Moonknight
JFashion!reader
former-VS model!reader
vigilante!reader
sleeping!reader
depressed!reader
goth!reader
helping reader recover
Grungy/Y2K Reader
"Lost & Found"
Sitting on Their Laps
Metalface!reader
“the girl with the shiny face”
New neighbor hcs
Cuddling hcs
Adopting a Kitten Together
How the moonboys sleep (with you!)
Hobbies Together
"In the Crowd, Only You"
What petnames the moon boys would call you
The different moonknights and what affections would give them shivers
Moonknight(s) comforting you hcs
Their ways of showing affection
How they would react to getting a dog
Marc/Steven x tomboy alternative reader
resigner!reader
reader who gets confused easily
gn!reader whose hyper vigilant
witchy reader
Loki
"Quiet Havoc"
Tony stark
"Highway to Heaven"
"White Dress, Red Heart"
"velvet and voltage"
"The Things We Don’t Say"
"Pounds of Swarovski"
Bucky Barnes
"like nothing else matters"
Buckys scared of hurting you
Wolverine
Double dates w/ Logan and Wade
Matt Murdock
Platonic + x reader Matt Murdock headcannons!
reader with a secret identity
Mutant Reader
Magik
wlw!magik hcs
Stranger Things── .✦
Steve Harrington
“The Last One Left”
“Extra Innings”
Winter with Steve
Steve working at WSQK
Jim Hopper
Giving reader a ride home
Robin Buckley
Robin x Theater Kid Reader
Robin kissing Reader
Eddie Munson
“tinsel and trailer lights”
Clingy Eddie
Cyberpunk── .✦
Vincent
Vincent x Reader
Viktor Vector
Viktor Vector x fem V! reader
The walking dead── .✦
Negan Smith
Gardener!Negan x reader blurb
Christmas tree w/ Negan
Daryl Dixon
"In another life"
Domestic life w/ Daryl
Sick!Reader x Daryl
Daryl jealous of Merle
"Quiet Things That Stay"
Rick Grimes
Carl Grimes
Sleepy!reader x Carl blurb
Glenn Rhee
pda with Glenn
DC── .✦
Nightwing
Dating Nightwing and Your Favorite Animal is a Bat
"After hours"
Jason Todd
calls reader angel
Moonknight boys with a reader who's got a mall goth/nu metal aesthetic or neighbor!reader who loves listening to EDM/techno music!
your pick!!
Marc Spector was a man who appreciated silence. Or, well, as much silence as a guy could get when he shared a headspace with a British museum tour guide , and a cab driver who constantly hummed old salsa tunes.
Silence was a luxury when it came down to it,, and right now, the drywall next to his bed was gently vibrating.
It wasn't a random, annoying sound, either. It was a rhythmic, driving, electronic pulse. A techno beat that felt like it was drilling a neat, aesthetic little hole right into the center of Marc’s forehead.
“Oh, I quite like this one,” Steven’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, sounding entirely too awake. “It’s got a bit of a KMFDM vibe, doesn’t it? Very Berlin underground.”
“Shut up, Steven,” Marc muttered aloud, pulling a pillow over his face.
“Come on, mate, don't be sour. The neighbor’s just mixing. It’s got a lovely BPM.”
Marc threw the pillow across the room, dragged a hand down his face, and stood up. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a tank top, his hair standing up in every direction. He didn't want to be a bad neighbor. He really didn't. He usually tolerated the muffled synth pads and house tracks bleeding through the walls at reasonable hours. But tonight, he needed his brain to turn off.
He marched out of his flat, stepped into the dimly lit hallway, and stood before your door. A small, neat welcome mat sat underfoot, completely contrasting the aggressive, industrial techno currently leaking out from beneath the doorframe.
He knocked. Hard. The music didn't stop immediately, but a few seconds later, the volume dropped to a low, ambient thrum. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
There you stood, backlit by the neon purple and blue LED strips illuminating your living room. You had a pair of professional headphones resting around your neck, and an apologetic, slightly sheepish grin on your face.
“Oh, god. Hey, Marc,” you said, your voice soft and entirely devoid of the attitude he usually expected from people at 2:00 AM. “Is it too loud? I swear I thought I had the bass filters turned on.”
Marc opened his mouth to give his standard, terrifying "turn it down" glare, but looking at you,, flushed, creative, and clearly in the moment, his frustration sort of deflated. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah. The walls are paper thin..” Marc said, his deep, gravelly voice a sharp contrast to the ambient synth hum behind you. “The bass is rattling my teeth.”
“I am so sorry,” you genuinely winced, setting your mug down on a side table. “I’m putting together a setlist for a mix I’m uploading tomorrow, and I completely lost track of time. You know how it is when the transitions are just hitting right.”
Marc stared at you for a beat. He did not know how it was when electronic transitions hit right. He knew how it was when a fist hit a jaw right. But looking past you into your flat, he saw a pristine DJ deck, two massive computer monitors displaying complex waveforms, and a cozy setup that looked like a temple dedicated to rhythm.
“Just... put the headphones on, alright?” Marc said, though his tone had softened significantly.
“Deal,” you smiled, a warm, genuine thing that made something in Marc’s chest tighten uncomfortably. “To make it up to you, I’ll keep the low ends completely cut until noon tomorrow. Promise.”
“Appreciate it.” Marc nodded, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before turning back to his flat.
As he closed his own door and crawled back into bed, the silence was absolute. But curiously, his brain didn't turn off. Instead, it kept tracing the ghost of that rhythm, wondering what it looked like when you were completely lost in it.
────୨ৎ────
It became a bit of a running joke between you.
Whenever you saw the curly haired, soft spoken version of your neighbor in the hallway,, the one who wore loud button down shirts with a grey coat lazily put on, carried canvas tote bags full of books, and apologized profusely if he accidentally bumped into you,, you’d give him a little wave and ask if the volume levels were acceptable.
“Oh, standard is absolutely brilliant, thank you!” Steven beamed one Thursday afternoon, holding the heavy front door open for you as you dragged a large box containing a new MIDI controller into the building. “Honestly, don't change a thing on my account. I actually find the ambient house bits quite soothing while I’m cataloging my papers.”
“Really?” you laughed, shifting the heavy box in your arms. “Marc told me last week that if he heard one more synth riser he was going to throw my deck into pieces.”
Steven scoffed, a look of pure, affectionate exasperation crossing his face. “Oh, don't listen to him. He’s got the worst musical palate. Honestly, if it doesn't involve a depressing acoustic guitar, he thinks it’s noise. Here, let me get that for you.”
Before you could protest, Steven took the heavy box from your arms. He stumbled slightly under the weight,, clearly surprised by it, but he maintained a bright, determined smile as he walked up the stairs ahead of you.
“You’re a lifesaver, Steven,” you said, following him up. “And for the record, it’s not just noise. It’s melodic techno,, It’s almost like storytelling without words.”
“Exactly!” Steven cheered, kicking open the door to the hallway. “It’s like modern classical, isn't it? The way the layers build upon one another truly is something I love. I read an article about the mathematical structures of early Detroit techno,, absolutely fascinating stuff, really.”
You unlocked your apartment door, and Steven carefully set the box down just inside your entryway. As he stood up, his eyes wandered around your space. It was the first time he’d really looked inside. Your apartment was a haven of cables, vinyl records, neon lights, and posters of underground music festivals.
“Wow,” Steven whispered, his eyes wide and bright. “It’s lovely in here.”
“Thanks,” you smiled, walking over to your kitchen counter. “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Do you want a cup? To thank you for lifting the heavy machinery?”
Steven looked like he might explode from pure joy. “Marc, look at this, we’re being invited in!” he cheered internally.
“I would absolutely love a cup, thank you so much,” Steven said aloud, neatly tucking his hands into his pockets as he stepped inside.
For the next hour, Steven sat on your barstool, sipping coffee and listening to you explain how your launchpad worked. You even let him press a few buttons, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas when a heavy, perfectly timed ambient pad echoed through your studio monitors.
You noticed how his hands moved,, sometimes jittery, sometimes incredibly precise, and how his eyes seemed to shift depth when he looked at your gear. He was fascinated by the tech, but even more fascinated by how passionately you spoke about it.
“You know,” Steven said softly, looking at you over the rim of his mug. “You look entirely different when you talk about your music. Like you’re plugged right into it all.”
You felt a blush creep up your neck. “It’s just... it makes sense to me. When everything else is too much, a good beat keeps time. It’s predictable, but you can still make it beautiful.”
In the back of Steven’s mind, Marc went entirely quiet. Predictable, but beautiful. A constant rhythm in a chaotic world.
Steven smiled, a tender, slightly wistful look in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see why you love it.”
────୨ৎ────
Jake Lockley didn't care much for techno. He liked the quiet of the city at 3:00 AM, the low purr of his cab’s engine, and the soft scratch of late night radio talk shows.
But he did care about you.
He had watched you from a distance through the reflections in the mirror, heard Steven gush about your coffee, and felt Marc’s chest tighten whenever you smiled at them in the lobby. Jake was the the one who kept his eyes open when the others couldn't. And lately, his eyes kept drifting to the light slipping out from under your apartment door.
It was a stormy Friday night, and the rain was lashing against the hallway windows. Jake had just gotten back from a long, grueling shift. His cap was pulled low, his dark jacket slightly damp from the sprint between his cab and the front door.
As he walked down the hall, he noticed something different. The music wasn't playing.
Usually, Friday nights were your peak production hours. Instead, the hallway was silent, save for the faint sound of a muffled, frustrated sigh coming from your flat.
Jake stopped outside your door. He tilted his head, listening. A soft thud, followed by a very distinct, very colorful curse word.
He didn't knock like Marc, and he didn't call out like Steven. He just tapped his knuckles lightly against the wood, a low, rhythmic pattern.
The door opened a crack, held by the security chain. You looked tired. Your hair was messy, your eyes were slightly bloodshot from staring at screens, and you were wrapped in an oversized hoodie.
“Oh. Hey,” you said, blinking. You looked closer at him. The cap, the slight shadow of stubble, the posture,, it wasn't Steven, and it didn't quite feel like Marc either. “Hey... you okay?”
