at his watch repeatedly before swearing again and then leaves the poor thing alone.

“Come on.” He unceremoniously grabs your arm and starts marching forward, dragging you along.  He seems to have some destination in mind, though you don’t know how he can tell left from right in this expanse of nothingness, let alone where to go.

“Wait, wait,” you protest, “Where are we? What is this place?” Maybe if you repeat yourself enough he’ll finally give you an answer.

“We have to get out of here. We can’t waste time.” There is no pause in his steps, he marches on as if he’s expecting you to calmly accept the situation without further explanation.

"Can you please just stop for a second and tell me what’s going on?!" you say, digging your heels against his strength to try and stop him for even a second. 

He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring with anger and irritation. “We’re in an interdimensional fabric where the interstitial domain emerges. It’s void of any discernible quantum fluctuations or energy-matter manifestations, constituting an absolute absence of existence or spatial-temporal coherency and–”

He’s still talking, throwing out a string of convoluted science terms, one after another in quick succession, but all you hear is an endless stream of jibberish. 

His words seem strangely far away, like your ears are plugged or something. You raise a hand to rub at one of them, then at your forehead when that doesn't make the sound go back to normal.

Normal. Ha! Who even knows what "normal" is for this place anyway. Everything since you left your apartment has been so bizarre that you're not surprised your head feels a little wonky.

And there's something weird with your hand too. You pull it back from your forehead and hold it in front of your face, staring at it.

Strange. The tone of it seems off, somehow. Opaque and lighter in shade then you’re used to. Almost like it’s fading.

It's only when he moves to stand in front of you that you realize you can see the red and blue of his suit though your hand. The whole of your palm is turning translucent.

“Shit!” he spits out and steps forward, grabbing and yanking your hand towards him as he inspects your palm.

Whatever he sees clearly doesn’t make him happy. His mouth is at an angle of irritation you had not thought was physically possible before.

"What's your name?" he demands.

"You know my name!" You scowl, tired of keeping up this farce, you know he knows it, and you're not playing this game with him. 

His annoyance seems to grow deeper. “Yes, I know your name. I'm asking if you remember it.”

What kind of stupid question is that!? Of course you remember your own name. What a condescending jerk! Does he get off on making everyone around him feel like an idiot?

Your name is… it’s... it's... uhm…

... huh.

The first syllable of your name is on the tip of your tongue. Your lips shape the sound, but nothing comes out because you don't remember what vowel comes next. Or what comes after that.

Your name... Why can't you remember your name?

“I–I don’t...” you hesitate, blinking in confusion. You don’t understand. How did you forget something so simple? “I don’t understand what’s happening. Where are we?”

“I just told you where we are,” he bursts out impatiently.

You wince at his words. God, he did explain, didn't he? You just... can't remember what he said. You know he used a lot of science-y words… Is that why you can't remember what he told you?

 “Look, it’s been a rough day. Can you explain it to me again, please, but like you’re talking to a 5 year old?”

In front of you, his expression softens ever so slightly, and he takes another deep breath before continuing more calmly.

“We’re in a space between worlds,” he explains, this time in plain speech, thank god. “It’s a void. Nothing exists here. If we stay too long, we won’t either.”

“Okay, but what am I supposed to–”

“Think happy thoughts,” he orders with a testy bite, which is not at all very helpful in making you think of happy thoughts.

“What, like think of a joke or…?”

He scowls at your question, as if it wasn’t a perfectly reasonable question to ask in the circumstances.

“No. Close your eyes and think of a happy memory. Something important. And personal. It’ll keep you tethered to your physical body,” he says, and despite the terse snappiness that remains in this rude man’s voice, you don’t put up a protest.

You close your eyes, trading out white for the black behind your eyelids. You try to form a memory—any memory—but nothing comes to you.

“I can’t think of anything,” you say, as worry starts creeping into your chest. You don’t understand why something that should be simple is so hard to do all of a sudden.

Then you hear his voice in the darkness.

“Think of someone you love. A day you spent together, or if you can’t think of something, then just think of their smile, or the color of their eyes,” he continues, and with each quality he lists out to you, there's a warmth that leaks through the hardness of his voice.

In your mind’s eye, a memory unfolds pixel by pixel. One of your favorite childhood memories of going camping upstate with your family. You’re wearing a pink ball cap, and your parents are standing by the tent, watching as the family dog runs up to you with a soggy tennis ball in her mouth.

Your mom is smiling at you as she waves from afar, gentle and patient. Her eyes are squinting against the bright sunlight, but you can’t remember the color of them. 

Gray hazy mist invades the edges of the memory, eating into the vivid colors, the picture distorts until the smiles of your parents morphs into a faceless blob.

Your eyes snap open, and you can’t keep the panic out of your voice. “What’s happening to me!?”

You don’t remember… You don’t remember what they look like. Who they were, you can’t–

“Hey, hey” his voice snaps you out of the fog, His warm palms come up to cup the apple of your cheeks, face mere inches from yours.

“Stay with me.”

And you're trying, you really are, but the panic is already here. Eating through your veins and crawling under your skin with an itch that won't go away.

“I– I can’t– I don’t–”

You can’t feel his hand anymore. Can’t feel your cheeks either. Can’t feel the clattering of your teeth from your trembling or the hard beating of your heart in your chest.

“I don’t remember her eyes.” Your fingers clutch onto his arms, but no matter how hard you dig in with your nails, it sinks into nothingness,  “I don’t– My mom. I– I don’t remember her name, her face, her–” 

Your feet seem to have fused to the spot you are standing on. They feel heavy and weightless at the same time. You try to move, but can't. Your body is no longer listening to you, and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to coordinate your feet, for the right foot to take a step forward and have the left one follow.

“Lyla,” he tells you, thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheeks, and you can feel the rasp of the rough calluses on it. “Your mom’s name was Lyla.”

The panic subsides at the familiar name. 

Lyla.

Your mom's face comes flooding back, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corner when she laughed, the proud smile she wore at your high school graduation, the soft sound of her voice singing you quiet lullabies as you drifted off to sleep.

“She used to make the most disgusting mac ‘n’ cheese, and whenever you’re sad, it’s all you want to eat,” he reminds you and your mouth tingles at the memory of the thick layer of dripping cheap cheese, scalding hot on your tongue. 

You adjust your grip on him, and you can feel the texture of his suit under your fingertips now. Your fingers aren’t as numb anymore, neither is your face. 

“Food worked, huh?” The corner of his mouth tugs into a half smile, eyes soft as he gazes down at you. “Figures.”

He leans down, hunching over until his forehead rests against yours. “You know that pizza place down on Downing street that you always go to the day before payday? With the gross doughy crust and kimchi topping that you love so much? Think of that.”

You can picture it clearly. The brick brownhouses, the familiar waft of oven-baked dough, and hint of coal burning, and slowly but surely, your stomach warms at the thought of it. 

“Think of those ugly pink fur slippers you wear constantly at home when it gets cold,” he says, and you do, gradually become aware of the soles of your feet and the weight of your own body being held up by them.  

He goes on like that, listing off things about you. The way he talks about them is almost insulting, but there’s an undertone of fondness hidden underneath that you can’t make sense of. He describes your favorite cozy sweater, calling it “ratty”; your favorite corner of central park that he thinks reeks of piss; your favorite episode of Grey’s anatomy, the one where Cristina has to get cut out of her wedding dress, which you always watch when you need a good cry.

The sound of his voice seems to shiver through you, the warmth of it settling low in your belly.

