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.
