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#Implied marc spector x reader

vintagegirl01 · 1 month

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Loving you is a losing game

Marc Spector x fem! reader (Steven and Jake are mentioned briefly)

Summary: Marc meeting you was one of the best things to have happen to him. However, the demons of his past make him feel otherwise. You help him see that the love you share is one that should be fought for.

A/N: This is what I thought while listening to the song Arcade by Duncan Laurence. Of course with a happier twist.

A/N 2: Purely for entertainment purposes, so please don’t come after me. As I said, I'm still getting used to writing pieces like this.

Marc Spector’s life has never been easy. From the trauma of his young brother’s death to everything he’s during his time as Khonshu’s avatar, he’s felt like a ticking time bomb. Though he’s tried to use his time as Moon Knight to right his wrongs, it never feels like it’s enough.

When he meets you, he begins to see that there is more to life than vengeance. Marc begins to let himself enjoy your presence when he and you hit it off at the gym.

You weren’t a gym rat by any means but you had started a membership in the hopes of getting in shape and learning self-defense by using their punching bag. Seeing you hit the bag by yourself catches his attention and he begins to give you some pointers on how to improve your stance. Over time, this leads to you becoming sparring partners and eventually exchanging phone numbers. Although,this leads to you all regularly hanging out outside your sparring hours.

The day he asked you out was a shock for him because not only did he actually let himself be brave enough to ask the question but you eagerly accepted his invitation. It’s even more surprising to find out that one date led to another. Then another until you both have officially unofficially started dating.

Despite everything going well, he knew that there were things he needed to tell you. About his DID. His past. Being the avatar to an Egyptian deity in exchange to right the wrongs from his ugly past.

This then leads him to begin feeling self conscious about himself. His inner dialogue begins to consist of questions such as: What if he didn’t deserve this chance at happiness? What if she thinks I’m crazy or thinks I’m making this up?

Marc then begins to hear his mother’s voice. Telling him that he is unworthy of receiving love and will only continue to destroy all the lives that he surrounds himself with. Steven and Jake try to snap him out of this but Marc is paralyzed. At this moment, Marc only thinks one thing.

“I have to break up with her before I hurt her”, Marc thought.

_____________________________________

“Marc, this isn’t funny. Stop joking, you say.

“I’m not joking. I think we should break up,” said Marc.

“But why, Marc? Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course, you didn’t. You’ve been the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“Then why are you doing this?” You take your hand in his, looking at him sadly. “Please, tell me why you’re acting as if I’m a disease.”

“Imthedisease.” He says as if he’s trying to rip off a bandage.

“What, baby?”

“I said, I'm the disease. I seep into innocent lives and destroy them.” He looks at you tearfully.

“Marc, that’s silly. What are you talking about?”

Marc then begins to explain everything. From the death of his younger brother to the lives he took during his time as a mercenary. He also makes sure to mention that he is the vigilante, Moon Knight, and has two other individuals living within his head. He concludes all of this by saying, “Loving me is a losing game.”

Once he’s done explaining all of this, Marc is waiting to see your reaction to all this. Will you call him crazy? Run away from him? Scream?

Instead, you take his hands in your own.

“Loving you isn’t a losing game, Marc,” you tell him. I love you and long as we have each other, we can face whatever life throws at us.”

At this, Marc pulls you into a big hug. He lets himself break down because he knows that you’re here to stay and love him. For his strengths and weaknesses, through good and bad times. He knows you will be there for him.

As you two are still embracing, he starts to believe that he is worth loving after all.

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deathc-re · 2 years

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marc spector x gn! reader drabble

warning: implied smut, kissing, nipple play, praising (marc receiving), semi public, teasing and kinda ooc marc lmao

an: omg their back?! sorry i went mia lmao. i started this like early august but whatever better late than never

the warm night air surrounded the two of you while you left the restaurant, stomachs full with lazy smiles on your faces. as you approached your shared apartment you noticed a small alley way just about a block away.

a wicked smirk crossed your face as you interlaced your fingers with his.

"hm?" he hummed, turning to you with a quirked brow.

"hey baby, i got something to show you ok? follow me." your smile was innocent but he could tell from your tone of voice. you were planning something.

without giving him a chance to respond you pulled him towards the alley. it was still, quiet. unnoticed by the few passerby's and the perfect place to be just the right amount of annoying to your lover boy marc.

"is something wrong my love?" he asked cautiously, searching your face.

you only looked up with a smile, inner brows raised as you pushed him against the wall, hands wandering under his shirt. he looked at you surprised and confused.

"i was just thinking," you started, fingers brushing over hardening nipples, " how about i give you a preview of what's to come when we get home?"

you leaned forwards, breath tickling the fold of his ear, " just a taste tho, ok?"

with a shaky inhale he nodded, hands that were recently raised dropped to his sides. you giggled and placed a wet kiss to his neck.

"what a good boy!"

your leg pushed in between his, rubbing at his area while you caught his lips. a subtle growl left him and you felt a bulge grow against your lower thigh.

you smiled into the kiss and moved down. kissing his jaw and suckling away at the soft skin of his neck. he stifled a groan, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth.

"y-you sure you wanna do this here, love?" he mumbled against your temple, voice low. dangerous. his large hand landed on your hips, pulling you ever closer and jerking your knee up. causing him to gasp.

you chuckled and pulled back, staring him in the eyes while your hands pinched and squeezed at his perky brown buds. his face screwed while he struggled to keep eye contact. there was nothing you wanted to do more than take him here, in this alleyway and hope no innocent kid on a stroll with their mom came passing by.

you let out a breathy chuckle and intertwined your finger with marc's. he looked at you with a quirked brow and an air or impatience.

"let's get home baby, i just remembered i always skip the previews."

#[moon's mind]#gender neutral fanfic #marc spector #moonknight #drabble #oneshot #x reader #gender neutral y/n #sub marc spector #moon boys #date night #headcanon #short fic #marc spector x gn!reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector smut #implied sex

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whatstruthgottodowithit · 2 years

Note

So, I have an idea, idk if you're familiar with the series Moon Knight?! (or if you want to take this request even 😅)

If you are, I had this idea where the reader would be stuck somewhere in Egypt along with Marc, during a mission, against the reader's will...

And I chose these prompts:

-Reader to Marc: "I know of your reputation all too well.";

-Marc to Reader: "Scream all you want. No one can hear you."

-Steven to Reader: "You're cute when you're angry"

And lastly, Marc to Steven: "Go and live with her, then! See if I care."

Anyways, thank you always ♡

Scarab Hunting

Fandom: Moonknight, Marvel

Pairing: Stephen Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader

Characters: Stephen Grant, Marc Spector, Reader, Moonknight

Word Count: 1036 // Rating: Mature

Summary: Two's company three's a crowd.

Tags/ Warnings: Violence, Implied Violence, Imprisonment, Flirting, Scavenger Hunting, Enemies to Lovers, Stephen Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Moonknight, Marvel Moonknight, My Writing, Marvel, Requests, Requested Fic

Notes: Okay so, I'm not 100% sure of all the details but I did a bit of research and tried as best as I could! Hope it's okay, like I said I've never watched it so it might be rubbish ahah [udpated 9/22]

Tags: @h-a-j-i-m-e-ru

The heat was sweltering and Y/N was only getting warmer. The more she fought, the more panic she felt, and the hotter she got. Her bindings were tight to her wrists behind her back and any inch of movement made them tighter and tighter. Finally, she fell back in a slump feeling useless. She was trapped. She couldn’t believe she had been so stupid. She had teamed up with the enemy, trying to get what was rightfully hers. Well, her family’s.

She had met Marc on the hunt and he had promised he could help her find the scarab. And he had. They had been deep in the bowels of the tomb, their path dark and treacherous but she knew where to go. She had a map, a map that had belonged to her father who had walked this path many times before unable to get to the heart of the tomb where the scarab resided. He had been driven mad trying to get his hands on it. And he had never had an assistant who could help. There were traps throughout that no mere mortal was able to navigate. that’s where Marc came in.

He was a unique man. His power was undeniable and Y/N knew her only way into the tomb would be with him by her side. It had worked. They had reached the centre of the tomb and she had finally closed her hands around her long-lost family heirloom, that's when it had all gone dark. As she came too she could feel the throbbing in her head and the sticky coolness of dried blood on her scalp. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting she found she was alone. Bound and shut-in with only a sarcophagus for company. Marc and more importantly the scarab was gone. She had been conned. And now she was going to die.

Tears stung her eyes as reality started to set in. How was it going to happen? Overheating? Starvation? Dehydration? Either way, it was going to be pretty.

But then there was a crash from the other side of the stone doorway. Shouting echoed through the chamber though she couldn't tell who was speaking or what they were saying

‘Help! In here help! Please help me!’ she screamed. The stone door grinded as it slid open. And then there he was Marc. He appeared, dishevelled and distressed. ‘Scream all you want, no one’s gonna hear you,’ Marc chuckled as he walked in. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Save the questions for after sweetheart, I’m here to rescue you. And then you’re gonna help me not die,’ Marc said coming forward to reach for her bindings but Y/N moved so they were out of his way. ‘You left me for dead and now you want me to help you?’ she scoffed. ‘What makes you think I abandoned you?’ Marc said. ‘I know of your reputation all too well,’ she spat. ‘Don’t bet on that. Besides even if I did I’m your only shot to not die right now so why don’t you start cooperating,’ Marc grunted as he shoved her over so he could access the bindings. ‘Why should I? You didn’t come back for fun. There’s something afoot and my guess is there’s someone on the other side of that door,’ she said, ‘Precisely, which is why you should start cooperating. I’m not the bad guy here,’ Marc said grunting as he wrenched her tethers apart and off of her body.

Y/N got to her feet quickly but stumbled a little as the blood rushed to her head. The heat and her concussion didn’t mix too well. Marc steadied her but she pulled away.

‘The scarab,’ she said holding her hand out. Marc looked at her with disdain but she continued, ‘whatever you want from me you’re not going to get it without this so…your pick?’ ‘Get us out of here and it’s yours,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m supposed to believe you?’ she scoffed. ‘It’s your only choice,’ he replied. Y/N waited for a moment and then nodded and asked to be filled in on the situation. Marc explained that he had become stuck fleeing the tomb, the twists and turns too hard to navigate without her deep knowledge and to make matters worse there were cult members working their way in from the main entrance. ‘And you want me to what magic a way out?’ she snapped. ‘You and I know there’s definitely another way out of here just find it,’ he retorted. Y/N scowled at him and headed out the way he had come in. She didn’t have her map anymore, it had been taken whilst she was out, but she tuned into the memories of her past and followed the route she knew would get them out. Marc led with her direction listening and following her instructions regarding traps. It took a while but they finally managed to get to a small door at the end of a long tunnel. It was barely one stone thick.

‘You’ll never get through there,’ Y/N said. Marc looked at her livid. ‘I said get us out of here,’ he snapped. ‘I got us an exit,’ she replied, ‘you’ll have to figure it out.’ ‘Oh I can figure it out,’ he said. Soon enough he pushed the brick out of the way and Y/N clambered through the hole into the hot arid desert. She was out all of three seconds when he came out. Different. His clothes hung off of him now and he seemed almost smaller in stature.

‘You’re-’ ‘Stephen. Stephen Grant,’ Stephen said. ‘Marc-’ ‘Is me. It’s complicated,’ Stephen said. ‘You’re still the same person. And you still left me for dead,’ Y/N said. ‘And you’re cute when you’re angry,’ Stephen said. Y/N’s face fell into a scowl and without another word, she turned away and started walking out into the scorching desert. Stephen looked at his watch and saw Marc in its reflection.

‘You’re cute when you’re angry? What are you doing? She’s not your friend and she’s still got the scarab!’ he snarled. ‘She saved our arse,’ Stephen said, ‘besides we need her. Like you said she holds the cards now.’ ‘Suck up. Fine, go and live with her then! See if I care,’ Marc said. Stephen sighed and then started following her footprints in the sand.

#Violence #Implied Violence #Imprisonment #Flirting #Scavenger Hunting #Enemies to Lovers #Stephen Grant x Reader #Marc Spector x Reader #Moonknight #Marvel Moonknight #My Writing #Marvel #Requests #Requested Fic #scarab hunting

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ivystoryweaver · 11 months

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This is the Masterlist for my story "With You"

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Part 9a Part 9b Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Part 16: Conclusion

My Masterlist

Pairing: Established relationship. Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley x gn!reader. Reader is engaged to Marc/Steven. Jake is new. So elements of slow burn/idiots in love. No use of y/n

Summary: Your fiancé is 2 years sober, so what could have possibly upset him enough to challenge that? (It's Khonshu and Jake). A look at how the system learns about continued servitude to Khonshu and a new alter, with you - their fiancée - by their side

Overall fic content/warnings: Angst, drinking, alcoholism/addiction, hangover, cursing, hurt/comfort, references to past abuse, longing, feeling inadequate, some banter/bickering, mentions of food, domestic fluff, slice of life, nightmare, crying, romance, violence, injury, blood, implied sex, some sex but the language remains vague and gn - more erotic than explicit, not beta'd

Immersibility: Reader is gn, is somewhat shorter than Marc/Steven/Jake and able to wear their clothes around the house

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belovedspector · 4 months

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Written in the Stars

Pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader (implied Marc Spector x gn!reader and Jake Lockley x gn!reader)

Word Count: 800

Summary: Steven doesn’t have a birthday. He takes the task of choosing one very seriously.

Content: Fluff, one use of a pet name (love)

A/N: This follows Leap Year, but it’s not necessary to read that first. I don’t know a ton about astrology, so I’m learning as I go. Enjoy! :)

Masterlist

“Here it is!” you say triumphantly, pulling a purple book off one of Steven’s lower shelves.

Steven takes the book in his hands gingerly, as if it’s something sacred. “Why do you have this, anyway?”

You shrug. “My college roommate was really into astrology and tried to get me interested, too. I just never got rid of it. It’s sentimental, I guess.”

Steven nods, already flipping through the pages as he makes his way to the couch. “So, what signs are Marc and Jake, again?” he asks, not looking up.

You join him on the couch. “Both Pisces, oddly enough,” you remark.

He hums. “Maybe I should be, too.” He quickly consults the table of contents before flipping to the page on Pisces. “‘Empathetic, imaginative, creative,’” he reads. He skims a few more pages before saying, “It’s all a bit vague, innit?”

You laugh. “I guess it is, yeah.”

“Well, you can turn on the telly or grab your own book, if you like. This will take me a bit to get through.”

You stare at him. “You’re not gonna read the whole thing, are you?”

He looks back at you, confused. “How else will I know what sign I am?”

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” you say. “Jake just picked a date he liked.”

Steven just shrugs. “I’d like to see what the book says, I think.”

“Alright,” you say with a shrug of your own. “Knock yourself out.” You scooch towards the other end of the couch, where your latest read is waiting on the end table. You turn on the lamp and settle in.

Steven’s a fast reader. In the time it takes you to slog through a few chapters, he’s closing the astrology book with a satisfying thump. “All done,” he announces.

You close your own book after marking your place with a bookmark (a slightly crumpled receipt counts as a bookmark, right?). “And? What’d you pick?”

“Virgo,” he says.

“Yeah?” you ask, interested. “Why’s that?”

Steven finds the appropriate page and reads, “‘Intelligent, analytical, hard-working.’” He looks to you, his confidence wavering. “That…sounds like me, right?”

You offer him a kind smile. “I think so, yeah. Did you pick a date?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He briefly looks down again. “Says here I can do any day from the twenty-third of August to the twenty-second of September.”

You hum.

“Wait a second…” Steven trails off, grabbing his phone out of his pocket and typing something in.

“What?” you ask.

“Aha!” he says. “Twenty-fourth August. That’s what I want my birthday to be.”

“How come?”

“Tomb Buster premiered on that day in 1990. I reckon us Steven Grants should have the same birthday,” he explains with a grin.

You can’t help but match his smile. “August twenty-fourth it is, then. I’ll add it to my calendar.”

He closes the book again and hands it back to you. “Thank you for lending that to me, love.”

“Any time,” you say, taking the book and returning it to its spot on the bookshelf. You glance at the clock. “Ready to start on dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” Steven says, standing up and following you to the kitchen.

After dinner has been taken care of and you’ve watched a movie, you’re in the bathroom getting ready for bed. You can hear Steven talking outside the door. You assume he’s conversing with his alters.

When you exit the bathroom, you see Steven standing at the fish tank, bottle of fish food in hand. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he continues on speaking. You realize he’s talking to the fish.

“Maybe I should’ve picked Pisces, Gus,” he muses.

Gus II and his two tank-mates, Tom and Jerry (named together by Marc and Jake, despite Steven’s protests), swim around in slow circles, seemingly waiting for Steven to feed them.

He shakes the bottle, watching the flakes drop gently into the water. “Then all three of us would be the same. And Pisces is fish, innit? It fits.”

“Steven!” you groan playfully. “You can’t just change your zodiac sign!”

“Why not?” he counters. “I just picked it today. There should be some sort of trial period, right?”

You snort. “Maybe, but I like the day you picked. It means something to you.”

“Alright, fine,” Steven says. He bids the fish good night before following you to the bed.

You settle in under the covers and say good night to one another. Your eyes are closed when you hear Steven ask into the darkness, “Do I get a cake for my birthday?”

You smile to yourself. “If you want one.”

“And presents?”

“Of course.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “What about balloons?”

“Whatever you want, Steven,” you say fondly. “Whatever you want.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)

#moon knight #mcu #steven grant #steven grant x reader #x reader #jace writes

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peterman-spideyparker · 1 year

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Celebrate (Marc Spector x fem!Reader, Steven Grant x fem!Reader, Jake Lockley x fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! So, I have had this done for a while and just never posted, so better late than never, amirite? And besides, we can all always use more Oscar Isaac and the Moon Boys in our lives. Enjoy! :)

Summary: The boys realize that they've never celebrated your birthday with you, despite being with you for well over a year and you celebrating their birthday. When they find out when it is, nothing will stop them from giving you a birthday for the record books.

Warning: Fluff (established couple with all the Moon Boys, super sweet affection, kisses, a very important question), angst (negative emotions about birthdays), implied smut

Other Characters: None

Word Count: 3,348

Steven, Marc, and Jake love you. They loves everything about you, from how you talk, to how you have a ‘lucky’ something for every category of item you own, to how big your heart is. But there is one thing about you that particularly irks them.

In the year and a half that you have been together with them, they has yet to find out when your birthday is. For all they knows, they could have missed it twice! Hell, you’ve remembered theirs twice and have done incredibly loving things for both.

They have tried everything—Steven even tried to sneak a peak at your license once, but turned out to be in a different wallet. Steven only knew his lack of knowledge wasn’t by virtue of him not trying extremely hard, because Marc and Jake couldn’t find out either.

Jake enjoyed playing around with the fantasy that you were a secret spy or assassin who stepped away from the action to lead a normal, quiet life. Steven and Marc were ready to quickly dismiss it when they remembered that they served as an avatar for the Egyptian God of the moon. In all honesty, there was a chance that Jake could be right.

“Did you know that in Ancient Egypt, Pharaohs didn’t celebrate birthdays on the actual day?” Steven asks as he hands you a dish from the suds. “They celebrated their coronation day since it was when they were born into the role of ruler.”

“Interesting,” you respond as you use the towel to dry the plate.

“It’s a bit sad, though, innit? That other people didn’t celebrate their birthdays. It wasn’t a common thing.”

“Well, I mean, I guess people make a big deal out of birthdays and place a lot of pressure on them. Maybe the Egyptians had it right.”

“But it’s an important day, you know? Someone fantastic was brought to the world, that’s worth celebratin’.”

You have a feeling you know what he’s getting at. You choose to remain quiet.

“You’re worth celebratin’, (Y/N).”

You feel tears sting at your eyes, and you suck in your bottom lip to prevent yourself from crying.

“Why haven’t you told us when your birthday is?” he pleads softly.