Jake offered a small, crooked smile, pulling his cap up just an inch. His voice, when he spoke, was lower, smoother, dragging slightly with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “I’m fine, chica. But you look like you’re about to pass out however.”
You blinked, a little surprised by the sudden shift in demeanor, but you were too exhausted to question it. You unlatched the chain and opened the door fully.
“My external hard drive just corrupted,” you said, your voice cracking slightly with sheer, unadulterated frustration. “Three months of logic projects. An entire winter mix. Just... gone. Dead in the water.”
Jake’s expression softened. He stepped into the flat without asking, his heavy boots making a solid sound on your floor. He walked over to your desk, looking at the blinking red light on the small black box hooked up to your laptop.
“You lost the music?” he asked, looking back at you.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning against the wall, suddenly feeling the full weight of the 16 hour day you’d just put in. “I tried running a disk repair, but it’s completely bricked. I just... I feel like crying, honestly.”
Jake hated seeing you look like that. You were supposed to be the loud, vibrant pulse of the hallway. You weren't supposed to look deflated.
He walked over to you, stopping just a foot away. He smelled like rain, old leather, and a hint of cheap coffee. It was grounding.
“Hey,” Jake said softly, reaching out. His hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before his thumb gently caught a stray tear that had managed to escape down your cheek. His skin was rough, calloused, but incredibly gentle. “Look at me.”
You looked up, meeting his dark, intense eyes.
“A machine didn't make that music,” Jake said, his voice firm, filled with a strange, undeniable certainty. “You did. It’s up here,” he tapped his own temple, then lightly pressed two fingers against your chest, right over your heart. “And it’s in here. You can build it back. Better.”
You let out a shaky breath, a small, watery laugh escaping your lips. “You sound really sure about that.”
“I’m positive,” Jake murmured, a rare, genuinely sweet smile breaking across his face. He reached over to your desk, pulled the plug on the dead hard drive, and shut your laptop lid with a definitive snap. “Now, no more screens tonight. You’re gonna sleep. Tomorrow, Steven will fix the computer thing,, he’s a genius with that rubbish and Marc and I will make sure you don't starve while you rewrite the beats.”
You stared at him, your heart doing a strange, fluttering rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with electronic music. “You, Marc, and Steven?”
Jake’s smile widened, a playful glint in his eyes as he realized he’d let the cat out of the bag, but he didn't seem to care. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your cheek.
“Yeah,” Jake whispered. “We’re a package deal, amor. And all three of us really miss the bass.”
────୨ৎ────
It took a few weeks, but with Steven’s tech savvy file recovery skills (and a lot of pacing around your living room muttering about file directories), about 80% of your lost projects were saved.
The dynamic between your apartments shifted entirely after that night.
On Saturday evenings, your apartment door was usually left propped open. The techno was turned down to a respectable, groovy ambient house level. Neon pink light washed over the kitchen counter where a plate of takeout boxes usually sat.
Marc would sit on the edge of your couch, pretending to read a book but secretly watching your hands fly across the mixer, his foot unconsciously tapping along to the exact beat he used to complain about.
Steven would be right next to you, wearing your backup pair of headphones, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated awe as you showed him how to slice a vocal sample.
And every now and then, if you looked closely at the reflection in your darkened window, you’d see a man in a flat cap standing by the doorway, leaning against the frame with a satisfied, protective smile on his face, just listening to the rhythm of the home you were all building together.
One night, as a heavy, beautiful progressive track reached its climax, you felt a hand rest gently on your shoulder. You turned to see Marc, or maybe it was Jake, or maybe it was Steven,, looking down at you with a warmth that made the entire room feel small.
“Play that one again,” he murmured, sliding onto the stool next to you.
You smiled, turning the dial, and let the rhythm carry you all away.
hmo jason todd finding out reader sleeps with one of his shirts pls ;; like maybe he comes over unexpectedly and catches them curled up on the couch wearing one that's way too big for them, or maybe he notices one of his old shirts mysteriously disappeared and finally discovers it's because reader sleeps with it every night because it smells like him </3 i just know he'd act all smug about it at first but secretly be sooo soft over the fact that reader misses him that much (´꒳`)♡
The apartment always felt a little too quiet after midnight, the kind of stillness that made the hum of the refrigerator sound like a physical weight in the room. You were curled on the edge of the worn out velvet sofa, the cheap fabric scratching gently against your bare shins, with a blanket thrown carelessly over your knees. You were exhausted, the kind of bone deep fatigue that comes from staring at a screen for too long, but sleep remained just out of reach,, a frustrating half-inch away.
With a soft sigh, you reached down and pulled the hem of the faded, oversized gray cotton t shirt lower over your knees, burying your nose into the stretched out collar.
It smelled like leather, stale coffee, and the sharp, unmistakable metallic tang of Gotham’s rain. It smelled like Jason.
The shirt was massive on you, the shoulder seams dropping halfway down your bicep, the fabric thin and softened by years of rough washes and rougher wear. It was an old Blüdhaven University athletics tee he’d probably stolen from Dick a lifetime ago, one that had mysteriously gone missing from the bottom drawer of his dresser three weeks out. He’d grumbled about losing it for a solid ten minutes before forgetting it entirely, moving on to some new grievance about Bruce or the rising price of ammo. You had stayed entirely quiet during his search, your heart doing a guilty little flip against your ribs while the shirt sat safely tucked beneath your own pillows.
You didn’t mean to keep it. Not at first. But when Jason went away on business,, the kind of dangerous, off the grid business that left you staring at a silent phone for days on end,, the apartment felt entirely too large. The bed felt too cold. Having the shirt was like keeping a small, physical piece of his presence anchored to your space, a sensory promise that he would actually come back.
You closed your eyes, letting the familiar scent soothe the anxious knot in your stomach, finally feeling the heavy pull of sleep beginning to drag you under.
A sudden, sharp click from the front door broke the silence.
Your eyes snapped open, your heart immediately leaping into your throat. In Gotham, an unexpected sound at 2:00 AM usually meant a trip to the emergency room, or worse. You froze, your muscles tensing as you prepared to dive behind the counter, your eyes darting to the heavy ceramic mug on the coffee table to use as a makeshift weapon.
The door swung inward with an agonizingly slow creak, letting in the damp, cold air of the alleyway. A tall, broad silhouette filled the frame, the yellow streetlights from outside catching the sharp edge of a dark leather jacket.
The figure stepped into the dim light of your kitchen, pulling off a heavy helmet with a tired, fluid motion. A shock of white hair caught the ambient glow of the microwave clock.
Jason.
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your shoulders dropping in a massive wave of relief. "Jason," you breathed, your voice rough with sleep. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. You weren't supposed to be back until Friday."
He paused, hanging his helmet on the back of the kitchen chair with a heavy thud. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent in the shadows, his jaw shadowed with a few days of dark stubble. But as his eyes locked onto you sitting on the couch, his entire posture shifted. His brow furrowed, his gaze dropping from your face, down to the collar of your shirt, following the faded, cracked lettering across your chest, all the way down to where the hem pooled around your thighs.
A slow, dangerously sharp smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, well, well," Jason drawled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. He took his time walking over, his heavy boots clicking softly against the linoleum before hitting the carpet. He stopped right at the edge of the sofa, towering over you with his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets. "Look what we have here. I spend three days tracking a lead in the Narrows, and I come back to find a thief in my living room."
Your face caught fire instantly, a furious heat rushing up your neck and pooling in your cheeks. You instinctively pulled your knees closer to your chest, trying to bunch the fabric up, but it only made the situation worse, stretching the shirt tight enough to display the familiar university logo perfectly.
"I'm not a thief," you mumbled, looking anywhere but at his smug face.
"Oh, really?" Jason leaned down, resting his forearms on the back of the sofa, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. The smell of the actual rain and leather on him immediately overwhelmed the faded scent of the cotton. His blue eyes danced with absolute amusement. "Because that looks an awful lot like the shirt I spent an hour looking for last month. The one you swore you hadn't seen. The one you claimed the laundry mat must've swallowed."
"It's comfortable," you shot back, your voice entirely unconvincing as you buried the lower half of your face back into the collar, realizing too late that the action only proved his point.
Jason let out a low, dry chuckle, the sound rich and self satisfied. He reached out, his large, calloused fingers catching the excess fabric at your shoulder, giving it a playful, teasing tug. "Comfortable? Sweetheart, it looks like a tent on you. You're practically drowning in it. If you wanted to borrow something, you could've just asked. Didn't know you were running an special operation out of my closet."
"I didn't steal it to start a opperation," you grumbled, swatting his hand away. You shifted on the cushion, turning away from him to hide your burning face. "Just go take a shower. You smell like gunpowder."
"Hey, don't change the subject," Jason said, his voice dripping with an insufferable level of smugness as he walked around the couch, throwing himself down on the opposite end. He stretched his long legs out across the coffee table, leaning his head back against the cushions while keeping his eyes entirely locked on you. "Come on, confess. How long have you been hoarding my laundry? Is there a secret stash under the bed? Do I need to start counting my socks?"
"It's just the one shirt, Jason," you snapped, though there was no real anger behind it, only the intense mortification of being caught red handed.
"Why this one, then?" he pressed, his smirk widening. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly enjoying the way you were squirming. "There are plenty of nicer blankets in the closet. You’ve got your own sweaters. Why are you sleeping in something that looks like it went through a woodchipper?"
You bit your inside lip, the playful banter suddenly dying in your throat. You looked down at your hands, your fingers twisting into the soft, worn out hem of the shirt. You could lie. You could tell him it was just the first thing you grabbed from the drawer, or that your own pajamas were in the wash. But looking at him,, seeing the faint, fresh cut along his cheekbone and the heavy exhaustion he was trying so hard to mask behind his usual arrogant bravado the lie felt useless.
"Because it smells like you," you said softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
The smug, teasing grin on Jason’s face instantly vanished.
