Moon Knight Events

A tumblr centered on creating events for the MCU Moon Knight fic’verse Organized by: @juneknight & @spacecowboyhotch

[moonknight-events]

* Current Event Information! *

For every new event, the current information will be posted here.

What is it?

What are the rules?

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[reallyrallyauthor]

!!! DYING DYING DYING !!!

@moonknight-events - Finally opened my MK Bingo prizes. These are INCREDIBLE. Thank you so much @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch for running such an amazing event and for supporting other creators b/c these pins/keychains are amazing.

They're so gorgeous!!!!!! I'M IN LOVE!!!!!

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[moonknight-events]

Congratulations to the randomly selected winner of this bingo event: @reallyrallyauthor!

Each author received an entry for each bingo completed, and a winner was selected via random number generator. Thank you so much to everyone who participated! We had an excellent turnout! 🤍

A&C

[moonknight-events]

That’s a Wrap!

Thank you so much to everyone who participated in the bingo event! We will be tallying up the bingos and drawing a winner at random, to be notified later this week. We had an incredible turnout and many amazing fics. Thanks for making this so much fun.

—A&C

[asimplearchivist]

𝓒𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓬 𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓷

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ khonshu forgot when he last hadn't felt pain. you make it easier to bear. pairing(s) ☽ khonshu/reader | promises kept!verse word count ☾ 1.8k a/n ☽ ⤏ my eighth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ got a little feelsy with this one. khonshu being so stubborn makes promises kept a glacial slow burn, but sometimes I just want to write him soft. I caved here. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

Some days were harder than others.

Khonshu had long since grown accustomed to his present state—malnourished, most definitely, and somewhat inhibited by old wounds on top of it—but the length of time under which he’d had no choice but to suffer did not make the affair any easier with which to deal. The constant nagging ache deep in the core of his wellspring—what he could only suspect was the closest equivalent to hunger in mortals, as he didn’t quite experience the same sensations—was an ignorable, background sensation at this point. Any bit of a boon he was granted by his few remaining followers soothed the worst of that acute, piercing emptiness, but given the fact that his avatars required continual support via the maintenance of the magical integrity of his ceremonial armor, oftentimes the energy would instead be passed right along to them instead of being kept for himself.

Such was the explanation behind Khonshu’s ghastly appearance—how could he sustain his physical manifestations when the continuation of his duties sapped what little energy he had from his own shallow wellspring to start with?

He never spent very much time taking in his own visage, whether it be in reflections provided by glass or by water. Even still, however—after over two thousand years of being trapped in the unrelentingly vicious reality of scrounging around for any scraps of divine energy he could come across for the sake of alleviating the hollowness resounding within himself—he would catch himself expecting to see glimpses of his old silhouette in his periphery, but was always met with the skeletal remains of the glory long ripped from him by his fellow deities.

He tried not to dwell on it too much, and it usually never came up naturally—most of his avatars through time assumed, given their ignorance towards the culture from which he’d originated and had nurtured, that it was how he had always appeared. Languishing in the negative feelings and memories that particular line of thought always drudged back to the surface only debilitated him. Righteous anger was easier to deal with than the repressed wounds still weeping from betrayal and despair. Those feelings never went away, really, given that his ‘hunger’ was a near-constant reminder of that single life-altering event over two millennia prior, but…most of the time he was able to shove them to the back of his mind.

You certainly helped him to do so.

An inexplicable balm to his soul, Khonshu found relief and refuge in the unshakeable lee you formed against the rest of the mortal world entombing him. Your steadfast dedication and devotion fed him, little by little, just enough to ease the ache. Perhaps it was irrational to rely upon that mutual symbiosis, a feedback loop doomed to fail eventually, since he was forced to channel that energy right back into the armor to keep you from harm, but he’d be damned with assurity if he was forced to forfeit you now.

You, mercifully, didn’t comment upon the…unfettered touchiness…that he displayed when the weariness that always followed a night out executing his justice superceded his finer mental factulties.

Your bed was much too small to fit the both of you comfortably, but you’d insisted that it would work if you sat up against the headboard and he pulled his legs up onto the mattress. Your fingers were light against the sweep of his shoulder, tracing the stark line of wiry muscle that conjoined at the scapulae. You’d already explored much of his back this way, reading the topography of him with your palm. Your other hand rested upon the curve of his head, thumb rubbing small circles that metronomed your steady, slow breaths and your occasional quiet humming.

He should have felt foolish, contorted not unlike a child with his head resting on your lap. Throughout the lengthy span of his life, he’d never stooped so low to demean himself in such a manner. The rest of the Ennead would make him the laughing stock of all pantheons if they knew of his particular…weakness for you. Although the Grecians often intermingled with man, the Ennead had long since forbidden it…but he couldn’t help but wonder. If it was so wrong, why did it make him feel the way that it did?

Even still, it would not be a good thing for them to discover. He didn’t fear himself much anymore, but if anything ever happened to you or Badru…

“You okay?” you asked softly, smoothing your hand up between his shoulders to cup the nape of his neck, rousing him from the light, dozing trance into which you’d unwittingly induced him. “You went all stiff on me.”

Khonshu grumbled. I am fine.

You let out a noncommital, if skeptical, sound and shifted a little to press the heels of both your hands into the meat of his shoulders. He winced as you dug in, working some of the tension free from his physical form. “Just got you relaxed and then you went and started overthinking again,” you tutted. “What goes on in that big noggin of yours, I wonder?”

Nothing good, he mumbled.

“I already knew that much,” you huffed. You found a particularly sore place below his scapula and his fingers knotted into the material of your t-shirt tighter as he smothered a grunt. “You’re just as bad as I am.”

You couldn’t fathom the heaviness of all that weighs on my mind, he pointed out sourly.

“Mmhmm.” You leaned forward and reached down to press at the base of his spine. His hiss was muffled by your thigh. “And you fuss at me for not keeping the armor as long as I need it,” you sighed. “Why don’t you use your abilities on yourself, too?”

Because he would bear it if it meant harm wouldn’t befall you. Because he would starve himself until he withered to dust if you had another chance to retain the breath in your lungs. Because you could bleed him dry and he would give you the knife with which to tap the celestiality that coursed through his arteries.

Heliopolitan maladies differ from that of humanity’s, he said instead.

“That seems a little counterintuitive,” you remarked, dragging up his sides to rid his ribs of their tension.

I require a greater expenditure of energy due to the nature of my body being primarily incorporeal and thus sustained only on my magic. It is much easier to heal tangible tissue. Khonshu tilted his head to peer up at your face, creased with determination and focused on the length of his back sprawling away from you. The material of your duvet was soft and warm against the bare skin of his torso, a balm against the perpetual chill that clung to his bones. The natural, thriving heat that emanated from your body certainly helped. What I consume is sufficient.

You frowned, eyes traveling over the gaunt press of his skeleton against his ashen, tawny flesh, barely hidden by the leanness of what muscle he’d retained in this form. “Somehow I doubt that.”

It was enough to sustain him and little else, but you didn’t need to know that.

You are fretting over nothing. Although that is nothing new, he jibed, hoping to redirect you.

He could sense your dubiety, but you thankfully dropped the subject. “...Do you sleep?”

Rarely. Allowing himself to slip into dormancy in his present state for any considerable length of time was a dangerous game he only dared to play when his wellspring was at its lowest tolerable level. He had also always preferred to remain vigilant in order to watch over the earth for any outstanding threats that may crop up on the misfortune-prone planet. Now that he had you and Ru under his protection, he especially resisted the urge that tugged at him at his weakest points. But I am capable of it, if that is what you mean.

“I had wondered. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your guard down.”

There were reasons for that, too, ones that he’d prefer that you never learned.

I must never set down my creed for even a moment, he said, else the world fall to shambles in my absence.

“That’s called catastrophizing, in my realm of expertise,” you pointed out gently, forfeiting your inspection of his throbbing (but less achey) back and instead scratching your fingernails feather-light over his scalp. Frissons broke out over his skin and skittered down the length of his spine. “Thinking about worst case scenarios doesn’t give you any more control over what could or will happen. Plus, I think we’ve got a sufficient number of guardians all over the world to help give you a break.”

You are aware that those merchandised puppets are not even aware of the realm in which I dwell and deal, aren’t you?

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard stories about sorcerers or something, but that’s besides the point. You need to let yourself rest occasionally. I don’t even want to imagine what several thousands of years’ worth of burnout looks like.”

You were looking directly at it, frankly. Khonshu readjusted his arms to wrap around your back, hands overlapping your waist as he buried his face into the crease of your thighs once more. I am resting.

You went silent at that, movements stilling for a long moment. Then you shifted, hunched over him, and placed a chaste, lingering kiss on the crown of his head. “Well, then I’ll leave you alone.” You returned to your position against the headboard, pillows cushioning your back, and resumed your soothing touches along his scalp, neck, and shoulders. “...If you wanted to sleep, I can stay up for you for a while. If the world starts ending, I’ll be sure to wake you up.”

It was far more tempting an offer than Khonshu could resist, given your attentiveness had coaxed that old exhaustion to the surface like the tide. He wondered if you possessed any supernatural abilities of your own, or if it was because that was the same tone his mother had always used to convince him to sleep when he was young. You wouldn’t know if there was a disturbance in the astral plane if it struck you by the back of your head, he murmured, sagging into you steadily.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you returned quietly, thumb tracing the impression of a scar along his temple. “Just let me take care of you, Khonshu.”

He was trying his best, truly. It was certainly difficult to protest such a precious gift offered with no malicious intents underlying its tender promises.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Banana Split

Steven Grant x GN!Reader • Rating: M •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: You get an ice cream.

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

A/N: Last one for the MK bingo! I didn't quite get to finish the board (the other fics are just not in a good state to post, maybe I'll sort them out one day ^^)

Warnings: finger sucking, over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 638

It had started with a playful argument about banana splits when you were in Kaspas. 

You weren’t quite sure how the discussion had started, just that the aforementioned desert had been on the menu and Steven and Marc had gone at it. 

Their bickering was always playful, a kind of sparring match that they seemed to partake in mainly for sport, and not so much for actually arguing about a topic. 

Seventy percent of the time you were pretty sure that they only took opposite sides so that they could continue quarrelling. 

Steven had said that banana splits were invented in the UK. Marc said USA. Steven had gotten up the Wikipedia page. Marc had gloated about how he was right. Steven had countered with, ‘yeah, but it does say no one knows for sure, doesn’t it? So it could have been anywhere.’ Marc had complained Steven was a sore loser, and ‘that everyone that could have been credited with inventing it was from America. So he wins.’ Steven had added, ‘Technically, you can’t invent a food.’ Marc, his tone dripping with exasperation, ‘Oh, getting technical now, are we? Because you’re a sore loser?’ 

It had carried on from there.  

Somewhere in between laughing you hadn’t quite been paying attention to your own ice cream sundae and some of the strawberry sauce had worked its way along the spoon and onto your fingers. You’d tutted and wiped it with a napkin, and hadn’t thought much more of it. 

That was until later when you were walking through the park with Steven and your fingers kept brushing together and sticking. The sauce, even though on inspection you could see absolutely no trace of it, was there on some microscopic level. Catching and fusing your fingers together. You tried to wipe your skin clean on a spare tissue, and then your trousers to no avail. 

The sensation was driving you close to madness. The constant irritation. The unending catch and pull. You couldn’t stop them from sticking without holding your fingers apart at a weird angle that started to cramp your hand. 

You needed to find a toilet, a sink, hell, even a puddle. Anything to-

“Love? You okay?” Steven frowns sympathetically, looking down at your hand. 

You nod halfheartedly. “Fingers are sticky.” 

“From the sauce?” 

You nod again.

He gave you a sympathetic look, his eyes softening in that sweet expression. “Poor love.” He kisses your cheek, knowing about and understanding your detest for the sensory experience. 

“Here.” He takes your hand carefully, so as to not push your fingers together. “These two?” He points to your middle and forefinger. 

You barely get a chance to nod, your mouth open to speak, but the words die in your throat as Steven sticks your fingers in his mouth and sucks them clean.

For a brief moment, all thoughts drain out of your head. Your mind completely blank. You try not to stare, you really do. Your breathing hitches at the slide of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth, the way his eyes have closed. A spark of pleasure rushes down your spine. 