You dip your head and shrug. “My birthday . . . I don’t know,” you mutter. “I have a lot of mixed feelings about it, and I don’t know how to say them without sounding whiny.”

Steven tilts your chin up with a sudsy finger so your eyes lock onto his.

“We’re all ears,” he says tenderly.

You let out a sigh, but Steven’s finger refuses to let your gaze leave his.

“No matter how old I got or whatever new friends I made, my friends and colleagues and even my exes always forgot my birthday. I always made it a point to remember theirs, get a gift, a card, whatever, because—it’s the friggin’ day they’re born! And then I always had these small, wistful expectations there’d be something done for me like a surprise, but it was always nothing. Once I got into my college years, I’d have these hopes and expectations of what I’d have done by that birthday, and most of them never came true. My ‘have a first kiss’ goal was deferred for eight years until I was 25.” You close your eyes and give your head a little shake. “I’m just always disappointed by my birthday with other people and myself. Never a real reason to celebrate.”

Steven dries his hands and wipes away yours tears with the pads of his thumb as he pulls you in for a loving hug.

“Will you tell us when your birthday is, love?” Steven whispers into your hair. “Please?”

Unable to resist his tender embrace, you tell him the date, and he pulls back to scan your face. “That’s Thursday,” he states.

“Yeah,” you nod. “It is.”

You don’t expect him to cradle your face in his hands while he kisses you deeply. “Boy, do we have some idea’s stewin’ in our brain,” he beams as he gives you another kiss. “And you know what? Since I missed it last year, you’re gonna have a half-birthday celebration that is gonna knock your knickers right off of you.”

“My knickers?” you laugh, your hurt feelings quickly leaving your body.

Steven whistles and moves his hand like a plane to emphasize the absolute absence of panties you’ll have before he hops up and rubs his hands together in excitement.

“Oh,” he says as he holds up a finger. “This is why we couldn’t figure out your birthday, right? You’re not secretly a spy or assassin?”

You laugh at the implication, the sadness rolling off of your body. “Jake’s idea?”

Steven nods.

“Well, I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you, and I’d hate to ruin that pretty face of yours. And then there’s the issue of getting rid of the body, and we’re on the fifth floor—.”

“See, I know you’re jokin’, but part of me is actually a little spooked right now,” Steven says.

“No, hon. I’m not a spy,” you giggle, moving to kiss his cheek and push his curly hair back. “Sorry to disappoint Jake.”

Steven breathes a sigh of relief and dips his head as you hold onto him. "Oh, thank the gods!"

You’re vaguely aware of the shifting on your mattress as you continue to enjoy a cozy slumber under the comforter with your head on the pillows. After a bit, you feel another shift on the mattress along with the warmth of another body whose smell you know all too well.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Steven whispers with a gentle kiss to your cheek.

You let out a tired moan as you roll into Steven’s body, wrapping an arm around his middle and burying your face into his chest as you try to pull yourself back into a deep sleep.

“Come now, I’ve made you your favorite. And I have a nice big mugga mornin’ Joe with your name on it,” he encourages.

You unbury your head slightly, looking up at him with still heavy eyes. He smiles as he looks down at you, kissing your forehead.

“I knew if the kisses didn’t do it, the coffee would,” he chuckles.

As you sit up in bed, Steven twists his torso and places a breakfast tray on your lap, presenting you with waffles, fresh cut fruit, and veggie sausage.

“Thank you, hon,” you tell him, pulling him in for a kiss.

“Anythin’ for the birthday girl,” he hums, placing a kiss on your neck that sends goosebumps throughout your body. “I still wish you could’ve taken the day off.”

“Trust me, if I didn’t have these big meetings, I’d probably just stay in bed with you three.”

“Don’t give Jake any ideas—he’d find a way to make those meetings cancelled,” Steven chuckles, stealing a strawberry for himself. You know there’s nothing particularly aphrodisic or phallic about a strawberry, but watching Steven’s lips move around the red fruit and how his tongue licks away the juice sends your head spinning. Steven catches you looking at him and smirks. “Yes, love?”

“Oh, nothing,” you blush as you move to take a bite of the waffles in front of you.

“Mm, likely story,” he hums as he licks his lips once more, bringing his lips to your pulse point for a chaste kiss.

“I don’t know that I’m gonna be able to finish these, hon,” you chuckle as you take a closer look at the stack. “You made eight?”

“I’ve seen you devour a stack of waffles with no issue before.”

“Yeah, on a weekend where I don’t have to go do a full day of work later.”

“Then lucky for you, I am here to help,” he smiles, stealing your fork to snatch a bite of waffles for himself. “Bloody hell, I’m a good cook.”

We continue to sit in bed and eat the fluffy breakfast food until you have to get ready for work. As you fix your hair in the bathroom, Steven takes care of the dishes; he finishes drying them as you move from the bathroom to put on your clothes. As you slide on your sweater, Steven shuffles into the bedroom.

“Let me walk you to work today?” he whispers as he lifts out the hair tucked into the collar of your sweater.

“I want to say yes, but then I wouldn’t want to go in or have you leave,” you respond just as quietly. “Especially after a morning like this one. It’d be the bed predicament on the sidewalk.”

Steven brings his lips to yours slowly as you wrap your arms around his waist. The kiss is tender and lazy, much like how you wish you could spend the day with one another. Steven lets out a defeated sigh as his lips part from yours, resting his forehead against yours.

“Text me when you get there?” he asks as his fingers play with your hair.

“Of course,” you tell him. "Love you."

Steven hands you your purse, letting you adjust it on your shoulder before he places more quick kisses on your lips, murmuring a "Love you more," as you attempt to make it out the door.

“What?” you chuckle as you put your purse on the table by the door. Jake is leaning on the kitchen table like a puppy that needs to be let out.

“I can’t wait for my girlfriend to do part two of her birthday?” Jake smirks as he suavely moves over from the wooden surface and meets you at the door, his hands on your waist as he plants a passionate kiss on your lips.

“And what would part two be, exactly?” you smile as you bite your lip, keeping them just out of reach of his so you don’t spend the rest of the night making out in the kitchen—although, you wouldn’t be opposed to it.

“I can’t give away all of the details, mi corazón. Now, go to the bedroom, put on what’s laid out, and then we’ll go to part two.”

You smirk at him and scrunch your eyebrows playfully as you try to figure out what he has planned. You do as he asks, nonetheless. Lying on the bed, you see a beautiful sky blue satin dress with an asymmetrical hemline and silver strappy heels. You slide on the dress and it fits like a glove—so much like a glove, you can see the line of your underwear underneath the fabric. Lightly chuckling to myself, you slide off your panties and take off your bra. Usually, you’d be opposed to going full commando, but when you see yourself in the mirror, everything looks better—the dress was made to be worn on your body without undergarments. You slide on the heels to finish off the look and quickly comb your hair to revitalize it from the day. When you meet Jake back in the living room, he licks his lips and smirks as he looks at you, giving you bedroom eyes as you move closer to him.

“Now will you tell me what we’re doing?” you coo as you run your hands up and down his chest.

“No,” he smiles as he pulls you in for a searing kiss, squeezing your ass for scientific reasons, you’re sure.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath this, are you?” he breathes against your lips.

“Not a stitch,” you hum as you move his hands off your rear, taking a step back and opening the door with your things in hand. “Lead the way, Lockley.”

He gives you a bedroom smirk and mutters a string of Spanish curses and erotic notions under his breath—something about not realizing how sexy you’d look and what he’d rather be doing to you.

“Don’t worry, babe, I think all of you boys will be able to do those kinds of things later,” you assure him as you pull him down by his tie for a kiss. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Not when vice looks as good as you in satin.”

Jake captures your lips in a passionate and lusty kiss that still maintains an air of chastity to it—his mind on the mission of the surprise, but his heart veering towards your shared bed.

“Come on, cariño,” he rasps as he takes your hand and leads you out of the apartment and down the stairs.

“I don’t even get a hint?” you try again as you walk along the sidewalk.

“Tell me what you think we’re doing.”

“Really? Twenty questions on my birthday?”

“Play along,” he chuckles.

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically as you lace your fingers with his. “It’s definitely somewhere fancy?”

“Is it, though?”

“I’m dressed to the nines. I don’t see how it can’t be somewhere fancy.”

“Or I wanted to show you off.”

“Okay,” you say, processing Jake’s cheeky remark, thinking of all the possibilities. “Well, dinner would be too obvious, so it clearly can’t be that.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles. “Come on, cariño, I thought you knew me better than this.”

“Ouch, gut punch!” you say, poking at it side. “I’m still thinking. You are an expert at being sneaky, I’m trying to process my options.”

“Well, you should come up with one soon. We’re almost there.”

Knowing the area, you scan through all the storefronts you can bring to your mind, when something clicks with your ensemble.

“Jake Lockley, are you taking me dancing?” you hum as you look over to him, his eyes sparkling in the dim London light.

“It took you long enough to figure it out,” he chuckles as he guides you to the left into a little courtyard that is all done up where other couples are waiting to start the lessons. “We’re gonna put those hips of yours to a different kind of work. Just for a short while, at least.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything fun or culinary up my sleeves,” Marc says as the two of you walk hand in and through the quiet park, the path lit by beautiful old street lamps.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” you tell him. “I know how much effort you all put into today. It’s nice to wrap it all up with dinner and a little stroll.”

A gentle breeze begins to pick up, and Marc immediately shrugs off his bomber jacket to place on your shoulders. You want to protest, but you love having things that he wears on your body—the warmth form his frame, the smell of his skin and cologne, the silent gesture of love.

“Thanks, baby,” you tell him softly as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Did you have a good day today?” he asks, matching your tone. “I know you mentioned your meetings—.”

“Yeah, the meetings from hell,” you sigh as you roll your neck, the mere thought of them bringing tension to your body. “Not only could they all have been emails, but they were ridiculously long and were so unproductive that we knew less by the end than we did at the start. Debbie led both.”

“Oh no, not Debbie.”

“Mmhm. Don’t get me started with that one.” You let out a long sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “But it’s all worth it, because I get to come home to an amazing system of men who love me.”

He rests his cheek on top of your head. “We love you, too, baby.”

“How about we go home and take a bath? Wind down from the day. Get naked and wet together.”

“Mm, two of my favorite adjectives.”

“Maybe we can add some other adjectives you like to that mix,” you chuckle, lightly checking his hip with yours.

Taking a turn off the path of the park, you hop on the sidewalk and make the short walk back to the flat, snuggling close in the old elevator as it drags its way up to the top floor.

“You want me to put on a kettle for tea or coffee or something?” you hum as you unlock the door, tossing your keys into the dish as you make your way in. “Or are we going to save all the warm water for—what are you doing?”

In your living room, Marc is perched down on one knee, a little open box in his hands as he looks up at me with his rich brown eyes.

“We were actually gonna do this next week,” Marc starts, his voice soft, the edges brimming with emotion. “But we thought this might be a really great way to end your birthday.”

“Baby . . .”

“(Y/N), I don’t think I need to begin to tell you how much we all love you. If I did, we’d be here for a hell of a long time, I’d loose feeling in my legs from the knee down, and you’d offer to help me walk over to the bed, just like how you are always there to help me and Steven and Jake with whatever comes up. You see us as whole people. You make us feel whole. You have the biggest, most caring heart that a person can have, and you love so selflessly . . .” Marc sniffles and furrows his brows as he tries to keep his cool. You take a few steps toward him, kneeling down and wiping his tears away with your thumbs.

“Marc,” you say softly, his name on your tongue dripping with emotions.

“We can’t imagine our lives without you in it, and we never want to,” Marc continues. “Will you marry us?”

“Of course,” you practically sob, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight. He holds you back just as firm, neither of you saying a word. Marc is the one who eventually breaks the embrace, moving to take out the ring out of the box to slide it on your finger slowly.

“It’s a pink sapphire, but it looks purple, and you love purple—,” Marc starts.

“—and gold jewelry looks so lovely on your skin, cariño—,” Jake continues.

“—and it’s a vintage settin’ so there’s no ill-environmental effects,” Steven finishes. “Happy birthday, my love.”

“You guys are sure?” you sniffle, your teary eyes frantically scanning their faces. “Are you sure you guys love me? That this is what you want?”

“Mi corazón, where is this coming from?” Jake asks softly, brushing tears off of your cheek. “Of course this is what we want. We’ve never felt this way about anyone before. We only want you, amore.”

“It just doesn’t feel real. It feels like a dream.”

“It’s very real, love,” Steven says, gentle hands on your shoulders as he leans forward to place a sweet kiss on your forehead. “And you already said yes—there’s no take-backs.”

You let out a wet laugh as you move back in to kiss Steven—he always knows just what to say to bring a smile to your face.

“Well, I guess if there’s no take backs.”

As Steven leans forward to kiss you again, and you feel distinct shift just before we part, and you’re met once more with Marc.

“Is it still a yes?” he asks carefully.

“Of course it’s still a yes. I’ve got the three best guys in the world—why wouldn’t I want to make it official?”

Marc smiles brighter than you’ve ever seen in your life. He leans forward to kiss you once more, his arms wrapping around you tightly and picks you up, much to your surprise. The two of you continue to kiss as he walks you to the bed and lays you down on the mattress, only briefly parting from you to brush some stray hairs off of your face.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers, his forehead resting on yours, allowing you to feel his eyelashes brush your cheeks.

“I love you all so much,” you whisper. “Thank you for choosing me.”

Marc gingerly kisses the tip of your nose. “Forever and always.”

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger @steampowerednightvaler @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles @toozmanykids @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop @itwasthereaminuteago @peter1ismybrother @hellskitchens-whore @dpaccione

Marc Spector/Steven Grant Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @later-gators12

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spacecowboyhotch · 11 months

Text

In the Eyes

summary: marc is dating the most competitive mario-kart player he’s ever met. and he loves them.

prompt: reader and marc are playing mario kart and getting very competitive (but still fun, no actual fighting). they both end up ordering pizza and snuggling up on the couch watching ancient aliens cause why not. idk

pairing: marc spector x gn!reader, implied reader x steven grant/jake lockley

contents: fluff, internal angst, cheating during mario-kart (a cardinal sin), food mention, cheesy love confessions

gif credit: @nowritingonthewall

word count: 2.5k

an: this is a little late but, happy year anniversary to moonknight! thank you to @juneknight for putting together this moonknight anniversary fic exchange. all the smooshes and all my love bb. and to my lovely friends in Marc’s girls i love uuuuu 🥰 (p.s. internal angst is a must with marc spector so sorry in advance)

moonknight masterlist | requests are open

Nights like tonight are the sort you look forward to all week. And they’ve started to become a staple in your relationship with Marc. It’s partially because you like to have specific things that you do with each of them— the other half is that Steven and Jake suck at MarioKart. Marc is the only one who’s any real competition and with your competitive nature, it’s a requirement for game nights such as these.

Marc shows up to your apartment on time, as always, and just the sight of you has all of the tension that habitually sits in his shoulders dissipating. You look mischievous, mouth turned up in a smirk that he can’t help but want to kiss. Although your eyes say it all– bright and sparkling– it's abundantly clear that you’re ecstatic about him being here. It's something he still adapting to but would it be so terrible for him to believe that you genuinely do enjoy his presence? Horrible no, but terrifying. Nevertheless, he’s trying and will continue to show up if only to see that twinkle in your eye, no matter how hard it is to believe that he is the reason.

His self-deprecating train of thought is interrupted when you reach for him, pulling him in for a kiss by the collar of his shirt. Marc melts against your mouth, a hand raising to cup your cheek. There’s nothing that clears his mind like the feel of your lips against his– he would happily give up oxygen to kiss you for the rest of his days. But eventually, you pull away, grinning at him.

“Ready to get your ass kicked, Spector?” You huff breathlessly into his mouth.

He takes your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down on it teasingly before saying, “Ready to do the ass-kicking, actually.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”

Marc is all about routine, it's just who he is. It's the only thing he’s taken from his time serving that he is grateful for as it helps balance his mind– all of their minds. So when the two of you get the game loaded and make it to the characters screen he chooses Donkey Kong as he always does. Sometimes to mess with and throw him off a bit you’ll choose Donkey Kong. He has his list of backups– Link, Mario, and begrudgingly, Toad– but those never feel exactly right. Tonight you decide to give him a break, you’ll prove to him that you can beat him in his element or not.

The two of you are neck and neck on the last race, with Marc starting to lurch forward ahead of you. There’s a healthy distance between you, ample room for dramatic turns and frustrated bouncing without either of you accidentally elbowing the other. But, when he starts to leave you in the dust on the last lap around you know exactly how to distract him. Without taking your eyes off of the screen, you scoot an inch closer to him. He’s well aware of your movement, heightened observation comes with Khonshu but he makes nothing of it, focusing on making it to the finish line. The sly grin on your lips spreads and you shift even closer, this time your shoulder rubs against his. Marc stiffens, his grip on the controller fumbling a bit. It's the perfect opportunity for you to make your move, and you brush up against him again to ensure that he’ll glance over at you.

“What’re you doin’?” He asks suspiciously, and out of the corner of your eye, you see that for just a moment his eyes flicker over to you.

You grin, eyes firmly glued to the screen as you watch his character slow down. You pass him easily, your voice innocent as you say, “Nothing.”

When his eyes return to the screen they widen in disbelief as you cross the finish line a few seconds before him. “You cheated!” He accuses, looking over at you with narrowed eyes.

Your mouth drops open in feigned offense, “Did not!”

“Bullshit, baby, I know what you’re doing when you move closer to me.”

“You’re warm, I was cold.”

“Liar.”

“Alright, since you’re so sure, let’s go again. Best 2 out of 3. I’ll even sit on the ground this time, can’t cheat that way,” You insist, before shifting off the couch to sit crossed-legged between his knees.

As nonchalant as ever, Marc bends to wrap his arm around your waist and lifts you with no effort to place a pillow underneath your butt. The simple act of care contrasts with the competitive look on his face as he hands you your controller once more, “No funny business this time baby.”

He lets you get comfortable, waiting to strike. He’s trailing a few places behind you up until the last lap. You’re sure that you’ll win and halfway around the last pass you relax back against the couch. Unseen to you, Marc grins just before he starts to shift his knees back and forth.

“Hey now,” You quip, but you don’t look away from the screen or make any movement, assuming that he needs to readjust in his seat. But it continues and you glance up at him with a knowing look.

“Oh now, who’s cheating?” You ask, trying to lean away from his knees that he’s bumping into your shoulders.

“What was that? I can’t hear you over my impending victory,” He teases, nodding his head toward the screen.

When your eyes follow his over to the tv, you watch as he shoots you with a red shell before zooming away over the finish line. The shell disrupts you completely, and you’re passed by half of the computers. You end up in 7th place and huff in frustration, “Marc!

“Hmm?” He hums through a laugh, bending to press a kiss to your cheek.

You try your best to glare at him, but with his smile this wide and genuine, you can’t even hold the expression for more than a few seconds. “You only beat me because you cheated and I’m hungry.”

Marc frowns at you, setting his controller down on the coffee table before fishing his phone out of his pocket, “What? Why didn’t you say that before? What do you want— pizza?”

“Pizza’s good. I want—“

“I know, baby.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What if I was gonna say something different?”

He looks up at you with an expression that says ‘really?’. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was upset, genuinely feeling impatient with you. But, in the time that you’ve gotten to know him— all three of them— it’s become much easier to read them. It’s always in the eyes. And when it all boils down, no matter what he’s feeling or saying, all you ever see in Marc’s eyes is understanding and adoration for you.

“Ok, fair, I wasn’t but if I wanted to?”

He shrugs, a knowing smile on his face, “Then I would know.”

Your cheeks warm and you rest your head on his knee, looking up at him with this soft look on your face that makes him feel melted. To know and be known. It’s all either of you have ever wanted.

Marc clears his throat to distract from the flush in his cheeks he knows is there, “While we wait…y’know, Steven told me about this show— we don’t have to watch it if it doesn’t sound interesting to you.”

“I’m listening.”