The silence returned to the apartment, but it wasn't the cold, empty silence from before. It was thick, heavy with an unexpected vulnerability that caught him entirely off guard. Jason froze, his arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes widening just a fraction as the words processed through his brain. The playful, arrogant lines of his face completely softened, the sharp Gotham vigilante melting away to reveal something incredibly raw underneath.
"What?" he asked, his voice losing all of its gravelly mockery, dropping into something quiet and tentative.
"It smells like you," you repeated, forcing yourself to look up and meet his gaze, determined to own the confession despite the heat still lingering in your cheeks. "When you're gone for days, and I don't hear from you, and the news is talking about rogue activity in the Diamond District... the apartment gets really empty, Jason. And I get tired of staring at the ceiling. Sleeping in this... it makes it feel like you're actually here. Like you're safe, and you're coming back."
Jason stared at you, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. For a man who always had a sarcastic comeback or a witty insult lined up, he was entirely speechless. His chest tightened, a strange, profound ache blooming behind his ribs at the realization of just how much your universe revolved around his safety,, how much you missed him when he disappeared into the dark. He spent so much of his life feeling like a ghost, a dead boy walking through a city that had forgotten him, that the simple fact that his scent on a piece of old cotton could bring someone comfort felt entirely overwhelming.
Slowly, without a word, Jason uncrossed his arms. He shifted his weight on the couch, sliding over the cushions until there was no space left between you.
He didn't say anything about the shirt. He didn't make another joke. Instead, he reached out, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he caught your waist and pulled you into his lap. You didn't protest, sliding your arms around his neck, burying your face directly into the crook of his shoulder.
He wrapped his large arms tightly around you, burying his face into the crown of your hair, inhaling deeply. He felt massive, warm, and entirely solid against you, the steady, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat pressing against your chest,, a thousand times better than any old t-shirt could ever be.
"You're an idiot," he murmured against your hair, his voice incredibly soft, entirely stripped of its usual armor. His grip tightened around you, pulling you so close it felt like he was trying to merge your two frames together. "You could've just told me."
"You would've teased me," you mumbled into his jacket.
"Yeah," he admitted, a faint, genuine smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed his hand in slow, soothing circles up and down your back, feeling the thin fabric of his own shirt under his palms. "I probably would have. But I would've left a fresh one behind, too."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb coming up to gently trace your jawline, his blue eyes incredibly warm in the dim light. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a quiet, fierce devotion that he only ever showed behind closed doors.
"I'm sorry I was late," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "The tech took longer to crack than I thought. But I'm back. I'm safe."
"I know," you said, leaning into his touch. "I can hear your heart."
Jason let out a soft, breathy laugh, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss against your forehead, then your temple, before finally resting his lips against yours in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like a homecoming. When he pulled away, he shifted, adjusting your position until you were tucked securely against his side, your head resting on his chest while his arm remained wrapped securely around your shoulders.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart," he murmured, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
Wrapped in his arms, surrounded by the actual warmth of him, the heavy fog of exhaustion finally claimed you. You let your eyes close, your fingers loosely clutching the fabric of his leather jacket, finally drifting off into a deep, uninterrupted sleep, knowing that the man who owned the shirt was exactly where he belonged.
hihi!! i found your page not too long ago and i absolutely adore you’re writing! and since you’re back from hiatus i was wondering if i could request a lil sum 👀 feel free to deny this request if it’s not anything you’d like to write ofc!
buuut i was wondering if you could write something with daredevil/matt murdock with a reader whose a mutant? readers powers aren’t physically altering like colossus or nightcrawler so matt wouldnt be able to tell straight away that reader is a mutant. so they try and keep it hidden in fear that matt wouldn’t like them back or like them at all anymore, buuuttt then he soon finds out the reader is a mutant and they avoid matt in fear of confrontation… maybe some angst with comfort…? 👀
again feel free to deny this request if it’s too much or uninteresting for you! thank you for your time! :D
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You told yourself it would be easy at first, anchoring your conscience to the fact that you weren’t lying to him about everything. You still showed up. You still caught your breath when you kissed him in the doorway of his apartment when he came home too late and too tired, smelling of rain and copper. You still let him steal your coffee in the quiet, golden haze of the mornings, laughing at his dry little lawyer jokes just to hear the way his voice softened when he was trying not to be the smartest man in the room. It was just one thing you didn’t tell him. Just one heavy, immovable truth sitting quietly behind your teeth every time he said your name. Because Matt Murdock was good. Too good, sometimes. He possessed the kind of quiet, steady goodness that made you think he might actually stay if you told him everything,, and somehow, that terrifying possibility was worse than the alternative.
You’d met him by accident, of course. He’d been defending someone in a case you weren’t even supposed to be near, and you had spent the entire afternoon gripping the edge of a courtroom bench, trying very hard not to think about the way the air around people shifted when their emotions got too loud. Your mutation wasn’t obvious,, there was no glowing skin, no sharp claws, no wings to give you away to a passing glance. It was just an agonizing, inescapable awareness. A heavy pressure in your skull when someone's grief or anger got too sharp, a magnetic pull in your chest when someone was lying, and the occasional, terrifying slip,, small things moving when your attention fractured. Things like that. Things Matt would absolutely notice if you ever lost your grip on yourself. So you didn’t. At least, you never allowed yourself to around him.
At first, he didn’t ask questions, but Matt Murdock was many things and oblivious was never one of them. You noticed the subtle way his head would tilt when you entered a room, like he was listening to a frequency only he could catch. You watched his hand pause mid air sometimes, fingers curling slightly as if he were trying to map the displacement of air around you, trying to place exactly what made you different. But he never pressed, and that silence almost made it worse. It meant he trusted you blindly, leaving you to drown in the guilt of what you were keeping from him.
The fragile peace shattered on an ordinary Tuesday, and it started with a glass. You’d been laughing at something Foggy was rambling about over the phone, leaning back against Matt’s kitchen counter while Matt stood just a few feet away, quietly rolling up his sleeves. The moment had been so devastatingly normal it almost hurt to breathe it in. Then, your elbow brushed a stupid, ordinary glass near the edge, and it tipped. You saw it before it even cleared the counter, and before your brain could register the danger, your instinct took over. Your hand twitched in your pocket.
The glass stopped dead in mid air, hovering an inch above the linoleum.
Silence snapped into place like a wire pulled too tight. Foggy’s tinny voice was still buzzing through the speaker, but Matt had gone completely rigid. You froze, holding your breath until your lungs burned, before slowly, agonizingly, lowering your hand to let the glass settle back down. It clicked softly against the counter.
"…Huh," Foggy said faintly from the phone, breaking the suffocating quiet. "Did you just hear something break?"
"Probably nothing," Matt replied. His voice hadn't raised, but it had entirely changed. It wasn't angry or confused,, it was fiercely, terrifyingly focused. It was the tone of a man listening closer to a sound that didn’t belong in his world. You forced a quick, brittle smile you knew he couldn't see, though it felt like he could see right through it. "It was probably just the building settling," you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs. Matt didn’t answer right away, but you felt the exact moment the atmosphere shifted between you,, that quiet, heavy tilt where his entire attention locked onto you and stayed there.
After that day, the pattern became impossible to ignore. It was in the small things, a chair pulling itself in when you weren’t touching it, a door that clicked shut a second before the draft could hit it, a fork that slid half an inch across the table when your emotions spiked too high during a sharp argument you didn’t even realize you were having. Matt noticed every single occurrence. You could tell by the twitch of his jaw, the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers would tense against his cane. Yet, he never said a word. That silence should have comforted you, but instead, it made your stomach twist tighter with every passing day. Silence meant he was analyzing. It meant he was putting the pieces together, and Matt Murdock always figured things out eventually.
The breaking point wasn’t some grand, dramatic confrontation. It was just the rain. You were standing outside his apartment building, huddled under the weak shelter of a fabric awning while your thoughts spun too fast and too dark in your head. You hadn’t meant to avoid him, not really. It had just happened. First it was one missed call, then two, and then it snowballed into too many to count because the mere idea of hearing his voice,, and knowing you might finally have to confess,, made your chest ache in a way you couldn't bear.
You were still lost in the gray fog of the storm when his footsteps hit the wet pavement. Slow, certain, and unbothered by the downpour. He stopped right in front of you, his dark glasses splattered with raindrops.
"You’ve been avoiding me," he said. It wasn’t a question,, it was a fact he had already weighed and measured.
Your throat tightened instantly, the rain suddenly feeling freezing against your skin. "I haven’t."
A long, heavy pause stretched between you. Then, his voice dropped, quieter but infinitely sharper. "You’ve ignored twenty three texts."
Your breath caught in your throat. "You counted?"
"Yes."
That single, quiet word did something entirely unfair to your chest. You finally forced yourself to look up at him, noting the exhaustion lining his face. It wasn't physical weariness; it was the heavy look people got when they had been standing entirely still for too long, waiting for something else to move. Rain slid down his jaw, which was set in a tight, controlled line, but his voice remained careful, like he was handling glass, trying his hardest not to scare you off. And God, that care made it so much worse.
"I’ve just been busy," you whispered, though even you didn’t believe the words as they left your mouth.
Matt exhaled a slow, heavy breath into the damp air. "That’s not true." You flinched as if he’d struck you. The silence stretched between you, heavy and alive, vibrating with everything left unsaid. Finally, he stepped a half-inch closer, his tone softening into something that completely cracked your defenses. "Did I do something?"
"No!" you said quickly, the denial tearing out of you too fast. "No, Matt, it’s not you. It’s never been you."
"Then what is it y/n?" your name sounded like a plea on his lips. Your hands curled tightly into the wet fabric of your sleeves because there it was,, the horizon you had been running from, the question you couldn’t dodge anymore. You opened your mouth to speak, but the truth choked you, and nothing came out.
That night, you didn’t go back inside with him. You knew you should have, knew that leaving him standing in the rain was a cruelty he didn't deserve, but panic won. You walked, and you kept walking until the cold seeped into your bones and your phone finally stopped buzzing in your pocket.
