Spectre (Finale)
A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story
Event #14: 28 Days Later
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Summary: Marc, Steven and Jake adjust to your return. What will you do with your new life after everyone thought you were dead? (And you were, in fact, dead)
Pairing this chapter: Marc, Steven, Jake x f!reader
Word count: 1.9k
Content: angsty, romance, domestic fluff, mentions of food, language, discussions of death, dying, burial, p in v, creampie, oral implied, violence implied, not beta’d
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PREVIOUSLY on Spectre…
You wrapped your body all the way around his, holding him inside, showing him you would never let go.
Then you gave him the smile that made him fall in love with you, back in London. "I'll marry you."
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Since returning to life - actual, real life - you found that Marc would barely leave your side for any reason, constantly finding ways to touch you or stay close to you.
The two of you spent countless hours in bed and it wasn't always sexual. Sometimes he would simply hold onto you, lying side by side, foreheads touching, sharing the other's breath.
He was soft, understanding...almost casual the night after you came back, checking to see if you were okay, certainly not dissolving into sobs the way Jake had done, not that you blamed him.
So, conversationally, Marc seemed fine. Normal. At ease.
But in bed, which was frequent, he was different.
You woke up with the sun, staring longingly at his serene face, wondering which of them would come to you today. Marc's eyes blinked open, going wide for a split second before he pulled you halfway on top of him.
"I'm here," you whispered, sinking your fingers into his curls and sealing your mouth to his. It was like he needed all of you before he could even totally wake up, get out of bed, be fully alive.
Clothes were hurriedly discarded so he could put himself inside you as quickly as possible.
"I'm here," you repeated, panting on his ear as he pushed in and out of you desperately.
"Had a dream," he urgently whispered, gripping your hips as you maneuvered on top of him, working yourself down over his cock vigorously, showing him, with your body, that you needed him just as badly.
"Come here," you beckoned him to sit up you could feel him close, skin-to-skin.
Forearms flexing against your back, he pulled you down by your shoulders, thrusting up into you desperately. "Don't wanna hurt you. But I need...I need - "
"Need you too," you panted, arms wrapped so tight around him that you could feel every movement from his thick thighs underneath you, to the frantic motion of his hips, his cock so devastatingly deep inside, his abdomen, soft but strong, flexing against your stomach, the strength of his chest pressing against your bare breasts, his breath on your neck.
He kissed you then, brushing his lips over yours hungrily, then kept you there, feeling you breathe with him, move with him, feeling you alive.
He came without warning, pulsing inside you, a groan of satisfaction rumbling from his chest to yours.
"Sorry. Sorry, I...it was a good dream this time," he smiled against your cheek, kissing you softly. "Almost feels like I've been fucking you all night."
You whimpered as he pulled out of you, missing the stretch of him already.
"I'm glad it was a good dream," you panted as he laid you down and eased down your body.
Slinging your thighs over his shoulders, he smiled up at you. "Very good dream." Then he sank his tongue deep inside you and made you feel more alive than ever.
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Crisp November air drifted in through the cracked kitchen window as you started dinner. Your fiancé stared out over the back yard, arms folded over his chest pensively.
Eager to be close to him, you set your knife down and padded over to the back door, gently pressing your palm against his back.
He flinched at your touch, but turned around quickly to apologize. Which was when you realized it was Jake, who never flinched for any reason.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Mi vida,” he breathed, wrapping you in his arms and pressing his nose into your hair.
“Hi,” you whispered, melting against him. “I’m sorry.”
Rubbing your back soothingly, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Why are you sorry?”
“I haven’t seen you. I’ve been worried about you.”
Because they buried you and then he had to be the one who pulled you out of your grave. And you hadn’t spoken to him since he sobbed there in the dirt, in your arms.
“It’s not your fault,” he reassured you, easing back. Taking your face in his hands, he gazed deeply into your eyes. “There’s only one person to blame here. The asshole who did this to you. That's...honestly that's what I was thinking about. It's almost all I can think about.”
Nodding fervently, you felt relieved that Jake wasn’t blaming himself somehow. “Did the police ever find him?”
Dark eyebrows shifted curiously as he shook his head. “No, mi amor. We have no idea who it is. You said he came up from behind you.”
“Yes, but I…” chewing your lip, you concentrated, the face now clear in your mind. “I saw his reflection in a shop window.”
“Wait, you saw him?” Grasping your shoulders, Jake swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize…do you know who he is?”
“No. He did come up from behind me. And I couldn’t remember very well when I was in the dark place. I couldn’t remember that I saw his face, or what he looked like, but now I can see him. I remember.”
Taking hold of your hands gently, Jake guided you to the kitchen table to sit down.
“Tell me everything.”
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Jake returned to you the next morning, completely nonchalant, as if he hadn't been out all night.
He found you in the kitchen cooking breakfast. A glimmer of light caught his eye. The shimmer of your engagement ring sent an emerald reflection dancing around the kitchen as you scrambled eggs.
"He gave you the ring."
Turning around, you beamed at him. "I kind of gave it to myself."