The more he talks, the more you remember, memories bleeding back into your consciousness. The simplest things come first... The sensation of running your fingers through your hair. Stepping barefoot into grass on a summer day. What it feels like to want someone.

And, as he continues to talk, awareness of your body comes trickling back until you're acutely conscious of his forehead pressing against yours; his hands, big and gentle where they're wrapped around your upper arms; the heat radiating off his big body inches from yours as his deep voice lists off all sorts of intimate things about your life, things he has no business knowing. 

Control of your body is returning to you. You can blink now, even if it requires conscious effort, and you blink up at him as he pulls back to look down at you.

“You back with me?” he asks softly, one big, warm hand rising to cup the back of your neck in a way that makes you lightheaded.

You tip your head ever so slightly until you catch sight of your hands, now totally opaque instead of that eerily ghostly sheen, and you nod back at him. 

“I– I think so.”

“Good.” 

You’re still a little bit frazzled. Disorientated by the whole experience that it takes you a while longer to gather your thoughts together. 

You still don’t know where you are. You don’t know what the hell just happened. Or what this place is supposed to be. Calling it a ‘void’ doesn’t really explain as much as he seems to think it does. How on earth did you just lose control over your body like that? Why did your body literally start to disappear, fading into the nothingness? 

A chill trickles down your spine as you recall the lack of sensation, and you grip his arm underneath your fingers just a little bit tighter to remind yourself that, yeah, he’s still here. 

It makes you feel just the tiniest bit safer. 

With one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, he brings his other wrist to his mouth and speaks into the watch. “Lyla, have you got a lock down?” 

Huh? Lyla? What is he– You don’t understand. Wait, is he talking to your mom? What does he mean he’s locking down your mom!? 

There’s a crackle of static in your ears, and the endless white gives way to a burst of color as reality reforms around the two of you. A wall of masonry appears brick by brick before you, nothing but blue clear skies above. There’s a crunch of gravel on the concrete tiles beneath your feet, and when you look down to your right, you see the New York skyline below you. The bird’s eye view of the city is familiar. It’s one you’ve seen many, many times before. 

You’re on top of the Chrysler building. 

For a second you panic at the height. You clutch onto the man who has once again saved your life, and he lets you, holding you steady, with one big palm resting on the small of your back. 

“You’re okay,” he says, shushing you until you relax in his arms. “You’re okay.” 

You stay like that for some time, held in the safety of his arms, until your heartbeat slows, until the pulse racing in your throat is no longer in a clustered lump and you feel like you can breathe and think again. 

And now that you can think again, your brain is racing a mile a minute. All the things that have happened… All the things that this man said to you to bring you back to yourself. 

Things that no one except for you would know about. It’s too personal and intimate. Even if he had somehow been stalking you, he wouldn’t know these things unless he has been stalking you from childhood. The things he knows about you only comes through years of being with a person. Your habits. Your likes. Your dislikes. The things that upset you. The things that make it better when everything else has gone wrong. He knows all these things about you that he really only should know if he’s known you for a lifetime.  

"Who are you?" you ask him again, pulling back slightly to stare up into those blood red eyes inches away from your own, "Who are you really?"

"My name is Miguel O'Hara,” he says, holding your gaze, “and I’m Spiderman from another dimension."

Dedication & Credits: To my sister clown in arms @thirstworldproblemss thank you for putting up with me since this series started, I have been bugging his poor woman every second of her waking day. Please give her all the love because I couldn't do this without her or even if I did, I wouldn't have 1/100000000000000000 of the fun I have now with her.

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

Movie night with oscar isaac characters of your choice. Who’s gonna grip you on jumpscares?

Now that's cool!

Movie night

Featuring: The moon boys, Miguel O'Hara, Nathan Bateman, Poe Dameron, Blue Jones, Santiago Garcia.

Nathan Bateman: Big flatscreen, check. Surround system, check. His androids with snacks, check. Fluffy pillows and snugly blankets, check.

Nathan definitely chooses science fiction, perhaps something about ai going rogue.

Smiles as if he just saw the funniest thing when you get scared or flinch.

Man will have a blast having you grip him for comfort. Definitely likes to tease you about it.

He most likely will jump during a jumpscare.

Poe Dameron: Goes for action or science fictions. Keeps BB-8 on your side if you need extra comfort. Wraps you up in his arms.

Incase of jumpscares, he will maybe flinch. When that happens BB-8 straight up throws giggling beeps at him, indicating he's laughing at poor Poe.

His grip around you occasionally tightens at intense scenes.

Sleeps like a baby happily after you had to comfort him after a scary scene. <3

Miguel O'Hara: He's mixed. Could go for anything you're in mood for. But prefers scary movies, he likes having you cling to him.

Man will not jump during jumpscares. Just sits there, completely chill with unimpressed expression. That was it? Lame...

Did you flinch? Aww, so cute seeing you like that! <3

Loves having you in his lap with a blanket wrapped around you. Could get cheeky and pretend to bite you.

Blue Jones: Man will go for horror movies, trust me. This lil shit absolutely loves seeing you get scared just so he can tease you.

He probably has seen the movie already so he knows the jumpscares, therefore won't jump.

Loves telling you when you get scared you have to walk through the Asylum at 3 AM. Just grins like shit at your reaction.

Jake Lockley: Would definitely choose thriller. But not without getting you hot chocolate so you're all set.

Gets excited everytime there's a shootout happening in the movie. Sometimes he can't help but chuckle.

Embraces you when you need it. Likes resting his chin or cheek on top of your head.

Will most likely dream of the movie with a happy smile on his face in his sleep. :)

Marc Spector: Definitely would choose John Wick, and if you're cool with it, you two will watch them all.

Snacks is a must have for the action they deliver. Takeout is probably his preferance. A nice pizza with alot of action.

Smiles everytime John gets his revenge and looooves the club scenes.

If he flinches during a jumpscare, he'd let out a "Oh fuck me!" swear under his breath and then nudges you with his elbow or playfully throws a pillow at you for laughing.

He will get you back for it!!! >:(

Steven Grant: Pillows! Alot of them! Your favorite snacks and a big blanket for cuddling. <3

He mainly chooses comedy or even action. If you however want horror, he's okay with it but please hold him.

During scary scenes there's the possibility of him squeezing you. Please comfort him. :(

He loves wrapping you up in his arms.

Occasional kisses here and there. <3

Doesn't even want to get up and tries to convince you to just sleep with him on the couch.

Santiago Garcia: He's chill with anything you want as long as it involves you, him, a cold one, blanket, pillows and food.

Prefers having you sprawled out on him so he can hold you nicely.

At jumpscares there's a good chance he might get scared but shakes it off quickly and grumbles when you laugh.

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

Tags:

@nekoyin @iolaussharpe-24 @steven-grants-world @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @buckyssugarchick

@krakenkitty @autismsupermusicalassassin @silvernight-m @alexxavicry @mochiitoby

@faretheeoscar @tokkiwrites

Wanna get tagged?

[moons-dunes]

Bound

For Kinktober- Prompt: Bondage

Write-tober Masterlist

Moon Knight Masterlist

18+ Only MDNI

Summary: Marc gets a little tied up

Pairing: subby!Marc Spector x softdom!fem reader

WC: 1.4K

This work contains: bondage obvi, overuse of the word “bound”, handjobs, multiple orgasms (m receiving) mild overstim, PiV sex, unprotected sex, begging, needy Marc because my bb deserves to be taken care of, very little dialogue, literally not a plot in sight. The sickness brain fog was my co-author.

Y’all know I had to use this gif. It would have been illegal not to

Soft black ropes slid through your hands smoothly, easily being manipulated into a series of loops and knots that decorated Marc’s skin as he knelt on the edge of the bed for you with bound legs bent beneath him.

The ropes criss-crossed on his chest and back a few times, accentuating both his pecs and back muscles. You had essentially made a chest harness, but that was just for decoration.

The real fun began when you grabbed two seperate lengths of rope.

“Gonna give me your hands, pretty boy?” You asked as smoothly as you could muster, which was harder than it seemed when Marc was such a beautiful sight in front of you.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded obediently, holding his hands out for you. A jolt of electricity seemed to shoot through you at his complete and total submission.

You made a loop out of the rope, then wrapped it around his wrist a few times. Making a larger loop, you passed the first one through that one, then under the rope that wrapped directly against his skin. Passing the smaller end through the bigger loop again, you successfully finished the knot.

“Good?” You questioned in full seriousness this time, tugging lightly at the length of rope that was left. “Not too tight?”

“It’s perfect,” Marc responded quietly, and you repeated the process on his other wrist.

With both of his wrists comfortably tied, you gave him a sweet kiss before standing up to your full height.

Grabbing one of the extra long tails of rope, you reached up to loop it through a steel bracket you had installed on the posts by the bed. You stopped when Marc’s arm was extended about halfway up, securing the rope tightly to the bracket.

You did the same on the other side, then stood back to admire your handiwork.

With his arms stretched out like they were, you took a moment to admire his muscular build. The black ropes across his chest really made the natural curves of his body pop, adding fuel to that fire inside of you.

Marc’s breathing was picking up as you stood there watching him in awe, his cock already hard and leaking.

“You remember your safe word?” You asked before you got started with anything else, slowly stripping yourself of your clothes until you were completely nude as well.

“Daffodil,” he responded immediately, and you smiled.

“Good,” you praised, your hands cupping his face. You kissed him deeper this time, and he eagerly leaned into your touch.

Your hands travelled from his face down to his chiselled chest, and you massaged his pecs just to make him squirm a bit.

He moaned against your mouth as you tweaked his sensitive nipples, gently rolling the perky buds between your fingers. His cock twitched between the two of you when you did, begging for attention.

“Please,” he rasped out when your hands came to rest on his strong thighs, barely grazing where he wanted you most.

His bound hands instinctively tugged at his restraints, pulling the small amount of slack he had in the rope taut.

He spread his knees as much as he could, which wasn’t far with his thighs beautifully tied together, as a silent invitation to keep going.

You decided to have some mercy.

You climbed up onto the bed, kneeling behind him and letting him rest against your chest as far as the ropes would allow.

You wrapped one hand around his achingly hard cock, and the other snaked around to rest in the centre of his bound chest.

He arched his hips into your hand, and he threw his head back when you gave him a quick squeeze.

“Baby, please,” he begged you, his hips jerking erratically.

You slowly started to pump your hand around his length, loving the little sounds that escaped his mouth.

Your own arousal was quickly growing, your skin growing hot against Marc’s.

You loved that you were the one that could do this to him; make him completely submit and melt into you.

You sped up your hand, gripping the rope across his chest with the other as Marc started squirming.

“Such a good boy,,” you continued to praise him sweetly, ghosting your lips along the shell of his ear. “Letting me tie you up all nice, like a pretty present just for me.”

“Thank y-you,” he stuttered out as he felt himself growing closer, eyes squeezing shut as your hand continued with a steady pace.

You could tell he was close when he started pulling harder against the ropes that kept his arms extended, rattling the posts slightly. His thighs strained against their own restraints, and his bound calves twitched under him as well.

“There you go, you can cum, baby,” you gave him the permission he was looking for, fingers of your free hand tracing the intricate pattern you made over his chest. “You’re being so good for me.”

With a few more strokes, he was cumming all over your hand with a choked moan. His head pressed against your shoulder, soft curls tickling your neck as you continued until the spurts of hot cum stopped.

Marc breathed heavily against you, eyes still closed as the pleasure washed over him completely. Once he started coming down from his high, you moved from your spot to untie the ropes from the brackets, but left his wrists as they were.

You helped him lay backwards until his head was comfortably on the pillows, and secured his hands to the bed frame this time so they were above his head.

Crawling over to his side, you helped him unbend his knees slowly. He let out a small sigh of relief as he stretched his legs, even with them still bound together at the thighs and calves.

“You think you can give me one more, honey?” You asked as you crawled up his body and straddled his hips, his cock already half hard again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded with a blissed out grin, big brown eyes looking up at you with desire blazing in them.

You reached down between the two of you to line him up with your dripping pussy, slowly sinking down onto him with a soft groan. You loved the stretch, and how perfectly Marc always seemed to fill you.

After a moment of adjustment, you braced your hands on his shoulders and started lifting and dropping your hips. This time you kept your eyes glued to Marc’s gorgeous face, taking in every little expression that crossed his features.

Once you found the perfect angle, you rode him faster and fell into a steady rhythm. Marc bucked his hips as much as he could to meet yours, giving you that little bit of extra stimulation.

Both of you were moaning openly, too caught up in chasing your respective highs to care about volume control.

Marc was hitting that magical spot inside of you, making you unravel fast. You weren’t able to even give him fair warning before you were clamping down on him and cumming all over his cock.

He let out a higher pitched whimper as that was enough to bring him over the edge again, making him oversensitive quickly.

The movement of your hips got sloppier as you rode out your own orgasm, eventually coming to a stop as you tried to catch your breath.

Through the cloudy haze taking over your brain, you reached up and released the knots that were keeping Marc’s wrists wrapped up. The ropes fell away pretty easily after that, and he simply shook them off before you felt his hands on the skin of your back.

The fog in your head started to clear, and you carefully climbed off of him, immediately feeling empty.

You made quick work of the ropes around his legs, knowing exactly which knots to undo first for a quick release. Then you moved onto his chest.

Marc sat up and pulled you into his lap before you could start, nuzzling his face into your neck as his arms wrapped around you.

You worked on the few knots at his back, eventually freeing him completely from the intricate ropes.

Once you dropped the mess of rope to the floor, he leaned back again with you still in his arms, pulling you down on top of him while you giggled.

“So, did you enjoy yourself?” You asked with a grin, letting yourself snuggle into him fully.

“That was amazing,” he assured you, arms still wrapped tightly around you. “We are definitely doing that again.”

[soft-girl-musings]

i mean....

Cry (MK Spring Bingo #1)

Marc Spector x Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: panic/anxiety attacks, possibly inaccurate description of an emergency room visit (i don't remember the exact process i borrowed from my own experience bc i was sick… in the ER…), no use of y/n

wc: 1,356

fic summary: Three times Marc told you it was okay to cry, and one time you returned the favor.

A/N: Finally got around to writing something for someone besides jake lockley, bless. once again this is self-indulgent, but if anything hits home for you i'm glad <3 (based on Adam Melchor's "Cry" , which is the most marc-coded piece of music i've ever heard. in this essay i will)

_____________________

The first time came out of nowhere.

Nothing was wrong per se; no major injury or crisis had come up. All you knew was that you were frozen in the corner of your room, hot tears streaming down your face as your mind raced between a million different things.

“Sweetheart, have you seen my–” Marc’s request stopped the moment he saw you frozen in the darkened room, gripping the sleeves of your shirt as you bit your lip so hard you risked giving yourself another reason to cry.

“I just need a minute,” your voice came out trembling and heavy, as if too many syllables would cause the tears to fall with greater force. Not that you knew how to stop them, or how they even started.

Quick strides across the room brought Marc to your side. His warm hands wrapped around yours, cold and losing color from digging into your arms. 

Words were never his strong suit; Marc’s a man of few, usually letting his presence and actions suffice. So when faced with consoling you against some invisible threat, he could almost hear the sound of his own heart breaking in tandem with your staggered breath.

So he stood there. Until your fingers relaxed and entwined with his, he stood there until he could guide you to the floor. Arms wrapped around your shoulders, he cradled you as you continued to cry.

“This is so stupid,” you groaned as you wiped your face with your sleeve. “So fucking… ugh.”

“Hey,” he shushed you. “Not stupid. You’re feeling what you’re feeling.”

“But I don’t know why,” you choked out. It was hard enough being so distraught; not having a valid reason for it made everything hurt more.

“You don't have to justify it. Don't have to do anything but just… be here.” A hand to your temple eased your head against his chest. “I'm here, as long as you need me to be.”

This was all the permission you needed to let another rush of tears spill down your cheeks, soaking his shirt. He didn't mind.

___________________

The second time was in the emergency room.

You'd never struggled to catch your breath like this before; a common cold turned south and triggered long-dormant childhood asthma, making your lungs betray the rest of your body. Marc drove you to the ER when your hollow coughing didn't let up for the third day in a row. Head spinning and chest aflame, you were rushed to the back as soon as Marc told them you couldn't breathe.

“You've got to breathe steady, honey.”

“I'm trying,” you muttered around the medicated tube in your mouth. It had to be almost 3 in the morning; your body ached like crazy and you didn't catch a word of what the nurse told you to do with your medication. All you knew was that you were cold, exhausted, and grateful to have Marc there to time your breathing.

But even with his hand holding yours, you still felt tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Every inhalation brought medicine to your airways, but the ragged sensation resonated through your chest and made your body ache more.

“I'm so tired,” you finally said around the device. With that, your tears fell faster than you could swipe at them. Your frown pushed the device from your mouth, but you didn't care.

Marc sprang up, catching the equipment when your grip faltered. He said nothing; instead, he climbed onto the bed with you, leaning your back against his chest and taking your hand in his once more, bringing the medication back to your lips. You let him bear your weight, immediate relief washing over you as he took over keeping the device steady with one hand and gently dabbing a tissue at your cheek with the other. 

“Nothing wrong with a few tears, honey. Means you’re alive.”

When you finally went home, the fire in your lungs extinguished, he held you again until you fell asleep.

_____________________

“.....The movie just started.”

(The third time was on the living room couch.)

You had finally talked Marc into watching La La Land with you (with the promise of his getting to choose the next movie night film, of course). You were barely 30 seconds into the opening number when you'd started crying, eyes glued to the screen as dozens of up-and-comers danced and sang about their dreams to make it in the industry.

“They haven't said anything.”

“They're saying everything.”

“He's dancing on a car.”

“Because he's excited!”

“Why did they stop traffic to dance?”

You didn't hear the rest of his quips, too engrossed in the scene. The colors, the music, and the highly impractical interstate  choreography had a way of getting to you ever since you first saw this movie. Meanwhile, Marc sat with his arms crossed and eyebrows knit together as he tried to follow along.

When you noticed his body language, you reached for the remote and paused the movie. “Do you… want to watch something else?”

Marc's face fell when he realized this new batch of tears wasn’t because of the movie, but because of him. The thought of making your cry hit like a punch to the gut.

He took the remote from you, moving closer to your side. “Nice try, but you're not getting out of it that easily. I need your commentary if I'm gonna keep up.” He hit play and choked down every criticism as he saw your face light up, tears of joy brimming during the remaining 2 hours of the film.

The next morning, while making breakfast, you could have sworn you heard Marc humming Another Day of Sun under his breath.

_____________________

As you'd grown closer, you began to know Marc as your rock, your steady landing place when you had thoughts and feelings too big to deal with on your own. He never had to say much to be there for you. He kept you tethered and together, happy to be of service no matter how ugly your hardships felt. 

It was only a matter of time before you saw a crack in his foundation.

You got home late one night, a thunderstorm hot on your heels. You had shrugged off your coat and shoes, calling out to Marc to see if he was home. No response.

You checked each room diligently, until you found him sitting on the corner of the bed.

“Marc?” You asked softly, walking toward him. You knelt in front of him, and the sight of his face twisted into an unfamiliar expression, a steady stream of tears spilling from his reddened eyes, was more than you could bear.

The first time came out of nowhere.

“Can you give me your hands, Marc?” He complied, his breath short and his eyes fixed on the storm pelting the window with sheet after sheet of rain. His vision darted between drops of water and streaks of lightning. The room shook with the echoes of thunder as the worst of the storm hit.

“Hey,” you urged him. “Just be here. With me.” Your thumb traced his wrist as you tried to stay calm.  “Can you breathe with me, Marc?” You sat up on your knees. He nodded, slowly but surely matching the pace of your breath. 

You didn't know what was on his mind, only that it was racing. You couldn't tell what had him so worked up, only that his breath escaped him even as you counted to ten again, and again, unrelenting in your focus on him. You had no idea what made your rock, your anchor, cry like this.

Maybe he'd tell you later; maybe it'd remain a mystery. None of that mattered in the moment. All that mattered was the rhythm of your breath as the rain let up; the way his tears drenched your sleeves when you dabbed at his flushed cheeks; the steady thrum of his heart as his body relaxed beside yours. All that mattered was how, with your chest pressed to his back as you lay on top of the bedspread, he let you hold him for a change.

_____________________

event tags: @moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi (lmk if you'd like to be added/taken off this wee tag list)

[devilst0at]

Hm. A small comment slightly relating to a post I saw today, even though it was really well thought out and beautifully illustrated. Absolutely no shade or hate, I would just like to share my views -

While I can see how Longlegs could be perceived or interpreted with a twinge of transphobia, especially considering its similarities to Silence of the Lambs (which, by the way, I LOVE but do see how people could interpret BB as problematic portrayal of a trans woman), I genuinely as a trans person do NOT believe that Longlegs is meant to be transphobic in any way. Here is why:

Dale Kobble/Longlegs’ androgyny is not directly related to his horror. His look is inspired by glam-rock, and androgynous looks and flashy fashion was all the rage in that subculture. Look at Marc Bolan or David Bowie - it’s all about long hair, interesting makeup, androgynous fashion, flares and boots and what have you. Dale is a huge nerd about glam-rock and I believe he models his own look after his idols - he wants to be attractive and cool and youthful like them. As to why I believe they would make him this way, I feel the whole point is that he’s washed up and weird and tries way too hard at his look, it’s almost desperate, especially considering the plastic surgery. That’s what’s disturbing about it - outdated, fake, desperate, washed-up. Dale Kobble is not a trans woman! He’s a man who thinks glam-rock is cool and wants to be pretty like Marc Bolan. Men can wear pink and makeup and have long hair and still be men. The fact that Dale is so washed up and tries so hard at his looks to a point of surgically created horror is the reason he’s creepy, not because he’s androgynous in itself.

I think it’s so important as a community to talk about and consider the way media portrays transness and androgyny, but Longlegs is just… not that. It’s a movie about generational trauma and processing trauma and abusive dynamics and satanic panic and the complexities of morality to me, amongst other things.

It’s also just a fun horror movie about a weird guy who worships Satan and sings randomly.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Kinktober Day 6: Phone Sex

pairing: jake lockley x fem!reader

contents: 18+/NSFW/MINORS DNI, jake being a tease and really hot (as usual)

wc: 535

an: for my bb @juneknight. smooshin (perhaps smoochin) you 😚

kinktober masterlist | moonknight masterlist

“C’mon, honey, it’s been a week,” Jake croons down the line, his voice much more soft than usual.

“And who’s fault is that?” You ask— you want to say Marc, he’s the one who started to piece together crumbs for this excursion. But, you know that he wouldn’t have done it without input from Jake and Steven.

“The coward who won’t show his fucking face. But, I don’t wanna talk about him.”

Heat burns your cheeks as he redirects the conversation, “No, you want to talk about sex. It’s dirty, Jake.”

The two of you have been going back and forth. He wants you to talk dirty to him so that he can get off. He’s been buttering you up since he called, but you’ve vehemently protested. If anyone is the expert on dirty talk in this relationship it’s him— all of them really. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.

“Not just about sex, about how soft and wet and tight—“

“Jake,” You whine shyly, shifting as you lay in bed.

The sound drives him wild, he’s hard, palming at himself through his boxers. He can picture you laid in his bed, looking so sweet, smelling so sweet in one of his shirts and nothing else.

“Such a prude, a sweet innocent girl, hmm? I don’t think so,” He teases.

“Yes,” You say indignantly, lifting your chin in defiance.

He takes a deep, ragged breath as he continues to tease you, “Really? I don’t think a sweet innocent girl would beg for my cock.”

“Maybe our definitions are different,” You say weakly, noticing the ache that grows between your thighs.

“And so defiant,” He muses softly, his breath still a little labored.

You open your mouth to say something snarky but then there’s something happening in the background that you can’t make out, something soft. Something wet. You hold your breath, pressing the phone closer to your ear. You can’t see it but Jake smiles at your silence, knows exactly what you’re doing.

“Can you hear me?” He whispers playfully, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re— are you— touching yourself?” You ask breathily.

“I’m teaching you,” He corrects. “Are you wet? Needy?”

“N-no.”

“My desperate innocent girl. No ache between those thighs? I bet you are, bet you're squeezing those thighs together trying to relieve yourself. It’s not as good as my cock is it? Not even your fingers, none of your toys.”

All you can do is whimper, and it drives him insane, closer to his peak as he strokes himself at a steady pace, “Fuck, you’re so fucking sweet. S’close just teasing you. Just picturing how your pussy would squeeze me tight.”

“Jake, I—“

Whatever you’re about to say is cut off by a long, deep groan from him. It’s a sound you know well, once that you love to hear and you wish that you could see him. You want to see the way his brows knit together, the way his mouth falls open as he cums.

“Fuck. You here still?”

“Yeah I…guess you didn’t need my help?” You breathe, clearly affected.

He grins, “You helped plenty. Now— do you need some help?

oscar taglist: @honeybrowne, @pastanoodles11, @campingwiththecharmings, @steven-grants-world, @stevengrcnt, @greg-montgomery, @lesbianhotch, @mccn-bcys, @marc-spectorr, @whatthefishh, @simpforbritgents, @maisondenachtai, @silversprings-mp3, @flightlessangelwings

[ominoose]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫-𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

Summary: Random drabble's about Steven Grant meeting other Oscar Isaac characters. No Marc or Jake co-concious, only referenced. Characters: Basil Stitt, Leto Atreides, Poe Dameron A/N: This randomly hit me and I wanted to write it because it was funny. Used a spinny wheel for it. Also idk if BB-8 can do that but now he can.

London was it's usual muggy, busy self as Steven ran down the street, hoping to catch the bus to work. It had been hard enough to get a job after the Museum Incident, but maintaining a position was proving to be a much harder endeavor between his abnormal sleeping patterns and head mates.

"Oi! Wait, please!" Steven was within touching distance just as the bus sped off, and at the lack of anything to rest his weight on or break his fall, the man found himself tumbling face first into traffic.

☽ 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐭 (Lightningface)

+ When Steven first wakes up in the apartment, his first thought is that he's woken up in a bomb site. The apartment is a mess, furniture and clothes strewn everywhere haphazardly. He's momentarily glad Marc isn't replying in his head, knowing the American would have an aneurysm over the state of the place.

+ Basil is the one to find Steven, jumping up from his spot on the couch and staring at him like he's an alien. The first thought in his mind is that Ricky the Monkey did some crazy magic and brought a clone to replace him. Poor Steven barely has a chance to process the situation before he's trying to calm his scarred, other American look alike down and explain his situation. Nothing manages to convince Basil there isn't some magic going on here, but he stops viewing Steven as an evil replacement.

+ After the initial shock and awkward introductions, they manage to sit down and chat for a few minutes. Basil shares the story of the lightning strike, insisting that its imbued him with magical powers. Steven, bless his heart, immediately believes this and boasts about his own moon powers too.

"You know, I've always wanted to try jumping off the roof and flying, have you done that?"

"Oh no, my mate Marc usually handles that, but maybe we can practice together? Have you got a suit as well?"

"Yeah, it's this paper bag and bed sheet I fixed up myself! C'mon, I have a stool on the balcony-"

"Wait, hang about.... Actually, mate, on second thoughts, lets not."

+ Steven ends up convincing Basil to properly fix his apartment, not just brush away the broken shards and dust. So that's what they do for a while, busying themselves as they theorize on how to get Steven back home with only a handful of brain cells between them. Basil listens with surprising intensity when Steven ends up branching off into Egyptology tangents, and likewise Steven nods along when Basil brings up all the documentaries he'd watched recently. In the end, the apartment does end up in much better shape, and the pair become quite chummy.

"Damn. Thanks for the help... Maybe I did overreact a bit."

"Yeah, it's no problem bruvs, it happens. Surprised the doctors didn't give you anymore meds, though I suppose over here its not like the NHS."

"Oh, no I didn't go to the hospital."

"...You wot?!"

𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 (Dune)

+ Coming to on hot, sandy slabs is enough of a trigger point to Steven Grant as they come. Coming to on hot, sandy slabs with weird astronauts in suits pointing space guns at him goes beyond frighting and circles back into 'Shit yourself' territory. Thankfully they seem to speak English. Unfortunately, his high pitched screams and babbling British noises don't make sense to them while they peer down their guns at him with confusion. It isn't until a booming voice draws everyone's attention that Steven gets a chance to breath.

+ Said breath is swiftly knocked back out of Stevens lungs when a wiser, nobler and older version of him walks into the room, commanding the attention of every single space soldier in the room. The man stares down at him as he lays huddled on the ground, curled into himself, and quirks a single well groomed eyebrow at him.

"I am Duke Leto of House Atreides. You have penetrated your way into my home. Who are you?"

"I-I-I'm S-Steven Grant. Of the... Giftshop."

The Duke continues his stony stare at Steven for a few seconds longer before holding out a calloused hand.

"Well Steven of the Giftshop, I think we both have many questions for one another, and hopefully some answers."

+ When Steven finally gets over being starstruck at the dignified, royal version of himself, and when Leto makes the accidental mistake of mentioning that they're billions of years in the future on another planet, Steven freaks out, having a 10 minute long panic attack. When that's over he geeks out instead, asking a million questions about technology, using apologies as commas and full stops.

"Do people still know about Khonshu in this era?!"

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with that name."

"Lucky sod."

+ Leto thinks the strange, weird sounding clone of himself is a schizophrenic long lost cousin, but at lease he isn't trying to kill him over a title. It's not as common in Arrakis, or the general noble courts, to find someone as earnest, honest and willing to learn as Steven seems to be, which earns him a surprising amount of respect from the Duke.

𝐏𝐨𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 (Star Wars)

+ Waking up in a space ship that's doing somersaults mid-battle while dodging and weaving around beams trying to explode it out of the sky was almost as stressful as waking up on a London bus at 8am. Commendably, Steven didn't scream or cry, but simply had a silent panic attack until a rolling white and orange ball started beeping at him, or rather the ridiculously handsome version of him currently flying the plane.

"Who the hell are you and how did you get on my cruiser?!"

"Bloody hell, not another handsome American me!"

"What?! BB-8, check for a concussion!"

+ After being given a water bottle by the polite little droid, Steven finally managed to calm himself down by the time the ship touch down and the pilot in matching droid colours sprang before him, launching question after question. When he clocked Stevens face, he was speechless, brows slowly knitting over his eyes as he tried to make sense of what was in front of him. Mid stare-down BB-8 nicked the Brits skin, running a quick diagnostic test and beeping the results out to the pilot who's eyebrows swiftly un-knitted at the noises.

+ Taking advantage of the silence, Steven tries to explain himself and his situation, insisting he comes in peace and simply wanted to get home before Donna got another excuse to give him the sack. The pilot finally introduced himself as Poe, the best pilot in the resistance at that, and with a sigh he promised to try and figure out how to get Steven back to whatever galaxy London was from.

+ Poe tries to explain the resistance and the empire to Steven, who in turn compares it to Ammits cult and jointly rants about those who take choice and freedom from the innocent. Poe is happy enough that his weird blood ancestor is with the resistance, even if he does constantly regard him with a quirked eyebrow, wondering how in the universe he managed to evolve from this walking concussion. For a second time Poe is rendered silent as Steven mentions being Moonknight.

"Oh yeah, I've done that too, at least those Jedi blokes doesn't send their jackals after you though!"

"You've... fought? In battle?"

"Course, yeah. Fought off giant gods back to the underworld, stopped the day of reckoning as the souls of the living were flooding the underworld. It was just the other day actually."

"...You killed god?!"

+ Steven absolutely adores BB-8 and Leia, a feeling the bot and all of the resistance seem to happily return, much to the dismay of Poe. Steven's quite flustered from all the attention and questions, leaving Poe to drag him away in a huff, claiming they need to get back to figuring out how to send him home. It feels like a babysitting gig more than anything, but deep down it strokes Poe's ego when Steven ooh's and ahh's at all his resistance tales.

[ivystoryweaver]

hngnnnnnnggngnnnngnnngggg bark bark bark

Marc is like you want mission details, here you go idgaf but can we get off tho

priorities, baby

whitney you set such a mood here, well done

Honey Trap

AN: Fifth fic for @moonknight-events’ MK Bingo! This is probably a little silly (and likely not very well-written) but it was fun to come up with and write so irdc lol 😌 Hope someone other than me enjoys this!

You stumble across Marc while he's camping in a remote part of the woods and he's (understandably) suspicious of you.

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, you've been warned) Prompt: Hiking Words: 2,427 Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader Warnings: references to death, attempted murder, knives, frottage, please let me know if i missed anything. AO3

——————

Marc doesn’t trust you. 

Your story about wandering off trail and getting lost was plausible, sure, and you looked harmless enough, but he'd been around long enough to know that looks can be deceiving. 

Still, what was he to do? If you really were telling him the truth, you needed help. He couldn’t just let you wander around alone in the dark. What if something happened? What if you got injured, or worse, killed? No, better to assume the risk, to give you the benefit of the doubt. Plus, it certainly made it easier to keep an eye on you. You’d been so grateful, thanking him profusely and promising not to be a bother. He’d waved this off of course, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped when you smiled at him. 

It’s late now, the moon full and high in the dark night sky. You’re sitting on the other side of the fire (his fire), your jacket zipped to your chin, arms wrapped around your legs as you try to get as close to the flames as you can without burning yourself. He tries not to keep looking at you, at the way the firelight makes you glow, but every time he looks away, his eyes inevitably drift back. There’s something about you, he’s not sure what but, it makes him feel…uneasy. Everything about you seems normal but he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something. His stomach rumbles at this thought and he briefly considers that he might just be hungry. With a sigh, Marc digs into his bag, searching for the rations he’d packed. His eyes meet yours over the fire as he pulls a packet of jerky out and shakes it.  

“Want some?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You hesitate, eyes dipping to study the nondescript packet in his hand. He swallows thickly as you unconsciously lick your lips. 

“Thanks,” you say finally, smiling as you take the food from him. 

He nods, pulling out another and tearing it open. Marc’s eyes scan the surrounding darkness as the two of you eat, the slight crinkling of the ration packaging replacing the silence. 

“So,” you begin, studying the strip of jerky between your fingers. “You come here often?” 

His lips quirk slightly at the joke but he just shrugs. “Not really, no.” 

You hum, carefully chewing a bite of jerky. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

He meets your gaze, unease settling in his gut. “How do you mean?” 

It’s your turn to shrug now, pulling another strip from your packet “You just seem very…prepared is all.” 

He sniffs in amusement, relaxing slightly. “Yeah well, people do tend to be at least slightly prepared when they plan on camping in the woods.” 

You scoff, swallowing your mouthful of food. “I wasn’t planning on camping though.” 

“Maybe not,” he agrees, taking a sip from his water bottle. “But you clearly had no idea what you were getting yourself into by coming all the way out here. Seriously, who hikes without a map?” 

You snort, shaking your head at yourself. “Valid point. Obviously, I’m an incompetent buffoon.” 

Marc bites back a smile, pulling another piece of jerky from the packet. “Well at least you’re aware of it.” 

“I’m so aware of it,” you laugh, putting your head in your hands.  

He hums, his eyes drifting to you again across the fire, watching as you (presumably) mentally berate yourself for getting into this situation. What would’ve happened had you not run into him? If you had run into someone else? With no supplies, would you even have survived the night? A wave of sympathy washes over him, and he frowns at himself for going soft on you so quickly. 

“What brought you out here, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

You look up from your hands, eyes tired but bright as you smile somewhat fondly. “My brother.” 

Marc raises an eyebrow. “Your brother?” 

You nod, reaching for your pack. You unzip it and pull out an understated urn. His stomach sinks. 

“Oh,” he croaks, his throat going suddenly dry. “I’m…sorry for your loss.” 

“Thanks,” you whisper, turning your attention to the urn in your hands. “He would’ve liked you, I think. Calling me out for being unprepared and all that. He was always looking out for me.” 

Marc grunts, uncomfortable now at the turn the conversation has taken given what had happened to his own brother. “Sounds like he was a, uh, good guy.” 

You nod, meeting his eyes over the fire again, the soft smile on your lips making his heart skip. “He was.” 

The two of you talk a little more, the topics now lighter and less serious. When you start yawning so often you can barely keep the conversation going though, he decides it’s time for bed. He insists that you take his sleeping bag, knowing your thin jacket isn’t enough to keep you warm until the sunrise. Once you agree to take it, he settles down beside the fire, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head. Your soft snores meet his ears in no time and he smiles to himself, glad that he was able to help someone without using violence just this once. 

He stares into the fire, watching as the flames dance, as they devour the kindling he’d thrown in earlier, as they burn through the sticks and branches he’d collected. His eyes droop, head bobbing gently as he tries to stay awake, knowing he has to keep an eye on things (on you). He thinks he trusts you, or he wants to at least, but he just can’t seem to shake that feeling. Could he really trust himself though? After everything he’s done, after everything he’s seen? Perhaps it’s you who should be afraid of him. 

His thoughts spiral, taking him in directions both logical and illogical. He lets himself get lost in it, in the scenarios, in the possibilities, each one more unlikely than the next. At some point, he must doze off, though, because the next thing he knows is the weight of a body on top of him with a knife to his throat. 

It’s you. Of course it’s you. 

Damn it, he should’ve known, should’ve listened to that niggling feeling inside him that told him not to trust you. 

It’s dark save for the moonlight—you must’ve doused the fire before making your move on him.  

“I’m sorry about this,” you say, grimacing down at him somewhat apologetically. “You seem nice, and I actually kind of enjoyed talking to you but, unfortunately, I have a job to do.” 

Marc swallows thickly, the action pushing the blade a fraction deeper into his skin. “To kill me, you mean?” 

Your face loses some of its softness as you shake your head at him. “That depends on how cooperative you are.” 

He grunts, saying nothing as he tries to assess just how bad things are for him.  

“See,” you continue, leaning in a little closer, the delicious scent of you invading his nostrils. “I need information.” 

He waits for you to continue, eyes scanning your face for any tells, any flickers he can use to his advantage. When he doesn’t respond, you sigh in disappointment, frowning theatrically.  

“Please, Marc, I don’t wanna have to slice up your pretty face. Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll be on my way.” 

He clenches his teeth at your condescending tone. “What do you wanna know?”  

You smile softly at him and he curses himself for the way his heart skips a little; what the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Tell me about Operation Windstorm.” 

He needs to figure out how to get out of this. He can’t just push you off of him, can’t use his legs to flip you over, not with that knife so close to his carotid artery. One wrong move and he’s dead. 

So he stalls. 

Marc snorts, raising an eyebrow at you. “That’s it? Of all the jobs I’ve pulled, that’s the one you wanna know about?” 

You continue to smile down at him, as if you know exactly what he’s doing. “I couldn’t care less, to be perfectly honest but, my client wants to know so, until I get paid, I guess I do too.” 

He grunts, resigned to the fact that he has no choice but to give you exactly what you want in the hopes that you don’t slit his throat afterward. So he tells you every detail of that job, answering every question you have, and just when he’s beginning to think this just might not end well for him, he feels the pressure of your blade ease ever so slightly. 

He wastes no time, taking control and flipping you over, knocking the knife from your hand and causing it to skitter off into the darkness. Marc traps you beneath him, your arms pinned above your head, his knees bracketing your thighs. You’re not giving up without a fight though and wriggling beneath him, trying somehow to use the position to your advantage. You try to lift your leg, brushing your thigh against his groin; the clench of his jaw makes you smirk. 

“Stop it,” he orders, embarrassed by how easy it was for you to rattle him. 

“C’mon, we both know you don’t want that,” you tease, looking down at the slight bulge in his jeans. “Has it been a while, honey?” 

He growls, your breathy chuckles sending shivers up his spine as you continue to move beneath him. “Shut up.” 

“Or what?” you whisper, somehow managing to extricate one of your legs and curl it over his hip.  

“Or this,” he says through gritted teeth, grinding his erection against your core in an effort to turn the tables, to work you up the way you’re working him up. 

It works, your eyes fluttering, lips parting in a sweet little whimper as he grinds into you slowly, over and over again. He groans when you meet his thrusts (as well as you can anyway given your position), the heat blossoming in his gut. He leans in close, his hands still pinning your arms to the ground as he gets lost in you, in the feel of you, in the way you look beneath him. 

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, panting as every press of his hips sends delightful waves of pleasure through your body. 

Marc hums in agreement, his lip between his teeth as he hovers over you. You want to kiss him, to taste him, to devour him. So you do, pushing yourself up to capture his lips, your tongue claiming his mouth and pulling another groan from him. You arch into him as well as you can, pulling his body even closer with your freed leg as you continue to move together. The friction is delicious, like heaven, and a part of you never wants it to end. You wish you could flip him over again, ride him fast and hard, his strong fingers digging into your hips as you pull him apart and put him back together over and over and— 

Your release slams into you at the thought, a choked moan slipping from between your lips as he keeps moving, prolonging your bliss. Marc watches you as you come, the look in his eyes is greedy as your body shakes, your face contorting into something ethereal, almost otherworldly. When you come back to yourself, you meet his eyes again, your chest heaving slightly as you try to catch your breath. He looks like he wants to eat you alive, the wildness and lust in his eyes visible even in the darkness. You shiver with pleasure, chewing your lip as you let your gaze drag slowly down his body. You wish you could see more of him, his windbreaker doing nothing to compliment his undoubtedly amazing body. 

“Who sent you?” He pants, as if he hadn’t just given you the best orgasm you’ve had in years. 

Your eyes flick back to his at the question, a lazy smile curling the edges of your mouth as you begin to move against him again, silently begging him to come for you. He swallows thickly, his body tensing with every brush of your hips, his fingers clenching and unclenching around your forearms. His eyelashes flutter as he watches you, his mouth slack with pleasure. Then he groans, giving into you, into this, his body curling even more over yours as he buries his face in your neck. He ruts against you, his movements somewhat uncoordinated as he chases his release.  

His body twitches above yours as he comes, his moans muffled slightly by your neck. Just as you’re mourning the fact that you didn’t get to see his face, you notice his hold on you has slackened a bit— enough to turn the tables, you hope. Still dazed from his orgasm, it takes him a moment to realize what you’re doing as you begin to wiggle beneath him, and by the time he does, it’s too late.  

Marc grunts as you push him onto his back and straddle him, your hands pinning his muscular arms to the ground. After everything, you should probably kill him—he’s the type to hold a grudge, the type that’ll try to hunt you down—but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. If nothing else, it’d be a waste of a pretty face. Instead, you kiss him, relishing the taste and feel of him one last time before pulling away to smile down at him. 

“Thanks for the tumble, honey,” you whisper, climbing off of him with a chuckle. 

By the time he comes back to himself, you’re gone and the sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon. Marc groans in frustration, running his hands over his face as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. He should be pissed, he thinks, for so easily falling into your trap but, somehow, he isn’t. He sniffs a laugh, shaking his head at himself as he moves to get up.  

Later, when he’s packing up his gear (including the sleeping bag he’d let you borrow), he comes across a folded, non-descript piece of paper that he knows must be from you. He unfolds it, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste. For a moment, he just stares, his eyes tracing the lines and curves of your parting words, words that make his lips quirk in a smile.

See you around.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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[angel-of-the-moons]

Which of the moon boys do you think is actually great at math?

Personally?

Jake!

The man is intelligent, calculating, efficient. If we find out later in the show that he has been fronting "randomly", he would need to plan accurately down to the last minute in order to make sure Marc and Steven don't find out about him until they're ready (Or the Old Man tells them)

Jake would be quick, able to run math problems in his head. (For example: "Steven works at exactly 1pm Monday. Marc is letting him front two days on his own, including Sunday. Steven now has a bedtime of 9 or 10pm sharp. I can adjust accordingly but if he goes to sleep at 9pm Sunday evening, I can let him rest for 2 hours, run out to the docks and perform Khonshu's task in four. Steven's morning alarm is set for 10am on workdays. If I'm fast, Steven will get at least six hours of sleep and not notice anything is wrong.")

Marc...

I like to think that Marc was only able to handle hiding himself from Steven for so long was because Jake was interfering and subtly co-fronting to help manage the times Marc needed the body.

Counting things like ammo and cash? He probably had counters for both because he didn't have time to do the math himself when prepping his go-bags for excursions, even in the military.

Steven? Oh, Steven...

Steven, bless his soul, might know a lot about things like ancient Egypt and his other hyperfixations, but he doesn't give me a "math genius" vibe (im sorry bb but it's true!) So he probably has trouble with them if the numbers are too great.

When it comes to math, I think that Steven uses a calculator, either on his phone or an actual one (you know, the dinosaurs they used to let use in schools when we were kids) especially for money math, like when he's on the shift at the museum, for example, or budgeting groceries to accommodate he and Marc's dietary preferences; given that sometimes veganism can be expensive to replace "normal" or organic ingredients for in some places to make recipes work and taste well.

(Believe it or not it is extremely difficult for me to do math on account of my dyscalculia, so I definitely had to use a goddamn calculator for the Jake headcanon!)

[tfa-archived]

with it officially being disability pride month, I wanna talk about my favorite disabled headcanon, which is for the one and only, my most beloved Poe Dameron. Buckle up, because this is a long post.

I actually have a few different disability headcanons, most of which hold up to canon/are extrapolated from canon, so we'll keep that in mind as we go through. I expect this to have about...four parts total. Let's go!

Hard of Hearing

I think a good case can be made that Poe is hard of hearing, with a few instances that could point to this fact, primarily the very beginning of the Rise of Skywalker. Even though Chewie is sitting right beside Poe, Poe does not understand what Chewie has said, because his head is turned (at no other point does Poe have any problem understanding Chewbacca, so we know it is not a linguistics issue)

It's only when he turns towards Chewie and Chewie repeats what he said that Poe understands what was said. There's also the frankly adorable moment in The Last Jedi that's extremely easy to miss, because it's a far away shot and we just barely catch what Poe says:

BB-8 is beeping so fast trying to catch Poe up that Poe has to request that he slow down so Poe can understand him. Other possible evidence of him being HoH (beyond the comical amount of explosions he's constantly caught in) is that there are several shots where we see Poe carefully watching the lips of the person he's speaking to as they're talking, as if that might help him keep up.

And (I don't have a gif of this lmao I'm not giffing him getting hurt) when Poe gets shot in tros, @/dameronalone pointed out it could be evidence he didn't hear the approaching stormtroopers when he turned to look the other way. @/hermitmoss has also pointed to his line at the start of tfa while being snarky at Kylo as further possible evidence, about how it's hard to understand Ren with the voice modulator.

Essential Hand Tremor

Another fact pointed out to me by @/hermitmoss (thanks Braigwen) is that when Poe goes to cover Leia's hand with his own in the Last Jedi, we see that his hand is shaking:

I later noticed that this isn't the only time that we see Poe do this, we see it again in the Rise of Skywalker, where he cannot keep his blaster steady as Rey approaches the serpent at all.

These are the only two circumstances I can find of his hands trembling in the movies, though, and we know from plenty of other scenes that Poe ordinarily can keep a blaster extremely steady:

Autism & ADHD

Okay this one I don't consider to be a headcanon, lmfao. I genuinely believe that Poe was intentionally coded as autistic/ADHD by Oscar Isaac.

Oscar playing/coding Poe as something that is never explicitly confirmed by Disney is far from new: Poe is coded as a bisexual (or pansexual) man, because that's how Oscar Isaac saw Poe and chose to play him, and even if we weren't gifted with it being made explicit, it's still there in his performance.

If you happen to be a fan of Oscar Isaac, or just a Marvel and Star Wars fan both, you'll know he starred in the Disney+ series Moon Knight last year as the Moon Knight system (Steven Grant, Marc Spector, and Jake Lockley).

Shortly after the first episode premiered, Oscar Isaac revealed in an interview that while trying to figure out who Steven was as a person, he came up with the idea that the system be on the Autism Spectrum, and approached Marvel to see if he could include it into his performances, and it was green-lit.

The Lunar system is the best intentional autistic representation I've ever seen, there are so many things they do that are so minor that I doubt most people would ever consider to include, but they are things that me and my friends do.

And there's an overlap in how Oscar plays the various autistic habits and traits of the Lunar system in how he portrays Poe. Most notably, Poe and Marc have extremely similar meltdowns:

There's plenty more overlap (Poe does the same anxious stim Steven does, of rubbing the inside of his index finger with his thumb) but there's so much there I'm not sure where all to begin. I have gone more in depth on the various autistic traits Poe shows throughout the films in this gifset here, though.

I'll go ahead and include some of the moments we see him stimming, that I have evidence of:

(he also does this same hand thing when he starts to leave BB-8 and promises to come back.)

We also see him fidgeting anxiously with his hands during the briefing in the last jedi:

Poe also has a habit of running his tongue along his bottom lip while he's stressed or thinking something through. Here's three examples from across the trilogy (there are plenty more):

We're leaning a little closer into ADHD territory now. I don't really know how to explain why I think Poe is ADHD, to be quite honest, besides the fact that he just radiates ADHD energy to me and I heavily relate. This is a man who cannot stay still, and frequently talks with his hands:

But there's also the fact that Poe oftentimes has a tendency to not be able to fully see the potential of negative outcomes to his decisions - he sees point a to point b, and sometimes becomes laser focused on that. It's something I understand perfectly, because it's hard for me to pull away from something I've already fully committed to doing, and it's even more difficult sometimes for me to truly understand what (and what kind of) consequences my actions will have.

Other evidence of him being extremely autistic (and adhd) is just....that he makes autistic expressions?

Like this...is an autistic expression, I've seen my best friend make this exact fucking face before, I don't know how else to explain it.

Misc Thoughts

Aside from the above, it's pretty much canon that Poe has anxiety and depression — at the very least, Poe Dameron: Free Fall by Alex Segura certainly does not shy away from the suggestion, and is one of the most implicit portrayals we have of it outside the films — it is a series of catastrophizing his circumstances that leads Poe to joining Zorii for a little while as a teenager, following a joyride that ended in a crash that Poe explicitly wishes he had not survived.

The movies themselves also points to Poe having PTSD, partially through the writing but mostly due to the nuanced and thoughtful performance Oscar Isaac gives as Poe (that goes....woefully underappreciated, seriously he adds so much depth to every single scene as Poe, including the thread of anxiety in Poe's voice when Rey mentions Ren's ship is over Kijimi, or constantly looking out to make sure they're not being followed in tros).

(Good expanded material follows through on this, such as Poe's reluctance to discuss anything about what happened aboard the Finalizer in the Poe Dameron: Flight Log, and becoming irate at the thought of having to. He's an extremely traumatized man, and he certainly doesn't deserve to be thrown out of an airlock jfc and he isn't as arrogant as the fascist regime he is fighting, tbh he's not arrogant at all).

Conclusion

I believe that sums up the majority of my Poe is disabled thoughts, or at least the ones that I think holds up very well within the canon framework. He's extremely disabled and - in the case of being neurodivergent - this is critical to understanding him as a character, especially considering his arc ends up being focused on interdependence.

I wish all fellow disabled folk a happy pride month, and I wish all very ableds a very "please do not be ableist on this post". You will be blocked otherwise.