Matt knew something was wrong long before he understood the mechanics of it,, his world was built on the subtle shifts of human erraticism. It took him three agonizing days to find you again,, three days of a suffocating silence that felt heavier than any argument you’d ever had. When his footsteps finally echoed down your hallway, you knew it was him before his knuckles could even touch the wood. You sat frozen on the couch, refusing to move, refusing to open it.
So, he let himself in, the lock clicking open with a quiet finality.
"Don’t," you said immediately, your voice raw as the door swung wide.
He paused on the threshold, the small shift of his stance telling you he was taking in the entire room, measuring the coordinates of your grief. "You’re home," he said. It wasn’t relief in his voice,, it was just a stark, grim confirmation.
You kept your knees pulled tight to your chest, staring blindly ahead. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fine." He stepped inside anyway, carefully setting his cane against the wall with a familiar clatter before the soft creak of his shoes tracked across your floor. You finally forced your eyes to his face, and something in your chest shattered completely at the sight of him. He looked like he hadn't slept a single wink in seventy two hours.
"Why are you here?" you asked, the question barely a whisper.
A beat passed. "Because you disappeared." His voice lowered, rough around the edges. "I thought something happened to you."
"I just needed space," you lied, but the excuse came out entirely weak and hollow.
"Three days?" he asked, stepping closer to the edge of the couch. "No call? No message? Nothing?" You swallowed hard, unable to answer, and Matt tilted his head slightly, his senses locking onto the frantic, irregular rhythm of your heart. "Why are you lying to me?"
That was the breaking point. Everything you had been holding in, every ounce of terror and isolation you had carried since your mutation manifested, collapsed all at once. "I’m a mutant," you sobbed out, the words hitting the quiet apartment like something heavy thrown against a wall.
An absolute, crushing silence followed. You buried your face in your hands, unable to bear the rejection you were certain was coming. "I can… I move things," you forced out through the tears, the confession taste like ash. "I feel things. The air, the emotions. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I just—I thought if you knew, you’d—"
"Hate you?" he interrupted. His voice wasn't angry; it was devastatingly gentle.
The word made you freeze, your hands trembling against your face as you looked up at him. "I didn’t want to lose you," you whispered, the absolute truth of it stripping you bare.
A long pause hung over the room. Then, Matt moved. He walked closer, but his steps were agonizingly slow, giving you every possible chance to pull away or tell him to stop. "You thought I’d hate you," he repeated quietly, and this time, it definitely wasn't a question. You managed a single, barely perceptible nod. Matt let out a ragged breath that sounded almost pained, running a hand over his face. "I’ve been blind my whole life," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime of battles. "I’ve had people lie to me, use me, underestimate me, pity me…" He stopped right at the edge of the couch, towering over you but offering no threat. "And you think what I’d draw the line at is you being different?"
Your throat tightened violently, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "I didn’t know," you cried helplessly. "I didn't know."
Matt’s expression shifted, the frustration fading away to reveal something profoundly soft and aching underneath. "I’m not upset about what you are," he said, kneeling down so he was at eye level with you, though his eyes remained hidden behind the dark lenses. "I’m upset because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me."
That landed harder than any physical blow could have. Your voice wavered, entirely broken. "I was scared."
"I know," he said immediately, and just like that, the last lingering embers of his anger completely drained away. "I know," he repeated, softer this time, his hands hovering just above your knees. "But you don’t have to disappear because of it. You don't ever have to run from me."
Your breath shook, a ragged hiccup cutting through your chest. "I didn’t think you’d stay if you knew the whole truth."
A beat of pure quiet settled over the room. Then, Matt reached out,, not gripping you, just resting his warm, calloused palms gently against your jaw, his thumbs sweeping away the damp trail of your tears. "I’m still here," he murmured, his forehead leaning forward until it almost touched yours.
Your eyes burned, the warmth of his skin grounding the chaotic energy humming beneath your surface. "I didn’t know how to be both things," you admitted, the confession slipping out into the space between your lips. "Your… your person. And this."
Matt’s voice softened into something so tender it felt like a vow. "You already are both. You’ve always been both to me."
That finally broke the last of the dam. It wasn't a loud, violent sob, just a quiet, total giving way of a structure that had been holding back too much weight for far too long. When you leaned forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck, he caught you instantly. There was no hesitation, no pulling back from the strange, humming power in your veins. Just steady, unyielding arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
"I’ve got you," he murmured against your hair, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your own. "I've got you."
And for the very first time since the glass had fallen, you actually believed him.
bae hmo .. kaneki from tokyo ghoul., ik ur writing would do him justice gen anything ily my beautiful spider lilly pls work ur magic
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Kaneki always noticed when you were tired before you did. Not because he was some incredible detective, and not because being a ghoul somehow gave him a supernatural ability to recognize exhaustion. The truth was much simpler than that. Kaneki paid attention to you.
He noticed the little things most people overlooked,, the way your voice got quieter when you were sleepy, the way your eyes lingered shut a second longer every time you blinked, the way you started leaning into him without even realizing it.
That was why he knew you were falling asleep long before you were willing to admit it. “You look tired.” You immediately lifted your head from where it had been resting against his shoulder and frowned. “M’not.” Kaneki’s eyebrow twitched upward. He lowered his coffee cup slightly, studying you with an expression that was equal parts amused and unconvinced. “You literally just closed your eyes.”
“I was thinking.”
“With your eyes shut?”
“Yeah.” A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“That’s usually called sleeping.”
The offended look you shot him only seemed to make the smile tugging at his lips grow wider. He tried hiding it behind his cup, but you caught it anyway.
Outside, rain tapped softly against the apartment windows. The television hummed quietly in the background, though neither of you had paid attention to whatever movie was playing for at least the last half hour. The room was warm, comfortable, and entirely too cozy for someone desperately trying to convince their boyfriend they weren’t about to pass out.
You shifted a little closer without really thinking about it, your forehead bumping lightly against Kaneki’s arm as you settled beside him. The movement immediately caught his attention, and when he glanced down at you, there was something knowing in his expression that made you narrow your eyes before he even opened his mouth.
“Tired?” he asked, his voice noticeably gentler than before.
“No.” The answer came a little too quickly. Kaneki’s smile softened at the obvious lie.
“You can say yes.” You shook your head stubbornly and folded your arms across your chest.
“No.” For a moment he simply looked at you, amusement flickering behind his eyes.
“You’re very determined about this.” You huffed and looked away, trying to ignore the growing heaviness in your eyelids.
“…Maybe a little.”
“A little?” he repeated. You nodded. Then immediately yawned. The quiet laugh that escaped him was warm rather than teasing, but somehow that only made your face burn more.
“Don’t make fun of me,” you mumbled, earning another smile from him.
“I’m not making fun of you.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not,” Kaneki replied, and the fondness in his voice made it impossible to tell whether he was being honest or not.
His fingers drifted into your hair before you could continue arguing, carefully brushing a few loose strands away from your face. The touch was absentminded and gentle, as if he’d done it a hundred times before without realizing it. Whatever teasing had been in his expression disappeared, replaced by something softer. You tried to stay awake after that. Really, you did. You wanted to keep talking to him. You wanted to tell him every random thought that wandered through your head, every pointless story and half finished idea.
Most of all, you wanted to keep hearing his voice. There was something comforting about listening to Kaneki talk on quiet nights like this, when the rest of the world seemed far away. But staying awake became harder with every passing minute. Your words started blending together. You lost your train of thought halfway through stories and forgot where your sentences were supposed to end. More than once, you found yourself staring blankly into space before remembering what you had been talking about.
Kaneki noticed every single time. Eventually, you tilted your head back against the couch and looked up at him through heavy eyelids.
“Ken?” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Hm?” His attention shifted away from the book resting in his lap immediately, settling on you instead. You stared at him for a moment before frowning.
“I forgot what I was gonna say.” The softness that crossed his face was immediate. Whatever had been on your mind clearly wasn’t worth stressing over, at least not to him.
“That’s okay,” he said gently.
“But it was important.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“It was,” you insisted, earning a quiet smile from him. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his expression warm enough to make your chest ache.
Then he reached up to brush a strand of hair away from your face and said, “You’ll tell me tomorrow.” The words were simple, but the certainty behind them settled warmly in your chest. It wasn’t a dismissal or an attempt to brush you off because you were tired. If anything, it sounded like a promise,, a quiet assurance that whatever you’d forgotten could wait until morning, because he’d still be there to listen.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’d wake up. Tomorrow he’d still be sitting beside you, probably with a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Tomorrow there would be more conversations, more rainy evenings, more moments spent together on this couch. There would be time.
Your eyes finally slipped shut. This time, you didn’t bother fighting it. You barely registered Kaneki’s arm settling around your shoulders or the way he carefully guided your head against his chest. All you really noticed was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear and the warmth of his hand resting against your hair.
The last thing you felt before sleep claimed you completely was a soft kiss pressed to the top of your head. And somewhere above you, quiet enough that he probably thought you were already asleep, Kaneki whispered, “Goodnight.” ❤︎
hi lovelies!! I'm back from hiatus and have sososo much writing to post ^_^ ,, I'll also be writing for a few different fandoms so my masterlist will be updated very soon ..!!
You always know when she’s back before you hear her.
It isn’t the stepping disk,, not exactly. It’s what comes after. The shift in the air, like something sharp has been dragged through the room and left it quieter, heavier. Your candles react first. Flames bending, trembling, stretching just slightly taller like they’re reaching toward something unseen.
Then the gold light splits the space open.
She steps through it like she owns the violence she came from.
Magik doesn’t announce herself. She never does. The portal snaps shut behind her with a sound like something final, and for a moment she just stands there, shoulders tense, jaw set, armor half-formed and flickering at the edges like it doesn’t fully belong in your world.
You don’t rush her.
You never do.
“Hi,” you say instead, soft, like she just walked in from the cold.
Her gaze finds you immediately. Blue eyes, too bright, too sharp, scanning,, always scanning, before settling. It takes a second longer than it used to.
“…You’re awake,” she says.
“Obviously.”
That earns you the smallest shift in her expression. Not quite a smile. Something close enough.
She steps forward, slower now, and that’s when you see it,, dark streaks along her sleeve, a tear in the fabric near her shoulder, the way her hand flexes once like she’s testing whether it still works.