"It's about damn time someone did." Peeling off his jacket, he tossed it on the back of a kitchen chair. "Want some help?"
"Almost done," you shrugged one shoulder, turning off the flame and scraping the eggs into a bowl. "Besides, I suspect you've been a little bit busy." You eyed him knowingly.
Pulling his gloves off his hands, he sat down at the table, the fabric of his tailored pants stretched deliciously over this thick thighs as he spread his legs. With a sigh, he loosened his tie. "I called."
"I know, baby." You set the food down in front of him and took a step to fetch the coffee pot, but he grabbed you by the arm and pulled you back to him, guiding you in between his thighs.
Arms around your waist, he buried his nose in your stomach, hugging you fiercely. "Are you mad?" He murmured, his voice muffled.
Pulling his flat cap off his head, you set it aside and raked your fingers through his curls, just hard enough to make him look up into your eyes and shiver a bit at your attention.
"You saved my life that night, at the cemetery." Smiling gently, you pushed a stray curl out of his eyes as his throat bobbed uncertainly. "And last night too. Didn't you?"
"I'd do it again," he swore, his voice gruff, determined. "I'll never let you get hurt again."
Reaching for his tie, you pulled his lips to yours. "My hero."
You were going to give your fiancé whatever he needed to feel safe.
For Marc, it was safe physical contact.
For Jake, it was vengeance.
For Steven, a home.
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"Any room for me?" You asked Steven, who was curled up on the sofa reading a book, reading glasses perched smartly on his nose.
"For you? 'Course," he answered, marking his page and setting his book on the coffee table before removing his glasses. Lifting the corner of the knit blanket covering his lap, he invited you in.
Easing down beside him, you snuggled close, burying your nose in the soft gray sweater he wore.
Each of them smelled different. Right now, Steven almost looked like he smelled: spiced tea, soft sweaters and old paperbacks.
"Talk to me, Steven," you whispered. "Tell me anything. Everything."
Your hands gripped his sweater and he knew you needed to hear his voice - to carry your mind away from memories of the darkness.
"Alright, darling. But first, let me ask you a question."
Lifting your head from his chest, you peered into his eyes. "What?"
"I was hoping you'd marry me too. If that's alright." He smiled gently.
"Yes, of course I will," you laughed, kissing him softly, ruminations on darkness instantly vanquished. "Can I ask you something too?"
"Mmm, anything, except - we'll have to budget a bit if you want another ring."
"No," you giggled, heart burning with love. "No, um...would you move me back to London?"
"Back to London?" His eyebrows shot up as he sobered. "I thought you loved it here."
"I do. I did. You gave me a life here. A home. I loved it. I was so lucky to have it," you told him with conviction. "But then I died here."
He nodded understandingly.
"The thought of getting out my books and putting together my old loft - it feels like going backwards. Does that make sense?"
"It does," he smiled sympathetically. "And there's the fact that you've not left the house. If you did, you'd likely scare the shit out of everyone, wouldn't you?"
"You joke, but it's true," you replied seriously. Brushing your fingers across his cheek, you stared deeply into his eyes. "Take me back to where we first met."
"I still have my flat," he reminded you. "We could start there, save some money." He touched his forehead to yours. "Are you sure you want to leave?"
"Yes. I always felt like London was my home away from home," you explained. “It’s your home and we both know Marc wasn’t built for small town America.”
“That he isn’t, but he does love you. And you’re my home. Doesn’t matter where.”
“I know, and I love you for that,” you told him. “Besides, I felt cozy there - in London - and sometimes a little dreary."
"And that's a good thing?"
"Mm-hmm. Because now I want to write ghost stories. After all, I’m part witch."
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A damp, winter breeze danced along the bustling, city streets. Twinkling lights brightened windows as the sun struggled to peek through the end of a gray morning shower.
Marc Spector shuffled along the sidewalk, minding his own business, the way big city inhabitants were prone to do. His boots scuffed the pavement, dodging puddles, balancing two coffees and a bag of breakfast as he scurried toward the flat the two of you shared.
No longer alone, Marc felt a pressure in his chest release for the first time since he left London to move back to the states with you.
Back in the place you met, you wanted to plant new roots, to make a new home and write your next adventure.
Now there were vows between you. A ring, promises. He was your husband. He still called you his girl.
Marc took the lift to your flat, having promised to let you sleep in. You were both exhausted from moving, unboxing your lives and settling in with your cute fishies. Marc could lean on the doorframe of your writing studio (the tiny, second room in your flat) for hours and watch your face light up with joy as you unpacked and shelved your treasures - favorite childhood books, first, autographed editions, a few letters from fans, framed pictures of the little town you left behind.
Marc paused in the hallway outside the bedroom to gaze at your picture - the one he left hanging up for Steven. The one of you sitting on the front porch, cuddled in Steven's navy blue sweater, holding your orange pencil.
Smiling to himself, he pushed open the bedroom door. You were sitting on the end of the bed, wrapped in the new hoodie you got him for Hanukkah.
"Marc?" Your eyes lit up at the sight of your husband.
"Hey baby."
END
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