Marc goes into an entire spiel, using his hand as he and Steven always do, though Marc’s movements are sharper and smaller. You’ve known that Marc is nerdy by how easy he navigates technology, casually throwing out terms here and there that you never understand. But to see him like this, with bright eyes as he explains the contents of the show, it displays you that similarity between him and Steven that’s always buzzing beneath the surface.

“Are you talking about Ancient Aliens?”

He snaps, eyes going wide, “Yes! You know it?”

You resist the urge to cup his face and dust his cheeks with a flurry of kisses, a difficult feat when he’s looking so adorably excited, “Hell yeah I know it, I watch it with my dad sometimes. I didn’t know you were into stuff like that.”

“Who doesn’t wanna know about aliens? Atlantis?”

“You always poke fun at Steven for stuff like this,” You say matter of factly.

“That was before I gave it a chance.”

While you get the controllers put up and decide on an episode, Marc heads into your kitchen to get drinks, the tube of parmesan out of your fridge and the red pepper out your fridge knowing that these are all necessary for pizza night. When he returns, you’re curled into a blanket and he sets everything down on the coffee table before pressing in beside you, his arms caging you into his chest.

Both of you are distracted. Not by the usual attraction— that’s manageable. Snuggled together on the couch like this, you both feel it. There’s this pool of some overwhelmingly delightful feeling neither of you has felt before. You can identify it immediately as love. Pure and gooey, like the warm insides of a chocolate chip cookie. Marc on the other hand refuses to look it in the eye, pushing it deeper and deeper until it’s light and fuzzy, ignorable. The last thing he will do is love someone who won’t love him. It isn’t the same— this time he is simply unworthy, not easy prey to a wounded predator— but he’s been there and done that. That wound sits on his chest, refusing to heal no matter what he does.

You lean back, lifting your head out of the crook of his neck to look at him, “Marc?”

He paused the show and met your gaze before you finished saying his name, “Yeah, honey?”

The remote almost slips out of his hand at the look in your eyes. Could it be more? Marc’s only ever seen that look in the eyes of one other— luckily after everything he and Layla are on amicable terms. But could he really have something like that again? Is that twinkle in your eye what he craves so much that his bones ache?

Under his intense gaze your resolve flatters, your heart, feeling as if it will beat right out of your chest.

“I—,” You breath catches in your throat that’s suddenly gone dry. What if he doesn’t love you back? Losing him means losing Steven and Jake. It means losing the only love you’ve ever known. You swallow those words and opt for others, “Tonight has been one of my favorite nights yet. Thank you.”

He can hear it in your tone. He knows that isn’t what you were going to say and by the look in his eyes, you know that he knows. He stares at you for several moments longer, giving you a chance, hoping that you’ll take the plunge because he can’t. Not yet.

Eventually, the pizza arrives and that cuts some of the tension that’s in the room. Something is clearly off but neither of you can find the courage to say anything as you finish eating and the credits roll on the episode you’d put on.

You let him leave. You kiss him goodbye and watch as he crosses the hall to the stairwell, only closing the door once he’s down the first flight. You feel like an idiot— why couldn’t you have just said it? He was waiting, eyes practically pleading, and yet the words wouldn’t form.

It only takes two minutes for you to decide that this isn’t how the night should end. Fears be damned, he deserves to know— they all do eventually. So you grab your keys, knowing that if you’d left your door unlocked for even the short time it would take to get him back, Jake would scold you about it.

Despite the quickness of your decision to chase after him, Marc is well down the street once you make it out the front door of your complex.

“Marc, wait!”

He stops immediately, recognizing your voice even from so far away. His eyes scan the street when he turns around and as soon as they find you, he’s walking towards you, brows furrowed in concern.

“What’s wrong? Did I forget something?” He pats his pockets, noting that his wallet and keys are there.

Maybe you’d decided to tell him what you were planning to say earlier and his heart begins to hammer again. His mind goes to the worst-case scenario, that maybe you weren’t going to confess deeper feelings for him. That you’re ready to be done with him, that he’s not worth it. That every disparaging thing his mother had ever said about him is true and you’ve just come to realize it.

“No, it’s just that I—“

“Yeah?” He prompts when you go quiet for a minute. His voice is fused with preemptive disappointment and he begins to prepare to leave the headspace, to retreat so far within that not even his alters can find him— Steven or Jake can deal with the aftermath of you. He’ll sulk and disappear like he had promised Steven a couple of years ago.

“I love you. I don’t know what I didn’t just say that before, I’d planned to but then you looked at me and it’s like I was scared all over again,” You whisper, eyes slipping down to look at the ground.

He tilts his head at you, his hand rising to cup your cheek. His voice is tender, and confused as he asks, “What do you have to be afraid of?”

“You know what,” You mumble, refusing to look up at him.

“That I wouldn’t want you? That I’d be stupid enough not to love you too?” He says the words as if they’re blasphemy like they’re the most ridiculous thing imaginable and you can’t help but look up at him.

“Why are you saying it like that?”

His other hand raises so he has both your cheeks in his hands, “Because it's complete bullshit, of course, I love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, now come here,” He pulls you closer by his hand on your cheek, leaning in to press his mouth to yours. He kisses you fiercely, licking into your mouth with a fervor like never before. You match him, just as hungry and needy to show him how deeply you feel for him not just with words, but with actions.

He pulls away, breathless, “Steven’s saying we shouldn’t make out on the street.”

“Yeah, and what’s Jake saying?” You ask, though you can imagine his opinions on public indecency.

“You don’t wanna know.”

You giggle, before saying once more— firmly this time, unafraid to take the plunge because you know he’ll catch you, “I love you.”

“I love you,” He repeats, his mouth brushing yours as he says it.

You arch a brow at him, smiling against his lips. “Enough to settle who’s won and stay the night?”

“Oh, you’re gonna get it,” He murmurs cheekily through a grin, pulling you back towards your apartment.

It’s safe to say that you both got it.

moonknight taglist: @angelfxllcm, @in-between-the-cafes, @honeybrowne, @ninebluehearts, @rmoonstoner, @hotchs-bitch, @later-gators12, @foreverinwanderlustt-blog, @aleeb, @julydaydream, @welcometostayingawake, @eyelessfaces, @marc-spectorr, @missdictatorme, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @minigirl87, @campingwiththecharmings

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x gn!reader #moonknight x reader #moonknight system x reader #reader x marc spector #gn!reader x marc spector #moonknight fic #moonknight fanfiction #queuetip #arson writes

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vintagegirl01 · 1 month

Text

Plush Size

Marc Spector x fem! reader (Implied moon boys x fem! reader)

Summary: Missing the MK System, you decide to make a plush toy of Moon Knight for yourself, so that you have something to cuddle with when they are on missions for Khonshu. While this plush ends up being used for that particular reason, the moon boys are shocked to see that you are no longer as clingy to them as you once were. This leads them to become touch starved, resulting in them hiding the plush.

You miss them all very much. It has only been a day since they left but you miss Marc, Steven, and Jake very much.

Though they have been on missions longer than this most recent one they are currently on. Nevertheless, it’s true when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

As you look through Pinterest to look at sewing machine projects that you want to do. You see some pins on how to make dolls. This sparks the idea to create a doll in the form of your boyfriends’ Moon Knight persona that you could use to cuddle when they are gone. With this newfound inspiration, you get to work.

_________________________________________

3 Days Later…

Marc is currently fronting as he enters the key to your shared apartment. Though this mission was shorter, the desire to get home to you was what kept him going.

When he locks the front door, Marc notices the silence within the house. No tv nor music playing in the background.

Imagining the worst case scenario, Marc grabs his gun from his travel bag and begins walking around the house in preparation to fight to the death for you. He hears both Steven and Jake from the headspace, trying to reassure him that you are safe and more likely to fall asleep. Though he appreciates the reassurance from them both, Marc’s mind can’t help but wander to think the worst.

As he finally approaches the door to your shared bedroom, Marc finds you asleep on your bed. Although, instead of snuggling into his side of the bed like you normally would when he was gone, Marc is shocked to see you snuggling up with a plushie that looks nearly identical to what he looks like when he wears Khonshu’s ceremonial armor as Moon Knight. Marc smiles to himself as he returns to his regular clothes, beginning to strip to nothing but his boxers and crawls into the bed to get well earned rest.

________________________________________

In the coming weeks, Marc notices how often you cuddle with the plush version of himself and is a bit restless to say the least. Though Marc is happy you have something to remind you of himself when he is away, the feeling isn’t there when he begins to notice that you sometimes even hug the mini him when you both are lounging around together in your room or living room.

Despite Marc always being a bit closed off at the start of your relationship, you helped him open up. Once feeling as if he had to wear the world on his shoulders, that feeling slowly faded away when he was around you.

No longer receiving those cuddles as often as he was once used to, Marc begins to devise a plan. One that will ensure he gets your attention.

________________________________________

As you finish showering and changing into your pajamas, you exit the restroom and enter the bedroom.

When you walk to the bed, you notice that your Moon Knight plushie is no longer laying on the side where you normally sleep. In shock, you look under the bed to make sure it isn’t there. Noting it isn’t there, you move your pillows to see if they aren’t under the bed.

“Marc”! Have you seen mini you?”, you ask.

Marc comes in and says he hasn’t but agrees to help you find him (unbeknownst to you that he hid it).

________________________________________

Thirty minutes of you two looking and not having any luck. Defeated, you lay on your bed a bit upset.

Marc gets into bed next to you and wraps his arms around you. He is a little shocked by the fact that you are upset about this.

Curious to understand why that is, he asks: “Why are you upset about losing the mini me”?

You answer.“Because it’s something to remind me of you when we aren’t together. Also, I figured it would be a good substitute for when you don’t want to cuddle me as I know I can be a bit too much sometimes.”

Everything begins to make sense to him. Marc goes to your closet to get something. When he comes back out, you see that he’s holding your missing plushie.

“I’m sorry I hid this from you”, he says ashamed. “I missed your cuddles and thought that mini me was taking away your attention from me. Despite what you may think, I love our cuddle sessions. It’s because of you, I feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Can you forgive me, baby?”

The moment Marc finishes, he is shocked to see you get up from the bed and grab the plushy from him. You put the plush on your bed and pull him in for a hug.

“You know you can ask me for cuddles whenever”, you say.

Marc looks at you with puppy eyes, “Can we cuddle now?”.

You take his hand and lead him both to your bed. Both of you get settled in with Marc laying his head on your chest as you run your fingers through his curls. Staying this way until sleeps takes over.

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softlyspector · 2 years

Text

Deserve

Summary: Marc never stays with you after he fucks you. You are better left in the hands of Steven. This time, he doesn't leave you.

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader)

Word Count: ~4k

Warnings: smut, some references to rough sex, angst (with a happy ending) - don't let me fool you this is just touch starved marc struggling with being loved

A/N: im fine im just really out here with nothing else to do but think about moon knight

Marc was an intense person.

He was like the patter of rain against the roof, against an open window pane. He was like the shock and flash of lightning during a storm.

The grim set of his mouth and shoulders, the unending weight of the world that made his brows dip into that hard line. Marc felt more than he let on, was affected by things people said and did, let the blows rain like ash against his skin and said nothing.

You had learned long ago that Marc did not welcome comfort, that he felt it was something he did not deserve to receive. Soft, shaded mornings were for his alter. Everything squishy and warm, hazed in the breathy glow of a sunrise, was for you and Steven, not him.

Maybe it wasn’t that Marc didn’t welcome comfort.

He craved it, wanted it, longed for it.

And he should not long for it, want it, crave it.

He’d told you as much, over and over, the weight of your gentle hands against his skin like burning embers.

He wanted it. He so badly wanted to sink into that flame, but he was worried it would burn him alive, melt him down into something unrecognizable.

It was only when something went particularly badly that he allowed some comfort.

He loves you, this you know.

You see it in the heaviness of his stare, in the intensity of his worry, in the way he hugged you, held your hand, worried after you like you had not survived for years on your own.

But if you ever dared to hold his hand, hug him, drag your fingers down the length of his spine, it was too much for him. These were things he could offer you, but that you should not give him in return. These were not things he deserved, these were things better reserved to his alter, who was deserving of everything he was not.

Marc is intense.

He’s hard and wild and something close to broken some days, when reality drifts in and out of focus, when the world is best left in the hands of Steven.

There’s always a beating heart of anxiety behind everything he does, that this time he will not be enough, that this time he will not be fast enough, that this time the universe would get the last laugh again.

So when Marc fucks you, he is intense, he is like the weight of the all consuming world poured out. Salt water in wounds.

You don’t mind.

The times he’s gentle with you, you get the sense that he’s mourning, like the act is grief, something lost that he’s stealing back from the gods. Something that is temporary and definitely not for him.

This night, he had come to you like the storm he bred inside him, the hatred of self and fear of a future he could not control, of a tentative reality of things only he could see.

Marc was rough with you.

His fingers in your mouth, his hand hard against your cunt, against your ass. He had buried himself inside you, set a punishing pace. When his mouth was on yours, his kiss had been more like an effort to consume you. When his hand wrapped around your throat, his eyes had snapped to the mirror, and you had known Steven had been cautioning him, that you were in fact breakable, no matter what you said, that he should be careful of you.

But you’d covered his hand with your own and tightened his fingers, eyes fluttering closed as you lost yourself in whatever bit of himself he would give you.

A last stuttering breath passes your lips, eyes screwed closed, pleasure lighting up the insides of your veins, molten, like a river of fire that never ends.

You clutch the sheets beneath your fingers and turn your face into a pillow as the last waves of your orgasam shutter through you. You bite off the moan that bubbles to the back of your throat when you feel Marc shift inside you, so full it's almost painful.

Your thighs tremble, the insistent pressure of Marc’s hand against the back of your neck keeping you in place. His other hand kneads the flesh of your hip, and you know a bruise has already formed there.

Marc pulls back, and thrusts into you one last time, a pleasant satisfied ache beginning between your legs.

The firm fingers at your waist finally let you drop your hips to the mattress.

You feel weightless and warm, content, like you’re floating through a cloud. Marc presses a kiss to the space between your shoulder blades, before the heavy bulk of his body surrounds yours.

Disappointment darts through you in a brief little flash, because this is Marc’s parting gift to you always.

The kiss between your shoulders, the all consuming fire of the warmth of him against you, before he hands the reigns to Steven.

Marc never stays with you, after. The kiss against your spine is all you get from him. Whether because he can’t be bothered with taking care of you or because he feels he doesn’t deserve to, you aren’t sure.

Steven is always there though, to kiss you back to life, to smile at you, make love to you so slowly and sweetly it was like a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

His fingers slide up your arms, massaging as he goes, until he reaches your clenched hands, gently uncurling them from the fabric of the sheets until he can twist his fingers with yours.

You feel him squeeze carefully, his nose dipping to the crook of your neck.

A stillness falls over you both, silence, peace, creating a warm little bubble.

You don’t mind his weight against you, it settles the frantic beating of your heart, drenches you in warmth.

Normally, Steven would say something to you when he fronted, a kiss against your cheek and a softly spoken hello, love.

Today, he’s silent, arms tight and grounding around you.

But it's Steven, you know it must be.

Because Marc never stays.

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose against his arm, feeling his damp skin against your cheek. You want to open your eyes, reach up and touch the little black curl of hair you know must be stuck to his forehead at that moment.

You’re content to stay like that with him, content to feel the gentle drift of his nose along the curve of your jaw. So you keep your eyes closed and let your mushy, sex-addled brain drift, as lips press along your jaw, behind the curve of your ear.

And you’re happy to stay in the gentle warmth being offered to you, the glow of being loved so well.

But then, he does something inexplicable.

Steven pulls away from you.

He gets up.

And he leaves.

An empty feeling that you don’t like crawls up from the pit of your belly. A feeling that’s suspiciously like abandonment, that you know is not grounded in reality.

Steven never left the bed, not without saying something to you first, not before checking in with you to ask what you needed or wanted. Especially not when Marc had been so rough with you.

It was a routine that was being broken, a sacred step you didn’t know needed spoken out loud.

You swallow thickly, peeling your eyes open.

You don’t like the dirty, used feeling that’s overwhelming you, like you did not matter.

Pushing yourself up is a monumental task, the ache of your bones like the grinding of cinder blocks against your flesh. You glance over your shoulder at the door.

Then there’s a clatter from the bathroom and the door swings open, Steven emerging in only a pair of briefs. He still doesn’t say anything as he approaches and encourages you with gentle hands to roll over, the brief warmth of a washcloth between your legs.

Which is odd.

Because Steven would normally lie with you and talk with you, until you were coherent again, until you were secure enough for him to move away without feeling the sting of abandonment.

Steven also talked almost non-stop to you, never without something to say.

Normally, you would throw on a shirt and play cards in bed, watch something on your laptop. Sometimes, Steven would just hold you and talk. Sometimes, he would make love to you again.

But none of that happened until you were ready.

Steven still doesn’t speak to you as he climbs back into bed, handing you Marc’s discarded shirt, which he gingerly helps you sit up and slip on.

Steven’s head twitches toward the mirror, and you watch him watch his reflection for a moment. You frown, wondering what Marc could be saying to him. Marc, who always and without fail disappeared and walled himself off from both of you.

And then it dawns on you.

In your post-orgasm haze, and without the sound of his voice, you hadn’t noticed the signs that this was very clearly Marc still fronting, not Steven.

Marc never stayed with you, never.

Your throat is tight when he doesn’t say anything, his head is still swiveled toward the mirror, brows drawing tighter together with each passing minute.

“Hey,” you clear your throat, “c’mere.”

You snuggle down and hold out your arms.

You half expect him to huff out an exasperated breath and lay back but avoid your touch.

But he doesn’t.

He curls into your arms, nudging his nose into the hollow at the base of your throat. He cradles you close, inhaling gently.

But to your utter surprise, he lets you smooth your hands over his shoulders, through his unruly curls. The motion of it soothes you, comforts you.

You glance toward the mirror and wish that you could see Steven there too, so you could ask what was going on in Marc’s head, why he was pretending to be Steven.

“You okay?” You say as he lets you run a hand down his face, over the ridge of scar above his brow.

It takes Marc a long time to respond, buried in your skin as he is, breathing you in, tracing rough hands along your hips and over your thighs, massaging where he knows you must be sore.

You kiss the top of his head, blearily giving him all the love he was usually too prickly to receive.

He nods against you, so you slip hands down his back, over his hair. You aren’t sure why he’s pretending, but you find you don’t mind. It’s the kind of love you always want to shower Marc with but that he rarely allows.

You want to ask him why, why he didn’t let Steven front. But you worry he might think you’re asking to see Steven, that you don’t want him there with you.

Emotionally, Marc was a fortress, impenetrable and soldily quiet. Things simmered down in his gut, pushed away and down down down, until they overwhelmed him, until they burst to the surface in a violent torrent.

Most often, it was when someone he loved was in danger, when the past became something he could no longer stare down, when the things he avoided were impossible to ignore.

And you’re terribly afraid that if you say anything now, he’ll clam up, shut down, pull away from you, leave the flat and take your heart with him.

Gently, you slide down, until you’re eyelevel with him, one hand against his neck, thumb tracing the line of his jaw carefully.

You feel Marc’s hands go to the small of your back, big hands gingerly tugging you closer, until your nose is touching his, until you share the same air.

And you can hardly believe that the man who had smacked your pussy, held you down and fucked you until you felt like you couldn’t breathe, whispered filthy things in your ear that you can hardly remember, that your brain fuzzes out when you think about too much - is now holding you so gently you may as well be made of delicate glass, is now allowing you to stroke your hands through his hair, pet his broad shoulders. His eyes are closed, trust you didn’t think Marc possessed pouring over you in waves.

You know why.

You know why he’s doing this.

Marc would rather accept love in the guise of his alter than ever believe he was worthy of it himself.

You think about the hatred that lives inside Marc, about the self-hatred that loomed always at the back of his mind. The hatred that ran so deep, that he felt so potently, that even his alter had thought the worst of him at first.

Killer, mercenary, cold-blooded.

Things that Marc accepted into the folds of who he was without question.

Marc never let you hold him like this, and so you do so for as long as you can bear, tilting your chin into his so you can kiss him softly, feeling the slow drift of his hands down your sides to the curve of your ass, over the bruised skin of your hips and thighs. He hooks his fingers behind your knee and tugs your leg over his hip.

You finger a curl at the back of his neck, the glow of brown skin molten in the low light of the flat.

You swallow and hope that you don’t drive him away, but you can’t stand it any longer - his thinking that this is softness you would only grace Steven with.

“Marc,” you whisper. “I know it's you.”

Even the way they hold you is different. Of course, you can always tell. You did not need their voices to tell you who was fronting.

Marc’s eyes flash open and you’re surprised to see fear there.

You hold fast to him, though he doesn’t try to pull away. You raise a questioning brow and resume your gentle ministrations, trying to show him without words that you did not treat him carefully because you thought he was Steven.

“How’d you know?”

You shake your head and press your thumb against the center of his chin, “I can always tell. It’s not something you can really hide.”

He tries to tug his face away from your hand but you don’t let him, stubbornly making him look into your eyes.

“Baby,” you say, “You know that you are just as deserving-,”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Don’t do that.”

“But you are, Marc. I always want to do this but you always leave me,” you stoke a hand through his hair. “I know Steven has talked to you about it, too. Told you that you don’t have to go.”

Marc is stiff against you and you consider for a moment letting him go.

But you don’t.

You hold on, and murmur, “It’s okay to want this. It’s okay.” You keep feathering your hand through his hair, your touch as gentle as you can make it. “I love you, you know.” You touch the gold chain around his neck and finally glance away from his eyes, staring at the hollow of his throat instead as you say, “You don’t always have to have your walls up. I’m not - I won’t -,” you stop and consider your next words. “I love you exactly as you are.”

There’s a long moment of silence after that, one in which your heart beats painfully fast and you wait for Marc to push you away.

But it doesn’t come, his body slowly relaxes against yours again, your fingers continuing their careful press against his skin.

His head tips toward the mirror on the wall, and he nods after a few long minutes, carefully plucking up one of your hands, to kiss each of your fingers, the flat of your palm, and then to curl them closed again, hold your hand against his chest.

You can feel the steady thrum of his heart, and Marc doesn’t look at you when he says. “I want it too.”

You wait a moment but he doesn’t say more.

“I’m happy to give it to you, Marc.”

“You - you give too much as it is.” He pauses for a long moment, before pushing you onto your back, hovering over you, his eyes darting over your face.

And you’re amazed, wondering, at the love struck expression he wears, like you were the pinnacle of a universe that barely made sense, that was barely held together.

“Steven deserves this,” he nods down at you. “He’s never-,”

You hear the unspoken words - that is why Steven was born after all, to be all the things Marc thought he wasn’t, to shield himself.

“Stop it. Marc, you are not your past. You are not bad. You carry around the weight of the world and these sins you think are yours alone. They aren’t.” You tip your head up to nudge your nose against his, Marc’s hands pinning both of yours to the space beside your shoulders.

Marc is looking at you in that intense way of his, brows furrowed, mouth tilted in that overly-serious line.

“And what if I don’t think I deserve it, huh? To get you like this?”

“Don’t listen to you, then. Listen to me.” You hitch your knees up to frame his hips, holding him against you, levering pressure into the backs of his thighs until he drops down fully against you. “You deserve it. More than most.”

You know everything he’s ever done is flashing through his mind. His brother’s death and his mother’s wrath. His time as a mercenary, his time in the military. The way he thinks he breaks and folds and isn’t strong enough, never strong enough, not enough. The mistake of Khonshu. The way he thinks he failed Layla and Steven, and that he will do it all over again.

“Hey,” you nudge his jaw again. “Quit that.”

Marc nods slowly, intense stare pinning you down. “I deserve it.” He says it like he expects you to disagree with him, to laugh.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’ll remind you of that.” He releases your wrists, burying his nose in your neck, the breath he sucks in is shaky and wild, the drum beat of a storm he stored inside the stoic stone that surrounded his heart.

You cup a hand against the back of his neck, your other hand sliding down his side, tracing the violent scars that dot his ribs. Carefully, you slide his boxers down his thighs. Your touch is soft against him, your body already welcoming to him, and he slides into you with a quiet groan.

It’s not like making love with Steven, who was sillier and goofier than Marc would ever be.

It’s different to how Marc normally fucks you, when the mood strikes him to give it to you slow.

This time, it's sweet, it's like the smoky burn of incense, like the homecoming he’d been waiting for for years. Marc kisses you softly, groans into your mouth when he was normally quiet aside to talk to you, demand things from you.

You tighten your legs around him, encourage him to move slower, push deeper.

“Fuck,” he whispers against the delicate skin of your neck.

Sweat beads on his forehead, the glow of him against you like the sun. When you push the curls back from his forehead to look into his eyes, you catch something vulnerable in your heart, like the knife of everything Marc was storming into you.

“Fuck,” he murmurs again.

He ducks his head to kiss a path along your throat, where earlier his palm had circled the flesh.

You drag your nails along his back, rub a hand through his hair, rock the cradle of your hips along with his.

Marc reaches for one of your hands, kisses your fingers before guiding your hand to your cunt, “Sorry baby, I’m not gonna last. Need you to touch yourself for me.”

You’re only a little bit shocked, but you tip his chin up to kiss him. Marc normally had a stamina that could win awards.

Not now, it seemed. Not when you had given him permission to be slow and gentle and soft.

Your breath is squeezed from your lungs, the heavy drag of him inside you almost enough to make you come.

Marc doesn’t let you breathe, his mouth an insistent press against yours until you pull away with a gasp and you hear the sound of a quiet laugh against your throat, teeth digging into your jaw.

You come unexpectedly, hips jerking up to meet him as Marc gives a harder thrust, looping an arm beneath one of your knees to open you up more, to slide that much deeper.

The spot he hits within you makes your toes curl, makes it hard to catch a breath.

“I can destroy you like this too, huh?” Marc asks, grinding against you, hips swirling as you groan from the breathless pleasure darting up your spine.

“Don’t ruin this, Spector,” you huff, nipping at his jaw, only laughing a little.

“Keep touching yourself. I didn’t say to stop,” he answers.

Your eyes roll back when his tongue curls against the hollow of your throat. “I want you to come again,” his voice is a husky rasp in your ear.

You’re still wearing Marc’s shirt, but when he releases your leg to palm your breasts through the fabric, you regret ever letting him partially dress you.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, “You’re so tense. Come for me again, hm? Come for me.” When he pinches your nipple and rolls it between his fingers, you do. White hot pleasure courses up your spine, makes your mind go blank. “Fuck, are you coming?”

“Yes,” you moan, “I’m coming for you.”

“For me,” he repeats. “For me.”

“Marc,” you whisper, pleasure making your vision go fuzzy, your exhausted body trembling. “Marc, I love you.”

His hand goes to your ass, angles your hips, before he thrusts so deep you see stars and he spills inside you.

You make sure to wrap your arms around his head, tightening your grip until he wiggles. “Can’t breathe, baby.” But you don’t want him to go anywhere, you don’t want the idea to even occur to him.

You loosen your grip but say, “Don’t leave.”

Marc’s jaw tightens, “Sorry about that.”

“S’ok. Just don’t go.”

“Not going anywhere tonight, honey.”

You nod, nuzzling your nose against his cheek when Marc takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your fingers and wrist, your forearm, the crease of your elbow.

“Stop that,” you grouse, a giggle at the tip of your tongue.

“I’m obsessed with you. I can’t.”

You do laugh then, and he rolls you onto your side. He slips free from you and you feel the emptiness immediately, but then Marc is kissing you again, insistent and demanding, and it's forgotten. His fingers dance up the column of your spine, tracing the delicate vertebrae of bone with soft fingers.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he whispers. It's so rare to see him without that stoic facade, the burned in self-hatred, that your heart gives a painful thump.

You kiss his sweaty brow and think to remind him of something. “You’re so good, Marc. You deserve good things. You deserve kindness.”

He doesn’t answer and you know he’s fighting down that automatic response, so ingrained into him it was almost a part of his DNA.

“I deserve it,” he murmurs eventually and you figure it's as close as you’ll get to agreement.

Marc lets you hold him, and he doesn’t try to move once.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector smut #marc spector x reader smut #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fic #moon knight

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januaryembrs · 11 months

Text

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [2]

description: She wakes up with a killer headache and a million questions when she realises two things: 1. the man in her room is not infact Steven Grant and 2. her body no longer belongs to her but to the God of Death. [Last Night in Soho inspired]

word count: 9.6k

trigger warnings: GORE, blood, very briefly Reader/Dove has worries of SA but absolutely none happens nor was there the intention of it happening and it is only implied, swearing, talks of infidelity (we love Layla el Faouly in this house so she will stay in the story but not as a romantic partner for Marc/Steven)

main masterlist | series masterlist

authors note: so as promised this is now an avatar!reader series. all the Ancient Egyptian facts mentioned are simply researched off google and some books I have on Egyptian mythology so someone please correct me! Also to avoid confusion Seth goes by many names eg Set/Seth/Setekh and is only really known as God of Death in the marvel comics, not in real mythology! Again, my knowledge of DID is purely researched so if anyone is upset with my phrasing or what I have written please tell me!

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Marc cradled her wounds harshly, guilty chipping at him when he heard her whimper at the sheer force he was putting on the lacerations.

“Konshu!” Marc hissed over his shoulder where he felt the bird poking at the Jackal’s dead body. He had arrived five minutes too late, barely just pulling the monster off her before it could set its teeth into her leg and start feasting. The dark haired man had been quick to snap its neck, throwing the carcass behind him and tend to where she twitched and writhed on the floor.

It was bad. Her thick blood smeared all over the ceremonial armour that would somehow clean itself of the stains like it did with the blood of the others he’d killed.

He’d had blood on his hands before, but not like this. Not an innocent woman that slipped away under his touch, the eyes he’d seen from inside the body batting up at Steven with golden innocence.

He knew how Steven felt about her, the way his heart, well their heart, would pick up when the two of them got even the slightest bit closer. The way doubt ate away at his quiet counterpart, doubt that someone her age would find a man ten years older than her even the slightest bit attractive. She had dozens of men after her, he saw how their eyes trailed up and down her figure when she would be so much as stood minding her business and stacking shelves.

Marc knew despite Steven never admitting to his feelings, despite the fact he’d tried helping him get over his crush by asking his other gorgeous co-worker on a date for him, he knew Steven would be devastated if anything happened to her.

The two of them shared a friendship first and foremost. She was possibly the only person Steven had to rely on that he found comfort in, the only real friend he’d got. And she was good, Gods above Marc could see even when he was on the inside that she was good to him. When she would leave him notes to remind him to wake up on time, bring Steven little trinkets she’d found that reminded her of him. She hadn’t batted a single eyelid of judgement when she’d seen the sand around his bed, or the foot cuff. In fact she’d made a joke about his unique tastes in the bedroom and then asked if he would like to buy mugs together.

She was pure, and kind, and good. It was Marc’s job to deliver vengeance to those worthy of it, and she was the furthest thing from it. And it was his conflict with Harrow that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

He couldn’t let her be taken from Steven, not like this.

“KONSHU?” Marc called, louder this time to get the God’s attention, “Will you quit poking that thing and get over here?”

The skeletal figure paused, his staff still half way through prodding the corpse out of intrigue as he took note of the pitiful little human dying on the floor.

“She’s a lost cause, Marc. The worm can make more friends. We have work to do,” Came Konshu’s booming voice, the figure walking towards where the blood pooled on the floor messily.

“That is not an option, what happened to protecting ‘the travellers of the night’?” Marc seethed back, compressing the wound harder. But it was no use. He felt the liquid seeping through his clothed fingers, how it pumped out of her rapidly. His heart dropped sadly when he saw she was looking right at him, her eyes wide and wet with fear.

“Steve-” She started. Even so close to death she was worried about him.

Marc’s chest constricted with sadness. Steven would never get over this if she were to die like this, calling for him, clinging to his alter for dear life. It was his job to protect Steven at all costs from the tough realities of life, and watching her die would torment his alter in a way he just couldn’t allow.

“He’s here, he’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Marc shushed her, eyes narrowing on the way blood dribbled out her mouth and he heard her chest rattle with a clogged airway.

She didn’t have long left.

“Konshu, do something!” Marc yelled, his hand cradling her neck gently, trying to tip her head up far enough that she could breathe still. “We need to do something now!”

“There is nothing to do, Marc Spector.” Konshu said simply, yet his boned beak snapped to the plinth the two humans rested on, his concave eyes trailing up to the monument that watched over them, “Unless…”

“Unless what? Just do something, she’s going to bleed out any minute now,” Marc rushed, a hand coming to hold her head up more as she started choking on herself.

He had seen gruesome things before, done gruesome things. But this was heart wrenching, watching the one person his alter cared for die so horrifically. Slow. Messy. Painfully.

“I cannot do anything to help the little runt,” Konshu snapped, raising his staff to the behemoth, looming figure behind the two humans clinging on to one another, “But he can,”

Marc’s head whipped to where the bird-faced demon was gesturing, the man’s near black eyes trailing up to the statue of the god watching over the three of them. “Who is that? Anubis? Ra?”

“Seth. God of Chaos, Storms and Foreign lands.” Konshu spoke of his old friend fondly. Marc’s eyes squinted in suspicion at the admiration in his voice. “Sometimes seen as the God of Death.”

If there was anyone who loved vengeance and all things violent as much as the moon deity, it was the one who created it all.

Spector’s heart squoze in fear at the idea of throwing her to a life of servitude like the one he had been forced into. But there was no way of healing her deep wounds in any other way than giving her up to a god that would find use in her survival.

“God of Death?” Marc asked, “Is there no one else who would take her?” Nothing about Seth screamed out that he would be gentle to her. Konshu was bad enough, and he was merely the God of the Moon, let alone the embodiment of violence.

“None that would accept a vessel so weak.” Konshu said darkly, kneeling down behind Marc and calling upon his dear friend in arms, “She is bleeding onto his monolith as if she’s given herself up to him as a sacrifice, he’ll like that,”

“No, wait-” Marc wasn’t sure he liked the sound of a deity so dark taking control of her, but he hadn’t the time to protest any further before his own God’s voice rattled the shards of glass laying on the floor with its volume.

“Seth! Old friend, we have a gift for you,” Konshu bellowed, his head lowering as a sign of respect to his superior. The god killer. The brother slayer. The evil serpent of the Ennead. Konshu could only revere in the footsteps of such a god equally, perhaps moreso, hated by the higher council.

Konshu’s avatar opened his mouth to protest when a snake-like hiss rolled over his back and every hair on his body stood on end. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before, everything warm inside of Marc’s body being robbed at the very sound of it, his breath included.

It was neither man, nor animal, nor monster. A mix between a snarl and a spit of anger from being woken from a deep slumber.

Death overcame the room.

“Konshu,” An ancient voice came from above. For the first time in Marc’s servitude to Konshu, he was afraid to see where the sound came from. What had made such a noise.

What Death looked like when you stared him in the face.

“It is good to see your face, shadow dweller,” The voice of Death spoke, every scratching syllable running through Spector’s body like a fear he’d never known.

He couldn’t face the thing that caused such a feeling, and kept his head down as a result. Down to where she was. Still looking at him with such desperation, oblivious to the unholy conversation happening around her.

The light in her eyes was dimming, the tears slithering into her hairline pitifully. She hadn’t got long left. He’d failed her. He’d fail her if Seth couldn’t get to her in time. Yet the selfish part of him didn’t want him to, wanted to keep her pure and untainted by such a cruel being.

But this was for Steven, he thought. Keep her alive for Steven’s sake.

“We have a body for you, dark one,” Konshu said, gesturing to the girl’s weak body that his pathetic avatar clung to fiercely.

“To see through the afterlife?” Seth questioned, the lights in the museum hall flickering as if indicating he was in every atom of the room with them.

“To have as a vessel, Seth,” The Moon god prompted, his staff gesturing to the pool of blood the two humans sat in, Marc’s arms by now drenched in it. “See how she bleeds for you. I know you feel it as I do, the darkness in her heart, the chaos-”

“Oh,” Seth’s aged voice hummed in delight, “Oh, how her corrupted heart sings to me. You have done well, Konshu,”

That had Marc gripping her body just that bit tighter. What had he done? The god seemed so thirsty for her blood, for her body.

But it was too late now. Death had taken a fascination to her. Two long tendrils of pure, cold darkness emerged from the shadows and wrapped around where her weak state was slipping away from Marc’s arms. Hands that had trusted him to keep her safe fell from his bicep, falling slowly into her lap as the blackness took her.

“Be gentle,” Came from Marc’s mouth before he could help it, not wanting to make himself known to the old god. Her body was raised into the air before the statue, her head limp as it sagged over her shoulders, heavy and lifeless. Shadows wrapped around her limbs, crawling up her nose and under her closed lids like an infection, spreading, consuming, digesting.

“Gentle?” The hoarse voice rumbled with laughter, “She is going to be my most prized possession,”

There was something so peaceful about the way she slept despite the trauma of the last couple days. Marc had flown the two of them back to her apartment, figuring it was a much easier way than getting on public transport with a sleeping woman in his arms. He knew it would garner too much attention, even with the way he’d wrapped her in Steven’s jacket to cover the sight of the blood from the security cameras.

He’d laid her in her soft bed, slipping her shoes off and draping the soft duvet over her body, the whole time she’d not murmured one bit. He would have almost been concerned that Seth hadn’t healed her in time had he not seen the two gods emerging from the dark corners of her bedroom like the boogeymen they were.

If Konshu was nerving to look at, then Seth was something straight out of a child’s nightmare.

Unlike Konshu, he was not bones. He had the body of a goliath man, arms taught with dark muscles, and a small piece of cloth to cover his dignity. Gold chest armour rested over his shoulders and wound around his thick arms. Hair lined his arms and chest in thick mounds, and he held a staff similar enough to Marc’s own god that he could see Seth’s was much more intricate than his counterpart. It had dark hieroglyphs running down the sides, a pointed skull of a jackal atop the weapon with a gold headpiece weaving its way over the animal's forehead neatly.

But that wasn’t what scared Marc. It was the beast’s head that sent chills down his spine. His head was that of a lithe dog, like a Doberman on steroids, ears and snout thin and long as it stared down at him. A predator if ever he saw one. Seth’s eyes were black, brimming with menace and plague, his jaws lined with what seemed like hundreds of teeth sharper than any blade Marc had ever seen.

The insidious smile plastered on the demonic jaws was what got him. As if Seth knew the fear he instilled in him. As if he saw how much he regretted listening to Konshu already.

Seth was every awful feeling you had in your gut before something terrible happened. He was the last breath a person takes as their soul leaves their body, a cold hand of a corpse. A dark shadow in the corner of your eye. A premonition of death. He was every ounce of pain, burden and agony any being had ever felt in the thousands of years they had existed in this small corner of the universe. He was torture and misery hailing down upon the world straight from purgatory.

And she was his now. His to ruin and vanquish as he pleased.

The two gods stood on either side of her bed, staring down at her in fascination as Marc sat on the chair at her desk, his dark eyes flicking between the monstrous creatures.

“Do you need to watch her like that? I thought we had work to do,” He prompted, hoping to take their attention off her vulnerable body.

“Harrow was onto something with this one, Marc Spector,” Konshu chuckled, taking a seat on the window sill to watch Seth caress her head, his hands gentle yet Marc sensed there was nothing kind about the gesture. As if on cue, her face scrunched up, still riddled with sleep, and she twisted in mental torment. His touch alone had given her a night terror, he was the king of chaos after all, “If you saw the yearning for vengeance in that girl’s heart, you’d find her fascinating too,”

“She’s not evil, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marc’s jaw clenched harshly as she whimpered and tried to roll away from the hand that poisoned her dreams. His eyes darkened at the sound of Seth laughing to himself at his cruel trick.

“She’s not what you think, runt. She will do well as my avatar,”

Marc finally set his gaze on the unholy deity, the slim, mutt like face staring down at him with inky black slits. He couldn’t hold the stare for long, the creeping feeling of unease that washed over him the moment he met Seth’s eyes was enough to knock the wind out of him.

Tugging on his collar to free some space for breath, he turned away.

“What will you make her do?” He asked quietly, sparing a quick, pitiful glance to her face that had now smoothed out in peace once more.

“Nothing she doesn’t already want to,”

She felt the uncomfortable scratch of jeans against bed sheets before anything else. The detergent, that was almost unscented from the countless years she’d used it, was homely against her nose and she stretched out under the covers to pop the joints that had been curled into the foetal position for however many hours she’d been asleep.

There were about ten seconds between waking up and remembering whatever the fuck happened last night where she remained in a beautiful state of blissful peace. There is a virtue in remaining ignorant, she realised. Remaining unaware. In fact, she would go on to cherish those ten seconds when her eyes took in the same plain wall that had always been next to her bed, when her head was not loud and the air was not tight in her chest.

Ten revered seconds when things didn’t hurt.

Yet by the eleventh second, the whole evening came flooding back to her, ripping through her synapses with the feeling of dread.

The man in the museum that had grabbed her and Steven. The dogs, the running. The creature tackling her, its teeth, oh god, its teeth and claws, the way she’d been thrown through the glass like it was child’s play.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, the early morning sun illuminated the room enough that she barely took note of the figure sat opposite her. Throwing the duvet off herself frantically, she scanned every inch of her body for anything that hurt, that was bleeding and needed immediate attention.

But, as was a recurring theme in her life these days, there was nothing there.

Not a single scratch, or scab, or scar in sight. Her shirt was ripped to shreds, dark red and spattered with something lumpy that she didn’t want to even consider what it was. That would need to be thrown away. But lifting up the torn fabric to reveal her bare stomach, there truly was nothing there that indicated what had happened was real. Were it not for the evidence on her shirt she wouldn’t even believe it had happened.

What the fuck was going on?

As if on cue, she raised her fuzzy head the slightest bit and caught the man sitting at her desk, looking straight at her with cold, brown hues. The short, dry yelp she let out had her lungs wincing, her hands raising in front of her to protect herself from any oncoming attack, before it clicked in her head that it was Steven.

Ofcourse it was. Ofcourse, Steven had gotten her home safely last night.

“Oh my god, Steven!” She rushed out of bed as he stood, though the dead expression hadn’t yet left his face as he stood to meet her.

Marc had barely opened his mouth to explain when he was tackled around his waist by her open arms. She was strong now, strong enough to hug him tightly and have his ribs jitter painfully, no doubt a side effect from becoming an avatar.

The older man had just about talked Konshu and Seth into leaving him to explain to her what was happening, knowing how terrified he was when he first started hearing the God of the Moon addressing him. He knew for anyone so soft to the world, hearing voices and seeing giant creatures ordering you to do their bidding would mean a one way ticket to a hospital ward.

“Steven, I’ve been so worried about you! What on earth happened, what were those things- wait!” She pulled away quickly and checked him over for wounds himself, searching him up and down until she was satisfied he was okay.

Marc would have laughed snidely at her concern, knowing he was more than capable of taking care of himself, had she been anyone else. But it was endearing how her first thought was for his alter’s safety.

Now came the hard part.

“I’m fine, everyone’s fine. How are you feeling?” He saw her gaze snap to his, brows drawing down into a frown at his accent.

“I’m-” She paused for a moment, and he watched as her eyes took in his whole demeanour. He knew he behaved differently to Steven, even by voice alone it was clear, but she seemed to be catching every small manner that he differed from him within seconds. “I’m fine, I could have sworn-” Eyes trailed over his face again as if to confirm her suspicions. She stepped back, shaking her head and bringing her hand to her temple, walking over to her mirror to check for any bruising. “Did I hit my head?”

He could have lied then and there. Marc could have washed his hands of her and convinced her she’d just had an awful fall, that nothing that happened last night was real. But Seth was coming to collect his dues, there was no stopping that now. Marc knew it was already his fault that she was in shit’s creek waist deep, it wasn’t fair of him to just up and run like he did with everything else in his life.

She deserved the truth. As so many people in his life deserved the truth; Layla, Steven. He had brought trouble to their doors and buried his head in the sand the moment he saw consequences. He’d ran away, denied, denied, denied until he started believing it himself in the hopes the guilt so familiar to him would let go of his chest.

But this was different. Dove was the only thing Steven had in his odd little life, the only person who cared for him. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing he wasn’t only fucking up his own life but now Steven’s too, Steven who he had always tried to protect. Nurture. Perhaps he would have left her to the wolves were she his friend. But she wasn’t. She was Steven’s girl. His dove.

“Listen, you-” Her ears pricked at the sound of his new voice again. Marc saw how her posture straightened alertly, and her eyes snapped to look at him in her peripheral vision. Not necessarily panicked, but wary. As if trying to not give away her awareness of his change. A reflex, as if she’d done this before; hidden her fight, flight or freeze response. But Marc being the skilled mercenary he was, was one step behind her, clocking her reaction immediately. “You did hit your head pretty hard last night so I think you should sit down for this, princess.”

She turned slowly to look at him with wide eyes and he almost winced. She knew something was off, wrong. Princess? That was certainly new. Practically a million miles away from the nicknames he’d already established for her. She carefully sized him up with her cautious eyes, looking him head to toe as if to find the flaw that gave him away, the exact thing that made her feel the uncanny effect.

Truthfully, she had been able to tell just from the way he had hugged her. The barely there hand on her sides, the way his body went ironing board stiff in her arms, the way his head was held far away from her as if she were a bad smell instead of falling into the open space her shoulder provided like Steven normally would.

He was looking at her as if she were a wild animal on the side of the road, lame and ready to succumb to a terrible fate any second now. As if he was sorry, as if he’d been the driver knocking her down and had to be the one to see her shrivel pathetically on the pavement.

His voice was colder than Steven’s had ever been, formal. Everything about him screamed unfamiliar in the worst way despite being the double of him. But the way his face seemed tired, not in the way Steven was always tired but like he was tired of everything around him, tense, forlorn. Sorrowful. The way he stood straighter than Steven’s usually slumped over figure, he seemed immediately bigger and broader than her friend ever had because of it.

Whoever was looking at her was not her friend. Foe? She didn’t know, but she knew this man was not Steven Grant.

The next thought struck her harder than the glass wall had. What if it was? What if this was Steven, and their whole friendship over the past year had been an act to get her weak and vulnerable, cowering in her bedroom like a deer at the end of a rifle barrel.

“Who are you?” She murmured quietly, as if she were afraid to approach the clear fact he was not the man she’d known for the past few months.

The stranger took a sigh, raising his hands up to calm her as if to approach a spooked animal. “Look, I can explain everything, but would you please just sit-”

“Are you twins?” She asked, taking a step away from him. Please be twins. Please let me keep Steven, the only one who was ever good to me. Marc stopped in his place, realising his presence was scaring her. She looked pitiful, the warm eyes that had seemed so relieved to see Steven were now on high alert, nothing about her shrunken body seemed relaxed. Her eyes drifted past him to the door, and Marc was quick to realise she was gauging if they were in her apartment alone. “Is Steven here?”

One single beat.

“Yes.” She’d already caught him in his lie. He was hoping to get by on the technicality of his words, but his hesitancy to answer had her eyes snapping back to him in fear, “It’s difficult to explain. He’s here, he can’t talk right now,”

That did nothing to reassure her. In fact, it made it sound like Marc had hurt the one person she’d hoped to get her out of this situation. The man chided himself for his cold demeanour, but he couldn’t help but wince at the onslaught of information that was to come.

For this to make sense, he would need to tell her alot.

He saw it in her eyes. The way her body gave away her next moves, her slight, gentle step towards the door. Her chest puffed out as if she was building false confidence in herself for her next move. To run.

It didn’t matter that he looked like Steven, that he was wearing his clothes. That was not him. Had something happened to him with the invisible dogs? Or the white figure that had haunted her dreams that had held her as she had fallen into that cold darkness? Or was she truly going so far down the rabbit hole she was losing all sense of reality?

Either way, this man was a stranger. And he was in her room. Alone. Unbothered by the blood and gore on her shirt. And he wouldn’t let her see Steven, wherever he was.

A walking red flag.

Another single beat of silence passed between the two of them, before she bolted for the exit.

Maybe it was his military experience, or the fact her innocent face had made it so easy for her to read. But Marc was quick to catch her by the waist, tackling her to the floor and pinning her easily.

The scream she let out was awful. Her newfound strength and sheer terror made it a little more difficult to reach a hand over her mouth but the way she thrashed as if fighting for life clutched at Marc’s chest heavily. A free swipe of her arms, the blood and dirt still buried deep under her fingernails, came up to push his cheek, scratching deep into his skin enough to cause three red marks on his olive complexion and have him hiss in pain.

“Please, STEVEN- Please just let me go- Don’t- STEVEN” She yelled, her legs kicking up to try fight him off. Her eyes welled up as she screamed more, her throat audibly going raw from the sheer effort.

“Shhh. I’m not gonna hurt you, just please calm down,” Marc begged as he put his hand over her mouth. He saw the fear in her eyes that told him all he needed to know. He was a stranger to her, a stranger in her room that had pinned her to the floor.

Of fucking course she was terrified.

Her cries for help were only muffled by his large fingers as his eyes peered down at her in sorrow, “He’s here, I promise. Steven’s here, just please let me explain.”

Her eyes stared up at him through glassy, fat tears. The voice, that voice. The way he held her so gently despite having the strength to hold her in place. The stranger, the same stranger that held her last night was - what? Steven’s twin brother?

Marc watched the moment she recognised him, somewhat. Alteast recognising him out of the suit. It felt too reminiscent of the moment he’d watched her die. Call him selfish but he preferred when she’d held on to him in a fleeting moment of trust than the fear that she gazed at him with now.

“I saved you and Steven last night, from those things, remember me?” Marc asked sternly. Her eyes remained wide and frightened, but she seemed to give up struggling. Her face was the picture of confusion, conflicted whether to trust a familiar stranger or keep throwing her entire weight into fighting him off. “Yeah, see? Now I’m gonna let go of you but you’re gonna need to trust me for all of five minutes. Your life is in a lot more danger than those things that attacked you, and I’m not gonna be able to help you if you don’t listen to me. You got it?”

He felt her body relax the slightest amount, before she nodded helplessly. Marc checked over her face one last time for any immediate signs of fleeing. When he found none he let go, leaning back to stand, rubbing a hand over his stinging cheek. Not bleeding, but raised and hot with impact.

“Who are you?” She whispered, still laying on the floor in shock, her chest heaving with a nausea that had washed over her the moment he had gotten on top of her. Call it a reflex, but the idea of a man who wore her best friend’s face invoking such a power over her curdled her stomach to its very core.

Marc looked down at her, her eyes neither trusting nor looking for a reason to run. She needed to know, he repeated to himself, were it not so important he would have left with no query. No traumatic incidents needed.

But Death was around the corner. Sooner or later he’d appear to her, ask her for things Marc could only dread.

He owed her an explanation at the least.

Sticking out a hand, the same hand that had stopped her squeals for help, he offered her help up off the floor. Her eyes flicked from the tawny digits to his stiff expression in caution. “I’m Marc Spector. Nice to meet you,”

She sipped her tea silently. She liked it strong, unbearably sweet and piping hot. Sometimes she joked with Steven it was how she liked her men too. But she was in no joking manner now, and Steven wasn’t here anymore.

Well he was, and wasn’t at the same time.

They shared a body, that’s what Marc had said. She’d read about stuff like that, seen it in movies, but funnily enough the phenomenon of two people in one body wasn’t even what had her jaw clenched in disbelief.

Egyptian gods walked among them. Lived with them, had their own societies and laws, puppeteering random strangers to do their bidding.

And one, perhaps the worst one she could think of, had her in his clutches.

Of course she’d heard of Seth. She stacked around fifty of his statues a day in the back of the gift shop, his wolf-like face not nearly as friendly looking as one would hope if they’d learnt he was now their master.

If Marc was telling the truth, then that’s essentially what Seth was to her now. A puppet master, a dictator, a tyrant pulling the strings on her every move for the inevitable future.

He was the body of everything chaotic. Nefarious. Evil. Violent. And yet she couldn’t help but sigh at the dramatic irony that she expected nothing less from an ancient god that had taken an interest in her soul. It saw in her what she knew had always grown. What that Harrow guy knew immediately, supposedly the gift of his own god, to see the disruption inside people's hearts. What Steven and now Marc were so blind to.

Seth had seen the pollution that cursed her down to her marrow and licked his lips in glee.

“Are you okay?” Marc’s American accent met her ears. They sat in her kitchen, the small breakfast counter being the only thing holding her up as she rested her elbows on it, barely feeling the way the scalding hot tea slid past her silent lips.

“Mhm,” She murmured, hands wrapping delicately around her clean mug. She’d given Marc Steven’s mug, mindlessly making him a tea the way Steven loved his cuppas, only to have the new man wince and spit the liquid back out.

More of a black coffee guy, he’d said apologetically as she visually sank in realisation they were truly completely different people.

“I know it’s a lot to process, I know I freaked out the first time I spoke to Konshu.” Marc explained, his tea going cold with his lack of interest in the drink. He watched her expression meticulously, as if trying to pick over every tiny change in her face as to any hint how she was feeling.

She stared at the white table deep in thought. Blank and empty as the surface itself.

“What will he want from me?” She asked quietly, meeting his eyes for the first time since he confessed he was the other half of her best friend that happened to share a headspace with him.

Marc looked at her blankly. “I don’t know,” He answered honestly. He would love to tell her Seth would be kind and graceful, gentle as he’d put it. He’d love to take it back, dig her out of this mess in any other way than offering her as a sacrifice, a mess he’d made by listening to his own God’s orders.

Marc would love to leave her and Steven in peace to pining and mixed feelings and words unsaid, but he couldn’t. She was in the gates of Hell now, deep in the Underworld. And there was no point of return. No do over, or waking up and pretending the whole thing was a silly dream like he’d been pulling over Steven.

This was out of his hands now.

“He wouldn’t make me-” She paused, taking a deep breath and putting her mug onto the counter to stabilise her shaking hands, “He won’t get me to-” Kill was the word she kept silent, but Marc understood nonetheless. Seth was the god of death and violence and all things lawless. There wasn’t anything Marc could promise wouldn’t be coming her way. His expression must have been grave enough to warrant her to let out a rattled sigh, tucking her hands into her lap to pick at her dirty fingertips. “Oh,” She said simply.

“Look, once I’ve stopped Harrow from raising Ammit, then I can worry about how to get him to release you, okay?” Marc said shortly, running a weathered hand over his tired face.

It was odd, seeing a man look so much like the sweetest guy she’d ever met brush her off as if she were a minor inconvenience. Which she was. She knew he felt guilty for letting his god give her up to the higher being, but he seemed tired of this whole situation by now, reaching his limit on being tender with her.

Marc didn’t have time for this. He was trying to help the poor girl, but the best way he could think to fix their problem was to clear his plate of his own agenda first. Which meant leaving as soon as he could to get the scarab somewhere hidden and Harrow off his back.

Her eyes steeled over at his words, furrowing her brows. “Once we’ve stopped Harrow, you mean?”

“What?” Marc said with a huff, looking at his tea as if it poisoned him, wishing it were a black drip coffee she hadn’t got the money for.

“We can stop him, right?” She asked, an edge to her tone that she’d never used on Steven. Everything reserved for him was purely saccharine sweet and gentle, loving beyond what friends should be.

“We?” Marc bit with a scoff.

“Yes-”

“We?”

“Yes we, what, do you have a French man living in there too?” She barked, slamming the mug down with a blaze in her eye at the disdain he looked at her with, “Now look, I know it’s a little unavoidable for you and Steven, but I’m not one to have people fix my problems for me,”

“Yeah, you seemed to have it completely under control last night when you were bleeding out,” The man snapped, watching her jaw tense with an anger he’d never seen from his time watching her through Steven’s eyes.

They glared at each other for a moment, the red welts on his cheek staring back at her as if to remind her of her new strength. She needed him. Her body felt cold, as if she were carrying a corpse around not her own limbs, her every breath tasted of smoke and rot. She felt like she had bugs crawling over her spine, the hair on her arms never laying still with the goosebumps that dotted her skin. She felt dead. Casket, buried and six feet under. Then again, she sort of was.

“I’d like to speak to Steven, please,” She said quietly, polite despite the fact she was angry.

“I told you, you can’t talk to him right now,” Marc replied, stepping away from the kitchen and heading towards the front door to her apartment, “Look it was nice to meet you but I have work to do. You just stay here-”

She stood up, nearly knocking the mug over as she pursued him, grabbing his arm with a jolt.

Marc could have sworn she nearly ripped his arm out his socket with the unknown vigour she had. He made a small yelp that he choked down as she yanked him back to face her.

“You are not leaving me to deal with a God of Death alone, are you kidding me?” She seethed, unaware of how tight she was grabbing him. She was gonna leave one hell of a bruise, Marc thought, but the desperation in her voice was clear as a bell. “I don’t care if I have to stalk you myself, we both know you can stop this Harrow guy a lot faster if there’s two of us,”

“I won’t be stopping anyone if I only have one arm so would you please let go and stop mauling me, I’m trying to help you here, princess,” Marc retorted, as if to snap her out of her rage. Her eyes fell to where she was gripping him harshly, her hand alone turning the bottom half of his arm red with lack of circulation.

Her face visibly drew back in shock, letting go of him quickly. “Sorry,” She muttered, sheepishly.

Well, that was new.

Marc sighed, looking down at her crestfallen expression. She was scared, he knew she was, but putting her into the line of fire was exactly the last thing he wanted to do after already watching her suffer enough for his mistakes.

But she was persistent. And smart too, he knew she was right in saying they could figure out how to push back against Harrow a lot faster with two brains. At least if she was with him, he could keep an eye on how Seth was treating her.

If he was being much too greedy and insidious, which is what Marc expected from him, then maybe he could ask more of the Gods to step in. Or even the God of the Dead could help them find a way to stop Ammit from being resurrected. What was the point in conjuring chaos if another god was going to end everyone who had it in them?

“Alright,” She perked up instantly, those wide eyes looking at him with elation that he was going to stop being difficult and pushing her away, “You can help, only if you promise to do exactly what I ask of you. We can’t have you going rogue, that will make my whole plan just messy, okay?”

“Aye, aye, captain,” She said smoothly, flashing him a toothy smile, “Thankyou, Marc. Really.”

“Alright,” He nodded, reaching for the door, “Get some more sleep, I’ll call you when I need you,”

The smile dropped from her face as fast as it had come. That phrase was not comforting in the slightest. How would she know he was honest, that he meant his word? Steven always meant his word. Steven she could trust with her life.

This man was not Steven.

She knew it was childish, but she was quick to grab his hand again, gentle this time, not nearly as forceful as before. His empty brown eyes snapped to meet her gaze, the hair on his arms standing to attention as if he'd been electrocuted by her touch alone.

“Promise me?” She asked, eyes wide and imploring him to understand how desperate she was, “Promise me you won’t leave me alone?”

He took a moment to look her in the eyes, her lashes framing the pure anguish held in her sweet face, batting up at him with woeful hope.

He could see why Steven liked her. She was the embodiment of everything good, everything that needed protecting in the world, that needed cherishing and kept safe. He felt her small hand squeeze him in need. Having someone so kind and so blatantly enchanting to look at essentially begging for his refuge awoke something primal in him, something caveman that said I would never let a hair on her head be harmed. Something not even sexual, just purely carnal that overcame his senses as he imagined it did Steven’s, that had him nodding on instinct.

“I promise,” Marc said calmly, squeezing her hand back, before he shut the door coldly and left her flat.

She did not in fact wait for Marc to call her. In fact, by the time she’d woken up she had two missed calls from Steven and a flurry of messages had filled her screen all from one of her four contacts in her phone.

Steven

Are you okay, Dove?

Please respond A S A P

I don’t know what’s happening, they’ve said I’ve destroyed the loos

They said I carried you out of the building but I don’t remember seeing you after we got split up

Oh god don’t be dead

That would make me a proper maniac who killed the only bloody friend I’ve ever had

Please don’t be dead

Dove please message as soon as you can I need to know you’re okay

She huffed a breath of relief. Steven was back. Anxious and worried for her life, but he was back. She had barely a few hours of sleep since she’d seen Marc leave her apartment around 5 am that morning, but by now it was well into the afternoon.

Talk about being dead asleep. No, that’s not funny, she chided her brain.

Rubbing aching hands over her eyes to remove the last remnants of exhaustion from her face, her hands floated over the keys to reply to him.

Yet she could think of no way to tell him just how she felt; as though she were both relieved and dreading the idea that she could now talk to him about everything that happened, that she wouldn’t be alone with his stern counterpart in fixing the situation she had found herself in.

Yet the thought settled deep in her stomach. What if he ran from the very sight of her? It was obvious Seth wanted her out of interest, not just convenience. How he lusted for the cruelty and anguish in her bones. The venom that bubbled under her skin, infecting her brain and thoughts, the part of her that made her a disease, contagious to everyone around her.

Steven could take one look at the woman she truly was and wish for nothing more to do with her. Then what? The loneliness she had always known awaited her? The feeling of being left to the darkest corners of herself she knew waited for a moment of weakness to strike. Is that what she was to be subdued to?

She couldn’t say she was surprised. But she had to see him. Even if to beg for forgiveness of the bitterness that lay inside her, get on her knees and ask him to stay for her.

Words on a screen simply wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t redeem her enough to keep him like she wanted, if she could ever repent at all, that is. She needed to see Steven.

“Let’s just get this over with. You sent these papers but you never signed them.” Layla sighed as she yanked the thick wad of documents out her bag. She had no idea what Marc was playing at, perhaps creating a new identity was his way of running from responsibility again. He was always good at that.

“Did I? Uh-” Steven fumbled for his reading glasses as the vibrant woman shoved the files under his nose.

“This is what you wanted,” The woman, Layla, the only person who could help him understand what it was this Marc guy had plunged him into, said to him with an unmistakable bite to her words.

“Let’s have a look here,” His coffee ground eyes scrunched in confusion as he read over the papers. He brought them closer to his face as if in disbelief as to what he was reading.

“After everything, you told me that we needed to move on,” Layla seemed to have calmed slightly, bitter still but more heavy than anything as she watched him look at her in astonishment.

‘Divorce/dissolution/judicial separation petition’ stared back at Steven, an offer to end a relationship he knew nothing about with a woman who frankly scared him. Yet he could see the pain in her dark eyes as she avoided his glance. The way she’d swallowed her pride to come after this Marc guy to get the papers signed once and for all, though by the sounds of it it was his idea completely.

This little American man seemed to like starting fires and not waiting to find out if they burnt. If people got hurt. Which they did.

Steven was still waiting for Dove to message him back. If Marc had hurt her in any way he swore he would hand himself over then and there, particularly after finding a bloody handgun in his storage locker listed under his name. A gun? A wife? His best friend’s body? Who knows what else this Marc was hiding?

“Divorce?” Steven asked, looking at Layla in confusion, “You- We? I don’t know- You two were married?”

“Yeah, we doing this or not?” Layla snapped, though the gloomy look on her face told Steven all he needed to know. She was hurting. She hated every second of this as much as he did.

He flicked through the pages a few times, clearing his mind on the matter. He felt he had no right to meddle or sign away anyone else's relationship yet this woman looked at him expectantly in a way that had him curling over in near fear. He opened his mouth to ask her more about this Marc guy she was so angry with when a pounding on his door met his ears.

“Steven,” It was her, “Steven, are you home?”

Oh, thank the heavens and every cloud in them. The tension that had grabbed him by the throat and laced it with emotion all morning melted away at the melody of her words. So eager to hear her voice, to convince himself she really was safe, he dropped the papers onto the nearest table and rushed to the sound of her knocking frantically once more.

“Who is that?” Layla asked, annoyed that the papers she’d dragged across the globe had been discarded without a second thought. But her question fell on deaf ears as Steven swung the heavy door open.

The two of them stared at each other for a brief moment, both of them looking equally as shocked, confused and exhausted by the events, yet still not quite believing that they were seeing each other alive again.

“Oh my god- Love-” Steven heaved as she bolted into his arms for the second time that day. Though this time he hugged her back just as strongly as she’d expected. His body soft, gentle, warm with the way he encompassed her figure with his entire being. Not like how Marc held her in the slightest. He squeezed her tight, as if letting go of her again was the last thing on his mind, his hands flat on her spine and his head burrowing into her sweet smelling collar.

God he was so relieved to feel her again. Her face was smashed into his chest, her new found strength bringing him as close to her as physically possible, hoping to everything he wasn’t going to leave her the second he knew about her new, um, condition.

“Steven, oh my god, I thought it was you, the guy in my room- and last night! I was so worried about you- how do you feel, are you okay?” She rushed, unaware of the way she was being watched by two enraged brown eyes.

She had been so enamoured with Steven holding her so close, she hadn’t even seen the stunning woman stood a metre away with an aghast expression.

“Dove, I was so worried, Marc said I had to give the body to him so he could help you, I-” Steven’s voice was clogged with guilty and sorrow as he drew back from her, watching her expression scrunch into concern, entirely focused on his every word, “I couldn’t help you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love-”

“Hey, look. I’m okay, see?” She reassured, squeezing his waist lightly, wishing to soothe away the tears building in his waterline, “Marc got to me in time. I’m okay-”

“You met him?” Steven said the same time a new voice met her ears.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

Her head snapped to her left to where a woman stood, her fists clenched and full lips pursed into a sneer of disgust at her presence. She was gorgeous. Perhaps the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. The type of face you’d see on a billboard, effortless and striking, the kind that had even her fawning over her rare beauty.

The woman looked all the more annoyed at her gawking expression.

Layla’s head cut to Steven’s flustered face, looking between the two women in surprise.

“This is-”

“Is this why you wanted a divorce, Marc?” Layla barked, the two embracing each other immediately pulling apart at the accusation that came crashing down on the two of them. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Divorce. The word echoed in her head like a stab to the chest. He was married. Steven, well Marc technically but Steven’s body was married. To the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. It only made sense. No matter which way he was packaged, whether he was Steven or Marc, he was a god among men even without Konshu.

And she currently looked like a mistress.

“No!” They chorused, Steven turning away from her and leaving her standing in the doorway confused.

“No, she’s my-” Steven paused as the younger woman spoke over him in just as much panic this woman would get the wrong idea.

“We work together,” She rushed, walking towards the woman with her arms up in surrender. Of course this looked bad. Awful. The guilt of falling head over heels for someone else's husband churned in her stomach.

“Me and her work at the museum, well worked I suppose,” Steven said, shutting the door behind her, hoping Layla didn’t start shouting like she had done a few times already. He was as tired of taking Marc’s shit as she seemed, but he supposed it was just as confusing for her to be married to someone who claimed he was someone else.

He just hoped the woman he was enamoured with entirely didn’t get the wrong idea also.

“I’m so sorry, I suppose I should introduce myself,” The younger woman attempted a friendly smile, which was entirely shut down by Layla glaring at her and snarling at her pleasant tone.

“You’re supposed to introduce yourself to a woman before you fuck her husband,” The woman said, leaning over the woman intimidatingly before turning to Steven’s scared mouse expression with a growl.

“I’m not sleeping with Marc,” Dove piped up, though her chest was rattling with the furious nut-brown gaze that met her the second she opened her mouth. If looks could kill, she’d be clinging to the shreds of life that she had left all over again. She saw Steven look at her with reddening cheeks at the inference of her words, “Or Steven! I’m not sleeping with either of them,”

Layla scoffed, looking her up and down, “What? So you’re just his young, pretty co-worker who just so happens to give them fat fucking heart eyes the minute she sees him?”

It was her turn to become flustered now. She felt the embarrassment hail down on her in waves, heat crawling over her cheeks as she stared at the woman who had managed to see her feelings for her husband within seconds. Women had sixth senses for things like that. Which wouldn’t be a bother, except Layla was married to him. Not Steven himself, but his body yes.

This was all so complicated for the half-dead girl’s already mithered head.

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, hoping to god that Steven had somehow miraculously become deaf for five seconds and he truly hadn’t heard what his alter’s wife had just said.

“Exactly,” Layla huffed, reaching to grab her backpack and leave her husband and his mistress to their little roleplay where he was an English, ex-gift shoppist and she was his young co-worker too innocent to so much as tell him how she felt. What a joke.

“Wait, please,” The girl tried to slow her down, as she headed for the door, “Please, I can explain.”

A new knock on the door stopped Layla in her tracks.

“Steven Grant? Can we have a word?”

A female voice. Unfamiliar to either of them.

“DC Fitzgerald and DC Kennedy. We’re here about the disappearance of your co-worker,” The young woman’s face scrunched up in confusion as they said her name. Her full, legal name.

Steven and Layla simultaneously turned to look at her.

“You’re missing now?” Steven whispered, to which she shook her head.

“I spoke to the police on the way over here. Donna gave them my number when they saw you carrying me out of the museum,” She said back in a hushed tone, “I told them I was safe, that I fainted and you took me home.”

Layla’s eyes flicked between the two of them, her mind clicking as the voice on the other side of the door continued more forcefully, “They’re not real police officers,” She hummed quietly.

Steven and Dove looked at eachother. A look of panic passed between them as they shared the same thought; Shit.

“Marc said Harrow had connections all over,” She whispered back, watching as Steven reached for the multitude of locks slowly, if not to stop the fake officer from battering his door then to seem as though he were co operating.

“What are they looking for?” Layla asked, a moment of clarity snapping in Steven’s eyes as he reached into the gym bag he’d dragged from Marc’s storage locker. His hand emerged with the scarab, the same jewel he could have sworn had been plucked from his dream. Layla’s eyes widened, then narrowed at the man in question. “The scarab? What we fought side by side for? So this whole act was so you could run away with your mistress and keep it for yourself?”

“I am not-” The younger of the two started in a tone loud enough to have the officers stop their barrage on the door. Fearing they’d heard her, she huffed and started again, snatching the scarab out of Steven’s hands and turning to Layla, “I am not sleeping with your husband,” She breathed, “But the three of us are in serious trouble if they catch us with this, that’s what Marc said-”

“Yeah, I know,” Layla snapped, glaring at the woman who stared back with a now annoyed expression, “You might be new around here, but I know all about my own husband and his messes, thankyou,”

With the final growl, Layla wrapped a surprisingly strong hand around the girl’s forearm, dragging her to the open window.

“Woah! Woah- I know some things were said but throwing me out a window is a bit heavy, don’t you think?” She exclaimed, her feet sluggishly tripping over themselves as she followed the woman obediently.

Layla sucked her teeth, flashing her a death stare, “I’m not going to kill you, though I’ll wring your neck if you keep talking,” She snipped, pointing onto the ledge the roof offered as a place for them to hide, “Get out, they suspect something already, we’ll see where they take him and go from there,”

Flicking Steven, one last glance, he nodded for her to listen as he called to the ‘Detectives’ that he was complying with their orders.

Be careful, she wanted to say, please just be careful. Please don’t leave me alone.

I love you.

I spent all night worrying about you. Dreaming about you. I want you more than I wanted life again. I want you to know Seth can never have my soul no matter if I am his avatar because it’s not mine anymore, it's entirely yours. My heart that rots and withers beats for you. Not even to sustain this carcass I’m in, just for you.

Please don’t leave me.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t say a word less she’d risk their safety. Risk the scarab.

So she simply nodded back, and climbed out onto the slanted tiles.

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mknightgrant · 2 years

Text

Silence

Pairing(s): Steven Grant x Reader, implied Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Layla El-Faouly

Word count: 5.1K. Buckle up, folks.

Warning(s): Insecurities and heavy angst. I cried while thinking of the concept, and I’m hoping this does my idea justice. Set after the finale, so there are spoilers!

A/N: Hello! This is my first time writing a fic and posting it, so please be gentle! This piece is purely based on research and the events of the series. I am not a system, nor do I know anyone who is a system. If any part of this piece offends anyone, please let me know. No offense is intended.

This is also not completely beta-read, so the mistakes are on me.

Summary: You should’ve stopped asking questions.

Taglist: @s-v-e-l-t-e, @caroldanvours

Everyone had warned you about the rose-tinted glasses. Your friends, your family, hell, and even your old college professors used to tell stories about how love could be either the best or worst thing that you could ever experience. It was a risk to put your heart entirely into the hands of a stranger, giving them the liberty to do whatever they wanted to it. Love it, cradle it, protect it, sure—but also poke it, stab it, and break it to the point of no return.

But with Steven Grant? It was a risk you were definitely willing to take.

You had been friends with him for five months and had been dating for at least eight before he disappeared without a trace. You were confused, to say the least. In the year or so that you have known him, you never would have expected him to disappear and cut all ties with you. But still, you waited. You waited with the hope that maybe he’d come back home to you.

However, when Steven did return, he was conflicted. He honestly believed that you wouldn’t wait for him, especially since there was no effort on his part to try and contact you after his sudden disappearance. Nonetheless, he felt that he at least owed you an explanation, and his heart squeezed in his chest when you didn’t leave when he told you about everything.

He explained it from the start, his sleeping disorder, how he tried staying up because he had hyper-realistic dreams that scared the hell out of him. You already knew of this early on in the relationship, but then he continued the story, telling you about Marc, about Khonshu, and everything that had happened to him from the day he got fired from the museum to the day he came back home to you. You've noticed that he seemed happier now, probably because he understood why he had been losing days of his life, and he’s come to accept and love his alter despite everything.

But there was also another reason, wasn’t there?

Maybe it was your fault. You shouldn’t have asked too many questions. You should’ve just taken what he told you, accepted the anecdotes, and moved forward. You should’ve just been happy that he was here and safe. But you just had to ask, right?

“Who’s Layla?” Your innocent question stopped him dead in the middle of his sentence as the grin he donned slowly faded into a tight-lipped smile. One he had hoped would be a little more reassuring than nervous, and maybe, if he hadn’t taken so long to reply, you wouldn’t have been suspicious.

“A friend of Marc’s.” His reply was short and simple. “I… She was the one who came over that day, remember? When you dropped off that book you borrowed from me? Before I… Before I disappeared?”

Oh. Of course, you remember Layla–well, her physical attributes, at least. To say that she was gorgeous was an understatement. She was breathtaking, ethereal, and a goddess at the least. However, you hadn’t heard whatever they were talking about when you knocked on the apartment door that day because they stopped talking before Steven opened the door, enough for him to peek out at you.

Steven’s heart raced as he studied your reaction to his reply, trying to gauge whether or not you heard his and Layla’s conversation. Surely you hadn’t, right? You had no idea about the scarab before he told you about it when he had returned. So that would mean that you probably hadn’t heard the conversation, and you hadn’t seen the way he looked at her the way he once looked at you. You wouldn’t have waited this long for him if you had, right?

He hadn’t meant to fall for her, but he couldn’t help himself, could he? The second his arms instinctively wrapped around her waist when she drove a little faster towards his apartment, and he was hit with “I’m still your wife,” things changed. His mouth moved on its own accord that day as Layla handed him the divorce papers he–technically, Marc–had sent.

“I would never divorce you.”

Then everything came crashing down after that. Marc had warned him against showing Layla the scarab, but she got around to it anyway, so it was too late. Steven had begged for her help, trying to explain the whole situation, and the entire thing merely confused Layla even more.

“You really don't remember why we've been looking for this? Our adventures. Or our life together?”

“Oh, God, I wish I could.”

You had come knocking on the door only a few minutes later, a smile on your face as you held up his newer copy of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore’s book of poetry. “Steven! Hi! I finally got around to reading this, but I have to say that I don’t exactly ge-”

Your words were abruptly cut off when Steven dragged you into the apartment, shutting the door behind you. None of you were quite sure why he had done that, but now that he’s thinking about it, maybe Marc had been the reason for it all.

You hadn’t had enough time to properly introduce yourself to Layla, and likewise, because the moment your eyes lay upon her, you froze. Who was she?

The following events flew by too quickly for you to properly grasp at the time. The police knocking on the door, Steven gently urging you to hide, the police making accusations against him, then just silence.

By the time you believed that the coast was clear, they were gone. The police were gone. The woman was gone. Steven was gone. You had tried going around the area, searching through the different police stations for him, and you had even gone back to the museum to ask if they had changed their mind and were pressing charges. Sadly, nothing. He wasn’t at any of the police stations, nor did the museum change their minds. So you did the only thing you could do at the time. You waited.

You texted him, called him, and left voicemails for him. Hell, you even resorted to emailing him a couple of times, just to see if your messages would reach him. All your efforts were unanswered, and you truly had no idea of his whereabouts until he came back home to you.

Sure, you’d seen the news about the happenings in Cairo, but never in a million years would you have thought that your boyfriend was the one donning the white suit.

“Oh!” A smile graced your lips, having merely associated the name with the pretty girl who once stood in the apartment. “I remember her! She helped you guys out? That’s amazing!”

You were completely unaware that Steven left out an important detail: that Layla was his alter’s wife. In the short period that he had been gone and away from you, he had kissed her and had fallen in love with her too.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Days passed, and you had been invited to the apartment numerous times throughout the week, but you weren’t complaining. You missed Steven, quite frankly, you also wanted to know more about Marc. You had encountered him a couple times when he had been fronting, but your interactions never lasted too long. Steven was usually requested for control whenever you were around, but you were aware of his alter since Steven had explained that they recently learned how to become co-conscious. That didn’t mean that they knew every waking life of the other, but at least the blackouts and memory gaps have lessened considerably.

On random occasions, Steven would continue to tell you stories about what had taken place in Cairo. Some stories were repeats of what he had told you in previous days, while others were memories he had just remembered and wanted to tell you. Sometimes, he’d tell you his thoughts about the event or other questions he had, only to piece the answer together halfway through asking you.

It was the simple moments like these that made you happy, really. To have Steven beside you on the bed, rambling about anything that came to his mind. You didn’t mind when he would tell you a story he had already told you, and you definitely didn’t mind when he would go into the technicalities of the event.

Though, there was one thing you noticed to have become a recurring topic: Layla. He would bring her up unconsciously, really, or at least, that’s what you would want to believe. But as the days passed, her name frequented his lips more often, and it felt different. It was almost as if he asked you about her daily, bringing her up as if she was the only waking thought he had. If it weren’t for the accent, you would have honestly thought Marc was fronting. She was his friend first, right?

“Do you think she’s okay? I-I mean, Marc and I were Khonshu‘s avatar, and he was just downright manipulative.” He turned his head to glance at you, “Taweret… Taweret, on the other hand… we met in that afterlife I told you about, yeah? She seemed nice. Helped us escape the Duat and all that, but… I just can't help but wonder, you know? Do you think Taweret is treating her right?” His question remained unanswered as he turned his gaze back up to the ceiling of his apartment, his fingers intertwined and resting on the soft flesh of his stomach.

You were lying on your side as you looked at him, heart clenching in your chest as you studied the way his eyes shone under the moonlight. It took you a couple of seconds before you were able to bring yourself to nod slowly, swallowing the lump that you hadn’t noticed formed in your throat.

“I’m sure she’s doing alright, Steven. She does sound pretty badass, yeah? She’s saved you and Marc quite a lot, hasn’t she?” Your voice was small as you replied to him, a wave of insecurity wafting over you as things began clicking together in your brain.

“Yeah? Yeah. She did save us when she freed Khonshu! I swear, though, you should’ve seen her in her armor, love! She looked amazing. I don’t even think I was able to greet her properly, really. Could you believe that? Marc and I were conversing about it the other day, right? And…”

You toned out his words as you continued to observe the way his mouth moved, how his lips flicked up to a gentle smile as he talked about her, and how he continued to ramble on and on about her. Utterly oblivious to your thoughts, more so to your feelings. You’ve seen this kind of look before.

To be fair, you had been thinking about it for a while. You tried convincing yourself that she had just become a close friend that he began to care about. That he was just concerned about her well-being since she had agreed to become an avatar of an Egyptian goddess, and he nor Marc didn’t exactly have the best time as Khonshu’s avatar. However, the more you studied his words and actions, things became clearer and clearer. It wasn’t until a gentle call of your name snapped you out of your thoughts, causing your eyes to lock with Steven’s worried ones.

“You… Are you in love, Steven?” You dared to ask, causing silence to fill the room once again. A silence that lasted a couple moments as Steven furrowed his brows, and his hesitation in giving you an answer was already an answer itself.

The more he talked about her, the more you were able to analyze his reactions and facial expressions and damn yourself for having seen that look in the past. Damn yourself for recognizing it.

You’ve seen it in the way your father looked at your mother. You saw it in the way your best friend’s spouse looked at them on their wedding day. You recognized it because it was the same look he used to have when he would talk about you.

“What?” He asked, confusion filling his expressions as he shifted on the bed to bring all of his attention to you. “Of course, I’m in love, sweetheart. I’m in love with you.”

Normally, his expression of love would have you all shy and red in the cheeks, but that wasn’t the case this time. “It’s just…” you frowned, bringing your attention to the ceiling. Roles had been reversed at this point, with you on your back and Steven on his side, facing you. “I’ve seen this look of yours before, you know? It’s the look of a man who’s fallen in love…” your voice trailed off at the end, pursing your lips as you tried to get your emotions in check. The can of worms has been opened, right? There isn’t much of a way back from it now. “It’s the look you used to have for me.”

Steven frowned as well. “Used to have? Darling, I don’t know what you’re going on about?”

You chose to ignore his comment, another question leaving your lips before you could even process the thought.

“Who is she to you, Steven? Who is Layla to you?” There was a slight shake in your tone, “You.. You said she’s a friend of Marc, yeah? But who is she to you?”

His eyes softened at the question, pursing his lips in response. If he were to be honest with you, he didn’t know who she was to him at this point. Was he attracted to her? Had he actually fallen in love with her in that quick of a timeframe?

Steven had always prided himself in the fact that he didn’t fall in love too quickly. Sure, he had casual crushes from the museum and friend crushes around the town, but this was different–Layla was different.

His brain often short-circuited when he was around her, and he just couldn’t help but admire everything about her. Maybe it was their shared interest in hieroglyphics and astronomy, or maybe it was something about her beauty in general, or maybe something about her intelligence and the way she was always there. She understood him, and she fought for him too. However, there was one thing he was sure of–she was Marc’s wife, not just a friend like he made it out to be.

But deep down inside him, he knew that he had fallen for her. He technically did confirm it back in one of those tents in Cairo, didn’t he? When Marc interrogated him about being in love with his wife? He hadn’t verbally answered the question, but his actions were enough for Marc to know that he had. The kiss he shared with Layla was also enough for him to know that he had.

Steven’s lack of response broke your heart, to say the least. The lack of a verbal response already served as the answer you hoped you wouldn’t have to receive from him.

The silence between you two didn’t last as long as you thought it would, having a sigh leave his lips as he brought his arm over his eyes.

“I-I don’t know.”

His words brought your attention to him once more, seeing his body tense up as he gulped. You should have played it off and moved on by this point, right? But you couldn’t. Not when his body language told you more than enough. You sensed the truth in his statement; you’d give him that. But at the same time, you also felt the conflict that was arising within him, and you knew that was because of you.

It definitely did not help your thoughts when he sniffled. Perhaps you were missing the bigger picture? Fuck. Maybe you overreacted? Had you offended him?

“Shit. Wait, lovie–I’m sorry. We can drop it, yeah?” You offered, sitting up abruptly and moving closer to him so you could lift his arm from his face, your heart breaking at the sight of tears rimming at the corners of his eyes. “I just… You were gone for so long and since you came back, you’d always just bring her up and I was just curious.”

Steven sat up as well, and your hand moved to cup his cheek, causing him to lean in against your touch. “That’s all. But I believe you, okay, lovie? I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry..”

The thing is, you and Steven barely got into misunderstandings, and on the rare occasion that you did, whoever was in the wrong would apologize with a kiss. So that’s exactly what you intended to do. You moved closer and leaned in to press your lips to his, only for him to pull his head back slightly in hesitation–another event you weren’t prepared for.

Swallowing back a sob, his eyes bore into your saddened ones. Guilt overcame his features almost immediately at the sight. You at least deserved the truth, right?

“I… She isn’t… She isn’t just Marc’s friend.” He whispered, bringing his hand to cup your own when he felt your touch falter slightly.

You felt as if you already knew where this conversation was headed, based solely on how he was basically tiptoeing around you, but you desperately wished you were wrong. “I… Is there something else you’d like me to know, Steven?”

“Layla… She’s Marc’s wife, darling.”

Nothing could have prepared you for that. You would have at least thought that she was Marc’s girlfriend or something along those lines, but you never would have thought that the alter of the man you were dating was married.

“She’s…” your voice trailed off as your hand slowly dropped from his cheek, causing him to move quickly to take your hands back in his. “He… You knew about this? When did she tell you? Or when did Marc tell you?”

“She told me the day that we met… Marc wanted to get a divorce because Khonshu wanted to have her as his next avatar, but Marc never signed the papers.” He quickly explained, tilting his head slightly so he could meet your eyes when you shifted your attention to your hands in his. “She tried giving me the papers that day but I couldn’t sign them–”

That sentence alone made your eyes shoot up, locking with his. “You couldn’t sign them?” you breathed, eyebrows furrowed as you tried to grasp the information that was being handed to you. Shaking your head as your heart pounded against your chest, you continued, “You… You knew that she was Marc’s wife from the first day, yet you lied to me?”

He looked down at your hands, which he still held in his, as a response, his thumb moving in circles in an attempt to soothe you, as if it would do much.

You honestly did not have the energy to be mad at him. Technically speaking, he hadn’t done anything wrong either. Your relationship did not have a title, and while you were definitely past the ‘I love you’ stage, he wasn’t your boyfriend. Based on your knowledge, you don’t have high hopes that he will ever be either.

“You should have just told me. Hell, even just… not saying anything as a response would have sufficed as an answer.” Was all you could bring yourself to say after a couple moments of not saying anything to one another. Your words were leaving your mouth slowly as if articulating every single word you were about to say. “Lying… Lying isn’t better than silence, Steven. I-I would have understood… I mean, it was coming, wasn’t it?”

His head shot up at that, and his gaze met with yours once more. “Wha-”

It was your turn to cut him off. “Do you love her, Steven?” You asked once more, a small smile gracing your lips. If he hadn’t known you as well as he did, he would’ve been convinced that you were okay, but he knew better than that.

You were convinced that you would be met with another round of silence, but you were mistaken.

“I-I think I do…?” He mumbled softly, gritting his teeth as he shook his head. You weren’t quite sure what his head shake was in response to, but you couldn’t exactly bring yourself to even process the action. “I don’t know, I can’t–You’re my first love, darling, I swear–”

His words turned into incoherent mumbles as he desperately tried to find the words to explain himself. To explain his feelings in a way that would hurt you in the least brutal way possible, but no matter how he chooses to explain it, his words are bound to hurt.

“I may be your first, but that’s all I’ll ever be, yeah?” Your voice was almost as soft as a whisper as you gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “And it doesn’t matter though, does it, Steven? It doesn’t matter if I'm your first, I-I’ll never be your last. I’ll never be your only.” Maybe you were rambling at this point, but everything was crashing down around you. The man you had been waiting on, the relationship you were clinging on to, and everything you have come to love was slipping through your fingers so quickly. To make things worse, your acceptance of it all merely serves as the catalyst to the inevitable end.

“I’m never going to make you choose, lovie… You know that, right?” A tear found its way down your cheek as you brought his hand to your lips to give it a gentle, lingering kiss. “It’s okay, Steven.”

He felt unworthy of you, to say the least. You deserved so much more than a man who leaves without a trace and whose loyalty did not fully reside with you. The memory of the kiss he shared with Layla plagues his mind, and the confession burns in his throat as he wonders if it's even worth it to tell you–to break your heart more than he already has.

“I’ve always considered myself lucky to have you, you know? It just… our whole relationship felt so good. Too good, actually.” You smiled sadly, tears brimming the corners of your eyes as you forced yourself to look at the man you love. The one you allowed yourself to fall for so recklessly with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he would love you back, even if just half as much as you did him. “She made–no, she makes you happy, doesn’t she? She kept you safe and fought for you. She saved you, and I just…”

Steven’s eyes shut tightly at your words, shaking his head rapidly as he desperately tried to think of the words to say to you. “It wasn’t on you, darling… Please don’t blame yourself for this.”

His response was typical, but you couldn’t blame him. “I don’t blame anyone for this, Steven, okay?” Your tone was free from any malice or bitterness, but the sadness that laced your words was still quite evident. “I could never hate anyone who makes you feel safe and happy, you know that. The only thing I ever wanted was for you to be happy, Steven, and if she makes you happier than I ever could, then….”

“No.” The fact that you couldn’t even bring yourself to finish that sentence broke him. His head continued to shake as if to convince himself that this isn’t happening to him, that you weren’t actually considering leaving him. He is well aware that you deserve better, but could anyone blame him for being selfish? After everything he’s been through? And after everyone he’s lost? “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek once more, your thumb gently grazing his skin as your eyes drink up the sight of him. Memorizing him. Every single bump and wrinkle. Every single self-acclaimed imperfection, in Steven's opinion. Every single thing that made him Steven and made you love him even more. “I love you, Steven Grant. I love every single bit of you, and I hope you never forget that.”

Your insecurities were getting the best of you. How could they not? The woman he had fallen for was here in the room with you that fateful day and had followed him somehow. Helped him. Protected him. She had everything you didn’t–bravery, strength, the brain, the beauty. And to top it all off? She had him, whether she was aware of that fact or not, she had won Steven’s heart, probably the same way she had won Marc’s. How could you ever compete with that?

You laid a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose, and his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation. He was too engrossed in his thoughts to realize that you stood up, collecting the things that you had brought over for the day. He’s brought back to his senses when he hears you sniffle, and he genuinely wishes he could just take you back in his arms and make you forget that he hurt you. But he doesn’t deserve that, does he?

Instead, he chooses to repeat his question as he gets off the bed and walks over to you. “Why do you sound like you’re saying goodbye?” He asks once more, dejection and defeat clouding his senses. His hands move to wrap around your waist, pulling you close to him in a tight hug, not wanting to let you go. He knows he doesn’t deserve you, but at the same time, he still doesn’t want to lose you.

You hadn’t made him choose between you and Layla because you made that choice for him, and you were letting him go. But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to lose you, and at the same time, he didn’t want to lose Layla.

Your arms wrapped around him, holding him like a lifeline-your lifeline. A slow nod from you caused his grip on your figure to tighten as he felt your movement, a new wave of tears accompanying the gesture. “Could you do something for me, Steven?”

There were so many questions taking over your thoughts at the moment:

Why couldn’t you be good enough? How were you going to move on? Why were you stupid enough to think that this would last forever? When did he fall out of love with you?

Instead, you chose something else. A question that hurt him more than it hurt you. “Tell me more about her. Just so I know that I’m leaving you with someone who could love you as much as I could.”

His grip tightened even more at your request. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you more about her, even if he had talked about her too many times in the past couple of days. He couldn’t do it because he knew that this was your way of seeing how you could have been better for him, where you lacked in your relationship. But the thing is, you never lacked in any aspect–you were perfect, and he doesn’t deserve you.

A shake of his head was the only response he could give you, causing you to sigh as you gently pulled away from his grasp. It didn’t work though, since his arms were still firmly planted around your waist, but you were pulled apart enough for you to see his face.

Cupping his cheek once more, you leaned your forehead against his. “Kiss me? Just… Just one last time, Steven. Please.”

And he did. He pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that would be engraved in your memory forever. A kiss that captured feelings of love, regret, selfishness, and sorrow. A kiss that would be the last of the memories you would share with him in thirteen months you had known each other. A kiss that would ultimately be your last with the man you have grown to love despite the hardships and heartbreak that came with being with him. You never would’ve thought that you and Steven would have your last kiss like this.

“How lucky am I to have someone that makes saying goodbye so hard?” You forced out a laugh, tears streaming down your cheeks as you rested your forehead against his once more. A sad smile graced your lips as your thumb gently wipes away the tears that have made it down his own cheeks. “I love you, and I'm just really grateful that I had you. Even if just for that couple of months that I did.”

Steven’s eyes drank you up the same way you had earlier, memorizing your features and everything about you. He just hates how the last memory he would have of you would be like this–with your heart broken because of him.

“Is it selfish if I ask you to stay?” He asked, his voice softer than it usually was when he was with you. And for fucks sake, you almost do, but you can’t.

“Oh, God, I wish I could.”

The line jogs his memory, causing his eyes to clench shut. His tears were freely streaming down his face at this point, and he knew he looked like a mess, but he didn’t care.

“You were good to me, Steven Grant. Thank you.” You couldn’t find the words to say as you pressed your lips against his nose once more. “Thank you, lovie. For letting me love you the way I did.”

“Please don’t say goodbye.” A broken sob wrecks his lips as tries to convince you to stay, but he knew there was nothing he could do to make that happen. “I-I can’t lose you. Please. You promised.” It was selfish for him to pull this card on you, but believe it or not, he does love you. “You promised…”

Nonetheless, you nod slowly. If he doesn’t want to hear the goodbye, he doesn’t have to. But it doesn’t mean that this wasn’t the last time you would see him. He knows this.

“I’ll see you later then, yeah? When we meet again?”

He was shaking uncontrollably now, but he had to let you go the same way you were letting him go. Had roles been reversed, he would’ve done the same for you.

All he could muster was a nod as he forced himself to release you from his hold. He honestly hated how things went south so quickly, but he was to blame for that, wasn’t he?

He has to let you go.

“Laters, gators.”

A gentle kiss on the back of his hand, and a squeeze of reassurance were the last things he remembered before the door of his apartment shut behind you.

Steven was left in the same way you were when he had disappeared that night.

In silence.

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sarahghetti · 7 months

Text

all the echoes in my mind; m.s.

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

summary: marc falls victim to his own self-doubt. you get caught in the crossfire.

warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, implied self-harm, a bit of a character study.

word count: 1.3k

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

It all had to come to a head, eventually.

The bitter, vitriolic part of Marc always knew that it would happen. That one day, you would see him for who he is—a leech on your life, a waste of space. Someone that would only bring you pain, no matter how much kindness Steven or Jake might show you.

He can sense it as soon he climbs in through their apartment window, retracting the hood and mask of the suit to scan the room. You’re waiting for him on the couch—you always are, no matter how many times he insists you sleep when he goes on patrol—but you don’t make a move towards the first aid kit laying on the coffee table like usual. There’s a distant look in your eyes.

“Baby?” Worry spikes in his chest as he makes his way towards you.

Your breath catches at his voice, and finally, you look up at him. There’s a hesitance there that makes him uneasy. He reaches out towards you, but you both falter when you see the blood staining the white bandages.

It’s a lapse of judgement that causes him to retract the rest of the suit, forgetting about the bruised and bloody state of his body underneath. It all aches so much worse without Khonshu’s powers. He nearly collapses onto the couch but you’re there in a second, supporting him with an arm under his shoulders.

“Marc…”

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Alarm rings clear in your gaze as it roams over him, taking inventory of all the ways he’ll need you to patch him up before either of you can go to sleep tonight.

Distantly, he recalls that you wanted to wake up early tomorrow—a presentation at work. When you’d showed him your slides earlier with such light in your eyes, he couldn’t help but share that excitement too, even if he didn’t understand any of it.

He should just keep the suit on and send you to bed. But you won’t tolerate that—not today, not ever. You said that you couldn’t sleep without knowing that he was okay. On his good days, the sentiment warms him from the inside out.

But tonight?

It takes everything in him to not squirm under your touch. To not find the nearest shadow and hide there until all his injuries have scarred over, and his mind settles into something less agitated.

His muscles flex with uneasiness, and you’re too perceptive for your own good. Your brows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It comes out sharper than he expected.

And that confirms it for both of you: tonight is not a good night. Tonight is actually a very bad fucking night and it flares in Marc’s chest, in his words, in the annoyance that is sending him off the deep end.

“Would you like me to take over?” Steven, ever-patient, ever-kind, only grates on Marc’s nerves. He swears through gritted teeth. You tense from beside him.

When this happens, you know to give Marc some space to himself to decompress. He’s never told you what exactly sets him off because it’s never just one thing. It’s doing sloppy work on their patrols, not getting there in time before someone gets hurt, allowing himself to get beat up just to hear the blood rushing in his ears.

It’s crawling back to you in pieces, knowing that it breaks your heart to see him this way, and still letting you put him back together.

The self-disgust wretches him away from your touch and you startle, automatically reaching out again only for him to flinch back.

“It’s okay,” you try, but he scoffs. “Please, just sit down?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Marc.” You aren’t letting up, tone soft as you speak to him, but he can hear the exhaustion underneath. It’s not just from tonight, he knows—he asks too much of you. Of course, you’re tired of him. Isn’t this how he ruined things last time, too?

“Don’t.” He turns away, limping towards the kitchen with no real goal in mind. After a pause, your footsteps quietly follow him.

You should know better than to keep trying. Maybe you would, if he hadn’t worn you down so much.

“Take a break, hombre.”

God, shut the fuck up, Jake.

“All I want is to help—”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? All he does is take and take and take, until you’re nothing but bones in his dust. You’d do anything for him, and he wishes you were less kind for your own sake.

A bitter laugh erupts from his throat and before he can stop it, his voice is scathing. “If Layla were here—”

“DON’T.”

The word thunders in his head, so forceful that he can’t tell if it was Steven or Jake. They buzz in the background, begging, demanding for control, but his wounds burn. They burn and his mind is paralyzed with anger (“It’s fear, you’re just afraid—“) and his fists ache for release and this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Fighting. Fleeing. Why do you bother with him? You can’t reason with a bull.

When Marc finally focuses back on you, his blood turns to ice. He's spoken about Layla before, telling you about their relationship, why they fell apart. Once, and only once, did you admit to being insecure in comparison to her.

You called yourself a downgrade. Marc fucked the word out of your vocabulary.

But now your expression is the same as it was that night, and it’d yank him into action if the rational part of his brain were still functional. You're frozen in place, tears welling in your eyes that you try to hide by turning away from him. It’s too late, though. The image of your face, contorted with hurt, is carved into his memory, right beside what he had told you in assurance: I don’t want you to be like her. I love you for you.

Marc needs to say something, anything. He needs to take it back. He needs to turn back time, and cut off his tongue.

But nothing comes out. Even as you glance back at him, a glimmer of hope in your gaze that he might be a better man than he is, he has nothing to give you.

All he does is watch as that hope is snuffed out by his silence, and your shoulders fall, defeated.

“I—” You’re speaking through lead, and every sound seems painful. You can’t even look at him as you shake your head, trying to get a handle on yourself. “I—I need to go.”

You should. He can’t be the partner you need right now, and staying might only make things worse. If he hurts you, more than he already has—he clenches his jaw. The thought makes his hands shake.

You shouldn’t. It’s the middle of the night, and even if he just came back from patrol, Marc knows exactly what kind of vermin might still be wandering the streets. You won’t want him to watch over you; he’d just have to pray that nothing bad happens.

It’s ultimately not up to him. You move quietly around him in order to grab a sweater (one of yours, he’d realize later, there’s probably no comfort in one of his own anymore—) before slipping on your shoes. If Steven or Jake are trying to talk to him, none of it gets through. His whole body is numb.

The sound of the door unlocking is like a gunshot. It jolts Marc just enough to know that this is his last chance to stop you, but he doesn’t.

His gaze stays steady on the floor, and you leave without another word.

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

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ivystoryweaver · 2 months

Text

March the 9th

Marc Spector x gn!reader 1.4k words, angst, sex is implied, no smut, tw abuse, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Your skin tingles as you struggle you steady your breathing. Pacing the floor for an hour does nothing to calm that fuzzy feeling in the center of you.

He’ll be here soon.

You’ve memorized the pattern on the ceiling over your bed, because you stared at it the entire night, never once slipping into blissful slumber.

Your phone never rings. No emails, no letters, no messages.

But he always shows.

Bouncing on your toes, you smooth your hands down the lines of your body, checking your reflection, which lets you know you look the same as you did five minutes ago.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The first year...

Your family moved onto the Spectors’ street when you were nine years old. You quickly befriended the Spector boys, often playing with them after school and on weekends.

Then, one day, Randall was gone. You were supposed to play with them that day, but you had the flu.

Marc was never the same and you didn’t see much of him, except at school. The Spectors didn’t throw him a birthday party and he didn’t show up at yours either.

So you created a handmade birthday card for him, making a point to cross his path at school. He was absent.

The next year approached, and you realized the Spectors once again would not be throwing a party, so you gave Marc his birthday card on March 8th. He jerked it out of your hand, eyes downcast, muttering, “thanks,” before shuffling away.

You called his name, scampering after him, but he never looked back. The two of you were in middle school now and Marc didn’t seem to have many friends at all. Hopefully he would read the card, which invited him over to hang out.

He did.

On the night of March 9th, he crawled through your bedroom window for the first time. Tears streaked down his cheeks as his body trembled.

“Can I sleep on your floor?” He brokenly whispered.

You had a queen sized bed, so, of course you didn’t let your clearly devastated friend sleep on the hard floor.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured drowsily, once he slid beneath the covers. “Please, they’ll kill me.”

You didn’t understand and he wouldn’t explain. You were only twelve years old. You squeezed his hand and let him rest.

He talked to you after that, only sometimes.

The next March 9th, you gave him another card, with another invitation to come over. He did. Your fingers tangled with his.

Again at fourteen, when, after swiping the tears from his eyes, he kissed you. He kissed you for a long time and you thought you’d never felt anything so magical.

At fifteen, he kissed and touched you all night long. Your heart was his now.

Still, he kept to himself for most of the other 364 days a year.

At sixteen, he climbed into your bed and the two of you lost your virginity. Neither of you had a clue what you were doing - clumsy and wild and sweet. But he kissed you and held you and he tried. You loved him and you had never felt so close to anyone in your life.

He flinched away from your touch several times, so you thought you must be doing something wrong.

It wasn’t until seventeen that you saw his well-hidden bruises and red welts by your bedside lamplight.

“Who did this to you?” Tears streamed down your face as your fingertips traced lovingly around anger and drunkenness unleashed on his beautiful body.

His eyes met yours and you knew. He came to your bed a lot more after that.

Then came eighteen. Three months before graduation. You asked him all the time where he wanted to go to college - where the two of you could go together, but nothing ever came of it. He only answered, “I have to get out.”

March the 9th of year eighteen was the last you saw of Marc Spector for a long time. He didn’t make it to graduation.

He sent you a letter in year nineteen.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all it said.

Year twenty passed. 21, 22, 23…

You graduated college and met someone. But every March the 9th, your fingers would trace his picture, so your "someone" didn't last.

More than a few March 9ths ago, you somehow wished him right back to you. He knocked on your door, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot, swallowing hard and expecting rejection.

You threw your arms around him. “Happy birthday,” you whispered against his cheek before his mouth found yours.

He took you to bed and you knew then that your heart would only ever be his.

It wasn’t enough though. He granted you a half-hearted explanation about danger and old debts and how he was so messed up - he could never bring it all into your life.

You had enough dignity to refrain from begging him.

The next March the 9th was the same. And the next, and the next.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

This year, you’re resolute. It will be the last. It has to be. You can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t love you - not the way you love him. You’ll wish him happy birthday, take him to your bed, but - never again. It hurts too much.

A sharp knock jolts you out of your reverie, sending all the air rushing out of you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you steady yourself, giving yourself one final moment to prepare for your last night with Marc.

You reach for the door and find him holding flowers. Irises.

“You like these…right?” Dark eyebrows shift hopefully.

You breathe his name, your heart flaming with adoration. You take the bouquet and wrap your arms around his neck like always, whispering, “Happy birthday,” against his cheek as his lips seek out your own. He tastes you slowly…sweetly, his breath mingling with yours.

You lose your grasp on the irises, forgetting to care as they spill to the floor. Strong arms wind around you as his hands spread across your back, pressing you against the solid warmth of his chest. The kiss goes on and on until you’re dizzy and breathless and hot tears wet your eyes at the thought of never tasting him again.

You fight them back as the two of you finally make it through the front door and he kicks it closed. He takes you to bed and you drown in the essence that is Marc - unearthed secrets, soul-crushing burdens, beautiful desperation and a kind of hungry tenderness. You bury your nose in the crook of his neck, comforted and tormented as you inhale the spicy, sun-kissed scent of him, your lips tasting, committing him to memory.

Saltiness seeps into your mouth and you’re not sure if it’s the slight sheen on his skin as he works his way into you, or the tears slipping down your cheeks.

Your fingers twist through his dark curls as you pull your body flush against his - the heat of your tongue - the twist of your body - the scrape of your fingernails desperately attempting to communicate your need for this man.

He’s been your birthday wish most of your life.

He holds you against him until the calendar turns to the 10th. The sun rises and you realize he’s never stayed this long.

Which will make the speech you’ve planned so much harder. You shuffle to the bathroom while he sleeps, steeling yourself for the heartbreak. As you stare into the mirror, tears burn your eyes and you wonder if you can go through with it. The thought of never seeing him again is crushing, but you can’t go on like this.

Finally, you straighten out your appearance and freshen up, fighting like hell to keep your composure.

Marc is awake, sitting on the edge of your bed in only his boxers. You expect him to be dressed and ready to walk out the door, but as his warm, coffee colored eyes find yours…

He gently smiles.

“Marc?” You whisper, slowly approaching him.

“Come here,” he softly instructs, reaching for you. You sink down beside him, your foreheads touching sweetly as he grips your arms.

“Could…do you think I could stay?”

Tears trickle down. Again. “I don’t know,” you whimper. “I-I can’t-"

“I know.,” he nods, pressing an urgent kiss to your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

He’s off the bed and reaching for his clothes before you can blink, but you don’t let him get far. “Stay,” you urgently plead. “Stay with me.”

He freezes, eyes wide and hopeful. “F-for tonight, or…”

“Stay,” you repeat, pressing your palms to the heat of his bare chest. “Stay or go. Just decide.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Next March the 9th…

“Happy birthday, baby,” you murmur against his lips as he rolls you underneath him.

“Happy anniversary,” he returns, sealing his mouth to yours.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc Spector-Centric stories

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#happy birthday marc spector #angst filled baby boy #we love you #marc spector #moon knight #mcu #oscar isaac characters

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writefightandflightclub · 10 months

Text

Blorbo thought of the day #5

Repetition: (Marc Spector x reader)

A/n: a little fluffy blurb 🥰 Starts with angst but Marc provides comfort and it’s lovely because he is lovely.

Warnings: (Reader has some abandonment / self-esteem issues, canon typical allusions to Marc’s past, implied off-camera sexy times, food mentions) Not proofed!

GIF by @anhandfulgirl18

“You a’right?” Marc asks you in his gruff morning voice as your sigh billows dolefully against the bare expanse of his chest. The room is golden hued with sunlight, bright and easy, and your mood as you wake certainly does not match it.

“Bad dream,” you explain curtly, deepening the niggle in your brow. “Just thinking.”

Marc crushes his chin to his chest in an attempt to get a better look at you. Smooths a warm, broad hand down your bare back, the gnarled patterned sheets pushed down around your middles. “What dream? What are you thinking?”

You stiffen, snapping out of your gloomy mood a little as you realise that you’ve been awake for a mere 30 seconds, and yet you have already managed to make his voice sound like that. Despondent. Taut with concern.

Your head still resting on his chest, his heartbeat thudding steadily beneath the shell of your ear, you let your fingers dance lightly over his pec, trailing in slow, repeating circles, round and round. “It’s just….” The words feel too big to come out, like there’s a traffic jam in your throat when you try to say it out loud.

It’s stupid. You know it is.

“What?” Marc encourages, whisper soft, his voice and his hands as gentle as the slip of fresh golden sun into the room.

You push yourself up. Lie on your front next to him, propping your chin on your fisting hands. Despite the tension roping through you, looking at Marc instantly makes you smile, even if the gesture itself is a subdued, somber sort of thing.

You reach up and ruffle his thick, dark strands with the rake of your fingers, fondly combing the tendrils back from his forehead, and he hums for you, low and soft.

God. This man. He always looks especially beautiful on a morning. The mussed, chaotic curls. The shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. The way he fans his long lashes, attempting to blink away the bright morning, always a complete snuggle fiend and wanting to lay in the dark with you just a little longer. The glisten of his Magen David pooled in the hollow of his throat, bobbing there as he swallows. His skin bare and warm and his natural scent not yet polluted by his morning shower.

You don’t think you could ever tire of this sight.

“It’s nothing. Not really. It’s just… Every now and again I get this… horrible gnawing feeling. Like one day you’ll… I dunno. Get bored of me?”

That wakes him up, and for the second time this morning you feel guilt writhe your belly. Marc, meanwhile, looks at you with a pure concern. Gaze flitting over you. Examining you as though you’ve been severely wounded - and he’s only now seeing it. “What do you mean?” He moves, the surprise animating him, and he shifts his elbows backwards to prop his torso up. His necklace elongates, settling into place in the valley of his shapely chest, and his mop of curls flopping once again over his forehead. “Honey. How could I ever?”

You play with a little bit of lint on the bed covers, suddenly intent on it. Retreating away from Marc’s intense, searching stare. “You know. You could. Maybe. From the repetition of it.” Your voice cracks like sun-baked earth - as though the golden morning has already dried you out. “You could get bored. Waking-up next to me every day? Hearing me talk about the same stuff all the time? Fucking me, over and over.”

At that comment, Marc’s brows knit and raise in the middle. His tongue fleets along his lower lip, his mouth turning down at the corners. God, those puppy dog eyes of his never get old.

“But you know I love fucking you over and over, shortcake.”

You shake your head softly. Self-conscious around him, and you have no idea why. “Marc.”

With the wet way you say his name, Marc turns immediately on to his side, still propped up on one elbow, his muscles popping as they bear his weight. And, his freed arm just as immediately is reaching for you. Fingers trailing down your back. You look at him and he looks pained. “Did I… Did I do something to make you think that-“

“-No.” Shit. You shouldn’t have said anything about it. Marc gets so in his head about these things. Always blames himself, as though, if you’re insecure, it means that he isn’t doing a good enough job of loving you. In fact, that could not be further from the truth. “No, Marc. I promise. It’s…” You sigh out a long breath. “It’s just how I feel sometimes. Like eventually, you’ll realise you want someone else. I mean, if I were you, I’d get tired of me too, you know? Sometimes it just feels… inevitable.” Your final word is so heavy that is weighs the tears that pool in your eyes, and yet, even through the blur, you risk a glance up at Marc again.

His palm comes to cradle your cheek. His eyes shine steadily on you. Even glint with an unexpected amusement, despite the situation, which you don’t yet comprehend.

“Baby. Do you never think about who you’re talking to, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. I love repetition. Same thing, over and over? Fucking heaven.”

Your insecurities press you to dispute his statement, and your mouth even drops open to counter him; but, actually, when you think about it…

Marc?

This guy?

The guy who eats the same thing everyday for breakfast, except on Saturdays? Who does all of his tasks in the same way, in the same order, every time? Who watches the same three movies on repeat any time he gets a chance? Who buys four of the same shirt so he rarely has to change it up?

“Yeah. Okay,” you concede. “But, why though?Because it’s… easy? Convenient?” That’s not what you want to be for him.

Marc caresses your cheek with his palm again, gaze flitting fondly over your face. He frowns, like he’s never really thought about the why before. Because it had never really occurred to him to think about it. “No. Not exactly. I guess because… It makes me feel… safe.”

“Safe?”

Safe. Is that what you are to him?

“Yeah. Safe like…”

Not like home. Not like the place that never was; safe.

Safe, like the jumper you knitted him, maybe. Safe, like repeating stitch after repeating stitch wrapped around him, keeping him warm.

Repetition as comfort. Routine as the home he never had, built for himself, block by block.

Like that, maybe? Or, like something else?

You swallow harshly. “Safe like… boring?”

“No,” Marc says calmly, still thinking. “No, baby.”

Then, he moves. Crawls on top of you until his nude body is covering yours, boxing you in all safe.

You see the effort plainly in his face. See from the weight in his brow that he’s painstakingly searching for the right words. That he’s reaching for a way to make you get it. Searching for something which he knows for certain you’ll truly understand. “Safe like…” A lightness settles over Marc’s face as he lands on the very thing. Something you can both understand. No chance of misinterpretation. “Safe like… how Steven makes you feel, you know?” Then, he cocks his head to the side, a slow drag of a smile inching, lopsided, over his plush mouth. “Except, in a less brotherly way. Obviously.”

You can’t help it. You tear up. You know what Steven means to Marc. That Steven represented the first time Marc had felt loved. Protected. That Steven made you feel that same way too. “I really make you feel like that?”

Marc’s eyes glow softly with a smile, crinkles appearing around his eyes, since he’s finally beginning to make you understand. “Yeah. Now you’re getting it. And hey. You’d never get sick of that, would you?”

You wouldn’t. “Never.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your lips. Buries his face in your neck, lips sliding tenderly down the column of your throat. Holding you tightly, his body covering you. He kisses along your collarbone, his tongue laving there. “I’ll never be bored of you.”

“Promise?”

Marc props himself up on his forearms, boxing you in either side of your head and nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours. “In a thousand lifetimes? I’d love you over and over and over and over.”

Finally, you submit a watery smile to him, releasing your sadness and your fears and your tension. Wrapping your arms around him and pulling his mouth down to yours for a deep, tender, loving kiss.

“Well,” you suspire when you break for air. “Then I suppose I like repetition too.”

“Oh yeah?”

You kiss the tip of his nose and his face crinkles with a delicious smile. “Yeah. Because I wanna wake up beside you every single day, Marc Spector.” He smiles in awe at you, eyes glistening with unadulterated adoration and you kiss along his jawline. “And sometimes Steven or Jake too,” you add as an aside. “That I’ll allow.” Marc’s face splits into a beaming smile. “Now, kisses for you all.” You grasp his face in your splayed hands and plant three kisses in turn. One on the cheek, one to the centre of his forehead, and one on his lips, which is all for him.

Marc’s eyes flutter closed as your kiss puckers against him. “Now, get off me, will you?” you tease fondly. “I’ll get us some breakfast. I’m gonna need you fuelled-up.”

“What for?”

“For all of the repetitive fucking we’re about to do.”

Marc flips obediently on to his back, folding his arms behind his head and baring himself entirely to you as you sway -naked- towards the kitchen. “Oh, is that right?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, shortcake.”

You are. You’re feeling much better thanks to Marc and the way in which he loves you - which, you’re discovering, never gets old.

“What are we having?” he asks as you begin to raid the cabinets.

“The usual.” you glance towards him, a smirk on your mouth. “I mean. If that’s okay with you.”

He smiles softly at you in return. “The usual sounds perfect.”

It’s funny.

Marc always did love a little repetition.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector #moon knight x reader #moon knight

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dailyreverie · 7 months

Text

In the morning light

@flufftober - Day 3 “Wait you love me?” - “I always have”

Pairing: Marc Spector x reader (+ a brief Steven mention)

Word count: 933

CW: friends with benefits to lovers and everything that comes with it - implied sexy times.

Flufftober masterlist

Every time Marc and you met, every single night that you spent together, made the friends-with-benefits situation that you agreed to much more challenging for him. It seemed like the perfect scenario back then: Marc could not do a relationship as of right now - with the whole Egyptian god that loomed over him and the issues that came with it - and you were in for just a good time, that was enough for you. Surely the feelings you had for each other, so clear and obvious and always out on the table, could hold for a little bit, or maybe die out with the passing nights.

Of course Marc thought that, and of course it backfired.

You woke up in his apartment after what was supposed to be just a casual lunch which evolved into going for drinks, which eventually became dinner, and, for the looks of it, had extended over breakfast. It kept happening time and time again, the need to be together so consuming that you couldn’t be away from each other; a shopping trip, a coffee run, going to the movies… it was all mushing together unto, basically, dating.

What kind of an idiot he was. It was the ground rule and, as he rose from the bed to see you cooking breakfast, he knew he had broken the agreement in the worst way possible. He had battled against it long enough that seeing you there, wearing his cozy sweatshirt to ward off the chilly London morning, it felt like a simple spill that broke the dam.

“I think I fucked up.” Marc sneaked up on you.

“Good morning to you too.” You kept on your food prep, acknowledging him with a quick glance over your shoulder and a smile. “What did you fuck up?”

There really was no easy way to tell you the daunting realization that came upon him, not when he could lose you, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself, much less to you. When he didn’t speak you turned around to see him, leaving on the counter the fruits you were cutting. “Are you okay?” Marc stood in the middle of the kitchen as if someone had dropped him there without telling him why or what to say.

After a deep sigh, Marc finally spoke. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Oh,” You whispered, almost just to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as you waited for him to elaborate; something he apparently was not going to do. “Well… we said at first that the moment we want out then it’s done, so-”

“It’s just-” Marc seemed exasperated with himself, scrunching his face trying to find the words that wouldn’t break your heart. But when he looked at you, the words came to him with ease. “Steven’s got a crush on you.”

“Does he?” Your eyes opened with delight, a huff of laughter coming out of your lips. You knew Steven was nagging at him in his head.

“He does, and he’s been really annoying about it lately.” In Marc’s head, if he blamed Steven maybe this would be easier.

“Why is Steven not telling me, then?” You knew there was more about it than he was saying, something in his hesitant stance told you so. You approached him, holding his hands to unclasp them from his sides to try and help him relax. “You can’t tell me.”

“We said no feelings, and I’m doing a terrible job at that.” he chuckled at himself. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but whatever we are doing is not what friends with benefits do. We are going on dates, you’re cooking breakfast. This is the complete opposite of what we agreed on, and all this is messing me up.”

“Marc Spector, you sap dork.” You could see right through him, right through his ramblings about feelings and agreements that happened months ago. Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding onto the base of his head. You smiled up at him with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his life, a smile he never thought he would deserve, let alone be responsible for.

You pulled him in, shutting his brain off for a few seconds as you sank into his hold, melting in the kiss, letting it say everything Marc was not able to. His hands stayed on the small of your back when you parted, though your noses were still touching.

The truth is, it was everything you felt too; every word he said you had said it to yourself too. Except for you it was clear. For you, the turmoil you felt came together in a simple word.

“I love you, Marc.” You said softly, gazing up to his eyes so he knew you meant it.

A hint of surprise danced across his face, prompting him to pull back slightly while maintaining his smile. "Wait… You love me?"

“I guess I always have, at least for a few months now.” You cheeks turned red and he held you tighter. He didn’t have to ask why you didn’t say anything before, he knew exactly why, since it was the reason he didn’t speak up sooner too.

“I love you too, baby.” You hummed against his lips at the sound of the nickname, as if you could feel this new love you just exchanged for each other in his kiss. As you kissed again, it felt as though the stars had finally aligned to bring you two together, sealing your bond with a love that had been there all along, just waiting to be acknowledged.

🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨🌙✨

Thanks for reading! Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed it!

#flufftober2023 #flufftober #day 3 #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector fanfic #marc spector imagine #marc spector blurb #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfiction

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