You push off the counter.
“Sit,” you tell her.
“I’m fine.”
“Illyana.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed more at being seen than being told what to do, but she sits anyway. Your couch dips under her weight, armor dissolving piece by piece until she looks almost human again,, just a girl in black, pale and sharp and tired in a way she won’t admit.
You move without asking, grabbing the cloth you always keep nearby, dampening it with warm water and something herbal. The room smells like incense and dried lavender, something grounding, something yours.
She watches you as you approach.
Always watches.
“You don’t have to do that,” she mutters, though her voice is quieter now.
“I know.”
You kneel in front of her anyway.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The air hums faintly, like the residue of wherever she’s been hasn’t fully let go yet. You reach for her arm slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Your fingers brush her wrist first,, light, careful, and you feel it immediately. The tension. The coiled energy under her skin, like something still ready to fight even though the battle’s over.
Your touch softens.
“It’s done,” you murmur.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t know that.”
You glance up at her, calm, steady. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
That makes her pause.
Just for a second.
It’s enough.
You start cleaning the cut along her arm, gentle but firm. She doesn’t flinch, not really, but her shoulders stay tight, her gaze flicking to the side like she’s expecting something to break through the walls at any second.
So you do the thing you’ve learned works.
You take her hand. Not the injured one. The other.
Your fingers slip between hers, grounding, deliberate, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re not holding onto someone who could tear reality open if she wanted to.
Her reaction is immediate, even if it’s small.
A pause.
A breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“…You’re distracting,” she says quietly.
“Good.”
You squeeze her hand slightly, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a slow, absent motion. The kind that doesn’t demand anything. Just stays.
Her grip tightens back.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The tension in the room shifts. Not gone, never gone,, but dulled, softened at the edges. Her gaze drops briefly to where your hands are joined, something unreadable flickering there before she looks away again.
“You’re not scared,” she says after a moment.
It’s not a question.
“No,” you answer simply.
“Why?”
You finish wrapping the cloth around her arm, then lean back just enough to meet her eyes again. “Because it’s you.”
That lands.
You can tell by the way her expression stills, like something inside her didn’t expect that answer and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Her thumb shifts slightly against your hand. Testing. Then settling.
“You should be,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.
“Probably.”
You don’t let go.
Neither does she.
The candles flicker again, softer this time, like the room itself is exhaling. The space between you feels smaller now, quieter,, not empty, but full in a different way.
She leans forward slightly, just enough that you notice.
Not enough that she has to acknowledge it.
Your hands are still linked between you.
Her voice drops, almost thoughtful. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m…” She trails off, searching for the word, then gives up. “Less.”
You tilt your head. “You’re not less.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think I mean.”
That earns you a look. A real one this time, direct and intense.
You don’t look away.
“You come back like you’re still there,” you continue softly. “Like you’re waiting for it to follow you.” Your thumb brushes her hand again, slower now. “I’m just giving you something to come back to.”
The silence stretches.
Heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Her grip on your hand tightens again, more deliberate this time. You feel the shift,, not in strength, but in intention. Like she’s choosing to stay in the moment instead of slipping somewhere else.
“…Stay,” she says, almost under her breath.
You blink. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The words hang there.
Your heart stutters just slightly, but you don’t pull away, don’t make it bigger than she’s letting it be.
Instead, you lean in just a fraction, enough that the space between you changes. Enough that she notices.
Her gaze flicks to your mouth for half a second.
Then back to your eyes.
There’s something there. Sharp. Careful. Wanting, in a way she doesn’t quite trust.
You don’t close the distance.
You let it sit there, hovering, fragile and charged all at once.
Her breath brushes yours, barely there.
“…You’re still distracting,” she murmurs.
You smile, soft, just a little crooked. “You’re still here.”
That almost does it.
You can feel it,, the moment tipping, the space narrowing, the possibility of it shifting into something neither of you are fully ready to name.
The moon boys with witchy/esoteric reader oh my GOD.
Reader does tarot, worships a dark deity and works with them spritually (anubis, mother lilith, etc), their place is decorated with dark purple,red,oranges and dim lighting and smells like incense and herbs.
Im thinking neighbor!reader and they're really social and loud and not afraid to be weird and stuff.
I fear marc would infact be in love with how they smell
nsfw + sfw perhaps! Thanks i love your work!!!!
Your apartment always smelled like something ancient. Not unpleasant,, never that, but deep and lingering, like resin burned too long, like crushed herbs soaked into the walls. It followed you, too. Into the hallway, into conversations, into people’s thoughts long after you’d left.
Steven noticed it first. He always noticed things first.
He lingered in your doorway one evening, clearly pretending he wasn’t, eyes darting between your tarot spread and the flickering candles scattered across every available surface. The room glowed in shades of dark amber and violet, shadows moving where they shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, though he didn’t leave, “I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just,, are those… tarot cards?”
You didn’t look up right away, finishing the card you were placing before answering. “Only if you think they are.”
There was a pause, then a quiet, almost delighted, “That’s a yes.”
You smiled to yourself and gestured lazily. “You can come in. You’ve already committed to being nosy.”
He stepped inside like he’d crossed into somewhere sacred. His movements slowed, his voice softened without him realizing it. “It smells incredible in here,” he added, almost to himself, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it out loud.
“Careful,” you said, finally meeting his gaze. “That’s how it gets you.”
He laughed a little, but it came out uneven, distracted. He sat across from you, leaning forward, completely drawn in,, not just to the cards, but to you. Your hands, the way you moved, the way you seemed so completely at ease in a space that felt overwhelming to anyone else.
At some point, his knee bumped yours under the table. Neither of you moved it.
“You’re distracted,” you said lightly, tilting your head.
“I’m not,” he replied immediately, then faltered. “…Okay, I am.”
“You want to ask something.”
His eyes flicked up, then down again, lingering longer than necessary. “Yeah. I do.”
But he didn’t ask. Instead, he leaned closer, like the answer wasn’t in the cards at all. Close enough that the scent around you felt stronger, warmer, like it wasn’t just in the air anymore. His hand shifted, hesitant, before settling over yours in a way that was almost accidental.
You didn’t pull away.
The candles flickered, sharper this time, like something unseen had taken interest.
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, slow, absent, but it was enough. His breath caught just slightly, his shoulders tensing like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling.
“I don’t think I should ask,” he admitted quietly.
That made your voice soften. “Then don’t.”
For a moment, the space between you felt thinner. Like it could disappear if either of you moved even an inch closer.
The door slammed before it could.
Steven pulled back immediately, the moment breaking as fast as it formed. Marc stood in the doorway, tense, eyes scanning the room before landing on you, then briefly on where your hands had been.
“You always light this many candles?” he asked, though it didn’t sound like a real question.
You leaned back in your chair, unbothered, like nothing had happened at all. “Only when I’m expecting company.”
Marc stepped inside, slower than Steven had, more cautious. But the second the scent hit him, he paused. It was subtle, the reaction,, barely there, but it was enough. His jaw tightened slightly, his shoulders squaring like he was bracing against something he couldn’t see.
“…Right,” he muttered. “Of course you do.”
He didn’t leave, though.
That was the first sign.
The second came later, when it was just the two of you in the hallway, long past a reasonable hour. You were talking,, animated, loud, hands moving as you explained something he wasn’t entirely sure he believed. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.
“Do you ever stop?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “Stop what?”
He gestured vaguely, frustrated. “This. Whatever this is.” His eyes flicked over you, your presence, the way the air around you felt thicker somehow. “It’s like you’re always… on.”
You smiled, slow and knowing. “No.”
He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Figures.”
Somehow, during the conversation, he’d stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulders brushed when you shifted. Neither of you moved away.
The scent was stronger out here than it should’ve been.
Marc noticed.
You noticed him noticing.
“You’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be,” you said quietly.
His gaze snapped back to yours, sharper now. “Didn’t say I was unaffected.”
There was something honest in that, something unguarded for just a second. It made the space between you feel charged, like the same pressure that filled your apartment had followed you out here, settling into the moment.
You leaned in just slightly, testing, curious.
He didn’t step back.
For a second, it felt like the world narrowed to that distance,, barely there, fragile, waiting to tip into something else.
A floorboard creaked down the hall.
You both glanced up instinctively. Jake stood at the far end, half shadowed, watching. Not interrupting. Not speaking. Just there, like he’d always been there.
When you looked back at Marc, he’d already shifted, the moment slipping through your fingers before it could fully form.
But he hadn’t gone far.
Not far enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.
And later, when you returned to your apartment, the candles flared just slightly higher as you stepped inside, like something was reacting,, pleased, curious, or maybe just patient.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t in a hurry.
⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡ ⋆
The shifts start subtly after that night.
Steven is the easiest to read. He begins knocking on your door more often, though “knocking” is generous,, half the time he’s already mid sentence before you even open it. He brings questions with him, always questions, about your cards, your candles, the symbols carved into things you never explained.
“You said this one means endings, right?” he asks one evening, holding up a card like it might rearrange itself if he looks long enough.
“Endings, beginnings,” you correct, leaning against your counter. “Depends on how you read it.”
“And how do you read it?”
You step closer, reaching for the card in his hand. Your fingers brush his briefly,, light, fleeting,, but Steven still goes quiet like the contact echoed louder than it should’ve.
“Like something that changes you,” you say softly.
He watches you instead of the card.
That’s becoming a pattern.
He stays longer each time he visits. Conversations drift. The space between you gets easier, smaller, filled with quiet moments that don’t feel awkward. Sometimes you’ll catch him looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out,, not in a suspicious way, but in a careful one, like he doesn’t want to get it wrong.
One night, while you’re both sitting on the floor surrounded by half-finished tarot spreads, he leans back against your couch and lets out a soft laugh. “I think I believe you,” he admits.
“About what?”
“All of it.” He gestures vaguely around your apartment. “The cards, the… energy, I guess. You.”
You glance at him, curious. “That didn’t take much convincing.”
Steven smiles, a little shy, a little crooked. “I think I decided before I even understood it.”