You really, really shouldn’t be enjoying this quite so much. 

He finishes. Taking your fingers out of his mouth with a pop, and smiles innocently. 

You stay staring. 

“Better?”

There is a pause before you remember how to speak. “I… erm…”

“Oh don’t worry!” He beams. “Strawberry sauce is vegan,” he waves a hand dismissively, but I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t.” 

You grab his arm, your skin burning with a deep heat, and begin to march him towards the park exit. If you didn’t get out of there in the next minute you were going to have to find some bushes to fuck him in.

“Love?” 

“We’re going home.” 

“What? Why?” 

Oh, he’d find out why.

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Free Ride [2]

Jake Lockley x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Part 1 Here

Summary: You recognised Steven and Jake had no choice but to play along, and give in to some impulses of his own.

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

A/N: I have not checked this over very well at all, I am so sorry.

Warnings: Jake being mistaken for Steven, dubious consent because reader thinks he's Steven, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, dirty talk, lube, mentions of a vibrator, Jake has a big dick, over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 2841

Jake pushes you back into your flat, his lips on yours, licking into your mouth hungrily. 

You stumble a little, but his strong hands keep you stable, pull you closer against him. He trails down to your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at your skin before sucking hard on your pulse point. 

A shiver runs up your spine, crawls at your throat. You gasp and clutch into him. “Steven, I-”

Jake growls softly, moving quickly and kissing you mercilessly. He nips lightly at your lip, not enough to cause damage but the sudden sensation makes you jump slightly and he smiles. 

You pull back, just enough to see the expression. In that moment it’s so unlike Steven, not his usual beaming grin. His eyes don’t crinkle the same way, his-

Before another thought can form his lips are on yours again as he walks you backwards towards your bedroom, tugging your pyjama top over your head. He pauses once, barely moving his mouth from yours to sweetly ask your permission before continuing. Waiting with soft eyes for your clear confirmation and then kissing you breathless once more. 

His fingers dig into your skin, squeezing every part he can reach. 

As the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed he dips his head down, rolling the flat of his tongue against your left nipple. You bite your lip, trying to keep some semblance of control over yourself but can’t stop the small moan that escapes and fills the air.

Jake groans, latching onto your breast and sucking. Your fingers tangle in his hair, breathing rapidly as he flicks his tongue over the quickly hardening nub. 

You arch into him, your hips bucking of their own accord as he pushes his knee between your legs as he moves to your other breast. 

You whine, letting his warm hands roam your body and press firmly into your back, keeping you balanced as you lean into him. 

He slides his left hand up, cradling the back of your head and then carefully urges you onto your back onto the mattress. 

Should you stop him? You bite your lip. This was going head spinnngly fast. Sure you’d had a not so secret crush on him for ages, but-

He leans over you, pressing his body flush to yours and kisses you senseless, his tongue slipping into your mouth and drinking down every sound that slips past your lips. 

The hard outline of his cock presses into your core through the stiff material of his jeans and any doubt just blinks out of your mind as the spark of pleasure runs up your spine. 

He growls, low and soft in his throat as you move against him, pressing yourself more fully against the bulge in his trousers. 

“Steven,” you moan.

He pulls back instantly, his lips pink and kiss swollen. For a second you think you’ve done something wrong, made the wrong move, but he stands back up quickly. Hooks his fingers under your waist band and drags it down, leaving you completely bare.  You yelp a little at the speed of his movements, the dark look in his eyes makes your stomach drop and fill with anticipation. 

Jake grabs your hips, his warm fingers digging in, just boarding on the possibility of being too hard, and flips you over with a surprising sudden show of strength. 

You let out a small cry of surprise, barely having a moment to react as Jake raises you up by your hips so that you’re on your knees, face down, ass up. 

Heat burns into your skin as he pushes your thighs apart, his thumbs on either side of your entrance and spreading your lips wide. 

The sound of his groan of appreciation alleviates any self consciousness you could feel. Jake palms his cock roughly, squeezing the thick outline with one hand to get a hold of himself before he dives in. 

He swipes his tongue through your folds, groaning again in appreciation as he laps at you. 

The moan that leaves you is sinful. It would make another wave of embarrassment roll through your stomach if you weren’t already too far gone to care. You press your face into the covers, screwing them up in your fists as Jake licks annoyingly slowly, flicking his tongue against your clit before pulling up and just dipping into your entrance. Teasing with the very tip before starting the whole process all over again.

You squirm under his actions, simultaneously trying to escape and push closer to the pleasure of his mouth. He grabs hold of your hip with one firm hand, pulling you firmly against him. 

“Hush bebé,” he mutters against you, barely moving far enough for his words to be heard. “Let me take care of you.” 

You moan again and bury your head into your mattress, drooling on the duvet. 

Pleasure boils along your skin, spiking down from your lower stomach with every warm swipe of his tongue. He groans at the taste of you, the small buzz of sound reverberating through you and vibrating against your already swollen clit. 

A choked, “please,” escapes your lips and Jake chuckles. 

“Begging already?” 

You moan and nod. Your eyes screwed up tight, your hips rocking back and forth in time with him. 

It had been a while since you’d been with anyone, and even longer since that you’d been with someone who seemed so eager to devour every part of you. 

Jake pulls back for a second, biting lightly at the back of your upper thigh, before he sinks two thick fingers into your heat. 

You gasp, whining at the sudden but welcome intrusion. Your legs shake at the stretch, your mind going blank for a second. 

“Fuuuccck.” Jake hisses under his breath, mesmerised as he presses in to the second knuckle before pulling back again, marvelling at your slick in the light. “So tight bebé, hmm?” He groans as he pushes back in, revelling in how your walls clench around him, seem to suck him deeper despite the stretch. “Don’t think I’ll fit in here…” he gasps as he slowly eases out and back in, the ache in his cock maddening. “So tight… When’s the last time you got fucked by anything other than your fingers?” 

A choked sob leaves your lips, your orgasm burning along every nerve ready to explode at any second. “Please,” you moan, “I’m, you’re gonna make me…”

Jake hisses in another breath, unable to resist the urge to push his fingers as deep as they can go and stroke your walls languidly, searching for the spot to make you see stars. His thumb presses against your clit, barely moving except for a steady alternating of pressure. 

You cry out, your back arching, the pleasure so close you can taste it. 

“That’s it,” Jake mutters, “oh, there?” He presses deeply, his strokes sure and firm and oh so slow. “That’s where it’s good?” He whispers, his breath skittering across your skin.

“Please!”

He bites back a groan, his eyebrows pinched together as you squeeze his fingers. “Gonna come? Gonna come just from me tasting you and touching you? And-”

You cry out as your orgasm crests and pulls you down under the wave, washing over every nerve, curling your toes and leaving you boneless. 

Jake moans with you, leaning closer as he continues the torturous pace of his fingers and squeezes his cock through his jeans with his other hand, just about managing not to cum in his boxers. 

You shudder, shiver as you come down and back to yourself. Jake slowly eases his fingers out of you, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth now that it’s over, not that-

Suddenly you turn, smiling at him and raising up onto your knees to wrap your arms around his neck. You kiss him softly, sweetly, pressing your chest up against him. 

He stiffens for a moment, the action unexpected before he returns the kiss. 

He swallows as you pull back for a second, “we don’t have to d-” tumbles out of his mouth at the exact same moment as you say, “do you want to…?” You pause, giving him a slightly bashful smile. For some reason the fact that you’re naked while he’s fully clothed makes a little thread of anxiety tighten in your chest. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you say in a bit of a rush, “if you want, I could just-”

He silences you with an urgent kiss, already, tugging at the helm of his shirt. “Please, let me fuck you.” 

You shiver at his desperate growl, nodding rapidly as you unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. 

Jake pulls his shirt over his head as you push his trousers down his thighs. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. 

“What?” 

You bite your lip and shake your head as you laugh. “You weren’t joking.”

He raises an eyebrow in question. 

“I don’t know if you’ll fit.” 

Jake laughs and presses his lips to yours, “only one way to find out.”

You giggle as he litters your neck and chest with kisses, slowly easing you back down onto the bed before he stands again. 

You lean up on your elbows and he tuts, swatting playfully at your arms as he kicks off his jeans and boxers completely. He grabs two pillows, tucking one carefully under your head and the other under your hips. You raise up as best you can to help. 

As he bends down to grab his jeans from the floor you can’t help but admire how he moves, the soft skin of his back and the ripple of muscle underneath. 

He pulls his wallet from his jeans.

“You got lube?” The offhandedness of the question catches you off guard for a second and you flounder before you can answer.

“Erm, yeah, in the drawer.” 

He nods, taking something from his wallet before tossing it back to the floor. He puts the edge of the wrapper between his teeth and pulls with his right hand as he walks around and opens your bedside drawer. 

Which is the exact second your brain decides to remind you what else is in the drawer along with the lube. 

“Wait-”

Too late. He’s already opened it and obviously seen it. 

Jake smiles as he looks up at you, practically a smirk and takes the wrapper out of his mouth. He holds up your vibrator. “Worried about me seeing this?” 

You cover your face with your hands and laugh as you nod. 

He grins. “Don’t worry, it’s size isn’t intimidating.” He looks it over for a second, “no wonder.” 

“No wonder?” 

“It’s barely thicker than one of my fingers, let alone two.” 

You grab the pillow from under your head and pretend to throw it at him. 

He laughs loudly, beaming at you as he places it back in your drawer. “Besides, I knew you had one anyway.”

You frown.

“The sound.”

“Huh?”

He points upwards. “Walls are pretty thin. Or ceilings, I guess.”

Embarrassment rushes along your bones, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he takes out the half full bottle of lube. For a second he scans the label before he walks back in front of you and kneels between your legs, hooking the back of your left knee over his shoulder. 

“What are you-”

“Getting you ready.” He mutters as he gazes at your pussy. There’s a crinkle of foil as he puts the wrapper next to him and then a pop as he opens the lube bottle. 

Jake warms the lube on his fingers for a second before he pushes three inside and flicks his tongue over your clit. 

You suck in a breath, arching up towards him and screwing up your eyes as he continues his tortuous pace from before. 

It’s a maddening tease. Slow and steady as he works you open and presses against your sweet spot before backing off again. Hitching you higher and higher.

He hums as you shake and buck against his touch, groans as you run your fingers through his hair. 

“Please,” you moan. 

“Hmm?” Jake barely moves away from you, too preoccupied in the feel of your skin against his. 

“Please,” you swallow, your words spilling out in a lust filled haze, “please fuck me, please, Steven, I-”

He moves away from you quickly, and you whine, already lamenting the loss and trying to chase his fingers. 

Jake grabs the condom wrapper and tears it open as he stands, hisses as he rolls it over his aching cock. A dark twist of emotion knots itself in his stomach, twists around his intestines and lungs, but he forces it down, down as he pushes your right thigh wide, the action boarding on painful, before quickly lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in. 

You almost don’t recognise the sound that leaves your lips as your own, the gasp from deep in your chest as his hips snap against yours filling you completely. You can’t remember a time when you’ve felt so full before, when you’ve been so stretched and spread. 

The sensation almost borders on pain, the thick weight of his cock straining you to your limit. But the thick tip of him brushes so wonderfully inside, his pubic bone rubs against your clit and all you can do is drown in the pleasure as he eases his hip back and forth a few times in long, languid strokes before he starts to fuck you in earnest. 

He pounds into you, rocking you back onto the bed with every thrust and banging your headboard against the wall with enough force to chip the paint. 

You whine low in your throat, barely able to get enough oxygen into your lungs as he pushes you higher and higher, forcing pleasure into your veins as though he was made to please you. 

You grab hold of his arms, his neck, anything you can get a hold of and pull his mouth to yours, sliding your tongue past his lips and moaning as he rolls his hips, forcing all his energy on hitting that perfect spot just right.

Your high pitched gasps leave you with every thrust, your thighs tense and shake as you strive to meet him. That deep ball of pleasure tightening and tightening. 

He groans low, kissing you for all his worth to stop the words that want to spill out from his tongue. 

Jake knows he’s not going to last, not with the way you’re whining and begging and kissing him so desperately. Not with the way you squeeze him and urge him deeper, practically beseeching him to take and take and take and-

You pull your mouth back from his, your hands on his shoulder and in his hair. “S-” you stop yourself from saying his name, from causing that little flutter of a frown to cross his face, “sweetheart, please,” the moan that leaves you is practically pornagraphic as Jake’s hips stunner, his mouth opening in a little blushed gasp as you call him ‘sweetheart’. 

“Fuck,” he groans low unable to stop the pleasure from barreling through his every cell, from lighting up every nerve. He fucks you through it, trying and failing to keep his eyes open to watch you. But he feels you tense, hears you moan as you come undone beneath him. 

You come harder than you can ever remember, stars exploding behind your eyes as pleasure erases every thought for a blissfully moment. 

He leans against you, burying his face into your neck and holding some of his weight off you with his arm. 

You breathe heavily for a moment, both of your chests rising and falling in time with each other as you stroke his damp hair. Sweat cooling on both of your skin. 

For a moment, you think he might have nodded off. His muscles go slack for a second, but he shudders and tenses again.

You smile and kiss his temple. 

“Wait… what?” His voice is barely a whisper and… now that you hear it… very… Steven like. Which made no sense at all, because, well, it was always Steven, wasn’t it? Maybe you’d been too caught up and misheard, maybe when he was horny he put on a bit of a voice. You’d heard about that, when-

Steven tenses as sensations flow back into his body.

He sits up, or at least tries to, panic gripping his heart. What the fucking fuck fuck fuck has he slept walked into now?

Your arms around him stop him from bolting upright, but he still moves his head a handwidth away. 

“Hey, you alright?” You say soothingly, his actions reminding you of someone jumping awake, “did you fall asleep for a second?” 

Steven looks down at you, eyes wide. You, lovely, lovely you. Who he’d been trying to not so subtly flirt with for the past months. And now he was… oh… his softening sock twitches in your heat… very much closer than he’d realised.

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Cancelled

Jake Lockley x GN!Reader • Rating: T •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: Your plans change.

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

A/N: Sat on a few of these fics for ages because I'm overthinking them, but thought 'ahhh, I need to post them now in time for the event!' Having a deadline is very helpful.

Warnings: Reader experiencing some sensory issues, Jake reading smutty books, overuse of italics, typos, not beta read, rail-road sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 801

Your phone buzzes on the bed. The drone is muffled slightly by the pillow it’s under. You finish fixing your outfit in the mirror and sigh. 

The material was ever so slightly wrong today. Normally it was fine, but now the feel of it just irritated you. But this was the seventh outfit you’d tried on and honestly if you were going to make it to the restaurant by 8pm, even with Jake’s ingenious driving, you had to leave now. 

You pick up your phone, glancing at the screen as you unlock it. 

One message. 

From one of your friends you were meeting up with. Probably something along the lines of ‘see everyone soon’. Usually you were excited to see them. They were some of your oldest and dearest friends, and you loved their company. But today it just felt off. Getting dressed up and going out. Eating at a semi expensive (for your budget anyway) restaurant that you didn’t even like that much. Putting on your ‘social interaction face’. It all just seems far too exhausting. 

Your eyes widened as you read the messages on the group chat. 

‘Can’t make it, stupid traffic at the tunnel! Been stuck for 50 mins and haven’t moved!’

‘I can’t either, babysitter fell through!’

‘So sorry everyone, maybe it’s for the best, I’ve got a horrible headache and was gonna power through, but maybe it’s best if we reschedule?’

The last message had you at-ted. 

‘It’s that okay with you? Sorry you let you down! <3’

Relief floods your veins and you hastily type a, ‘no worries, let’s reschedule’, adding several happy face emojis out of paranoia that your message could be misread, before you wish everyone well and to have a good evening. 

Jake hears you throw your bedroom door open, but doesn’t glance up from where he’s slouched over your armchair reading. It’s one of those bodice-ripping paperbacks from the 80s with the fabulously illustrated covers. Jake’s guilty pleasure. While he knows that Marc and Steven wouldn’t care, and most likely wouldn’t be bothered at all by his reading choices, he also very much does not want them to know. A feeling he’s sure he should try to unpack at some point. 

But that was a future Jake task. 

Which is why he’d taken to either hiding them behind the cistern in Steven’s flat or keeping them at yours, tucked neatly on your bookshelf (with your permission) behind a row of your books. 

“You ready to go amor?” He asked as he turned the page. 

You bounded over to him, ripping your stupid, itchy top off in the process. “Excellent news!” You stopped in front of him, smacking your hands onto the armchair for emphasis. 

Jake didn’t even flinch, half absorbed in his book and half used to your dramatic flare.

“Oh?” He glanced up at you and paused, a small frown of interest crossing his face. “You don’t have a top on.” 

“Exceptional observation skills Lockey.” 

He smirks. 

“Guess what?” 

“You’re embracing a new life as a nudist?” 

“The meal’s cancelled.” 

“What?” 

“The meal’s cancelled. You know cancelled, as in not happening.” You grin.

He gives you a playful look and swats your upper arm softly with his book. (His middle finger pressed inside to keep his page.) “I know what cancelled means, why?”

“Traffic, no babysitter, and headache.” You list the reasons as you count them on your hand excitedly. 

He smiles. “Really weren’t feeling it today were you?”

“How could you tell?” You say playfully. 

“Well, you kicking the door open to tell me was a good give away.”

You laugh.

“Plus, you really were leaving it pretty fine to get there on time.” He slips his bookmark between the pages and puts the book down on the floor before inching forward, he wraps his arms around your waist and gently pulls you into his lap, giving you plenty of time to step back if you wanted to. “I know how much being late makes you anxious.” 

You snuggle up to him, wrapping your own arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. His day old stubble rubs against your skin. But this sensation is comforting. Like home. 

“So you letting it get to this time without us going, or without you telling me off for reading instead of putting my shoes on.” 

“I don’t tell you off.” You grumble, your words muffled by how your mouth is pressed against his neck. 

Jake laughs. “Playfully.”

You tut affectionately. “Alright, playfully.” You adjust your position on his lap, getting comfortable. 

“So, what do you want to do tonight?” He presses a light kiss to your temple.

“Hmm, how about… pizza and you can read some of your smutty book to me?” 

He laughs again and kisses your lips. “Sounds good.” 

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Pussy Magnet

Jake Lockley x GN!Reader • Rating: T •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: Jake was always good with animals.

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

A/N: I'm so sorry I had to make this stupid joke, I'm-

Warnings: Terrible jokes, Jake stealing Steven and Marc's clothes, over use of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 567

You can’t help but smile as you glance over at Jake. You’re in the middle of speaking with your friend, whose home you’re currently in. She had invited you to a small barbeque, which had turned into an impromptu dinner party when the heavens had opened. 

There were only seven of you in total, so it wasn’t too overcrowded. 

While everyone else were seated on, or around the large armchair and settee in the living room, Jake was the exception. 

He was laying on his side, his hand outstretched under the bookcase, slowly coaxing your friend’s new kitten out of hiding. 

There was the largest, softest smile plastered over his face as the cat slowly inches forward and sniffed his fingers. 

He had been carefully befriending the kitten over the last forty minutes, taking it as a personal mission the second your friend mentioned she had a new kitten that was painfully shy around new people. 

She was a small thing, the runt of the litter, black and white with wide green eyes. Your friend and her partner had affectionately named her ‘Newspaper’.  

Slowly Newspaper crept closer to him, a few careful steps forward until she was completely out from under the bookshelf’s protection. She paused, watching Jake carefully before shuffling closer again. 

Your friend asks you a question and you turn back to her and the conversation around you. 

It’s about twenty minutes later that Jake comes and sits down next to you, grinning intently. 

You turn to him, raising an eyebrow playfully and his grin widens. 

He’s holding his shirt, a borrowed one from Steven, at an odd angle. Basically cradling it. Even if there wasn’t a bulge over his left chest it would be easy to work out why.

“What you got there?” You ask innocently. 

“Nothing.” He beams at you and leans closer, moving his shirt slightly to the side to show you Newspaper nestled against him and purring. 

You grin. 

“You think Marc’ll tell me off for getting cat hair on his t-shirt?” 

You grin wider. 

“Nah.” You shake your head. “He might tell you off for borrowing his clothes again, but not for the cat hair.”

Jake snorts. “Steven doesn’t mind when I do it.” 

“It’s Marc’s fault anyway for buying comfy clothes.” 

That makes you laugh. 

Newspaper moves a little in her sleep, tucking in closer to Jake. 

You pause for a moment, watching the kitten. A terrible joke pops into your head as if it was placed there by some unseen force. Part of you wonders if Khonshu is whispering in your ear, but then again Jake would have heard him too. 

“Jake…” You say as naturally as you can. 

“Hmm?” He glances up, clocking the silly expression on your face before you even get a chance to talk. 

You speak anyway. “You’re really good with animals…”

“Yeah.” He pins you with his deadpan gaze, ready for whatever corny joke you’re going to say next. 

“Some could say you’re a … pussy magnet.”

He snorts, breaking his nonchalant facade as quickly as he formed it and nudges you playfully in the arm with his shoulder. 

You expect an eye roll when he looks back at you, something along the lines of ‘that’s awful.’ But instead he smiles, silky smooth. “I have been told that in my time.” He waggled his eyebrows at you until you laughed and woke up the kitten. 

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[asimplearchivist]

𝓗𝓲𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ marc takes you for a quiet walk in the woods. pairing(s) ☽ marc spector/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 0.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my seventh entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ marc's always end up so short. :( I need to fix that, I feel like I'm not doing him due justice. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

“Why in the hell did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you made the mistake of telling me you wanted to work on improving your stamina.”

“I thought you’d take the hint that I wanted to go on cutesie little evening walks with you around the block to watch the sunset and get ice cream occasionally,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d decide to drive me out into the middle of nowhere to drag me down some random animal trail.”

Marc turned to watch you brace your hands on your knees and lean over to catch your breath (not for the first time in the last half hour, and most definitely not for the last).

“We’re almost to the halfway mark,” he told you, pursing his lips to prevent his smirk from slipping free. The perspiration dotting your hairline was always a good look on you, but you were panting a bit hard. He stepped back over to you and curled a hand around your elbow to guide you over to sit on a nearby stone. “We can take five. Don’t want you passing out on me.”

“Ha-ha,” you responded flatly, swiping the hem of your sleeve across your forehead and leaning into his side. “Like it would be any issue for you to carry me back to the car.”

Marc coughed to disguise a snicker. “It wouldn’t be, but it might look a little suspicious if the rangers caught me.”

That option was out of the question, really, because as soon as they’d run a background check on him…the situation would go from bad to worse. You knew that—and you also knew that he knew that. He could spare a few minutes, and it wasn’t as if the scenery was that bad. The ancient English wood loomed overhead, a cool, dense fog concealing all but a ten yard radius around the pair of you—perhaps the only reprieve against the mild, humid air. There was not another soul to be found save for the songbirds darting overhead and the critters scurrying about the dense underbrush bordering the path.

Marc sat next to you and draped an arm over your shoulders, his eyes habitually traveling over the horizon. You rested your temple on his shoulder, your heavy breath pluming in the dewy humidity. Your hand snuck over his leg to intertwine your fingers with his, the pad of your thumb stroking over the knuckles of his. He glanced down at the sweep of your lashes against the apples of your cheeks, but when he returned his attention to the forest, he went as still as a statue.

“Hey,” he murmured, gently nudging your side, “look.”

“What?” you breathed, raising your head and squinting in the direction he was looking. “...Oh.”

A stag stood not a stone’s throw away through the underbrush, grazing on a patch of clover spilling over the drooping ferns. His tawny hide and velvety antlers blended flawlessly with the wide, hunkered trunks looming over the lot of you. His ears and tail twitched as he nosed and rummaged for the sweetest blooms.

Marc felt more than heard you suck in a breath when a doe wandered onto the scene as well, nearly silent as her dark eyes surveyed the surroundings. He gazed down at you out of his periphery, watching the delight and awe bloom over your face. You both watched the animals get their fill in complete silence and listened to their soft snorts as well as the rustle of their hooves in the grass.

It had been a while since Marc had spent any time out in nature. The last few years of his life had been packed full of stress and next to zero free time; all things considered, he could no longer find it in him to blame himself. He was in a difficult situation, and while he most definitely could have handled things better, it had all seemingly turned out all right in the end. (...Huh. Maybe Steven’s insistence on going to therapy was paying off, after all.) It was blissfully quiet out here, marooned in the middle of nowhere with civilization miles away. It almost reminded him of his brief time in the Field of Reeds, and though it didn’t feel as…ethereal, it was still stunning.

A couple of minutes later, the stag and the doe moved on, disappearing into the brush. You released a breath and stood, peering around the edge of the treeline in an attempt to catch one last glimpse of them. Marc eased to his feet and stepped into the direction of the path you both needed to go.

“They were beautiful, weren’t they?” you murmured, turning back to him with eyes glittering with wonder.

“Yeah.” He swallowed and, when you returned to his side to start walking once more, he traced the tip of his pinky along the blade of your hand. You peeked up at him, quirking a brow, but said nothing as you slipped your hand into his. He squeezed it gently, and he was grateful that you understood him without having to force out the words that tended—much to his chagrin—to die in the pit of his throat.

“Thank you for bringing me out here,” you told him. “I’d like to do it again. Maybe we can bring a picnic next time.”

“Sounds good.” He bumped his shoulder into yours. “We could get that fancy cheese you like.”

Your eyes brightened at the mere mention. “I could make some fruit salad, too.”

Marc’s lips tightened and tapered into a soft grin. “Whatever you want, baby.”

[asimplearchivist]

𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ there was no possible way that you could have romantic feelings for steven. right? pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 4.1k a/n ☽ ⤏ my sixth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ trying to resist the urge to tell myself this is repetitive. had to cut it off there or else it would’ve been way too long. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

You’re going to give us an ulcer if you keep this up—and I, for one, do not want to have to chug that wretched pink shit for the next few weeks.

“Hush,” Steven muttered, glancing towards the window next to him to level his host with a dark glare, but he was distracted by the skewed angle of the lapel lying haphazardly across his clavicle. He frowned in concentration as he readjusted it and smoothed it back down to rights with a clammy, trembling palm. “You’re not helpin’.”

Marc’s brow was furrowed, arms folded tightly over his chest, appearing rather dour to be mirroring the pressed, brightly patterned shirt and light slacks he’d talked Steven into wearing—Marc’s canvas jacket suited the look as well as the stormy weather, although Steven’s insistence on wearing his favorite dress shoes was the one concession that the alter was unwilling to sacrifice.

Marc had argued with him for nearly ten minutes not to wear the suit coat for just a quick bite before returning to the flat, and Steven had only relented once he’d realized that you’d still be wearing your casual clothes since he was picking you up from work. He knew that you liked to dress up, too, if he made the effort to do so, and that you grew a little self-conscious if you looked ‘frumpy’ (although, in his opinion, you never looked anything short of stunning—even with dust smudged on your cheek from the shop’s prolific collection of old books, espresso splattered all across your sleeves, or ink smeared on your hands after your long days spent working and studying), so he’d sooner invest in your comfort than to preen at your expense.

…Not that he was trying to preen or anything. You just made him feel like the biggest catch this side of the Thames, for once in his life—and while he would never willingly admit it, Steven liked the idea of showing off a bit for you. His nerves and insecurities still got the best of him every now and again, but most of the time your adoring gaze and easy smiles served an invaluable salve for his fretful tendencies.

He liked to look nice for you—liked the way you’d give him that lingering once-over out of the corner of your eye like you didn’t think he’d notice it. Depending on the colors he wore, he could elicit varying intensities of a reaction; the studious side of him was fascinated with how soft shades of blue kept your gaze trained on the contrast of the collar and his neck, whereas deeper jewel tones of crimson and juniper drew your stare further up to his unkempt curls and eyes. Trim slacks and khakis caused lingering glances towards his legs and posterior, if he happened to have his back turned to you. If he took off his coat, you’d peek at the silhouettes of his arms and shoulders under the pressed cotton. If his sleeves ever happened to be rolled up, you blatantly and openly gawked at the muscles flexing in his forearms and the articulation of tendons in his hands—that flustered him more than anything else.

You weren’t shy about telling him that you found him attractive, either. Although he was still growing accustomed to your consistent sprinkling of compliments—each as sincere, as meaningful, and as thoughtful as the last—he appreciated your earnesty beyond any thanks he could express with simple words. He stood taller in your presence, didn’t stoop or hunch to make himself appear smaller; he didn’t stutter as much, and he spoke with confidence and ease even when launching into his infamous tangents and drawing skeptical glances from strangers; he even found it getting easier, over time, to flirt with you in return, learning that you grew flustered when he gave you half-lidded looks or shivered when he lowered his voice into a murmur near your ear (although he wouldn’t have noticed the subtle, subconscious changes in his behavior had Marc not remarked upon them).

He felt comfortable with you—attractive and valuable and wanted without deceit nor facetiousness—something he had never before experienced beyond his connection to Marc. To others, he was an overenthusiastic nuisance, or a negligible commodity at best, but to you he was important. You cared for him, wanted him to be happy, and never expected anything in return, save his honest companionship.

…But the boundaries for that had started to blur, hadn’t they? Ever since he and Marc had returned from Cairo, you and Steven had grown closer than ever before. With you given just short of full disclosure about his situation (although this was not for lack of faith in your reasonability, since Steven himself hadn’t been aware of all the details until relatively recently—and they would cross the bridge about telling you about their suited vigilante days when it became relevant, although he hoped it never would be), he no longer felt the urge to keep up appearances. He no longer had to fret about hiding the more cornering traits of his supposed sleeping disorder from you, since the true nature of his midnight meanderings had been discovered. He had no more secrets save those that no longer occupied his life at present, no more worries, because you saw and knew and understood most everything that encapsulated him.

That, inevitably, led to a rather blatant and ardent infatuation on his part, seeded by his initial attraction and long-standing friendship with you and germinated by your steadfastness and dedication even after their…episode—one extremely difficult to restrict, and one for which Marc had been teasing him relentlessly now that he had met you, too.

You really ought to tell her, you know, said the devil about whom he thought.

“Yeah, right,” Steven scoffed, tilting his head forward to scrutinize and pick at the layers of unruly curls parted along the side of his scalp with his fingers—they never did sit quite right, even when he made the effort to comb them while they were wet. Marc had wanted to plaster them back with gel to avoid the hassle altogether, but Steven had resolutely set his foot down—you adored their curls and Steven despised the sensation of the pomade on his scalp, so he would not stand to see Marc glue them down like he always did when he had the steering wheel. “Sure, I’d love to put myself out there to be rejected again. You know how bloody well that went the last time I had a date.”

That was my fault. Marc owned up to it, at least. But it won’t happen again.

“You don’t know that,” Steven told him, hushed and tense. “I could just…she’s said we’re mates, yeah? But she could think we’re just mates.”

The way she looks at you? Yeah, totally platonic, Marc remarked, rolling his eyes. You’re her ‘bestest friend in the whole wide world’ and she just so happens to want to climb you like a tree when you ramble about regicide in Ancient Egypt of all things.

Steven’s face prickled with heat as he glared at his host. “How would you know, huh?”

Marc tipped his head forward and raised a knowing brow. The bastard had the gall to smirk at him.

Steven scowled. He could point out how utterly insufferable his host had acted around Layla, awkward and ignorant like a teenager as far as reading her as he had been, but he wouldn’t stoop so low…for now. (As long as he didn’t continue to take the piss out of him, that is.) “Oh, Mister ‘I’ve-Been-Married-A-Grand-Total-of-Once’ is suddenly an expert on the art of interpretin’ female attraction! I’m sure you’ve just got the entire situation nailed down like a psychoanalysis, yeah?”

Give me ten minutes to let me direct the conversation and I can tell you all of her—

“No! No, thank you,” Steven blurted, dragging a hand over his eyes and nose to clasp over his mouth. If his face had grown any hotter in the handful of awkwardly silent seconds that followed that particular statement, Steven was certain that it would have been capable of spontaneous combustion. He floundered for a moment, mouth opening and shutting in search of a response, while Marc started chuckling, but he was saved by the bell, so to speak.

“Hey, darlin’!” you chirped through the doorway as it cracked open and you slipped out of the coffee shop. “I didn’t realize you were here at first, but Amy saw you in the window. You could’ve texted me, you know—I hate that you stood out here in the cold.”

“Oh, I haven’t been here long,” Steven assured you, turning to offer to take your purse. You allowed him to hold it while you shrugged on your coat and wrapped the scarf he’d recently gifted you around your neck. “Where would you like to eat tonight, love?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me try my hand at something new tonight,” you started, then hesitated. “If that’s, uh, okay. I’d have to run into the store to grab some groceries, so if you’d rather wait for another night we can. I completely understand if it’s too late for that.”

And refuse your feats of culinary masterpieces? He thought bloody not. “That would be wonderful, as long as you’re not too terribly knackered to stand over the stove,” Steven said brightly. “I can help.”

Your smile was dazzling even under the unflattering whine of the fluorescent street lamp. “Thank you. I think you’ll like this one.”

“As if I’ve ever disliked anythin’ you’ve cooked for me,” he scoffed in disbelief.

“Okay, sure, but I think you’ll really like this one,” you amended, slinging your purse over your shoulder and grabbing his arm to tug him towards the bus stop. “Come on.”

The ride was filled with idle chatter about each other’s days. Steven was still adjusting to working during the day shifts after his reemployment as a tour guide at the museum, and he somewhat missed sitting with you while you closed up the coffee shop already—but it had given him the opportunity to tidy up the flat and to clean up before returning to the block to fetch you. You’d been tasked with reorganizing the used classical and poetry section, so you’d spent the better part of your day elbow-deep in dusty old books. (Steven was having a very difficult time resisting the urge to snuff the biblichor lingering on your scalp—there was nothing better than the combination of your signature perfume and books to him.) An older man had walked up on you to ask you a question and it had startled you—you’d barely stopped a whole row from toppling down on you since you’d been standing on a stepstool at the time. He’d apologized profusely, but you said that the image of you teetering on that rickety old hunk of metal was probably the funniest thing you’d pictured yourself doing in a long time.

“But you’re not hurt, right?” Steven pressed, brow furrowed.

“No, I’m good,” you answered, nudging him in the side with your elbow. “I’ve got a thick skull—you ought to know that by now, darlin’.”

The stop in the general store was, true to your word, a quick one. He recognized some of the ingredients, but he had no idea how you were going to combine them all into something undeniably delicious. By the time you both got to his flat, you were cutting up and he was laughing a bit louder than what was appropriate close to midnight.

“Here, I’ll get started,” you told him as you unloaded the sacks on the kitchen counter, “why don’t you go pick something to put on for background noise?”

“Sure thing, love,” he responded, turning to do just that. When he came back, you were in the middle of warming oil in a saucepan while dicing some vegetables. “What can I do?”

“I’d kill for some of that lemonade we made the other day if you have any left over,” you commented. “But you could help me get this chopped up. I’ll need the emulsifier. It’s just a simple soup I thought was interesting—I haven’t used sundried tomatoes before. It reminds me of a pasta sauce I’ve seen before, but this is more like a tomato soup than anything.”

“Sounds divine,” Steven told you, stooping over into the fridge to pull out the pitcher in question. He’d left enough for two more servings. “Will you want a grilled cheese?”

“No, I’m okay.” You bumped your hip into his as thanks when he set a glass within your reach, the ice clinking against the glass. “I’m kind of beat, honestly, so if I can get this down before I pass out, I’ll be lucky.”

“I washed your spare clothes if you’d like to go shower while I watch the pot,” he offered. “They’re on top of the dresser.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” you admitted. “Can you dice these tomatoes?”

It, perhaps, should have been a little worrisome how easily he fell into such a domestic routine with you. Even if Marc suspected you had feelings for him that weren’t strictly platonic, Steven wondered whether your natural exuberance was causing him to misread your behavior. But it was in the moments that you intentionally brushed against him when such contact could’ve been avoided, displaying your comfort so loudly without saying a word, that he dared to let that little flicker of hope breathe itself to life. You seemed committed to keeping some form of contact with him at all times, your hands touching his arms or sides as you orbited him like his own personal little moon. You only spoke in that low, inexplicably soothing tone.

Steven watched the pan while you retreated to the bathroom. You reemerged with damp, shiny hair and dewy, softly-scented skin, and it was even harder for him not to catch a whiff as you floated around him grabbing cutlery and bowls and napkins like you had the layout of his flat memorized. You even put the kettle on without him even having to ask, setting out a mug and a teabag for him to fix how he preferred it.

After blitzing the vegetables together and adding a bit of coconut cream to smooth it out, your dish was completed and smelled utterly divine topped with fresh basil. You both ended up settled shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in front of the television, slurping spoonfuls and idly commenting on the film he’d chosen. It was cozy and calm and exactly what he needed after having a class of rowdy six-graders that had seemed interested in anything but what he’d had to say during their field trip for which he’d been tasked to provide a tour that morning (he should have suspected something was remiss when the teacher’s name had popped up on the itinerary and all the other guides had—quite brightly and appraisingly—suggested he take it; it was a marvel to him, really, that the school could miss the fact that she had utilized the opportunity to be paid to scroll on her phone while he was forced to wrangle the feral children supposedly under her care).

That was exactly the tale he regaled when you asked him, midway through the movie during a lull in the plot, if anything interesting had happened to him that day. You looked rightly disgruntled on his behalf, huffing that he was far too nice to tolerate that sort of negligence and that you would have set her in her place had you been there. He’d gently, if amusedly, informed you that it had somewhat worked out in the end—with no small (nor well-hidden) amount of satisfaction, he told you that his obligation to supervise them all had ended upon delivering the troop to the gift shop at the end of the tour…where Donna had been stuck on shift yet again (since so few people applied for the position due to its low wages combined with the high turnover rate as a result of her nasty behavior and poor management style…but Steven wasn’t normally one to gloat over such things; you, however, had been utterly delighted to hear it).

“At least that bitch got some of what she deserves,” you said, tipping your chin up and glaring down the end of your nose at the screen. “I hope she regrets every last negative word she said to you now that she has to pick up all the shit she dumped on you.”

“It doesn’t matter in the long run, love,” he reminded you, although his chuckle was difficult to smother. It did give him some satisfaction to see it, else he’d have been made a liar to suggest otherwise…but just a little bit. “I don’t answer to her anymore.”

“Good, or else I might’ve felt the need to cut a bitch,” you grumbled.

Steven jumped slightly as Marc’s low, huffing laugh caught him off guard. He glanced over at one of the mirrors he’d mounted on the available space of a nearby bookshelf, and his host’s moody, brooding eyes were twinkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. He didn’t say a word, as he tended to give the front a wide berth when Steven was having personal time with you, but the weight of his presence was a reassuring one. His host lifted his brows and glanced pointedly in your direction, tipping his head towards you for emphasis.

Steven cast him a dark glare. Marc had been teasing him for a week now about finally making a move in the most cliché and inane manner possible, but Steven was resolute that it was not ideal. He respected you highly and didn’t want to give you a poor experience that might smother any chances he had of winning over your good graces. Your ex had been the pushy sort, and he wanted to be anything but. It was simply unfortunate that his and Marc’s individual approaches to romance were vastly contrary.

“Let’s not add ‘murder’ to your long, impressive list of accomplishments, yeah?” Steven proposed mildly, watching you glance up at him with a smirk and glittering eyes of your own.

“Fine,” you sighed, resting your temple briefly on his shoulder. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he nodded. “Wouldn’t be very good if you wind up in prison defending somebody like me.”

“You ought to know by now that there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for you, Steven,” you responded, rolling your eyes, but there was something couched in your tone that piqued his attention.

He blinked, then glanced towards the mirror again, but Marc was gone. So much for his bloody help regarding women.

“You do know that, right?” you prompted a little quieter, and when he looked over, you were gazing up at him through your lashes out of your periphery.

Steven relaxed as that familiar warm, fuzzy feeling unfurling within his chest like the blooming of a flower in the morning. “I do,” he returned softly. “And I hope you know that sentiment is mutual.”

You stared at him, then, head turning little by little until your full, beseeching gaze was fixed on him. His heart pounded raucously against his ribs as he became acutely aware of your hand slipping over to squeeze his knee gently—he was shocked you couldn’t hear it, because it was loud enough he very nearly didn’t hear your next words. “…Can I kiss you?”

He swallowed roughly, a reflexive action that caused him to jump. His hand, shaky and clammy, settled over yours, his fingers slotting alongside your own. He licked his lips, sucked in a breath that rattled in his lungs, and managed a jerky nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Please?”

Your free hand cupped his chin, fingertips tracing along his jawline with undeserved reverence before settling his cheek into the cradle of your palm, and he stooped slightly to save your neck as you lifted your chin to meet him halfway. He blinked, startled, as your lips—soft and smooth—chastely met the corner of his mouth. The split-second confused thought of you missing was promptly erased when you tilted your head and repeated the motion to the opposite side, lingering just a tad bit longer there.

Oh. Oh.

He clamped his eyelids shut.

The featherdown flutter of your doe-like lashes tickling the arch of his cheek as you kissed him proper, gentle and slow and tender, skyrocketed his pulse. He wondered idly, somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, if he was in any danger of having cardiac arrest at this rate. Heat flooded his face like wildfire, sweat springing up along his hairline as he reached out to touch you, too.

His trembling fingers made contact with the side of your neck, first, and to his inexplicable delight and relief he could feel your heartbeat racing alongside your throat, too. He curled his hand around your nape, thumb stroking the tender skin beneath the shell of your ear as an indescribable, high-pitched whine escaped you. He cracked an eye open to watch your expression cringe with embarrassment, but you made up for it by sliding your fingers into his curls to tug his head into a deeper angle. A gutted, broken groan bubbled out of the pit of his chest before he could stop it.

You began to litter his lips with quick, light pecks, and never before had Steven quite felt cherished. You pulled back just a hair’s breadth to catch your breath. “You have…no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I can hazard a guess,” he mumbled, pulling you back in, “‘cause you’re in the same boat as I am.”

You let out a needy, desperate little noise that lanced down his spine. Steven Grant had never considered himself a selfish person by any stretch of the imagination, but he was quite certain at that moment that if he didn’t hear it again immediately he would die.

Oxygen became a hazy concept, but even the most ardent and devoted of adorators required it. When you broke away to suck in a lungful, Steven dared to look at you. You were dazed, eyes hazy and lips puffy, but the way you glowed in the dim lighting was like nothing he’d ever envisioned in all his studies of art. And you were staring at him as though he had hung each and every last individual star in the sky.

“I was so scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you murmured, “but I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“I never wanted to assume,” he added quietly. “I was fine with being mates, but I always wondered…I didn’t want to pressure you, after…I just wanted you to feel comfortable if…”

“I know,” you interrupted him mercifully, leaning back in. “I know. Thank you for being patient.”

“There were so many times I wanted to tell you,” he mumbled into your mouth, too enchanted to shut off his stream of consciousness, “but it never felt right, and I didn’t want to lose my only friend—my best friend—yet it was absolute torture not knowing—”

“I didn’t know if I could bear to make myself vulnerable to be hurt again,” you returned, shifting to kiss along his cheek, “and I had to work myself up to take the risk. You’re all I’ve got left anymore. Maybe I’m selfish to want more than what we have, but God, Steven, I want you so bad, I can hardly stand it.”

The lump in the pit of his throat nearly choked him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, arms coiling around you and holding you tightly against his chest. “I do, too,” he breathed. “Like I need air.”

You returned the hug with a ferocity he hadn’t felt from you before. You were shaking, too, and it soothed him to know that the nerves were mutual, as well. For being very transparent people by nature, the both of you had managed a miracle of hiding your feelings from each other for so long.

“I need you to know that I can only do it if you’re all in,” you said, muffled by the material of his shirt. “My heart can’t take it otherwise.”

“You have all of me and more, poppet,” he told you, smothering his face into your scalp. “I swear to you I’ll do better than anyone else has or could. I’ll earn it, I promise. I can be worthy of you. I’ll sooner hurt myself than ever dream of hurting you.”

[reallyrallyauthor]

moon knight- a friend

a/n: last entry for @moonknight-events MK Bingo! Barely edited, but I wanted to get this final one in. It was SO MUCH fun participating and seeing the amazing, amazing work that everyone created for this. Thank you so much @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch for organizing and helping us enrich our environment/community ❤️

Summary: You and Marc Spector have a purely physical relationship. Both operating in society’s gray area, you try to avoid conflicts of interest. But when you’re hired to steal an artifact from a London museum, you wonder if even Marc himself knows all of his secrets.

Contents: pre-show, gn!reader, no actual smut just sex talk, fwb, Steven is still unaware of Marc (~3k)

-----

When you and Marc were mercenaries together, it was strictly professional.

He disappeared for days at a time.

He drank too much.

People gave him a wide berth. The nicest thing people called him was “unstable.”

You’d been too busy with your own demons to think much about his. But years later, after you’d hung up your AR-15, Spector had shown up through a friend of a friend of a friend. Alive and still “unstable,” asking for help acquiring fake passports and weapons.

You’d been sleeping together ever since. Whenever your paths crossed.

Like yesterday, when you’d been assessing security at a London museum for an illegal acquisition of an Egyptian artifact for a client.

And who’d been there but Marc Spector? Wearing an adorably garish patterned shirt and a “Steven” nametag.

Now, you’re laying in bed together in your hotel room. Your fingers trace over Marc’s tan skin, still sweaty. You’d hardly gotten the door open before you were ripping each other’s clothes off. So, par for the course.

You never asked personal questions. Neither did he. This time was different, though.

You prop yourself up on your elbow so you can look down at the sharp planes of his face. His heavy eyelids and lashes. The way his curly hair sticks to his forehead.

“I know this is breaking an unspoken rule,” you say, “but if we have a professional conflict, I’d rather know about it now.”

Marc’s guard goes up. A slight tensing of his muscles, a downturn of his lips. No matter how hardened Marc was, though, his eyes still can’t hide anything from you.

You decide to take a chance and be up front with him. “I’m breaking into the museum in three days. One of the death masks is due to be removed from display for cleaning. I was hired to steal it.”

Marc’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t care why you’re working there, unless you were hired to steal the same thing?”

Marc shakes his head subtly.

“Okay then,” you say, relaxing a bit. “I’ll pay you a grand for your employee ID badge. Be a lot easier for me.”

“No,” he says immediately, “I can’t compromise my cover.”

“Steven?” You ask.

Marc’s eyes flicker. “Please, don’t say that name.”

Something’s going on there. You can feel it.

Over the last few years, Marc had been almost normal. Less erratic, doesn’t talk to himself anymore.

He obviously still has issues he isn’t willing to share, though. It stings, but you only see each other a few times a year. It isn’t like you’re really friends or anything.

You lay your hand on his chest. “I won’t cause trouble with whatever you’re doing here. If you do the same for me.”

Marc glances out the window.

“Wind’s picking up,” you say, watching the trees outside blow fiercely, spewing leaves off their branches.

Marc’s hand comes up to cover yours. His eyes trail over your face.

“I can’t let you steal that mask,” he says.

You’ve never been at odds with him before. “Three grand?”

Marc sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not the money.”

Tree branches whip against the hotel window and you jump.

“Calm down,” Marc says, but he’s looking outside and not at you.

“I’m calm,” you say, pulling your hand away and rolling off the bed. “You need to leave.”

Marc nods. He bends down to pick up his clothes and starts to get dressed.

His eyes plead with you. “Don’t come to the museum again. Don’t do the job.”

“The client already paid me, Marc. You know how this works. I couldn’t return the money, even if I wanted to. Which, I don’t.” You fold your arms. “Just stay out of my way.”

Marc glances at you, one of the corners of his mouth smiles. “We’ve never been good at that, have we? Staying out of each other’s way.” He holds his t-shirt in his hands, thinking. “If you come to the museum, I’m going to act like I don’t know you. If you try to steal anything, I’m going to stop you.”

A laugh barks out of you. “I’m a better thief than you are security guard. We both know it.”

“Not anymore,” he says, pulling his shirt back on. He walks around to find his shoes, stuffs his still-bare feet inside. He walks over to you.

He cups your face in his big, warm hands.

“I know what we have isn’t personal,” he says, “and that’s my fault. But trust me on this one. Don’t do the job.”

Marc looks at you now with eyes almost as dark as earlier that night, an honesty and rawness you’ve never seen outside of when he’s inside of you.

You pull his hands away. “I’m sorry, Marc.”

A pained look crosses his face. “Me too.”

*****

Tidying the brochures is Steven’s third least favorite job. The second is overnight inventory. A lonely, endless task. The worst job is anything involving Donna.

Unfortunately, all three are on the agenda.

He doesn’t remember skipping out on the last half of his shift yesterday, but he can’t deny that it’d happened.

He remembered closing his eyes in a quiet corner of the museum during his break. He must’ve sleepwalked right out. He’d come to outside of a hotel on the other side of town, sockless and without a jacket.

Punishment is doing all of the fiddly, annoying tasks today.

Steven watches a tour group pass by.

A person at the back lags behind. Probably bored. If he gave the tours, no one would be bored. Especially not someone with eyes like yours, sharp and observant.

Your gaze lands on him. He gives you a little wave, brochure for a double-decker tour of London still in hand.

You give him a very strange look in return. A little stiff, confused, as if you expect him to come talk to you.

Surely you wouldn’t expect that, though. 

But you’re walking over. Steven’s heart races.

“Hi,” you say cautiously.

Steven smiles. “Hiya, d’you need assistance? I see you drew the short straw and got Phil as your guide. He’s nice enough, but a bit dry. If you have any questions, maybe I can help though. I work in the gift shop, but I promise I know more about all of this than Phil. He’s more interested in the sandwiches at the cafe than Tawaret.” He laughs, then remembers himself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking your ear off.”

“No,” you say, your eyes wide, “rant away. This is fascinating. I never knew you were such a good actor.”

Steven screws up his face. “Actor? No, I’m more of a, um, I guess you could call me a gift-shop-ist.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” you say, nodding and looking him over.

Steven’s cheeks feel a bit warm from your attention, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. Something about you is familiar, your scent maybe, or the sound of your voice. He can’t put his finger on it.

That, at least, is something he knows well. He feels like his brain is always trying to grasp at sleepy memories just out of his reach.

You loop your arm through his, surprising him. You pull him toward one of the display cases.

“What do you know about this?” You tap the glass.

Steven, caught up in the profile of your face, has to unscramble his thoughts for a second. “That is, to be honest, a poor example of a death mask. Pre-Roman but only just.”

Your squeeze your body closer to his.

“Interesting,” you say. “And why isn’t it any good?”

“Well, it has value of course, historically speaking,” Steven says, trying to keep his tone professional. “It’s not original, though. It’s a copy. Maybe a copy of a copy. The lineage of it is fascinating. It’s a recent acquisition.”

Your arm slips out of his and you lean against the case, staring hard at him.

Steven shifts under your scrutiny.

“I’m pretty sure this one is the original,” you say.

Steven swallows. “Well, I can understand why you’d think that. The research staff certainly do, and labeled it as such. But I disagree.”

You give him a smile, a slightly annoyed look. “Why am I not surprised? You're going to tell me it's useless? Stop asking questions about it?”

“Have I done something to offend you? I’m sorry.” Steven lays a hand over his chest.

“You can’t tell me this is fake just to throw me off my job,” you say.

“You’re not here working,” Steven says. “I am.”

You lean forward slightly. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m an independent contractor, just like you.”

Steven tries to make sense of what you’re saying, but like a lot of things in his life, nothing quite lines up. Before he can ask more, you turn and walk swiftly back out of the exhibit hall.

Steven watches you go, torn between confusion and a longing that he doesn’t understand.

*****

You knew Marc would be waiting for you in one of the collections management rooms in the museum. The room where the artifact is being cleaned.

And he doesn’t disappoint.

He’s still wearing his “Steven” get-up. The table next to him is covered in a white sheet, presumably with what you’re after underneath it.

You close the door behind you when you enter.

“Hell, Spector, with a performance like that, I think Hollywood’s going to be calling you any minute,” you say as you walk into the room toward him.

A flicker of confusion crosses his face.

“Did we speak earlier?” He asks.

You roll your eyes. “No, Marc, we didn’t. I was speaking to ‘Steven,’ right?”

Marc frowns.

Your eyes scan his body, but he doesn’t look armed.

“Anyway,” you say, “I decided to move up my timeline after you made it clear you weren’t going to play nice. Seems like you anticipated that.”

Marc holds out a hand, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with here. This artifact isn’t just a mask. It’s a map.”

“For fuck’s sake, Marc. Which is it? Is it a map and important, or is it fake like you told me earlier?” You stretch out your neck, anticipating a fight.

“Fake?” Marc’s voice hones to a sharp edge. He turns to the table and pulls off the white sheet in one, harsh tug.

“Not fake, just not ‘original,’ or whatever," you say.

You watch him pick up the mask and examine it, front and back.

You keep your distance, out of arm’s length but positioned slightly behind him. You don’t want to fight him. Hand to hand was never your strongest skill. You’ve seen Marc in action, though, and you know how vicious he can be.

How far would he go to stop you?

You only know this: you can’t kill him.

If you let yourself, you could love him. And because of that, even though his attention isn’t fully on you and you could probably take out your knife and stab him right through a kidney before he’d react, you don’t make a move against him.

Marc drops the mask back on the table. His voice is as tense as his shoulders. “How did you know this wasn’t the original?”

Your senses tell you something’s wrong. Off.

“I didn’t,” you say slowly. “You did.”

Marc’s head drops.

You lay one hand on the knife sheathed to your thigh, just in case. The other reaches out as you take a few steps and close the distance to Marc. You rest your hand on his shoulders, and after a few seconds, run it back and forth. Some of the tension leaves his body.

“Marc, what’s going on here?” You ask.

He shakes his head, his curls bouncing and hiding any expression on his face as he keeps looking down at the table.

“You should go,” he says. “Get as far away from me as you can. I’m a mess, sweetheart.”

The endearment makes your skin feel hot. He’s never used it before.

“The good news is, my client paid for the original, so I don’t have to kick your ass. For now,” you say. "I'll be returning their money."

Marc breathes out a laugh.

“I have to ask though, do you know where the original is?”

Marc straightens up from the table. Your hand drops. He grabs it and holds on, almost absentmindedly.

“I don’t know. Probably nowhere good,” he says.

“But you have an idea?”

Marc gives you a wry look. “I don’t have shit. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m barely hanging on here. Never mind. Not your problem.”

“What if it were?” You ask, pulling him closer to you. “My problem, I mean. Let me help, please.”

His arms wrap around you loosely. “We’ve done a lot of jobs together, but I can’t drag you into this one. It’s too dangerous. Besides,” he says with a dark look, “I already have help. And he’s pretty selfish about my time.”

“Oh,” you say, slightly surprised.

“No,” Marc laughs, “it’s not like that. He’s my boss and I owe him my life. So, I’m kind of stuck in his service for the rest of eternity.”

He looks around the room. “There is something, though,” he says.

“Anything.”

Marc’s face softens as he looks at you. There are lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, ones that never used to be there. He’s only gotten more handsome as the years have gone on, but he looks so tired you want to wrap him up in a blanket and let him have a good night's sleep somewhere quiet.

“You said you spoke to Steven earlier,” he says, gauging your reaction. “I can’t really explain, but he’s not me. I’m not him either.”

You don’t understand what he seems to be hinting at, but you’re used to taking things as they come with Marc.

“He’s special,” Marc says. “Stronger than he knows, but he’s lonely. Could use a friend.”

“Me?” You say, almost shocked. 

He grins. “You’re good company. Always were. And with this job canceled, I know you’ll need the money. Just keep an eye on him. I’ll wire you ten k.”

You open your mouth, but Marc lays his fingers over your lips.

“Jobs are no questions asked,” he says. “Unless you’ve changed that policy.”

You shake your head and he drops his fingers.

“Will I see you soon, then?” You feel weak for asking, but can’t stop the question.

Marc leans in and kisses you softly. Not like anything you’ve shared before. It feels like, a shiver runs through you, love.

*****

Steven sells a 500 piece puzzle of the Great Pyramid of Giza. Then an ankh necklace. An umbrella with hieroglyphics.

None of the customers are interested in a conversation about them. Shame, really.

He rubs his fingers over his eyes. He thought he’d gotten a full night’s sleep last night. But he has the feeling that maybe his body was out and about again. Although how he’d gotten past all his own traps and devices, he didn’t know.

A heavy book about Gods and Goddesses thumps down on the counter.

Steven looks up.

“Oh, hello,” he says with a smile.

“Hi again,” you say. “I’m sorry about the other day. I was really rude.”

“No, not at all,” Steven says. He scans the book. “We all have off days. Cash or card?”

You take out your wallet. “Cash.”

You set down a few bills. Steven wraps the book in tissue paper before putting it in the bag, an unnecessary step, but it keeps the dust jacket from getting crushed.

“I cut you off before you could finish telling me about the exhibit,” you say. “Do you do private tours?”

Steven looks up. He points a finger to himself. “Me? I don’t do tours at all. Not allowed.”

You frown. “Seems like a bad decision on management’s part.”

Steven looks around, then leans a bit toward you. “They’re not the brightest around here.”

You smile. Steven feels a lightness in his chest. He might never have felt like this before, except maybe in the morning when he talks to Gus. Easy conversation, that. Relaxing.

He refrains from comparing you to his goldfish, though. You might not appreciate it.

“How about you tell me more over lunch, then? If you have a break. Or tonight after work. Or tomorrow?” You ask. “My treat. Please.”

It sounds like a date. But why would someone as interesting as you ever want to date him? Bonkers.

But he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. Hasn’t even tried to stop.

He’s a mess, though. Waking up in the middle of the street, violent dreams, can’t even get a simple job like a gift shop clerk right.

“That’s kind of you,” Steven says, “but I’m not really able to go on dates now. I’d love to, but I, um,” he smiles sadly.

He takes the money you laid down and opens the till.

“I understand,” you say. “You feel like you’re barely holding it together.”

Steven hands you your change. “Yeah, I do.”

Something in your eyes says that you do actually understand. It lifts his spirits.

“Not a date then. How about as friends? Everyone could use a friend,” you smile at him.

He breaks out in a huge grin. “Yeah, I could definitely use one of those.”

You steal a pen from next to the cash register and write down your number and name on your receipt. You hand it to him.

“I can’t wait to get to know you, Steven,” you say. “You probably have all kinds of secrets.”

Steven folds the receipt carefully and puts it in his shirt pocket. “No secrets, I’m afraid. I’m boring as anything.”

Your eyes study him. That way he’s starting to recognize. Like you’re not sure if he’s joking or not. Like you’re poking around for something.

“Steven Grant, you’re anything but boring,” you say. “Text me.”

You grab your bag and walk out. Steven watches you go, barely holding his tongue. He didn’t want to make a bad impression, or derail things.

But he was certain that he’d never told you his last name.

-----

Square I "secret relationship"’" and in this fic, every relationship is kind of a secret. Steven doesn’t know about Marc, and therefore doesn’t know reader knows him. Reader is making friends w/ Steven under false pretenses. Messy.

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[campingwiththecharmings]

Honey Trap

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

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

(Un-beta’d)

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

——————

Marc doesn’t trust you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc raises an eyebrow. “Your brother?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s you. Of course it’s you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about Operation Windstorm.” 

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

So he stalls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you around.

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[asimplearchivist]

𝓢𝓪𝓭 𝓔𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ you and jake enjoy having movie nights, but he has the habit of spoiling the endings for you. this time is different, though. pairing(s) ☽ jake lockley/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 1.9k a/n ☽ ⤏ my fifth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. ⤏ this one derailed from me as well. I swear these guys have minds of their own. this ended up being a lot sappier than I intended, but...c'est la vie. I love one jake lockley. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

“I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“Come on, querida. You should’ve had some idea that this would happen.”

“No, I absolutely did not!” You lifted your face from your hands, twisting to the side with your elbows still planted on your knees in order to glare up at your smirking fellow historical drama critic. “It’s not my fault that I don’t have a sixth sense for figuring out plot lines in the first ten minutes like you do!”

“Says the writer,” he chuckled, eyes glittering. “If it makes you feel any better, Steven wasn’t expecting it, either.”

That did, actually. You and Steven had long since developed the practice of conducting ongoing commentaries and speculations on the potential plotline based on the details revealed in whatever media you’d enjoy together—be it TV shows, movies, or books (print or audio)—whereas Jake was more the type to verbalize his predictions as they came to him, disregarding any suspension of disbelief. At least Marc only remarked on the glaring inaccuracies regarding combat, weapons, or injuries that Hollywood lauded for exaggerated effect.

On one hand, it used to drive you crazy—you preferred to experience things as they unfolded and let the story tell itself, following along for the ride…but, on the other hand, the knowing gleam in Jake’s eyes, the smug tilt of his close-lipped grin, and the way he’d start to pay more attention to you instead of the film (particularly with his hands—rubbing his palm over the line of your, at times, tense shoulders, grasping the nape of your neck and stroking the pad of his thumb along your hairline and under the shell of your ear, or petting your head like one would a beloved pet—about which you could never truly complain) eroded your exasperation over time. Now you almost looked forward to it—even if you still gave him a hard time about the inevitable spoilers involved.

Tonight, it would seem, however, that he’d decided to bide his time in order to see your unprepared reaction without dropping an obvious statement that would have indicated the plot twist to you ahead of time. For once, admittedly, you would’ve appreciated the warning.

“How could they say that about her?” you bemoaned, eyes returning to the screen with prolific lamentation. “She’s literally done nothing to them—she doesn’t even want to marry him, they didn’t have to drag her reputation through the mud!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, querida,” Jake chuckled, “it was visible from miles away.”

You huffed and turned away from him, refocusing your attention on the television screen. You watched the protagonist’s subsequent emotional breakdown with trepidation, frowning as she was scorned and criticized by the people that should have been her allies and had claimed to have been her friends. The only people that believed she was innocent in the matter were her sister and, fortunately, her love interest. He arrived late the next rainy night on a raven-black horse that shivered and bellowed mist from his nostrils as the man, drenched and pensive, dismounted to greet the distressed young woman at the door of her family’s home.

“Hey,” Jake murmured, nudging your side with his elbow. “It’ll turn out fine.”

You glanced up at him, relaxing slightly. You’d been teased in the past by several people for being so emotionally invested in fictional characters and their plight—your ex included—and while you weren’t ashamed of the fact you had the ability to extend so much empathy (even in hypothetical situations), you were sensitive to what others might think. Steven didn’t mind—he was much the same as you, honestly, and that was such a relief. Marc didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, thankfully. But Jake was a notorious tease and found a lot of joy in flustering you, and you were still getting used to gauging his personality since you hadn’t known him as long as the other two—so that he wasn’t poking fun at you about this was a monumental relief.

“I know,” you breathed, sinking into his side. He coiled his arm around your shoulders in response. “He’ll save the day with his money and marry her silly. These things never have sad endings.”

Jake hummed and drummed his fingertips on your upper arm. “It’s a good thing. Wouldn’t want you to be sad, chaparrita. Might have to pay that studio a stern visit otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart squeezed at the sentiment—as aggressive as it was. There was one thing that you had learned for certain since meeting him: Jake showed his love through protectiveness as opposed to the gentler means of the other two men. You’d never want him to hurt someone for you, necessarily (unless they deserved it, of course), but the thought that he would be willing to go up to bat for you, that he had your back no matter what, was far more reassuring than you had ever expected it to be. (Something, something, scary guard dog privileges.)

“Some movies need them, though,” you pointed out. “Sometimes that’s the whole point of the story—something out of the characters’ control happens, and they have to decide how they’ll react. Other times it’s pointless, serves no greater purpose to enhance the plot.”

“Shit happens in real life for no reason, though,” Jake pointed out, voice low as the music onscreen swelled. The love interest was embracing the weeping protagonist, having informed her that he had, in fact, solved the issue. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it.”

You nodded, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “Some people are fortunate enough to have happy endings, though,” you murmured. “It’s a dangerous thing to claim, because things could always go wrong, but…” You swallowed, tucking your nose under the lapel of his shirt. “...I’m glad I met you guys. It was worth everything I’ve gone through.”

Jake stilled, falling silent. You had also learned that such intimate proclamations tended to throw him for a loop—he was not accustomed to revealing his inner emotions, since he’d repressed them (and himself) for so long. He was getting better at communicating in general, thanks to Steven’s long-suffering patience and gentle coaxing, but you could tell anything ‘mushy’ made him slightly uncomfortable. (Having noticed this, you’d asked him early on if he wanted you to slow down on giving him affection—but he’d visibly recoiled at that suggestion, more demanding than asking you not to stop. You could only really speculate since he didn’t talk about it much, but you knew that if you were in his position, even if such attention was new, you’d be famished for it. You’d decided he was just embracing his adjustment period instead of avoiding it, like Marc had tended to do at first.)

He shifted, angling his body closer to yours, and tucked the end of his nose behind the shell of your ear. “...We’re glad we met you, too, querida,” he finally murmured, his free hand slipping down to curl around the knob of your knee. He pressed his face into your neck, and you wondered if he could feel your pounding pulse against his lips. “You’ve done us a whole lot of good.”

Chest tightening, you focused resolutely on the television despite the warring urge to arm him up and press a litany of kisses all over his face and head—any affection he felt comfortable doling out was precious indeed, and you would grant him the privacy of tucking himself out of sight, even if it was under your chin. Marc struggled the most with letting himself be seen as any semblance of vulnerable—and while Jake was more inclined and apt to it, he was still learning to trust you in particular, so allow himself to lower his guard and be himself with you (while, simultaneously, discovering and determining exactly who he was).

To receive a compliment of such caliber from Jake, though, was the highest bestowment of honor anyone could receive. He was picky, you’d learned, extremely so—especially regarding people with whom he associated. He had high standards, given the fact that his top priority had always been protecting the system first and foremost. Allowing anyone with dangerous intentions close enough to potentially hurt them was simply unacceptable, and thus he kept most everyone at arm’s length. That was why he’d acted in such a way towards you when he’d been forced to intervene for Marc’s sake, leading to your first ‘official’ meeting—he never gave anyone the benefit of a doubt until they proved themselves worthy of his extremely loyal regard (and his protection).

“I’m glad,” you responded softly. “I always try my best.”

“It’s all we could ever have asked for.”

You caved, but just slightly. You tilted your head down to press a lingering kiss to the crown of his head, nestling your nose into the neatly combed curls and inhaling the complimentary scents of their shampoo and hair gel. You curled an arm around his back and rubbed your palm in a series of circles between his shoulder blades, forgoing the movie for the sensation of his breath hitching against your throat.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For letting me have my happy ending.”

He swallowed roughly, and when his muscles went rigid you almost expected one of the others to surface—Jake had a habit of retreating when emotions got to be too much for him, which you’d never taken offense to (only had ever worried, but it wasn’t usually very long before he slipped back into the driver’s seat to reassure you by diverting the topic to let you know he was okay)—but instead of Steven’s falsetto lilt or Marc’s flat baritone emerging to notify you of the switch, Jake’s rumbling rasp vibrated your skin via his scruffy lips brushing your artery. “It’s I who should be thanking you, chaparrita, for not running for the hills when you had the chance. You’ve…been there for them when I couldn’t be. And you didn’t…you stuck around for me.” He cleared his throat quietly. “Gracias.”

“De nada,” you returned, kissing his head again and reaching up to play with the errant locks at the nape of his neck. “Eres precioso a mi.”

He let out a breathless, if slightly wet, chuckle, and snuggled in closer. You counted it precious. You counted them precious.

“Tengo hambre,” you commented after a while, sensing he might like to have an out. “¿Qué tenemos qué podemos comer?”

Jake retracted, but it was slow and borderline reluctant, if you didn’t know any better. “Let’s order something, chaparrita. I don’t feel like futzing around in the kitchen this late.”

You smiled and reached for your phone. “Sounds good to me. Asian or…?”

“Thai.” To your surprise, Jake tugged at your arms as he reclined, coaxing you to recline on top of him, your back to his chest. He wrapped you up in an unyielding, tight embrace, smothering his face into your neck once more to mumble against your ear. “Those glass noodles Marc’s gotten before are good. With the chicken.”

You tried your best to bite back your smile, but you couldn’t help the heat building beneath your cheeks. You raised your phone over your face to pull up the corresponding delivery app. “Anything for you, handsome. Anything for you.”

[reallyrallyauthor]

steven grant- lipstick words

Summary: You find porn on Steven's computer, and you watch it together. (~1.8k)

Contents: 🔥 18+ nsfw, description of porn (video contains verbal and physical degradation, body writing, masturbation, p in v), watching porn together, fingering

part of @moonknight-events: MK spring ‘24 Bingo Event

-----

As far as you knew, Steven wasn’t big on porn.

He found it a bit silly. Unrealistic. He’d much rather play around with you in the bedroom.

Steven isn’t ashamed to try new things or toys. Always honest about his curiosity.

So, when you start up his laptop and the browser is already open to a porn site, you’re surprised. And when the video starts automatically playing, you’re kind of shocked. He’s never mentioned anything like this before.

You’re torn between not wanting to embarrass him by asking about it, and hurt. Does he feel like he has to hide something that turns him on?

It takes you a few nights to work up the courage. Your opportunity comes on Tuesday documentary night. He gets a bowl of popcorn and sits on the couch.

You set Steven’s laptop on the stack of books you keep on the coffee table for better viewing.

Then, you turn and point to Steven’s lap. “That seat taken?”

Steven grins. “All yours, love.”

You push his legs apart with your hands and settle between them, so your back is to him. You feel him get half-hard just from that. You lean forward to wake up the computer and you hear Steven inhale.

One of his hands touches the sliver of skin between your t-shirt and pajama bottoms, running up underneath and over your back.

He wraps his other arm around you. “Maybe put on something we’ve seen before, yeah? Don’t think I’ll care about watching anything with you sitting so close like this.”

You run your finger over the trackpad, clicking until you find the video you had in mind.

“You might be interested in this.” You hit play and sit up, nestling back against Steven’s warm body.

His hands slide up your thighs, up and up, as he nuzzles his lips against your neck.

The man’s voice in the video freezes Steven’s body completely.

“What does it say on your stomach?” A man’s voice asks.

“Whore,” a woman answers, breathless.

Steven’s body jerks forward, his arm reaches out for the laptop, but you hold him back.

“I want to watch this one,” you say to Steven.

“No, you don’t have to. I thought maybe I’d left it up on accident the other day. It was from before you and I got together,” he says. His words are muffled from behind his hand over his mouth.

On the laptop screen, the video is shaky. Clearly homemade. A woman lays naked on a bed. A man holds a tube of red lipstick, already having written a few things on her smooth skin.

You take Steven’s hand away from his face and set it on the elastic waistband of your pajama pants.

The man writes ‘slut’ on the inside of the woman’s thigh. Steven gets immediately hard, a steel rod against your back.

His fingers play with your stomach, just catching the elastic.

“We can turn this off if you like,” Steven says. “I don’t need it.”

His tone, though, says he’s turned on. That he wants to keep going. You lean your head back slightly. You can still see, but your head is against Steven’s neck.

“You like it, though. We can watch it together,” you say.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

You reach out and pause the video. You turn slightly in his lap. Steven’s face is a little red.

“Hey,” you say, waiting until he looks at you. “What kind of porn you watch is your business. I’m a horrible person for violating your privacy. I'm really sorry."

His big, dark eyes widen. “No, love, don’t feel bad, please. I told you to use my computer whenever you like. Maybe,” he bites his bottom lip thoughtfully, “I unconsciously left the porn up for you to find. It’s not really our kind of thing, this. You’re the greatest treasure in the world and I, I-“

He clamps his lips shut to stop his stuttering.

You hold his face in your hands, kiss him softly on the lips. Relief floods over you when Steven wraps his arms around you and kisses you back.

“We can watch that documentary about the domestication of fish.” You kiss the end of his nose. “Or, we can finish what we started. It’s completely up to you.”

Steven rests his forehead against yours, eyes boring into you. “You don’t think less of me, then? Or think that I think less of you?”

That brings a smile out of you. He's so sweet, so willing to put you first. You want to do the same for him.

“No, Steven, of course not. It’s a kink. It’s porn. Those are two safe places for us because we love each other. It's like when we role play that thing where you're the archeologist and I'm the artifact you uncover in the desert. It's fun and hot. We don't have to analyze it. I think it could be like that."

Steven’s breath is warm over your lips. His gaze goes from owlish and searching, to heated. Excited.

“Go on then, press play,” he says with a smile.

You resume your position and start the video. Steven pulls you back tightly against him. His hand is between your legs immediately, rubbing you over the cloth of your pants.

The man in the video draws an arrow on the inside of the woman’s thigh, right up to the apex.

As the woman’s hand starts to touch her clit, Steven’s hand dives into your pants and he does the same to you. Your breath catches, hips thrusting against nothing, trying to get Steven to rub you harder. The woman moans, one finger dipping into her wet cunt.

“Steven, please,” you say. You rub yourself back on his hard length.

His lips suck on the nape of your neck, right where it meets your shoulder.

“You want my fingers, love?” He practically whispers.

The sound of the woman moaning and Steven’s thick fingers teasing your entrance are already driving you crazy.

“Touch me, Steven,” you say.

“I am.” You hear the smile in his voice.

“No,” you whine as he puts pressure on the outside of your wet hole, “inside. Please.”

The very tip of Steven’s middle finger parts your lips. He drags it along your wetness, flicks through quickly. You moan, hips searching for more.

“I’ll give you my fingers, love, if you read what’s written on her thighs. Open your eyes. Watch,” he says. His breath tickles your neck and makes you shiver.

One of your hands snakes up and into Steven’s hair. You grip his curls, doing as he says.

“It says, ‘cum here,’” you say.

Steven’s finger moves a fraction inside of you and you throw your head back on his shoulder.

“Why d’you think it says that?” Steven asks. He traces his tongue up the side of your neck and sucks your earlobe into his mouth.

You sigh loudly. “Be- because, oh God, Steven, more, please.”

His finger withdraws. The woman in the video moans. Your barely open eyes see the man toss the lipstick aside and position himself between her thighs. His hands grip the words he’s written, already smearing them.

“She wants it,” you say. “She wants him to fuck her.”

Two of Steven’s fingertips push inside of you and you moan in relief.

As the man in the video moves his hips, entering the woman in one hard thrust, Steven’s thick fingers push into you, stretching you out and massaging your walls.

You ride the thrust of his fingers, Steven’s other hand working into your pants so he can play with your clit.

The man in the video picks up speed, fucking into the woman harder now. Her thighs grip his, smears of red lipstick all over both of their legs.

Steven fingers you hard and fast, timing everything to the video you can’t take your eyes off of. When the woman comes, screaming and begging, the man loses control, pulling her body tight against his so he can come deep inside of her. Steven finds the hard nub of you clit and works it with his thumb, pushes a third finger into you, knowing it’ll push you over the edge.

Your thighs seize, walls squeezing Steven’s fingers as you grab onto him and come so hard you see stars behind the darkness of your shut-tight eyelids. You feel a gush of liquid between your legs as your hips snap upward, Steven biting softly at your neck as you shake and sob.

He lets you come down gently, easing his fingers away from your clit and giving your sensitive walls slow strokes until you can breathe again. You relax against him, both of his hands reluctantly leaving your pants.

You turn your head, dazed, and kiss his cheek. Steven turns his head and you kiss his mouth, tongues lazily playing with each other. Your hand is still in his hair and you hold his face close to yours.

“Video’s over, love,” Steven says. His eyes are bright and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You did so good f’me. Gods, you were beautiful.”

“That was amazing,” you smile. “Can we move this to the bed?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. He helps you stand up on shaky legs.

You hug him hard. “I love you,” you say.

He kisses the side of your head. “I love you too. More than anything. Thank you for doing that with me.” He holds your chin so he can look you in the eyes. “Next time we’ll use a dirty video you like, yeah?”

You nod. “Sounds good.” A laugh bubbles out of you. You cover your mouth until it stops. But the big smiles stays on your face. “You would like porn with words in it, Steven.”

He chuckles, gives your bottom a light smack. “Guess it’s not really a surprise, is it? I only have a few videos saved actually, even though they’re some of my favorites. People are terrible spellers these days. ‘Pussy’ with just one ‘S,’ or ‘whore’ without the ‘h.’ Boner killer, those types of spelling errors.”

You laugh together until you have tears in your eyes.

Steven takes your hand and leads you toward the bed. He kisses you, pushing up your shirt to play with your breasts. You take it the rest of the way off and throw it aside. Steven looks down at your chest.

“You know,” you say, “I have a shade of red lipstick just like the one in the video.”

You lean in and kiss him. His lips are warm and soft. He kisses you deeply. Then, his fingers curl around your sides and he pulls away.

Steven’s breath breath goes shaky. “Oh, love,” he whispers. “You’re going to look a beautiful mess when I’m through with you.”

-----

Square G "Pornography"

**MK Spring '24 Bingo masterlist**

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[winniethewife]

Hopes, wants and wishes, (Moon Knight System x GN!reader)

Prompt: “Make a Wish”

Words: 667

They were walking through the city, hands filled with shopping as they made their way back home. For just a second they glanced at the ground when they nearly run in to someone, or more something. In front of them is a strange creature, like something out of a horror movie. They stumble backwards, nearly tripping over their own feet. The creature turns to them snarling, a hungry expression on its face. They felt their whole body go rigid with fear, what an inconvenient time to find out that their instinctual trauma response is to freeze. A flash of white, and the creature is on its back, toppled by a man in a cape and hood, covered in some kind of wrappings, and beating the shit out of the creature. He turns to them for a split second, his eyes glowing white and his face covered.

“Run!” He shouted to them before continuing to fight with the creature. He doesn’t have to ask twice they run off. The hero turns to look one more time at the running figure. Hoping he hasn’t given himself away.

~

It would only be a couple days until another odd experience happened. This time they were hanging out with some friends and their boyfriend Steven at a local pub. The sun was just setting. Steven’s arm wrapped around their waist as he sat with his drink in front of him listening to one of their friends telling a story about some crazy thing that she saw as a kid in New Mexico. This conversation started of course because of the retelling of the meeting with the “caped hero” from a couple days prior. Steven had wanted to tell them right away, but Marc was insistent they’d be safer not knowing, and Jake had agreed. So Steven sat and bared it.

As they left the pub several hours later they were walking home chatting happily, making jokes and having a good time, when there was a loud sound from the alley near their flat. Steven got in front of them, making sure he was in the way if it turned out to be another one of those creatures that had been a problem as of late. They clutched onto Stevens shirt, afraid of what might be coming, and wondering if they were going to meet their masked hero again on such short notice.  As the creature appeared from the ally Steven didn’t hesitate. Summoning the suit he prepared to fight. He looked over his shoulder to look at them. Understanding crossing her face as she was met with those same white glowing eyes.

“Got what you wanted love?”

~

Jake had taken them out to their favorite spot to have a late night date, watching the stars. As they lay on the hood of the car cuddled up they talked quietly. Talking about everything, and anything, but mostly, about Moon Knight, Khonshu, everything. They had tried their best not to push too many questions on the three of them as the weeks had passed because it turned out that “creature problem” was a larger issue at hand, but now that a couple weeks had passed and the “problem” was taken care of, they wanted to know everything, and Jake was more than willing to answer any questions they had, and they had a lot. As the night went on they covered every detail Jake could manage. How they had met Konshu, how they became Moon Knight, How he had continued to work for Konshu when the other two got out of the agreement, and everything that had happened after. Eventually when they had a satisfactory answer to every question they looked up to the sky. A shooting star passed over them and they smiled whispering.

“Make a wish Jake.” He laughed slightly and took their chin in his hand and turned them to look at him.

“My wish, I wish to always be there to protect you mi amor. No matter what.”

Bingo Masterlist

Tag: @moonknight-events @juneknight @spacecowboyhotch @silvernight-m

This was so much fun! I'm so happy to have been able to participate!

[moonknight-events]

Congratulations on clearing your board!

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Let's Get Out Of Here

Jake Lockley x GN!Reader • Rating: M •Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | requestinfo• MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist• ko-fi •

Summary: You've met your Dad's best friend before.

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

A/N: This one was so difficult.

Warnings: Implied sexy times, Reader has a sort of family backstory, Reader's Dad had Reader very young, Reader has a good relationship with their Dad, Jake being a flirt, swearing, overuse of italics, typos, not beta read, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 776

“And this is Jake.” 

Your smile freezes on your face as your Dad gestures to his aforementioned best friend. If it wasn’t for the grounding warmth of his hand on your arm you were sure you would have had an out of body experience. 

Him. 

Oh fuck.

How could it be him?

“Nice to finally meet you Jake.” You nod and shake his hand when he holds his out to you.

“Likewise.” His own smile is polite, tailored to a mask of neutrality that you can see through. He’s shitting himself just as much as you are. 

Your Dad laughs, thankfully oblivious to the sudden tension in air. “I’m glad you two could finally meet.” 

If it wasn’t for social norms you’d turn on your heels and just march right out of there. Maybe you could hide somewhere in the crowd. 

Your Father and Step-Mother were renewing their vows, and were throwing an ‘engagement’ party of sorts. 

They’d long ago moved out of the town you’d grown up in, as had you and sadly your new home was further away from them than you’d have liked. So you didn’t get to see them in person as much as you wanted to. 

Jake had met your Dad about four years ago, the two becoming fast friends. From what your Dad had told you Jake travelled a lot, but when they did meet up they always got on like a house on fire. He was, as well, a little camera shy. Covering his face or ducking out of the way in group photos, so the most you’d ever seen of him was the arm of his leather jacket, a blurred cap, or the scruff of curls poking just into frame. 

It had become a running joke that this ‘Jake’ was either imaginary, or a spy.

Your Dad had had you young, an accident that he always called ‘his greatest achievement’. Despite his youth and the barely sixteen years between you, he had been and was a wonderful father. 

Someone calls your Dad’s name and he excuses himself quickly, darting off before you even have a chance to protest. 

You look after him forlornly, your shoulders slumping. 

Maybe running away wasn’t such a break of social norms. 

“Hi.” Jake says softly, having taken a step closer. 

You turn back to him. He’s shoved his hands in his pocket, looking down before giving you an uncertain smile.

You return the gesture. 

“I’m so sorry-” You blurt out.

“I didn’t know you-” He starts at the same time.

You both laugh. 

“What are the odds?” He says with a shrug. 

“Well, I guess a fondness for you runs in the family?” 

Jake pulls a face and you laugh. 

“Don’t say that.” He grins. 

You try and fail to hide your smile. “Sorry.” 

He shakes his head. “Maybe… if I’d told you my name?” 

“Well,” you shift your weight, relaxing a little. “I didn’t tell you mine either.”

“We were a little preoccupied.” 

“Hmm.” You nod and close your eyes for a second to let the wave of embarrassment pass. “The first time yeah… but I think by the sixth we probably should have.” 

He laughs again. It’s a musical sound, deep and rich. Calming in its certainty. “What did you save my number as?” 

Heat burns a little under your skin. “Pretty guy.” 

“Pretty guy?” His eyebrows raise, but not in upset, just surprise. 

“Yeah, well,” you pull a face. “You’re pretty and a guy, so…”

He puffs his chest out a little, leaning a fraction closer. “You think I’m pretty.” He teases. 

You give him a sincere look. “I think you’re beautiful.” 

The honesty gives him pause for just a beat before he quickly recovers. “Says you.” 

“Says me?” 

“Yeah, says you. You’re stunning.” He lightly touches your forearm, his fingertips just ghosting over your skin.

You swallow, trying not to get lost in his eyes. “Shut up. What do you have me saved as then?” 

He grins, not breaking eye contact for a moment before he pulls out his phone and shows you your contact information. There’s a single red heart emoji listed as your name. 

“I didn’t take you as a romantic.” You tease.

He chuckles, leaning close and whispering in your ear. “Haven’t been treating you right then, have I?” He softly brushes the tip of his nose along your ear and you shiver. “Let me show you just how romantic I can be?” 

He leans back just enough for you to see his expression, the question in his dark eyes as he nods his head towards the venue doors. 

You grin. “Let’s get out of here.” 

____________________________________________

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