There’s something honest in that. It lingers.
So does he.
—
Marc is different.
Where Steven drifts toward you, Marc resists,, and somehow ends up just as close anyway.
He doesn’t knock as often, but he’s there. In the hallway. On the stairs. Just… present. Like he’s keeping track without meaning to.
“You do this on purpose,” he says one night, watching as you light another stick of incense by your door.
“Do what?”
“Make it follow you.” He gestures, like he can grab the scent out of the air and prove it. “It’s not normal.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like anything about you is normal.”
That earns a short, quiet laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze lingers on you again, sharper this time, more aware.
“It’s distracting,” he admits.
You tilt your head. “Is that a complaint?”
Marc hesitates.
“…I haven’t decided yet.”
The honesty of it surprises both of you.
After that, the space between you changes. There’s more tension in it, more awareness. He stands closer than he needs to. His attention feels heavier, more deliberate, like he’s trying to understand something instinctive instead of intellectual.
One evening, you pass him in the stairwell, and the space is too narrow not to brush shoulders. It should be nothing. It is nothing.
But Marc still pauses.
So do you.
For a second, neither of you move, caught in that same strange stillness that seems to follow you both. His gaze flicks to you, searching, like he’s expecting you to say something.
You don’t.
You just hold his eyes, steady, unbothered.
Marc exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. “You’re trouble,” he mutters.
You smile, faint and knowing. “You’re still here.”
He doesn’t argue with that.
—
Jake is the hardest to pin down.
He doesn’t ask questions like Steven. Doesn’t challenge you like Marc.
He observes.
You notice it in the way he lingers at the edge of spaces, in doorways, in reflections, in moments that feel just slightly out of sync. He’s quieter around you, but not distant,, more like he’s measuring something, recognizing something.
One night, you catch him watching while you reshuffle your deck.
“You’ve been doing that wrong,” he says casually.
You pause, glancing up. “Oh?”
He steps closer, reaching out,, not to take the cards, but to adjust your hands. His touch is brief, precise, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Not wrong,” he corrects. “Just… incomplete.”
Your eyes narrow slightly, curious now. “You’ve done this before.”
Jake smiles, but it doesn’t fully explain anything. “Something like that.”
There’s a moment where neither of you move, your hands still close from where he adjusted them. The air feels heavier again, quieter, like the room is holding its breath.
“You’re not surprised,” he adds, studying your expression.
You shake your head slowly. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because whatever I’m working with…” You glance at him, something more serious slipping into your tone. “It noticed you first.”
That makes him pause.
Not outwardly,, his posture stays relaxed, but something in his eyes sharpens, deepens.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That sounds about right.”
Unlike the others, Jake doesn’t step away from moments like that.
He lets them sit.
—
Over time, the differences become clearer.
Steven brings warmth into your space, softening it. He fills the quiet with curiosity and gentle closeness, the kind that builds slowly until it feels natural to sit shoulder to shoulder without thinking about it.
Marc brings friction. Awareness. Every interaction feels like it could tip into something sharper if either of you push too far, but neither of you do,, not yet.
Jake brings understanding. Not comfort, not tension, but something deeper and harder to define. Like he’s already part of whatever unseen thread has been winding through your life, just waiting for you to notice.
And through all of it, the same feeling lingers.
Something unfinished.
Something building.
Your candles burn longer these days. The air feels thicker, more responsive, like it reacts not just to you, but to them. Sometimes you swear the flames shift when they’re near, leaning slightly, like they’re drawn to something they recognize.
One evening, all three of them are there,, though not all at once, not quite, and the energy in your apartment feels almost overwhelming.
Steven is mid-sentence, animated, sitting far too close on your couch. Marc stands near the window, pretending not to listen while clearly listening to everything. Jake leans against the doorway, quiet, watchful.
You glance between them, a slow smile forming.
“…This is going to get complicated,” you say.
Steven laughs lightly, not quite understanding.
Marc exhales like he already knows.
Jake just watches you, that same knowing look settling in again.
Hiiiiiii!!!!! I love your work sm and I'm so happy to see some moon boys content especially with the recent announcement<333
If it's not any trouble could I mayhaps get some headcannons with the moon boys (together or separate) handling a gn!reader who's hyper vigilant? Like they have problems sleeping, super jumpy, etc.
Much love💕
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Steven Grant⊹ ࣪ ˖
Steven is the king of "low stimulation" environments. Since he’s spent so much of his life dealing with sleep anxiety and "spells," he is incredibly empathetic toward your inability to settle.
He quickly realizes that total silence is actually worse for you because every floorboard creak sounds like a threat. He’ll set up a white noise machine or play David Attenborough documentaries at a low volume to give your brain something "safe" to track.
He is very careful about announcing his presence. You’ll hear a soft, "Coming into the kitchen now, love," before he even enters the room.
He’ll research weighted blankets and calming teas. If you’re upright at 3:00 AM, he won't pressure you to sleep,, he’ll just sit on the floor nearby and organize his books until you feel safe enough to close your eyes.
Marc Spector ͙͘͡★
Marc understands hyper vigilance on a cellular level. To him, it’s not a "problem" to be fixed,, it’s a survival mechanism he recognizes all too well.
If he sees you scanning the room or checking the door for the third time, he won’t roll his eyes. He’ll get up, physically walk you through the apartment, and show you every lock and window is secure.
When you go out, he instinctively lets you sit with your back to the wall. He keeps himself between you and the most "active" part of the room so he can act as your shield.
If you start to spiral or get jumpy, he’ll ask before touching you. He uses firm, grounding pressure,, like a hand on your shoulder or holding your hand,, to remind you that he’s there and he’s the only "threat" you need to worry about (and he's on your side).
Jake Lockley ⋆˙˖✧
Jake is the most observant of the three. He notices your heart rate spiking before you even realize you're getting anxious.
Jake doesn't do a lot of "soothing talk." Instead, he handles the environment. If the neighbors are being loud, he’s the one who goes out to "settle" the matter so you can have peace.
If you’re struggling to sleep, Jake will literally sit in a chair by the door or at the foot of the bed. He’ll tell you, "I’ve got the watch. Nothing gets past me." Knowing Jake is on guard usually allows your brain to finally power down because you trust his competence more than your own fear.
He always has a plan. If a crowd gets too big and you start getting jumpy, he’ll lean in and whisper the exact route to the nearest exit. Knowing there’s a way out helps lower your internal alarm.
hi loves ♡ just wanted to pop in and say i’m still here. things have been a little quiet on my end because college has been keeping me super busy,, i haven’t been in the best headspace to write the way i want to. i didn’t want to force anything that didn’t feel right.
but i am getting better, slowly but surely, and i’ve really missed being here with you all. thank you for being patient with me,, it means more than you know. i’ll be back to writing soon ♡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
may I request Matt Murdock x reader with secret identity angst , thank you !
Matt Murdock x reader
~3.4k words
loving matt murdock feels like kneeling in an empty church. you don’t know he’s the devil of hell’s kitchen until it’s too late and by then, you’re already in love.
There are three things you know about Matt Murdock.
First: he always knows when you enter a room, even when you don’t say a word. You learned that early on,, how he’d look up from paperwork before you spoke, how his mouth would curve into a smile like he’d been waiting for you.
Second: he never lies to you.
Third: loving him feels like standing in the middle of a church long after midnight, lights off, kneeling even though you don’t believe in God, waiting for forgiveness you haven’t asked for yet.
You meet Matt on a Tuesday.
It’s raining,, of course it is. Hell’s Kitchen always looks best when it’s bleeding, streetlights smeared into the pavement like watercolors. You took a wrong turn trying to shake a man who had been following you since the subway, your pulse still racing when you collide with someone solid, steady.
“Easy,” he says, hand closing gently around your elbow before you can stumble. His grip is careful, like he’s afraid you’re already hurt.
You apologize too fast. He smiles like he’s used to people doing that around him.
“Matt,” he says, offering his hand.
You notice the cane second,, the white, scuffed thing resting against his leg. You hesitate, then take his hand anyway. His palm is warm. Callused.
You tell him your name. He repeats it softly, like he’s filing it away somewhere important.
Later, you’ll wonder if that was the moment he decided to ruin both of your lives.
────୨ৎ────
You fall into each other slowly.
Not dramatically. Not the way stories make it sound. It’s coffee first,, him insisting on paying, you insisting he doesn’t have to. It’s long conversations about nothing important and everything at once. It’s him remembering small things you forgot you said.
You learn that Matt likes his coffee strong and bitter. That he listens more than he talks. That he smells faintly like rain and old books and something darker you can’t name.
He walks you home every time.
“You don’t have to,” you tell him one night, keys already in your hand.
“I want to,” he replies, like it’s not even a question.
He never comes inside. He lingers at your door, head tilted, listening,,not to you, you assume, but to the city. When he kisses you, it’s soft. Careful. Like he’s holding himself back.
You like him because he doesn’t rush you. Because when you talk, he listens like it matters. Because when you laugh, he smiles like it’s something sacred.
But there are moments,, small, unsettling moments, where something doesn’t quite add up.
Sometimes he flinches at sirens.
Sometimes his knuckles are bruised, split in ways that don’t make sense for a blind lawyer.
“You should see the other guy,” he jokes once, but his pulse is racing under your fingers.
You don’t push. You’re afraid of what you’ll find if you do.
────୨ৎ────
There’s a man in Hell’s Kitchen people whisper about.
They call him the Devil. Say he wears red, that he leaves criminals broken and terrified, that he has rules. You hear the stories on the street, see the aftermath,, blood washed into gutters, men who won’t meet your eyes.
You don’t believe in him.
But you start having nightmares anyway.
You wake up shaking, heart pounding, convinced someone is standing over you. Matt notices immediately. He always does.
“You’ve been tense,” he murmurs, sitting beside you on the couch. You didn’t hear him come in.
“Just stress,” you lie.
He hums thoughtfully. “If you ever feel unsafe…”
“I know,” you interrupt. “I’d tell you.”
Something flickers across his face,, guilt, sharp and heavy. You miss it.
You don’t know it yet, but he’s already failed you.
────୨ৎ────
The night everything breaks, Matt isn’t there.
He texts you,, work emergency, I’m sorry. You tease him, tell him you’ll be fine walking home alone. You don’t want to be needy. You never want to be the reason someone chooses you over something important.
The street is quiet. Too quiet.
The man grabs you from behind before you can react. Rough hands, hot breath, panic slamming into you so hard you can’t even scream.
Then, chaos.
A body slams into him. The sound of bone breaking makes your stomach turn. A voice,, low, furious demands answers.
You curl in on yourself, shaking, while the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen dismantles the man who touched you.
When it’s over, the Devil turns to you.
Up close, he’s terrifying. Red suit slick with rain and blood, mask unreadable. He breathes like he’s been running for miles.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice distorted.
“No,” you whisper. “I—no.”
He hesitates, like he wants to reach for you. Like he knows you.
“My boyfriend is going to kill me,” you say, a weak attempt at humor.
He freezes.
Something breaks in the air between you. “You should go home,” he says suddenly, cold. “You’ll be safe.”
“Wait—” you call, but he’s already gone, vanishing into the dark like a ghost.
────୨ৎ────
Matt doesn’t come by for two days.
When he finally does, he looks ruined. Bruised worse than usual. Exhausted in a way that scares you.
You don’t yell. You don’t cry.
“I was attacked,” you say quietly.
The silence stretches.
“I know,” he says.
Your stomach drops. “How?”
“Police scanner,” he replies too quickly.
A lie.
You feel it settle between you, heavy and sour. Something fundamental has shifted. You don’t confront him,, not yet. You’re too tired. Too hurt.
But you start paying attention.
The way he disappears when the city gets too quiet. The way his pulse spikes when you’re scared. The way he always knows when you’re behind him, when you’re lying, when you’re about to cry.
The realization creeps in slowly, painfully.
The night you find the suit, it’s by accident.
You weren’t snooping. You swear you weren’t. You were looking for a clean towel when you open the wrong door and-
Red.
Armor. Gloves stained dark. A mask with horns folded carefully like it’s something holy.
Your knees give out. You sit on the edge of his bed, staring at it, heart breaking in real time.
When Matt finds you, he stops dead.
“I can explain,” he says, voice wrecked.
You laugh weakly. “Can you?”
He tries. God, he tries. Talks about protecting the city. About responsibility. About how dangerous it is for anyone close to him.
“You let me think I was alone,” you whisper. “You let me be afraid.”
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you snap, tears spilling over. “You don’t get to love me and lie to me in the same breath.”
He sinks to his knees, shaking. “I love you,” he admits, like it’s a sin. “And that terrifies me.”
You stand. You don’t touch him.
“I need space,” you say. “I need to know who I’m loving.”
────୨ৎ────
Weeks pass.
Hell’s Kitchen feels emptier without him. Quieter. You miss the sound of his heartbeat when you rest your head against his chest. Miss the way he said your name like a promise.
He doesn’t come back. Not as Matt. Not as the Devil.
You think maybe this is penance.
Then one night, there’s a knock at your door.
Matt stands there unmasked, bruised, exhausted, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.
“I’m done lying,” he says. “If you still want me,, it’ll be all of me. No secrets.”
You stare at him, heart aching.
Then you step aside.
“Come in,” you say. “And sit with me.”
He does. And this time, when he reaches for you, you let him.
────୨ৎ────
By the time he kisses you, it’s not desperate,, it’s reverent. Like a vow. Like forgiveness spoken without words.
For the first time, he tells you everything.
And for the first time, you don’t feel like love is a confession whispered in the dark.
Hii! This is my first request so sorry if it doesn't make sense and ignore if you not I apologize! Could you write something with the moon knight boys and a reader who gets confused and forgets easily. Or them with a reader who is always tired and sleeps all the time. I love your work and they way you write them!Thank you have a good day/night!🩷
moon knight boys x reader
~400 words
you forget things.
not in a dramatic way,, just little stuff. where you put your phone. what day it is. whether you already ate or just thought about eating. sometimes you zone out mid sentence and lose the thread completely.
the boys notice. they always notice.
steven is the first to adapt.
he starts writing little notes everywhere. not because you asked,, just because it feels right.
you took your meds <3
we already talked about this, love, it’s okay
nap time. don’t argue.
when you blink at him, confused and apologetic, he just smiles and takes your hands gently.
“hey, hey,, no need to be embarrassed. brains are weird. mine comes with… roommates.”
he explains things twice. three times. as many times as you need. never rushed. never annoyed. if you fall asleep halfway through a movie, he tucks a blanket around you and keeps watching like this is exactly how the night was meant to go.
marc pretends he doesn’t notice at first.
but he does.
he starts grounding you without making it obvious,, hand on your back, fingers squeezing yours once, twice, three times. a silent you’re here. you’re safe.
when you apologize for forgetting something important, he shuts that down immediately.
“don’t,” he says, firm but not unkind. “you’re not a burden. you’re tired. there’s a difference.”
he keeps track of things so you don’t have to. appointments. names. time. when you need rest more than answers, he’s already guiding you toward the couch, already pulling you close.
jake is… protective about it.
if you’re sleepy, he makes sure no one wakes you unless it matters. if you forget where you are, he crouches in front of you, meets your eyes, speaks low and steady.
“mírame. you’re with us. you’re okay.”
he lets you nap on him like it’s nothing. arm solid around you, heartbeat slow and grounding. if you drool a little? he doesn’t care. he thinks it’s cute. would never say it out loud, though.
between all of them, you’re never expected to be “on.”
you can be slow. foggy. half asleep. confused.
they fill in the gaps without making you feel small for having them.
and when you wake up disoriented, head heavy, memory fuzzy,,
there’s always someone there to remind you:
you’re loved.
you’re safe.
and you don’t have to remember everything to matter.
glenn rhee .. and ur taking a lil stroll,, and pda ,,
glenn rhee x reader
~200 words
you and glenn don’t really walk anywhere anymore.
it’s more like… drifting. slow steps. pauses every few feet. glenn stopping to point something out like it’s still the old world,,
“look, d’you think that used to be a bakery?”
and you pretend to consider it seriously because you like the way his face lights up when he imagines normal things.
his hand finds yours automatically. no hesitation. fingers lacing like muscle memory.
glenn is big on quiet pda. nothing flashy. just small things that say mine without needing words.
his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
leaning in a little too close when you stop walking.
his shoulder bumping yours like it’s an accident (it’s not).
when you sit on a curb to rest, he drops down beside you and presses a quick kiss to your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like there isn’t a whole apocalypse happening.
“you okay?” he asks, soft. always soft with you.
you nod, and before you can even answer properly, he’s smiling,, this relieved, boyish smile like the world still makes sense as long as you’re right there.
sometimes he pulls you in by the belt loop or the sleeve of your jacket. sometimes you steal a kiss first and he laughs into it, cheeks warm, pretending he didn’t love it.
glenn rhee is the kind of guy who holds your hand in public like it’s a promise.
omg i luv ur writing sm !! i was wondering if I could request Jason Todd x reader who calls you angel , if not then it’s totally okay !! <3
Jason Todd x reader
~4k words
The air in Gotham City was never just air. It was a thick, humid cocktail of sea salt from the harbor, old brick dust, and the lingering copper tang of a city that bled every single night.
Jason Todd was used to the taste of it. He’d tasted it as a kid stealing tires; he’d tasted it as a Robin dying in the dirt, and he tasted it now, perched on the edge of a gargoyle that looked as tired as he felt. His lungs were accustomed to the grime, but his heart? That was a different story.
He shifted his weight, the reinforced plating of his tactical suit creaking. Below him, the Bowery was a neon-lit hive of activity. Somewhere down there, in a third floor walk up with a temperamental heater and a view of a brick wall, you were waiting.
He looked at his chronometer. 2:14 AM. He was late. Again.
────୨ৎ────
The first time the word left his lips, it wasn't a conscious choice. It wasn't a romantic gesture or a planned confession. It was a reflex, born from the sheer, jarring contrast between the violence of his night and the peace of your presence.
You were sitting on the edge of the rooftop of your apartment building. It was a dangerous habit, one he’d lectured you on a dozen times, but you claimed the signal was better for your phone and the stars,, dim as they were through the smog, were easier to see.
When Jason landed behind you, his boots hitting the gravel with a muffled thud, you didn't flinch. You didn't even turn around. You just pulled your thin hoodie tighter around your frame, your shoulders hitching in a shiver that the biting November wind had forced upon you.
Jason pulled his helmet off. The cold air hit his sweat dampened hair, making him wince. He saw the way your breath hitched in the air, a tiny ghost of white vapor, and a sudden, sharp pang of protectiveness flared in his chest.
"Angel," he muttered, the word gravelly and low.
He didn't even realize he'd said it until he was already shrugging out of his heavy, fleece lined leather jacket. He stepped forward and draped it over your shoulders. The jacket was massive on you, weighted down by the armor inserts and the lingering heat of his body.
You froze. The hoodie you wore was thin, but the word he’d just used was heavy. You turned your head slowly, blinking up at him through the dark.
"Angel?" you repeated, your voice a soft question.
Jason’s breath caught in his throat. The Red Hood,, the man who had stared down the Joker, who had fought Batman to a standstill, who had crawled his way back from the grave,, suddenly felt like a kid who had tripped over his own feet in front of the whole school.
The flush started at his collar and worked its way up to his ears. "I—uh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—" He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting toward the horizon as if he could find an escape route in the clouds. "The wind. It's... it's cold. I'm tired."
You didn't laugh. You didn't tease him. Instead, you reached up, clutching the lapels of his jacket, and smiled. It was a soft, warm expression, the kind that made the scars on his chest feel a little less jagged.
"No," you whispered. "Don’t apologize. I like it."
That was the moment Jason Todd knew he was in deep. He wasn't just "dating" someone,, he was anchored. And for a man who had spent so much time drifting through the dark, the weight of that anchor was both the most terrifying and the most beautiful thing he’d ever felt.
────୨ৎ────
From that night on, the name became his. It was a private language, a linguistic barrier he built around the two of you to keep the rest of the world out.
Jason wasn't a man of many words, especially the soft kind. He expressed himself in the way he checked the locks on your windows, the way he brought you takeout from the one place in the Diamond District he knew was clean, and the way he hovered when you were sick. But "Angel" became the exception.
It came out when you were patching him up a task you had learned out of necessity.
He was sitting on your kitchen counter, his shirt discarded, revealing a map of old and new trauma written in scar tissue. You were being meticulous, dabbing antiseptic on a shallow cut along his ribs.
"Careful, angel," he grunted as the sting hit him. "Don't need you getting your hands dirty because I was too slow to dodge a pipe."
"You weren't slow," you murmured, not looking up. "You were protecting that shopkeeper. There's a difference."
Jason looked down at the top of your head, his eyes softening in a way that would have shocked his brothers. "Still. You shouldn't have to see this. None of it."
"I choose to see it," you reminded him, finally meeting his gaze.
He reached out, his hand,, thick with muscle and calloused from years of training,, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that seemed impossible. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone. "My angel," he whispered, so low it was almost lost to the hum of the refrigerator.
────୨ৎ────
But Gotham never stayed quiet for long.
Two months into the "Angel" era, Jason came home broken. Not just physically,, though his shoulder was dislocated and his lip was split, but mentally. It had been a bad night. The kind of night where the line between "hero" and "vigilante" blurred into something ugly and gray.
He didn't use the window this time. He used the door, stumbling in and leaning his back against the wood as it clicked shut. His helmet was still on, the red glow of the lenses casting an eerie, demonic light across your darkened living room.
You were on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting. You didn't turn on the lights. You knew he didn't want them on yet.
He didn't move for a long time. The mechanical filters of the mask made his breathing sound heavy and artificial. Finally, with a hiss of pressurized air, he pulled the helmet off and let it drop onto the carpet.
He looked haunted.
"Jason?" you called out softly.
He didn't answer. He walked over to the sofa and sank onto the floor at your feet, resting his head against your knees. His shoulders were shaking,, not with sobs, but with the sheer exhaustion of holding himself together.
"I hate that you worry," he muttered into the fabric of your blanket. "I hate that I come back here and I can still smell the smoke on my skin. I don't want to bring the rot into your house."
You slid your fingers into his hair, gently massaging the tension out of his scalp. "Jason, look at me."
It took him a moment, but he lifted his head. His green eyes were clouded, filled with a self loathing that always sat just beneath the surface.
"I'll always worry," you said firmly. "That's the deal. You don't get to protect me from the 'worry' because it’s part of loving you. You aren't bringing rot here, Jason. You're bringing yourself. And you’re the one I want."
He grabbed your hand, pressing his face into your palm. "That's why I call you that. Because you're the only good thing I ever had that didn't involve a fight or a funeral. You’re the only thing that's... sacred."
The word hung in the air. For Jason, who had seen the worst of humanity, "sacred" wasn't a word he used lightly.
"I'm not a saint, Jason," you teased gently, trying to break the heavy tension. "I'm just a person who loves a very stubborn man."
He let out a short, dry laugh, his first of the night. He stood up, pulling you with him until you were standing in the small space between his chest and the sofa. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"Yeah," he breathed. "My stubborn angel."
────୨ৎ────
The city outside groaned and shrieked, a symphony of sirens and distant tires. But in that apartment, the world was reduced to the sound of two heartbeats.
Jason pulled back just enough to look at you. He traced the line of your jaw, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. Finding none, he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn't a desperate kiss, or one fueled by the adrenaline of a fight. It was slow. Deliberate. It was a promise that despite the red mask, despite the guns, and despite the city that tried to tear him apart, he would always find his way back to this room.
He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing. "Guess that makes you mine, huh?"
You smiled, the warmth of it radiating through him. "Guess it does."
"Good," he whispered, his voice finally finding its peace. "My angel."
Bucky Barnes x reader where he’s terrified of hurting you but he can’t stay away
The metal of Bucky’s left arm felt like an anchor, dragging him down into a sea of guilt that never quite receded. In the quiet hours of the Brooklyn night, he would sit by the window of his apartment, watching the streetlights flicker, and think about the way your pulse fluttered against his skin when he touched you.
It was a delicate thing,, a heartbeat. He knew exactly how much pressure it took to stop one.
Bucky had spent decades being a weapon, a precision tool designed to break things. Now, he was trying to be a man, but the transition felt like trying to sew silk with a sledgehammer. You were the silk. You were the bright, warm constant in his life that made him feel like James Buchanan Barnes again, rather than just a ghost with a serial number.
But that warmth was exactly what terrified him.
"Bucky, you’re staring again," you said softly, leaning against the doorframe of his kitchen. You were wearing one of his old shirts, the hem hitting mid thigh, looking so devastatingly human that it made his chest ache.
"Just thinking," he rasped, his voice rough from hours of silence.
"About what?"
About how easily I could crush your wrist if I had a nightmare, he thought. About the way my hands feel like ice compared to yours.
"Just work," he lied.
He tried to keep his distance. He really did. He would decline your invitations to movie nights, claiming he was tired. He would sit on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a yawning chasm of space between your shoulders. He convinced himself that the distance was a shield,, a way to keep you safe from the jagged edges of his soul.
But Bucky Barnes was a man starving for light, and you were the sun.
One evening, a thunderstorm rolled over the city, the heavy cracks of lightning mimicking the sounds of a battlefield. Bucky was frozen in his chair, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches as memories of the front lines bled into the present.
You didn't say a word. You simply walked over and sat on the floor by his knees, resting your head against his denim clad leg. You didn't try to touch the metal arm, you didn't force him to talk. You just were.
Slowly, almost against his own will, his flesh and blood hand drifted down to rest in your hair. His fingers trembled. He was terrified that a sudden noise would make him flinch, make him snap, make him hurt the only thing that made him feel whole.
"You should go to bed," he whispered, though his fingers were already curling into your soft curls, anchoring him to the room.
"I’m fine right here," you murmured. "I'm not going anywhere, Bucky."
The conflict peaked a week later. You had reached out to grab his hand while crossing a busy street, and he had flinched away so violently that you nearly tripped. The look of hurt in your eyes was worse than any physical blow he’d ever taken.
"I can't do this," he snapped, his voice trembling as he paced the small confines of your living room later that night. "You don't understand what I am. I’m a liability. I'm a danger to everyone around me, especially you."
"Yet!" he yelled, the sound echoing off the walls. He held up his left hand, the vibranium plates shifting with a soft, metallic whirr. "I don't always have control. What happens when the Winter Soldier decides to wake up while we're sleeping? What happens if I have a dream and I think you're a target?"
He was shaking now, the raw vulnerability of his fear laid bare. He wanted to run. He wanted to disappear into the woods where he couldn't break anything precious. But as he turned to the door, you stepped into his path.
You didn't flinch. You walked right up to him until your chest was inches from his. You took his metal hand, the hand he treated like a cursed object,, and pressed it flat against your heart.
Bucky froze. He could feel the steady, rhythmic thump thump through the sensors in his fingertips. It was the most fragile thing in the world, and it was beating for him.
"I trust you," you said, your voice a steady anchor in his storm. "I know your history, Bucky. But I also know the man who buys me sunflowers because he remembered I liked them once. I know the man who stays up all night making sure I get home safe. You’re terrified of hurting me because you love me. And that love is exactly why you won't."
He let out a broken sob, a sound that had been bottled up for seventy years. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his heavy frame leaning into yours. His metal arm stayed pressed to your heart, but his grip was as light as a feather.
He couldn't stay away. He was a moth to your flame, but for the first time, he started to believe that the fire wouldn't burn him,, it would just keep him warm.
hey dear, love your moonboys writing! could you do one with a designer!reader? maybe theyre reacting to their s/o making them a suit for date night?
Steven Grant would genuinely stop breathing for a second.
Like, full on short circuit. You hold up the suit bag with that soft little smile and say, “I made you something for tonight,” and his brain exits the building. When you unzip it and reveal a perfectly tailored suit,, custom cut to his frame, rich fabric, every seam intentional his hands hover like he’s afraid to touch it.
“You… you made this?”
His voice cracks. Actually cracks.
He runs his fingers over the fabric like it’s sacred. Keeps asking how long it took, what inspired it, if you were thinking of him when you chose the color (you obviously were). When he tries it on and looks in the mirror, his eyes go glossy.
“I look… I look like I belong somewhere important,” he murmurs.
Then he turns to you and says softly, “And you made me feel that way.”
Expect shy kisses, hands holding your waist like you’re holding him together, and at least one whispered “I don’t deserve you” that you immediately shut down with affection.
────୨ৎ────
Marc Spector’s reaction is quieter, but heavier.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares when you show him the suit. His jaw tightens like he’s overwhelmed and trying not to show it. He asks practical questions first, fabric durability, flexibility, how it fits his shoulders,, until he realizes this isn’t tactical gear. This is love, stitched into cloth.
When he puts it on, he stands straighter without realizing. The suit fits like it was always meant to exist for him.
“You made this for me,” he says finally. Not a question.
His eyes soften. “No one’s ever… done something like that.”
Later, when you adjust his collar or smooth the lapel, he rests his forehead against yours.
“This is more than a suit,” he murmurs. “It’s proof I’m worth staying for.”
And that’s when you know you broke him in the best way.
────୨ৎ────
Jake Lockley is loud about it.
You show him the suit and he whistles low, dramatic as hell.
“Baby, you tryna make me the best dressed man in the city or what?”
He immediately pulls you in by the waist, spinning you once before even trying it on. When he does, he checks himself out in every reflective surface available. A mirror. A window. Your phone camera.
“You got taste,” he says smugly. “And you got talent.”
But then he gets quiet when you fix the cuffs for him. Watches your hands. The care in your movements. The way you made something just for him.
“You didn’t have to go this hard for me,” he says softly.
Then, teasing again, “But I’m real glad you did.”
He kisses you like it’s a thank you he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
────୨ৎ────
And the best part?
All three of them realize the same thing in their own way:
