Tender

i wanted to write something nasty but it ended up being quite sweet, don't blame me i just need love

⠀ૈ☆ ex-husband nanami x fem!reader

𓏲 ࣪₊♡ tw: [n]sfw, breeding kink, jealousy, possessiveness, fluffy ending

it only took one look, just one look across the room full of guests to reignite something that had never really been extinguished.

nanami's grip around his glass of wine got a little tighter, his eyes flashing at you and his heart starting to beat fast.

he became more muscular since your divorce, his shoulders looked stronger, carrying him with much more confidence and charisma than before.

maybe he finally quit his shitty job, you thought to yourself, trying to act cool as you saw him coming closer...

yeah he definitely quit his job, you think to yourself again, laying on your back while his cock is splitting you open.

"I missed you so much my love..."

familiar goosebumps hit your skin and his hands slide along the curves of your waist, the tip of his cock pushing against your cervix.

all you can do is take it, unfocused eyes watching your ex-husband thrusting inside your dripping pussy. nanami grunts, his body pressed against your own, his breath fanning over your neck, and you can't help but moan his name and wrap your legs around his hips, trying to meet his thrusts.

"'missed you too kento..." you try to speak, your hands reaching out to hold his face.

you missed everything about him, the warmth of his skin, his cologne scent, how messy his blond hair gets when you run your hands through it, and the way he knows every single one of your weak spots.

he never fucked you this hard in the past, of course he was rough sometimes, but you can tell something has changed, snapped.

not that you're complaining about it.

your back arches off the bed, making his pelvic bone touch your spasming clit.

"this time I'm not letting you go angel..."

his eyes get darker, thinking about the potential men and women who had you since your divorce, it makes him fuck you harder, deeper.

"mine..." he whispers, more to himself than for you to hear.

he takes your hands to pin them above your head and smiles when he hears you whine.

"you're gonna cum angel?" he asks, not slowing down his thrusts.

he knows you by heart, and he smiles when you nod, his mouth starting to suck on the soft skin of your neck, marking you.

"that's okay, I'm gonna cum too..." he says, and you can feel his hot breath hitting your skin.

he keeps rubbing your sweet spot, completely lost in the feeling. god he missed that feeling, you're the only one who can make him lose his mind like that, he can't believe he let you go when you're this perfect.

"you're still not on birth control?"

and he smiles again when he sees you shake your head. so perfect.

"gonna put a baby in you yeah? gonna make you a mom... will you let me angel?"

you mindlessly nod your head, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, your whole body is trembling and you feel his cock twitches inside of you.

"please... breed me..." you sweetly asks, and he can't deny you.

your vision gets blurry, your eyes roll back and you violently cum around his cock as he does the same in you, still thrusting to push his cum deeper. you both stays silent for a few seconds, nanami's head buried in your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, closing his eyes of content when he feels your hands rubbing his back.

"I love you, I've never stopped loving you, even after six years..." he whispers, his voice sounding almost vulnerable as he kisses your shoulder.

you ruffle his hair, and you whine a little as you can feel his cock still pushing against your cervix.

"I'm here now, I won't leave."

he hums, his arms wrapping around your waist and you can feel yourself slowly drifting off to sleep.

this time you both won't let go of each other.

jjk masterlist

Wasted On You

AN: No one asked for this but it came to me, and I wanted it so, hope y'all enjoy lol.

(Un-beta’d)

In which Poe is a handsy, overly-affectionate drunk.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,863 Pairing: Poe Dameron x F!Reader Warnings: alcohol consumption, kissing, frottage/thigh riding, semi-public sex, soft!Poe, sub!Poe (if you squint), fluff, PDA, cursing, Poe being the adorable menace that he is. AO3

———

The spotchka sloshes out of your glass as you clink it with the others at the table, the sounds of raucous laughter and general gaiety filling the room as everyone celebrates the Resistance’s latest win. It’d been a big one, one that had been fought for long and hard; years of sleepless nights and an innumerable number of undercover missions later, it was finally over. Everyone was thrilled, of course, but none more so than Poe Dameron. 

You take a sip and smile as you watch him cheer, his elation and relief obvious. He’d been neck deep in the middle of it all as the General’s right-hand man, taking charge of at least a third of the missions that had gotten all of you to this point; if anyone deserved to celebrate, it was definitely Poe. 

It’s why you haven’t tried to pull him away yet, why you haven’t stopped him from drinking jet juice like it’s water. You know you probably should but…he’s just having so much fun, and you can’t bear to be the one that ends it. He’s definitely sloshed, laughing at the dumbest things and stumbling around like a baby that’s just learning how to walk. It’s been pretty amusing to witness, if you’re honest.  

You watch as the people he’s been speaking with move on, clapping him on the shoulder as they head toward another group that’s taken up residence in the back corner. Once he’s alone, he sits quietly, smiling softly to himself for a moment, before his brow suddenly furrows in confusion. He looks around, an exaggerated frown on his lips as he searches for something. When his eyes meet yours, his smile returns, wide and a little dopey, as he stands to his feet and unsteadily shuffles over. 

You chuckle when he plops down onto the chair beside you, his arm draping over your shoulders as he leans in so close, his nose bumps against your cheek. 

“There you are, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice raspy from all the cheering and screaming. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

An involuntary shiver runs through you at the roughness of his voice, conjuring memories of the other times he’s sounded like this for you (his forehead pressed to yours, breath puffing against your lips as he pushes into you again and again—). He pulls you closer, his lips brushing your cheek as his other hand falls to your knee. 

“Maker,” he groans, kissing his way over your jaw toward your ear. “Baby, you smell delicious.” 

You tilt your head slightly to better accommodate him, your chuckle a little throaty. “I do?” 

He hums, pushing his nose against the side of your neck and breathing in deeply.  

You chew your lip, eyes darting around the room as he resumes kissing you, this time on your neck, the hand on your knee slowly inching its way up to your thigh. 

“Poe,” you warn, squirming a little in your chair as you halt his hand’s upward progression with your own. “We’re in public.” 

He grunts, nosing aside the collar of your shirt to nip at your collarbone. “So?” 

Your chuckle morphs into a whine as he worries a mark there with his teeth, arousal pooling in your gut at the mild sting. He groans into your neck when your fingers find their way into his hair, curling around the soft, thick strands. Gently, you pull him off of you, his eyelids heavy, mouth slightly agape as he stares at you. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the way he looks at you, so much unabashed love and adoration, so much want. Unable to resist, you lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. 

 As you pull away again, you say. “C’mon, flyboy, let me take you home.” 

The two of you say goodnight to everyone before stumbling from the cantina, Poe’s arm laid over your shoulders. Your arm wraps around his waist in an effort to keep him upright, only to have him lean heavily against your side, humming contentedly as he buries his face in your neck again. You manage to get him to the door just outside the living quarters hall before he starts trying to grope you, hand slipping not-so-stealthily toward your chest.  

“Stop it,” you chuckle, rolling your eyes as you swat his hand away. 

He snorts into your neck, his mouth once again exploring the area. “Stop what?” he asks between kisses, lips dragging over your skin. “‘m not doing anything.” 

You hum skeptically, pausing to key the entry code to the door. As you wait for it to slide open, he pulls your earlobe between his lips, his teeth nipping at the edges. Your breath hitches in surprise, and he must hear it because he smiles. You drag him into the hall once the door opens, silently thanking the Maker that everyone seems to still be out celebrating. 

Poe’s quarters aren’t far, and normally take just a few minutes to reach, however, what should be a quick trek is hindered by the fact that a certain drunk commander can’t seem to stop touching you. You fend him off without issue, though, biting back your laughter at the terrible pick-up lines he’s throwing your way. 

“You do know that I can’t carry you, right?” you tease, snorting as he knocks you into the wall with his weight again. 

He chuckles as he attempts to right himself, but only succeeds in making you even more lopsided. “I’m sorry, baby, I can’t help that I am trapped in the gravitational field of your smile.” 

You scoff, shaking your head fondly as you turn the corner to the hall that (blessedly) houses Poe’s quarters. “You’re an idiot.” 

He laughs again, and you grunt as he leans into your side yet again, his breath puffing against your cheek. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” 

It’s cheesy, but the truth of the statement makes something warm lodge itself in your heart all the same. 

You’re almost there, can literally see his door as you both plod awkwardly down the hall. He’s quieter now, but you’re so focused on getting him into his room, you don’t think to ask why.  

Without warning, he leans into you again, throwing you off balance and pinning you to the wall with his hips. Before you can scold him, he covers your lips with his own, stealing your words as well as the breath from your lungs. He tastes like a Keshian spice roll, sweet and a little tangy, and you melt into him, your fingers curling into his shirt to keep him against you. His tongue is warm, insistent, as it slides hungrily against yours, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.  

He sighs, grinding against you clumsily as he devours your mouth. His hands are everywhere; on your face, your hips, your ass, his strong fingers gripping and pulling, manipulating your body like he would his ship. You whine as he slots his thigh between your legs, pushing it up against your core, mumbling something about wanting to see you fall apart. You moan at the friction, canting your hips as he pulls his mouth from yours to groan into your neck. Your fingers weave into his hair as you both continue to grind against each other, the pleasure building steadily in your gut.  

“Poe,” you sigh breathlessly, eyes flying open when you remember where you are. “Baby, your room is right there.” 

He grunts in response, his mouth latching onto your neck.  

You open your mouth to respond, then promptly choke on a moan when he shifts his leg, the movement pressing the seam of your pants against your clit.  

“Maker, I love all the pretty, little sounds you make,” he slurs, voice raspy as he pulls back to meet your eyes. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” 

The greedy look in his eyes sends another jolt of pleasure through you, your breath hitching as you cant your hips, seeking your release.

“Poe,” you whine, telling him that you’re close (so close), that you just need a little more— 

He shushes you softly, pressing his forehead against yours, his own hips still rutting lazily against you, and when you come, he kisses you, swallowing your moans.  

The first thing you notice when you come back to yourself is that Poe’s rock-hard cock is digging into your hip. When you open your eyes, he’s watching you, his smile soft, eyes heavy-lidded, still blown wide with lust. 

That’s when you remember where you are. 

Shit.  

Panic slices through you as you wriggle in his hold, trying to push yourself off of the wall (and his thigh). You’re mortified—had anyone seen you? Had they heard? You groan (and not in the pretty way Poe likes), eyes darting around in search of any onlookers. Poe chuckles, nose nudging against yours as he tries to reclaim your attention. 

As you return your attention to your menace of a boyfriend, you can’t seem to stop the laugh that escapes you, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. He laughs too, snorting when you place your other hand over his mouth. You smile at each other as your combined giggles subside, Poe’s eyes crinkling a little by his eyes.  

“Let’s get you to bed, commander,” you say finally, fingers toying with the curls at the base of his neck. 

He nods, a little glassy-eyed as he stares at you with a fondness and affection that makes your stomach flip.  

When you (finally) make it into his room, he attacks you with his lips again, licking into your mouth as his hands clumsily attempt to remove your clothes. He walks backwards, bringing you along with him as he untucks your shirt from your pants. You chuckle as he struggles with your belt, grunting in frustration when he can’t seem to get it unbuckled. He huffs after a moment, abandoning his attempts and slipping beneath your shirt instead.  

Suddenly, he grunts, tripping and falling heavily onto his bed and pulling you right along with him. You laugh softly, pushing yourself up on your forearms to look down at him; his eyes are glazed with want, dark curls splayed across his blanket in a messy halo, eyelids heavy. 

“Slow down, baby,” you whisper, smiling softly as you lean in to kiss him again. 

He melts into the mattress, moaning into your mouth as his hands slide up your back, hips pushing against yours. You grind down onto him slowly, gently, swallowing every sigh and whimper that falls from between his lips. He comes with a choked moan not long after, fingers digging into your skin as his hips stutter against yours. 

You pull back when you feel him sag in relief beneath you, your hands combing through his hair. His eyes are closed, body limp and heavy, and you realize—he fell asleep. You snort, smiling fondly at him before pressing a kiss to his forehead. As you try to slip from his hold though, he tightens his arms around you, murmuring softly for you to stay. 

Unable to deny him anything, you do.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

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Some messy dorito shaped Geto sketches inspired by this one tweet 👀

I had to add tattoos because...yes this is very self-indulgent

moonboys and a reader who maladaptive daydreams?

hi, nonnie! thank you for this request, you must’ve seen my blog description haha. this is my first fic request which is very exciting! my inbox is always open so if you’d like to request something, i’d appreciate it. :) anyway, i hope you like it!

IMPLODING THE MIRAGE

Moon Knight x afab!reader (primarily Marc Spector) (10.6k+)

You’ve been escaping into yourself more and more often, and the boys are starting to notice. How are you supposed to explain to them that you don’t want to live in the moment, when the version of your life inside your head is so much better than reality on the outside?

RATING: EXPLICIT (18+, mdni) WARNINGS: maladaptive daydreaming, insecure reader & negative perceptions of self, depictions of injury & violence, kidnapping, miscommunication, SMUT (inappropriate fantasizing, unprotected p in v sex, cum eating, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics if you squint)

imploding the mirage — the killers

i had to do it, i had no other choice you’ve got to listen to the inside voice a bullet train will get you there fast but it won’t guarantee a long last sometimes it takes a little bit of courage and doubt to push your boundaries out beyond your imagining

He was the moon, and she was the stars.

It was serendipitous, how the couple had come to fall in love throughout the course of their divine adventures alongside each other—two servants to a pair of primordial Egyptian deities, serving as Avatars to protect those who could not protect themselves. She’d met him at a meeting of the Ennead, when he’d been called upon to answer for his actions against a human named Arthur Harrow, who was accused of attempting to raise Ammit from eternal isolation.

The trial hadn’t gone well, and certainly hadn’t worked in his favor, but her goddess protector had a soft spot for Khonshu, the God of the Moon—after all, he was the reason she had been given five extra days with which to bear her five children.

So her Avatar was secretly assigned to keep watch over the Moon Knight, to aid in his fight to keep Ammit contained and offer her services should he need them.

He was resistant at first, but Khonshu insisted that having Nut as an ally could only serve to benefit them in their journey—after all, she was the sky, and without her, the Moon could not rise.

Marc Spector and his alters didn't anticipate becoming so infatuated with the soft curve of her Avatar’s smile or the cosmos she seemed to hold within her eyes. But as time passed, they grew closer, and when she saved him again and again, the navy blue of her armor shimmering with glowing silver emblems of stars, he felt as if his soul was tethered to her. It seemed to be fate, as clear as a constellation, that their lives were somehow intertwined and their happenstance meeting was actually the result of some unseen gravitational pull, guiding them through the darkness until they found solace in one another.

He heard her sandal-clad feet softly hit the solid ground, her body drifting down from the sky to land beside him after her short flight in the air. He turned to look at her—the flowing robes of her ceremonial armor billowed in the evening breeze, her hair pulled back intricately with thin glittering bands of silver, adorned with five-pointed stars that captured the moonlight in her curls. She was ethereal, heavenly, celestial, and when she turned and smiled at him, he swore the planets aligned in some brief moment of rapture.

“Where to next, Moon Boy?”

She teased lightly, her nose crinkling with amusement. His hands twitched at his sides, unable to control the movement of his arm as it reached for her hand.

He heard Khonshu chuckle deeply from somewhere behind him, condescending and slightly mocking. Still, he always spoke kinder about the woman beside him than any other being on this Earth.

“I should’ve known you would become enamored with the little star. Nut always finds a way to reunite the beings of the night sky.”

Marc ignored him—he was too enthralled by the way her breath hitched in her throat at the feeling of his fingers brushing her own, the hood and mask of his armor receding to reveal the tenderness of his gaze. He turned to face her, his other gloved hand reaching to cradle the side of her jaw. He watched as her gaze flickered down to his lips, and he smiled.

“Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

He leaned forward to capture her lips with his own, swallowing her contented sigh as she melted into his touch—

“Jesus Christ!”

You nearly toppled forward when Marc abruptly yanked his arm away from you, his face contorted into a look of pain. You blinked once, then twice, eyes clearing to focus in on the blood staining your hands and the curved needle that was pinched tightly between your forefinger and thumb.

“The fuck was that? Are you even paying attention to what you’re doing?”

Marc hissed at you, cradling his injured forearm to his chest, gritting his teeth as your eyes widened in realization.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, Marc, I zoned out, here, just let me see—”

“Forget it, I’ll just do it myself.”

He snatched the suture from your hand and laid his arm back on the marbled countertop of your bathroom sink, giving you a clear view of the mistake you’d made—you’d laid the stitch nearly a full inch from where the edge of the gaping incision had started, sinking it into completely uninjured, healthy skin.

“Marc, stop, I’ll do it.”

You stopped him before he could hurt himself even more—he never had the patience to treat his wounds properly, but for ones that were this deep, it was smarter to close them by hand than wait several hours for his magical suit to heal it on its own.

He grunted in protest, but nonetheless allowed you to retrieve the needle from his hold and lean over his arm, tongue pinched between your teeth in concentration.

You were much more careful, this time, deliberate with each pull of the thread beneath his skin, finishing sewing shut the injury quickly. When you’d finally finished, you leaned forward to bite the end of the stitch and tear it away with your teeth. You reached for a piece of gauze, pouring a generous amount of saline solution onto the cloth in order to blot the excess blood from his skin.

You could feel his eyes on you the whole time, burning into your skull as if he was trying to read your mind. You sulked.

“I said I was sorry, Marc, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Your words were soft, and he could hear the guilt that was churning in your stomach. He didn’t flinch when you began dabbing at the drying blood around the wound.

“S’fine. But—what happened? It’s like—you just tapped out for a second, there. Did you even hear what I was saying to you?”

You frowned.

“No, I’m sorry. I just—got lost in thought.”

“Hell of a time for that to happen.”

He chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood, but you didn’t laugh. Your eyes were still fixed on the skin of his arm, even though you’d successfully wiped away most of the remaining blood.

“I was just saying that—that I appreciate that you’re willing to do this for me.”

Your eyes darted to his face, surprised at the vulnerability he was displaying by expressing his gratitude.

“I mean—I never figured that when I’d stumbled onto your balcony all those months ago, beaten to all hell, that I’d meet someone who was willing to patch me up over and over again. Well—at least, before you stabbed me with a needle.”

Your eyes fell again, cheeks reddening at his jab. But he just laughed warmly, lifting his arm to rest his hand on your shoulder. Your bristled beneath his fingers, although his touch was nothing more than a friendly expression of appreciation.

“I’m just teasing you. But either way—just wanted to say thanks. Steven told me that I don’t say it enough, so...”

Now you laughed. It was more of a scoff, really, accompanied by the roll of your eyes as you reached for the knobs on the faucet, rinsing the blood from your fingers.

“Of course Steven made you.”

A lopsided grin found its way onto his face, and when you looked at him again, there was a twinkle in his eye. Your breath stuttered in your throat as you gazed at him—ebony curls spilling messily against his forehead, his lips quirked upwards at the corners, the fondness that was lingering beneath his brown irises. Was it possible? Could he really care about you the way you cared for him?

You turned away, standing and exiting the bathroom quickly before you could make a fool of yourself, face heating up at your own naïveté. Of course he didn’t feel that way about you. You were just—you. Only in the sanctuary of your imagination would he ever look at you and see anything beyond just a nurse playmate, or even maybe a friend.

You heard his heavy footsteps follow you back into your flat, where you wandered into the kitchen and retrieved a couple glasses.

“Do you mind if I—”

“Spare bed’s already made, I washed the sheets since last time you bled all over them and didn’t even tell me.”

You turned on the tap to fill the two cups with water. You were certain Marc hadn’t remembered to drink anything since his most recent escapade as a masked vigilante, and being around him always tended to make your mouth run dry.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You slid the glass of water across the countertop towards him, leaning back against the kitchen island to sip at your own. You watched him above the rim of your glass—the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he took a large swig of the cool liquid, the way a stray droplet of water dribbled down his chin when he pulled the glass back, the way his hand came to wipe it away, the plush of his bottom lip supple beneath the swipe of his fingers.

She fell back against the mattress, breath temporarily stolen from her lungs as she felt the heat of his lips hungrily mouthing at any exposed skin it could reach—her jawline, her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. A soft whine fell from her mouth and Marc swiftly lifted himself back to her face to swallow the sound, tongue sinking into her mouth to taste her.

Her fingers clawed at the fabric of his t-shirt, twisting and yanking him impossibly closer, legs lifting to wrap around his waist to press the heat of her core against the growing tent in his pants. A low groan escaped his chest as he rutted against her, pulling back to take stock of the hazy fog of lust that clouded her eyes and the O-shape of her lips as she let out a shaky exhale.

“Fuck, Marc.”

She whispered, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders, fingers digging into his shoulderblades.

“Want you—need you so bad.”

“You’re doing it again.”

You blinked once, then twice, finding Marc's dark gaze staring straight at you as his voice pulled you back to reality. Your brows lifted in horror when you realized you’d shamelessly been ogling at him, too engrossed in your thoughts to notice how long you’d been standing there.

“Shit, I—sorry.”

You rubbed at your eyes with your fingers, hoping that maybe if you pressed hard enough, the image of Marc’s body hovering above you would erase itself from your mind. It didn’t work.

You heard the clank of his now-empty glass as he set it down on the granite countertop, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

You should be used to the rush of heat to your face by now—just being in Marc’s company caused you to blush uncontrollably, but still, the discomfort of your ruddy cheeks made your pulse quicken. Your gaze flickered down to your feet, eyes meeting the stupid fucking bunny slippers that you wore to accompany your fleece pajama bottoms. Fucking embarrassing.

“It’s nothing, Marc.”

You whispered quietly in response, although nausea was beginning to settle in the pit of your stomach. You were out of control—this man was driving you insane.

He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but when you didn’t look back up at him, he just sighed.

“Okay. I’ll just—leave you alone, then. Goodnight.”

There were tears pricking the back of your eyes. You wanted to ask him to stay, to come share your bed instead of the one in your guest room, to kiss his stupidly handsome face.

“Towels are folded in the bathroom for you, and there’s clothes in the wardrobe if you want to change.”

You said instead, turning to refill your glass of water in the sink behind you. If he heard you, he didn’t respond—you listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall before the door to the guest bedroom creaked shut with a quiet click. Your shoulders immediately slumped forward, eyes squeezed shut tightly in an effort to combat the desperate urge to break down.

Her eyes were full of detestation as she glared down at him, nostrils flared with rage. He wanted to shrink beneath her disapproval.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The woman started, and in spite of her towering figure looking down at him, he couldn’t help but gawk at the way the moonlight framed her, her silhouette outlined by the subtle glow of the night sky behind her. She offered him a hand and he took it, allowing her to yank him to his feet without an ounce of gentleness.

“You’re lucky I was here, Lockley, or things would’ve ended differently.”

She hissed, dusting herself off as if to showcase the strenuous effort she had put into saving his ass. He scowled behind his mask, the blood from the wound on his forearm beginning to soak through the bandages of his suit, tingeing the cream-colored fabric a dark crimson.

“I don’t need your help, estrellita. I was handling it.”

She scoffed as he turned on his heel to stomp away, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Yeah, sure looked like you were handling it—why didn’t you call me? Nut had to drag me out of bed so you didn’t get yourself killed. Didn’t the old bird tell you we were together on this?”

He scowled, eyes narrowed in contempt.

“Yeah, he did, and I said no. We are not partners. We’re hardly even friends.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, the way her face fell and her brows creased causing a pang of guilt to stab through his already-sore chest. He sighed.

“Estrellita, I didn’t mean—”

“Why do you push me away?”

She interrupted, and Jake was taken aback by the question.

“What do you mean?”

“You need me, Jake. We need each other. I’m just—I just want to help you, why won’t you let me help you?”

He didn’t respond, just stared at her as her eyes flooded with tears. At his silence, she shook her head, turning away to stare up into the star-filled sky.

“We’re supposed to be a team, Moon Knight. The stars and the moon—you can’t have one without the other.”

He could see the reflection of the crescent-shaped moon in her glassy eyes, the soft glow painting her face with silvery beams of light.

You’d left the balcony door wide open—your routine was fairly habitual, now. A mug of warm tea was cradled in your fingers as you curled up in the wicker chair, eyes flitting across the scattered stars that were visible from your tiny apartment complex.

You watched him sit down beside you in your periphery, the movement to your left pulling you from your reverie. He reached for the glass of bourbon you'd set out on the table in front of him.

You sat in silence for awhile, finding comfort in the man’s quiet presence. You liked that about Jake—you never felt like you had to fill the air with meaningless conversation. He was perfectly content to just enjoy your company, the same as you enjoyed his.

You heard the ice in his glass clink against the side as he took a sip.

“Are you going to tell them?”

Neither of you looked at each other when he spoke—the question was spoken out into the world, not really directed towards you, although you knew what he meant.

Jake was too fucking perceptive for his own good. Even when he was silent, he was always there, watching, listening, observing—even if the other alters were oblivious to the yearning that was thinly veiled within your eyes, he certainly wasn’t. You sighed.

“No.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, but something about his lack of verbal response bothered you, itching at the back of your brain. You turned to scowl at him.

“What?”

Jake hardly spared you a glance, barely quirking a brow at your emotionally-charged reaction as he shook his head.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly.”

You glared, fingers anxiously tapping at the rim of your mug. The contours of Jake’s face were sharp in the dim light of the moon, features accentuated by the shadows. He finally turned to look at you.

“You know what I think, nena. You’re only hurting yourself. And your constant...daydreaming. It’s not as subtle as it once was. You—You should talk to them. Or me.”

The last bit of his proposal caught you off guard. His eyes had already drifted elsewhere when he said it, staring into his half-empty glass of liquor, but your brows lifted in surprise.

“I—you?”

He glowered playfully.

“Don’t sound so surprised, nena. I always listen to you.”

That was true. Some of your fondest memories with Jake were of late nights spent out on your balcony, getting drunk on cheap wine and sharing stories.

“Yeah, you’re good at listening, but not so much the talking part.”

Jake shrugged, although he nodded in understanding. He was all too aware of his own weaknesses.

You took a sip of your chamomile tea, letting its warmth combat the chill of the evening air.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

You asked quietly, and even without elaborating, Jake knew what you were referring to. He sighed, tossing back the last of his bourbon before setting it on the small table between you, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I’ve told you before. It’s not my place. I know what they think, but not what they feel.”

You huffed quietly, although deep down, you knew he was right. It wasn’t his place to share how Marc or Steven felt about you. You sort of admired the way he was so strict in his moral obligations—especially considering the lengths you were willing to go in order to change his mind.

Jake stiffened when he felt your hand rest on his bicep, fingers wrapping around it and squeezing lightly.

“But what about how you feel?”

His jaw rippled, and you felt the muscle beneath your fingers tense at your coy words. You could feel the restraint within him as he sat up abruptly, pulling away so his arm fell from your grasp. He still didn’t look at you.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel, nena. Not until you talk to Marc. He—you were his first. I’m not going jeopardize your relationship with him until he knows the truth.”

Anger flared within you.

“I’m not his. I don’t belong to anyone. My choices are my own.”

Jake flinched, eyes softening as they flickered over to you.

“You’re right, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—you have to understand. He—I can’t go behind his back like this. Yo no sería capaz de vivir conmigo mismo.”

“But you can’t even tell me if he feels the same way?”

You asked, and he could hear the pain in your voice as your tone wavered slightly. You’d had this conversation many times before, but things had been escalating recently—perhaps because it was getting increasingly difficult for you to be content in the reality you lived in.

Jake’s eyes were full of sympathy as he regarded you.

“No, nena. I’m sorry.”

You turned away.

“But you need to tell him. And Steven, too. They deserve to know. And so do you.”

You heard his weight shift as he stood to head back to bed, having spent too much time keeping the body awake—he didn’t want his alters to grow suspicious at the exhaustion when they woke in the morning.

“What if he breaks my heart?”

He paused in the threshold on the doorway, glancing back at you when he heard the thickness in your throat as your eyes welled with tears.

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”

Jake pursed his lips, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he pondered his response. Finally, he released a long sigh.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, nena. He’d be crazy not to.”

The smell of cinnamon wafted down the hallway as Steven rose from his slumber. There was a gentle melody floating in the air as he pulled himself from the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his bare feet padding along the tiled floor towards the source of the noise.

She was singing quietly to herself, back towards him as she chopped the fresh strawberries into fourths. He couldn’t help but smile at the domesticity of it all—the woman he loved, that he fought beside, making breakfast for them to share. His heart felt whole.

He sidled up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist and his body pressing flush against her back. He placed a kiss to the exposed skin of her neck, her hair pulled up in a sloppy updo.

“G’mornin’, darling.”

He hummed sleepily, and he felt her chest rumble with an airy giggle as she leaned into his touch.

“Hi, handsome. Sleep okay?”

He reached over her shoulder to steal a strawberry from the cutting board, taking a bite of the succulent fruit before offering the other half to her by pressing it to her lips. She smiled and happily accepted his offering.

“Would’ve slept even better if I’d woken up to your face beside me.”

She threw her head back, leaning against his chest as she laughed brightly—his favorite sound.

“Oh, boohoo. Sorry for getting up early to make you breakfast.”

She teased, and Steven pressed his face into her hair, the smell of her coconut shampoo enticing him. His arms reached to rest on the countertop to either side of her, successfully caging her in. He heard her breath hitch as the movement of the knife in her hand stalled, his body pressing up more firmly against her—enough so that she could feel the hardness of his manhood against the flesh of her ass.

“The strawberries are sweet, darling, but I’d rather have something even sweeter for breakfast this mornin’, yeah?”

“G’mornin’, darling.”

The knife fumbled in your grasp and the blade slipped across your fingers, slicing a divot in the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger.

“Steven! Shit!”

You immediately dropped the knife and rushed towards the sink, rinsing your wound under the cold water to inspect the damage and dilute the blood.

“Oh, Gods, m’so sorry, love—are you alright?”

You could feel his body creeping up behind you, an arm reaching around to grab yours in an attempt to investigate the source of your discomfort. The warmth of his presence against your back startled you, a fierce blush rising to your cheeks as you reached for a towel and sidestepped, trying to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

“It’s—I’m fine. It’s just a tiny cut, it’s no big deal.”

You brushed it off, although your palm was beginning to throb. You pulled the washcloth away from the afflicted area, finding it soaked with a generous amount of your blood.

“Looks like it hurts. Can I—may I help you with it?”

There was trepidation in his big brown eyes, obviously put off by the hastiness with which you’d pulled away from him. You surrendered yourself, offering a sigh and a slow nod.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

You found yourself in a similar position to the previous night, although this time, the roles were reversed—and your wound was from an unfortunate kitchen incident, not a scuffle with a group of evil antique smugglers.

Steven’s bottom lip was pulled between his teeth as he secured a piece of gauze on the injury with medical tape, winding it around your palm so it fit snugly against the area. His hands were nimble and his touch was painfully gentle, the pads of his fingers just barely skimming over your skin in an effort to prevent you from more discomfort. A chill crept up your spine at the close proximity.

He looked rather satisfied with himself when he’d finished, shoving the medical supplies back into the bin beneath your sink that you had specially packed for him.

“There we are—good as new.”

He smiled cheerily at you, and it was so contagious that you couldn’t help but grin back at him. Your mind briefly darted back to your conversation with Jake the night before; then the unholy thoughts you’d been having this morning when Steven had snuck up on you. Gods, you really were getting out of control...

Steven led you from the bathroom and you returned to your post, rinsing the knife and the sliced strawberries to ensure they weren’t contaminated. You stepped over to the stove to check the steel-cut oatmeal that had been simmering—Steven’s favorite. You gave it a few good stirs before deciding that it was finished, filling up two bowls with generous servings and sprinkling the top with strawberries, brown sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. Steven was already seated at you breakfast bar when you turned to offer him his meal.

“Bon apétit.”

You flourished playfully, passing the bowl in front of him as you seated yourself on the stool across the way. His eyes crinkled with appreciation when he smiled.

“Oh, it smells bloody lovely. Thank you, darling.”

He always called you that, you rationalized. It was nothing more than a term of endearment—a friendly pet name.

You ate in silence for awhile, save for the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain and the birds chirping from your open window. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow him as he slipped a strawberry past his lips, something reminiscent of a moan escaping him as he savored the flavor of the fruit. Your face flushed bright red.

“Yes, darling—just like that, please.”

He was whimpering beneath her, pupils blown wide as he gazed up at her from where she straddled him, sliding her naked and exposed core over his boxer-clad erection.

“You wanna be inside me, Steven?”

She cooed, leaning forward to kiss along his stubbled jawline, and he moaned wantonly, hips rutting up against her.

“Gods, yes, love, please, I can’t—”

“S’there somethin’ on my face?”

Panic flooded you at the bewildered expression on Steven’s face, his hand coming up to wipe at his mouth in case you'd been gawking at some remnants of food on the corners of his lips.

You shook your head, eyes wide and cheeks already turning pink.

“I—No, no, there’s not, I—sorry. I was just—just thinking.”

He gave you a brief scrutinizing look before shrugging and diving back into the remainder of his oatmeal.

“What were you thinkin’ about?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Oh, it’s—nothing, really. Sometimes I just—space out, I guess.”

You offered sheepishly, toying with the last few bites of your food with your spoon—your appetite was suddenly gone.

“You seem to do that a lot, yeah? S’everything alright?”

“Yes.”

You answered him a bit too quickly, hastily jumping to end the conversation before it even began. His brows furrowed, watching as you quickly grabbed both bowls to busy yourself with cleaning up.

He wasn’t quite satisfied with your answer—in fact, it only served to startle him more. He watched you carefully as you began to viciously scrub at the blue porcelain bowls with a sponge.

“Are you...sure? I’m just—you’re worryin’ me a bit, yeah? And with last night, with Marc—if somethin’s the matter, you know you can always talk to us, ‘lright?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to take in a slow, careful breath in an effort to soothe your frazzled nerves.

“Yeah, I know, Steven—thank you. But—but everything’s just fine, really.”

She’s lying.

Steven was surprised to hear Jake’s voice echo from the back of the headspace—it wasn’t often that he offered internal commentary to any conversations outside of when he was fronting.

And how do you know that?

Marc quipped back in his mind—Steven hated when they argued in the headspace, especially when he was the one in control of the body. His brain felt too full and it was easy for him to get overstimulated.

What—you think she’s telling the truth, jefe?

Marc didn’t respond, and Steven was silently grateful that their quarrel had ended quickly. Still, he knew his alters were correct—you definitely weren’t ‘just fine.’

But the last thing he wanted to do was push you away, especially since it already felt like you were putting up a wall between you, keeping him at arm’s length.

He let out a long sigh, standing up from the bar to get ready to depart for his shift at the museum.

“Well, thank you for brekky, love, and for—everything else.”

You startled when you turned, finding him standing directly behind you, pulling you into his warm embrace without any due warning. God, why was he so fucking sweet? Guilt gnawed away are your insides—Jake was right. He really did deserve to know the truth, why you were spending more time living in your fantasyland than grounded in reality—but surely it’d scare him off. Marc, too.

Perhaps it was just better to keep imagining what it would be like to be loved by them—at least without being outright rejected, there would always be that small sliver of hope gleaming in the back of your mind, that tiny semblance of ‘what if’ that you let linger.

You melted into his arms, face pressed into his shoulder.

“Anytime, Steven, really. It’s my pleasure.”

There was always a smile on her face when they departed—even if their time away from each other was difficult, she knew she could look forward to the next time they'd see each other. The way his big brown eyes would light up with elation when he saw her, like an overexcited puppy reuniting with its owner.

The grin remained on her face, still, after he’d kissed her goodbye and they parted ways. She hummed softly to herself as she journeyed down the hallway to remake the bed and tidy up the room.

He never did remember to tuck in the blankets. She laughed quietly to herself and she entered the room, filled with the distinctive cypress scent of him. She reached to fluff the pillows—

Oh. That shouldn’t be there, should it?

Your fingers wrapped around the small white trinket, strung along on a leather braided band. You lifted it up to your face to inspect it more closely—it was an pendant carved from ivory, shaped like a cross with a loop at the top. An ankh—the key of life—you recalled, as Steven had once taught you. There was a certain texture that ran along the sides, and only when you brought the object right up to your nose were you able to see that there was a teeny tiny pattern etched into the surface. Hieroglyphics.

Shit, you realized. This looked like something that would be in the museum Steven worked at—although it looked a bit too high quality to be sold in the gift shop. Nonetheless, you realized that it must’ve slipped from his pocket while he was getting dressed. What if it was important?

You wandered back to the kitchen and tried calling his cell, once, then twice, without receiving an answer. He was probably already being berated by Donna—oh, well. The museum was on your way to work anyhow, just one bus stop before the café that you worked at. You could swing by and give it to him before your shift.

You glanced down at your phone to shoot him a quick text.

hey, you forgot something here i’ll drop it off for you in a bit x

It was only when you were strolling down the street with the pendant strung around your neck that a thrill of excitement ran up your spine.

What if this was from his latest mission?

It wasn’t something you’d considered before, but now that you thought about it, it seemed like the likeliest explanation. The boys didn’t tell you much about their escapades as the masked lunar vigilante, save for the vague explanations about the injuries they asked you to patch up—but you knew enough to be two-and-two together. This must be the ancient artifact he had been sent to retrieve on Khonshu’s behalf the previous night.

You suppressed a smile by sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, filled with giddiness. You were actually helping.

“Where is it?”

A venomous voice seethed, peering down at the crumpled form of the man at his feet. Marc was hunched over, arms chained behind his back, blood from his abdomen beginning to soak through the white fabric of his suit. His mouth tasted like copper, teeth coated in the sticky red substance as a gruff hand came to harshly grip his jaw, forcing his eyes upward. He sneered.

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Another punch collided with his face, this time connecting with the bridge of his nose and sending him careening backwards, landing against the concrete with a grunt.

“You’re full of shit. We know it was you at the burial site, Spector. We have eyewitnesses. You’re the only person in the world who could have possibly taken it.”

To the man's utter surprise, Marc Spector began to laugh. It was a wet sound, his mask receding so he could spit out a wad of crimson-tinted bile as he chuckled wolfishly, his lips curling up into a snarl. The perpetrator felt fear shoot through him at the look on his face.

“You’re wrong, actually. See, I was there.”

He clarified, eyes glinting dangerously. His attacker stumbled backwards as a harsh silver light blinded him briefly, and when his vision cleared, the Moon Knight had risen to his feet, freed from his shackles.

“I just wasn’t alone.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he slowly turned around, met face to face with intense glare of a woman, her eyes still glowing with residual power. She tilted her head at him condescendingly, before lifting her right hand—the white ankh charm was dangling from her fingertips as she smiled coyly up at him.

“Looking for this?”

She cooed, smirking innocently, and before the man could even blink, she had pounced, wrestling him to the floor and pressing his face down against the cold flooring, cheek smushed against the pavement. She straddled his back, using her weight to hold him still while her fingers made a curling motion in the air—a rope of pure silvery light materialized with the sweep of her hand, binding the man’s hands behind his back with tendrils of starlight.

Her partner was dealing with the other two lackeys, one already laid out on the ground and the other lifted in the air by his neck, one of Marc’s gloved hands raising him up with his fingers pressing beneath his jaw.

When he stopped resisting, Marc let his body collapse to the floor in a heap before he turned back to face the woman, whose chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths. Even after a fight, she somehow appeared graceful and collected—she reached upward and pulled a stray hair from her eyes, tucking it back into it’s place beneath her star-laden headdress. Their eyes met briefly.

“Thanks.”

Marc swallowed, his head bowed low in embarrassment. He waited for the jab to come—‘I told you so.’ He deserved it, really. It was stupid to come in alone.

Instead, he was startled when she approached him softly, her eyes glittering as she lifted her hand to gently brush over his cheekbone, her smile gentle and kind.

“I’ll always have your back. You know that, right?”

He looked away, ridden with guilt and remorse, but she urged his eyes back to her with the nudge of her fingers.

“Marc. I mean it.”

He felt tears stinging the back of his eyes as he sniffed, trying to play off his emotions with fabricated nonchalance.

“Yeah, I know.”

She nodded once, withdrawing her hand from his face before lifting the ancient artifact up to his face, waving it for emphasis.

“We should probably get this to the old bird, then, huh?”

Her head snapped to the side at the gust of wind that abruptly passed them, her eyes trailing up the heavenly form of the aforementioned deity, the slope of his ebony beak towering above her. She swallowed—she’d never actually seen him before, only heard of him in passing from his Avatar. Khonshu.

Time seemed to freeze, briefly, as her breath slowly made its way back to her lungs. The skeletal bird tilted his domineering skull downward, staring her down with intensity.

“Wake up, little star.”

Her brows furrowed, her jaw dropping to reply, but he interrupted.

“You are not a part of this. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Her head started to swim, the image in front of her turning hazy as her vision began to blur. She blinked profusely. This isn’t a part of the script, this isn’t supposed to happen—

“Wake up!”

With a jolt, you were pulled from your daydream—just in time for a hand to slip over your mouth to muffle your scream before everything went dark.

When your eyes blinked open, heavy with exhaustion, you were staring up at the white ceiling of your bedroom. You made a move to sit up, but the movement caused a throbbing pain to bloom in the back of your skull, forcing you back down against the pillows as a groan of discomfort fell from your lips. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to regain your bearings, when a set of heavy footsteps grabbed your attention from the hallway.

He faltered in the doorway when he made eye contact with you, his dark brows furrowed heavily with concern, dark purple bags settled beneath his lower lashes. When his initial shock wore off, his jaw set as he approached you slowly, a glass of tap water clutched in his left hand. He perched carefully on the edge of the bed, mindful not the nudge you.

“Marc?”

You croaked, your throat hoarse and dry, and he wordlessly reached forward, propping you further up onto the pillows before lifting the glass to your lips.

“Drink.”

He said sternly, pressing the rim to your mouth, and you obliged blindly, letting him tip the contents of the cup back into your mouth as you took slow, tentative sips. When he was satisfied with your water intake, he pulled the glass away and set it on the bedside table, the movement punctuated by a heavy sigh. Your eyes followed him carefully, brows knit together in confusion.

“I—what happened?”

You asked slowly, sitting yourself upward just a bit more. The pain in your head was lessening, although their was still a dull ache lingering at the back of your neck. You could see his jaw ripple again as he clenched his teeth, his body facing the door and his eyes focused on the wall across from him. You studied his profile carefully before he ran a tired hand down his face, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers.

“What do you remember?”

He prompted, and you hesitated, thinking back on the last thing you recalled. You remembered leaving for work, and finding the little white pendant you were planning on returning—and you remember getting lost in another fantasy before a hand clamped around your mouth and—

“Was I kidnapped?”

You asked incredulously, eyes blowing wide with realization as you recalled the sensation of a strong grasp around your face and neck before your fell unconscious. You watched his lip twitch with frustration.

“No. Well—yes. But you, I mean—what the fuck were you thinking?”

He finally turned to look at you, and when he did, you immediately wanted to shrink away and evaporate. His eyes were fiery, burning red hot with fury, the disapproving expression on his face striking something deep in your chest.

“What do you mean?”

You asked quietly, feeling tears begin to prick at your eyes, and Marc stood up, running a hand through his unruly curls as he took in a deep breath, obviously attempting to maintain some semblance of composure.

“You almost got yourself killed—bringing that charm with you, parading it around like a trophy.”

“I didn’t know, Marc, I just—”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t let you get wrapped up in all of this—fuck, if I hadn’t been there...”

His back was towards you, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, his body heaving with heavy panting breaths. You felt small, like a child being reprimanded. You felt your eyes flood with tears.

“I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

His voice was firm and harsh as he snapped over his shoulder at you, glaring.

“You can’t help. You’re not a part of this.”

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, desperation clawing inside of you as you threw back the blankets, swinging your legs off the side of the mattress so you could approach him.

“But maybe I can, Marc, if you’d just give me a chance, if you’d let me—”

“Stop!”

He whipped around to face you, voice louder than you'd ever heard it before. He was yelling, towering over you as he snarled, fuming.

“Just stop. If you keep this up, you’re gonna get yourself and a lot of other people hurt. You’re not a fucking Avatar—”

“You don’t think I know that?”

Marc flinched when you matched his intensity, the tears falling down your cheeks a stark contrast from the sheer anger that dominated your expression.

“You don’t think I realize that? Or think about it every goddamn night when I have to sit here, alone, wondering if you’re gonna show up, or if you’re somewhere dead and I can’t do anything but wait.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, attempting to swallow your tears down as you broke down in front of the man, your internal conflict reaching a boiling point and spewing out of you without warning.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve wished I could be out there with you, doing something, helping, anything—how often I imagine what it would be like if I wasn’t fucking useless, if I was actually a part of—”

“What did you just say?”

Your eyes snapped open, and your anger faltered when you saw the look of pure horror on Marc’s face, his skin looking several shades paler than it had before. Your mind was reeling, trying to look back on what you said, what your mistake had been, but he quickly clarified for you.

“Did you just—are you saying you wish you were an Avatar?”

His body was rigid, his expression suddenly stony and impenetrable as he looked down at you, offering a barely perceptible shake of his head as he grimaced.

“How could you—how could you possibly want that? Why would you ever—”

You could see his eyes turn glassy as he turned away, his chest beginning to heave again as he ran both of his hands through his hair anxiously, his gaze suddenly appearing frenzied. His words were laced with something adjacent to betrayal.

“You have no idea what—what I wouldn’t give to go back to my life before all of this, to—to not carry this weight, to not—I fucking kill people, do you not understand that? I’m a monster, because my life is fucking controlled by a monster, and you wish you were like me? You wanna suffer like this?”

“At least we’d be suffering together.”

It was barely more than a whisper, your addition, but Marc caught it. You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore—you turned and sat back on the bed, folding your hands in your lap and staring down at your fingers as your heart finally poured out of your chest.

“I don’t know what else I could do, Marc. I don’t know any other way to get you to actually see me.”

“See you?”

He asked incredulously, face marred with confusion, and your lip quivered as you looked anywhere but at him, awaiting his rejection as you spoke.

“I just—all I’ve ever wanted was to be able to help you. To—for you to trust me, for you to—to care about me, and—and the only scenario I can actually imagine you wanting me is if I’m not myself, I’m a version of myself that’s actually strong and capable and—”

You stifled a sob, your face scrunching up as your arms wrapped around yourself in a protective stance, huddling inward as you cried.

“—I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but I just—I want to be more than I am because—because I want to matter to you, Marc, but I know that won’t happen because I’m just—I’m just me.”

Marc fell silent. Your heart was hammering in your chest as you squeezed your bleary eyes shut, forcing yourself to take slow, deliberate inhales despite your desire to hyperventilate. You felt like the room was closing in on you, the walls shrinking and shrinking and you wished the space would swallow you whole.

“What have I done to ever make you think you don’t matter to me?”

His voice was soft and quiet, and when you blinked your tear-filled eyes open, he was staring at you, a look of genuine hurt on his chiseled features. You stuttered.

“I—what?”

“I—”

You watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed thickly.

“Why would you ever think that I don’t care about you? That you have to—to be someone else for that to happen?”

He sounded broken, his big brown eyes wide and imploring, and the sight made your chest feel tight. You pressed the butts of your palms into your eyes.

“I don’t know, Marc. You’re—you’re a fuckin’ superpowered badass who was chosen by an ancient Egyptian god to beat up monsters and go on these epic missions, and—and how can I even compete with that? I don’t even understand why you waste your time with me.”

“Why do you keep saying things like that?”

You startled when he took a few hulking steps towards you, his brows creasing in a look of frustration.

“If you’re so convinced that I’m some superior being to you—which I’m not—then rationalize that, for me. Why would I keep coming back if I didn’t care about you?”

Confusion flashed across your face as you contemplated his question.

“Because—because I patch you up when you get hurt, and I—and I take care of you. You only come here when you need something—”

“But that’s not true.”

He insisted, sounding exasperated with your obstinance.

“I have a magic suit of armor that heals me, I don’t even need you to stitch me back together—”

“But you told me—”

“Well, I lied.”

He snapped, his arms crossing over his chest, and you felt a foreign feeling flutter in the pit of your stomach as his hands came up to rub at his jaw—a nervous habit.

“It was an excuse, and honestly, not even a very convincing one. An excuse to see you.”

Your head was starting to pound again, a dull ache blooming behind your eyes as your mind continued to reel. It didn’t make any sense.

“But you—you never needed an excuse. I would’ve dropped everything for you, Marc—for all three of you.”

“I know.”

He nodded sadly, his face pained as he flinched at your words.

“And that’s what’s so bad about all of this. I shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t feel that way about me. I’m—it’s dangerous. I’ve been trying so hard to push you away because if something happens to you, if you get hurt—that’s on me. And I don’t know what I’d do with myself if—”

“I’m a big girl, Marc.”

You defended, and he seemed impressed with the conviction of your tone.

“You’ve never been anything but honest about the kind of life you live, the kind of things you do—if that scared me, you wouldn’t be standing here right now. I made that choice for myself.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, his lips parting to scold you or deny your claims, but there was resolve in his eyes. You watched as he slowly walked towards the bed, slumping into a seated position beside you, utterly defeated.

“I know.”

It was difficult for you to focus with the proximity of your bodies. He’d left a generous gap between the two of you, but his legs were spread wide as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and your legs were almost touching. It was unbearable.

“I always thought you were taking advantage of me.”

You spoke smally, a bit ashamed and hesitant to admit the truth, and you saw Marc’s shoulders tense before he hung his head low, a deep sigh coming from his chest.

“Yeah. Jake told me that you might be feeling that way.”

Your eyes darted to his face, taken completely by surprise.

“He—he did?”

Marc chuckled ruefully, scoffing a bit at his alter.

“And I never fuckin’ listened. Told me I needed to come clean—be honest about how I feel, or else I’ll just keep hurting you more—”

“I didn’t realize he’d actually tried to talk to you about it.”

Marc’s brows furrowed.

“Wait, are you—did you tell him that?”

You blushed, feeling somewhat guilty as you nodded. You weren’t proud of the fact that you’d been talking about Marc and Steven behind their backs to their other alter.

“Why did—why didn’t you just talk to me?”

Marc leaned towards you, trying to catch your gaze with his, but you quickly looked forward again, eyes focusing in on your shaky hands.

“I didn’t know if—I never had to question things with Jake. He’s never been shy about how he feels about me.”

“Jake’s never been shy about anything in his entire goddamn life.”

You actually giggled at that, Marc’s tone sour and somewhat envious, but a soft smile easily curled on his lips at the sound of your laughter. When your amusement faded slightly, your breath caught in your throat when you felt a warm hand fall atop your knee, thumb rubbing over the flesh gently. You stared at the place where his skin met yours, heat flushing your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. If I would’ve known sooner—if he’d have told me—”

You shook your head quickly, dismissing his apology.

“No, don’t. I made him promise me he wouldn’t tell you. And—and the reason I didn’t say anything is, well—he would never tell me if you felt the same, so I didn’t—I just kind of assumed you didn’t.”

“I don’t understand why you think so little of yourself.”

His fingers gripped your knee a bit more firmly, the heat of his hand traveling upwards despite your attempts to stop it.

“You really think—thought the only way I’d want you is if you were an Avatar?”

You laughed wetly, swiping the last of your tears from beneath your eyes as you shook your head abashedly.

“When you say it out loud, it sounds so fucking stupid.”

“Hey, it’s not stupid.”

He corrected, and you froze when you felt his hand lift from your knee to reach towards your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear so he could see you more clearly. His fingers slipped beneath your jaw and gently coaxed your head to face him. You forgot how to breathe.

“It’s just not true.”

“Baby, I’ve wanted you since the day I met you, Avatar or not.”

She let out a quiet gasp at his confession, face lighting up with delight as he surged forward and captured her lips with his own, whimpering against her mouth as his arms encircled her body. He guided her back towards the bed, laying her out beneath him, looking absolutely heavenly, truly ravishing, and the sight made him ravenous as he worshipped her, starting by dragging his tongue—

“Hey. Where’d you go?”

It was only a brief moment of wistfulness, your daydream, but Marc saw the way your eyes misted and filled with a faraway look. He let his fingers dance across the softness of your neck before reaching to cradle your jaw in his hand, fingers threading into the hair behind your left ear.

You blinked away your reverie, trying to ground yourself in the present regardless of how desperately you wanted to fantasize about how much you craved him, how much you just wished he wanted you—

“Sorry.”

You uttered, voice barely above a whisper, and you blinked up at him through your wet lashes, doe-eyed. Your shame quickly melted away into something entirely different when you saw the ghost of a smile flicker over his lips.

“What were you thinking about?”

Your breathing stuttered, and you opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off quickly, the timbre of his voice low and gravelly.

“You can tell me, sweetheart. Whatever it was, whatever you want—I’ll give it to you.”

It all became too much too quickly—the swirling heat of desire coiling lowly in your abdomen, the warmth of his exhales across your face, the roughness of his hands against the soft skin of your cheek, the almost taunting gleam in his dark eyes. His promise emboldened you, and without much thought, you surged forward and captured his lips in your own, whimpering against his mouth as your arms encircled his body.

He was quick to meet your pace, his free arm twisting to wrap around your lower back so he could pull you into his lap, one of your hands sinking into his brown curls and the other digging into his right shoulder. You heard him groan into your lips and you took the opportunity to sink your tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss as you pressed your body flush against him, desperately seeking as much closeness as possible.

When his lips left yours and began to trail down your jaw and throat, you were pulled out of your stupor.

“Wait—wait.”

You whispered, fingers tugging at his curls so you could see his face. His brows furrowed in concern as he looked at you with worried eyes, his lips dewy and kiss-swollen.

“What’s wrong?”

He asked carefully, his voice gruff but still attentive, and you lifted both hands to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones as you drank in his features, studying his face carefully.

“I just—”

You let out a shaky exhale, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

“I need to know that this is real. That you’re—that this is all real.”

He pulled away from you slightly, grinning somewhat wolfishly at you.

“This is real, baby—does it feel real?”

You nodded eagerly, your lips still tingling from the severity of his kisses, and he pulled you in for another one, his touch deliciously bruising.

When he pulled away again, you felt his fingers trace down your arm before he grabbed your hand in his. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he guided your grasp between your bodies, but your hips jolted when he pressed your hand into the hardness of his bulge in his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, fingers curling around his length to squeeze him. His lashes fluttered.

“Yeah, baby—you feel what you do to me? That’s fuckin’ real.”

You felt yourself grow increasingly desperate at his words, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head with abandon. He seemed in tune with your own neediness because pretty soon, clothes were being ripped off and haphazardly tossed around the room, lips meeting newly-exposed skin at every opportunity.

You were laid out beneath him, his body slotted between your parted legs as he hovered over you, pumping his cock languidly as he gazed down at you with hooded eyes.

“I’ve pictured this, too, you know.”

You felt a small smile find your face.

“Really?”

He bit his lip, the pace of his hand jerking his length speeding up just slightly.

“Oh, fuck yeah, baby. You’re even more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

His sweet compliment was a stark contrast to the depravity of the current situation, but you could hear the sincerity in his words. You smiled up at him, reaching forward to take his cock in your grasp and line him up with your awaiting entrance.

“And you’re even bigger than I ever imagined.”

You purred, watching his eyes flash with pride as he leaned forward to brush the tip of his cock through your sopping folds, causing you to mewl unsurepetitiously.

“Please, Marc, shit—I can’t wait anymore, please.”

He grinned wickedly down at you, and before you could even take a breath, he was plunging into you with force, his cock sheathing itself fully within the softness of your cunt.

He choked above you, his arm slamming down on the mattress beside your head for support, his fist curling into the sheets.

“Jesus fuck, you’re tight.”

He breathed out, his expression almost pained with just how perfectly your walls were squeezing him.

The sudden intrusion was a startling sensation, but the burn of the stretch was quickly evolving into an addictive sting of pleasure.

“Oh, God, yes—move, Marc, please.”

You begged, brows furrowed deeply, and Marc quickly obliged, starting a rapid pace as he hammered into you, his hips snapping forward with jarring strength. The sound of slapping skin echoed within the room and only served to add to your arousal, the noises leaving your lips sinful and completely involuntary.

“Fuck yeah, baby—is this what you wanted? This what you’ve been daydreaming about, huh? My cock filling you up?”

You moaned wantonly, back arching at Marc’s words. His curls were falling across his forehead, dampened with sweat, and you reached up to grip his shoulders for support, fingernails digging into the carved muscle.

“Yes, fuck, yes—so good, Marc, so fucking good—”

He reached down and lifted your legs to wrap around his waist, forcing his cock even deeper inside of you, the new angle earning a sharp cry. Your walls were fluttering around him.

“Yeah, you wanna cum, baby? You wanna cum on my cock?” He hand reached between your bodies to thumb at your clit, and the added stimulation sent you suddenly toppling over the edge into your orgasm, your eyes rolling back into your head as you let out a long, drawn-out moan.

“Yeah, attagirl—fuck yeah.”

Your walls were clamping down on him, pulsing rhythmically over the ridges of his cock, and he felt his release rapidly approaching.

“You want my cum, baby?”

You nodded frantically at him, eyes wild with desperation, and Marc groaned as his pace began to stutter.

“Where, baby? Where do you want it?”

You fingers sank further into the flesh of his shoulders.

“Mouth—want you to cum in my mouth.”

Your request alone was enough to send him hurtling over the edge.

“Oh, shit, gonna cum—”

He pulled out of you quickly, hand reaching down to fervidly fist at his cock as he crawled forward to straddle your stomach on his knees—you eagerly leaned forward just in time as his balls drew up tight, his cum shooting straight across your awaiting tongue as you opened your mouth wide for him.

“Oh, baby—fuuuuckkk—”

His hips thrusted into his fist with each pump of cum that escaped him, some shooting above your lip and dribbling down your chin. He grunted harshly as he tapped the tip of his cock over your tongue, coating the head in his release that had pooled within your mouth. You quickly closed your lips around him and suckled the tip into your mouth, swallowing all of his seed as you swirled your tongue around his length.

He let out a low groan before he finally reached forward to tug you off of him, collapsing onto the mattress beside you heavily.

You both caught your breath for a few moments, coming back down to Earth after your intense climaxes.

It was Marc who broke the silence first, a deep chuckle coming from his chest.

“If this is what you’re constantly daydreaming about, then fuck—you gotta tell me. I will make every goddamned one come true.”

Your laughter matched his own as he reached over to wrap an arm around you, pulling you towards the warmth of his body comfortingly. Your smile quickly faded as the heat of the moment made way for reality.

“Was this—I mean, this wasn’t just—just a one-time thing... right?”

Marc pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering along your hairline.

“No, baby. Besides—Jake and Steven haven’t even gotten their turns with you.”

His attempt at a joke fell flat.

“That’s not what I mean.”

You said quietly, and Marc sighed, letting his head rest atop yours as he held you close.

“Sorry. I know what you meant, but still, the answer’s no. Kinda hoping this is an all-the-time thing.”

Now, you laughed, and he swore it was his favorite sound in the entire world.

You had a brief conversation with Steven about your mutual feelings, later—although he was a stuttering mess, his smile was wide and eyes were bright with elation when he finally kissed you. He fell asleep holding you close to him, and you listened to his breathing slow as you began to doze off beside him.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, his arms around you squeezed tighter.

“Told you so.”

Jake’s voice taunted jokingly, and you lifted a fist to punch his shoulder at his teasing. He chuckled, and you tilted your head so you could see his face—he looked relaxed, truly at ease, and you practically melted into his touch.

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

You admitted defeat, and Jake gave you a cheeky lopsided grin before he leaned down and gave you a soft, chaste kiss that left you breathless.

You rested your head back against his chest, but he interrupted your peace yet again.

“Can I ask you somethin, nena?”

You nodded.

“You told Marc you imagined being an Avatar. ’m just curious—what kind of things do you think about?”

You felt your face flush with embarrassment, still feeling silly and insecure about admitting to your daydreaming habits, but Jake gently encouraged you enough until you relented, explaining how you’d always had an infatuation with the deity Nut and liked the poeticism of the pairing of the moon and the stars.

“And you called me estrellita.”

You informed shyly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, but you could hear the way his breath caught in his throat, his muscles tensing just slightly.

“Estrellita?”

He questioned, and you lifted your head to look at him, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, it—it means ‘little star.’”

You explained, and he shook his head.

“I know that, but I—hmm.”

His lips pursed, and you nudged him, his confusion worrying you.

“What? What’s wrong?”

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye before staring back up at the ceiling, his expression contemplative

“No, it’s nothing. It’s just—today, when Khonshu came to tell us that you were in trouble, he—he called you that. Little star.”

You bolted upright, the color quickly draining from your face.

“He fucking what?”

Jake shrugged uneasily, but you felt your heart begin to hammer in your chest, recalling the bizarre intrusion Khonshu had made in your fantasy today, interrupting your own train of thought. Was that—actually him?

Little did you know, Khonshu had been eavesdropping on your daily mental escapes for some time, entertained by both your active imagination and the elaborate stories you seemed to conjure up on a whim. As a matter of fact, both he and Nut found great amusement in your investment in the life of the Egyptian deities, and should something happen to the Goddess of the Sky’s current Avatar—she knew exactly where to find her next candidate.

🕷️ hehe

Rose - Oneshot

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Jonathan wants to say you came into his life like a flower, but it feels too fickle, too unlasting. Instead, he thinks, you grew like a rose bush for him.

A/N: The Jonathan Levy era is here folks. Keep in mind this was written after watching only the first two episodes of the show. I am completely ignoring Jonathan's second wife and his cheating.

I don't own photos or characters. Divider from @firefly-graphics

Ava’s head is lying on your stomach. You’re lying on your back, your head in Jonathan’s lap. He’s against the headboard, trying to find the courage in himself to fully wake up Ava, and break your drowsy state. This is no way for the three of you to sleep tonight, there’s not even a pillow behind his back, and you’re surely going to freeze, just in a pair of shorts and one of his t-shirts. 

You’re actually matching with him, pulling off the plain grey cotton better than he ever could. His book is long forgotten to the side, the sun having set a few minutes ago, all his will to get any more reading done that evening lost to the wind. There was a movie playing on his laptop, one that you’d set up for Ava. A movie Jonathan had paused when he saw his daughter asleep, your eyes hazy and struggling to stay open. 

The lights had remained on, a half-hope of his that he’d finish his chapter and tuck his daughter into bed before drifting off himself in your arms. He knows now that that was a foolish hope. There’s no sight prettier than the softness of you in his arms, his daughter in yours, both of you in his. He feels strong, indestructible. Wants to take the two of you and let no harm ever come to you again, be it at the expense of his own safety. There’s a bubbling need for him to protect. Feral and unknown. You’d scoff at him if he ever told you this, tell him that his old man is showing and they don’t do things like that anymore, but he wants to think it all the same. 

He lets his fingers follow your hairline, down to the curve of your jaw. The movements make you catch his eye and he’s filled with instant regret for even drawing a drop of your attention towards him like this. 

You smile at him and let your eyes droop to half-shut again 

Unlike Mira, who’d come into his life like a twenty-year hurricane, and left just as abruptly, you come into his life like you’d always been there. In many ways you’d had. Had been introduced as the daughter of his PhD supervisor, graduating with your Bachelor’s the same week he had stuttered his way through and promptly threw up after his field of study exam. 

He wants to say you came into his life like a flower, but it feels too fickle, too unlasting. Instead, he thinks, you grew like a rose bush for him. When you had blossomed out for him in love, he knew, that this wasn’t a storm he had to ride out, one that would inevitably end for better or for worse, but that with a little care, a little attention and love, your adoration for him, your rose bush would be a permanent fixture in his life. 

Your seed had taken root quietly. For many years, as he drifts in and out of your life, helping you secure a position with a supervisor for a graduate degree, visiting your mother every once in a while, smiling at you, when you shyly bring in a tray of coffee cups and sit quietly all through the afternoons he’s spent in your living room, you furrow your way into his chest. 

Though you don’t make a sound, barely talk to him for the first year of his acquaintance with you, you’re working. Growing a myriad of roots, a complex maze that only you alone can make your way through. You do it so subtly, like the gentle flutter of your eyelashes. Always there but never noticed. 

By the time you burst up in a little sprout, a promise of what is to come, it’s too late for Jonathan to weed you out. You’ve reached deep inside his chest and with your roots, you tug at heartstrings he didn’t know he had. You’re walking across the stage to receive your degree, when he notices you for you. Feels his heart quiver in a concerning way, thinks he’s hallucinated hearing your name called out, booming over the cathedral where the ceremony is held. But you’re very real. There’s an earthy, grounded freshness to you, an aura hanging around your body that Jonathan hadn’t noticed until then. It draws him in, leaves him thirsty for more as he hungrily drinks the sight of you, as your traditional academic robes billow with every step. 

When you were graduating, he was steps away from becoming an instructor, his post-doc in its final stages. Tenure was almost on the tip of his tongue, if he kept his contacts, if his cards were played right. He just had to get to and then through associate professorship. Ava had just arrived, had disrupted his mind and his sleep schedule, had taken over the entire house with a seemingly never-ending load of laundry filled with baby onesies, toys scattered across the living room, a milk bottle always drying alongside all the rest of their dishes.

Needless to say, there was a lot on his plate. He shouldn’t have even been at the ceremony that day had it not been for the promise of the cocktail hour afterwards. But he was and his relationship with you changes irredeemably.

You don’t belong in his life, really. You’re…nobody to him, at least, you should be. The daughter of a mentor who supported him during one of the hardest periods of his life. The daughter of a mentor whom he gave a favour to and put in a good word with the department head, who had sat in on his defence. Jonathan really could just chalk you up to an acquaintance, had it not been for the way your seedling had made its home in his chest. 

So, he runs to the campus floral shop, booming with business and buys you a mismatched bunch of flowers from the ones left over. He taps your shoulder and pulls you, beaming, away from all your friends. Your mother, he knows, is away in Europe at a conference, will be back next week and will celebrate privately with you. He’s tongue-tied as he congratulates you, his fingers have turned into knots as he struggles to hand you the flowers. 

As a child you’ve probably been to so many of these you were most likely bored out of your mind through the commencement ceremony. Still, Jonathan thinks you deserve flowers. Knows that you’re fond of brushing past the big events of your life as if they were just another day, a day not worth noting in the album of your life as your eyes are already drifting on towards new adventures. He tries that day, to make you slow down, to breathe deeper, smile wider, take in the world around you without any responsibilities on your shoulders. 

He also gives you his number, tells you to stay in touch and let him know if you ever decide to return to the dark world of academia. You laugh and give him a mysterious smile, not a yes or no. You don’t let him dwell too long on your smile, on the sudden glint in your eyes, before you ask him how Ava is doing, where her mother’s health is at, post-partum. 

At the end, right before you’re pulled away again, he asks you for a hug and he’s oddly sentimental about the whole thing. It’s not like you were a child when he met you, but he’s seen you grow, has seen you take on the challenges of graduate school head-on and come out triumphant at the end of each one, if a little bruised or scarred. So, it does feel like the end of an era. The end of his time as a student, and a gaping, wild unknown territory of teaching, research, supervision in store for him. 

Jonathan knows better than to ask you what you plan to do with the fancy piece of paper in your hands. Knows you must be sick of the question by now and that today was one of those rare days that was supposed to be reserved for only the present, the breaths between minutes. 

He’s drawn out of his thoughts when he sees your eyes blink slowly, as if there’s molasses dripping from your eyelashes, drying stickily. You glance down at Ava, and he sees you brush the hair away from her face gently, tucking it behind her ear, and placing your hand over her eyes, so the frown can fade away from her otherwise smooth skin.

Reaching over, he dims the lights, and it feels like the room is lit by candles only. 

Really, it’s just electricity, probably some horribly inefficient light bulbs that were killing baby pandas all over the world. He knows you’d like to light candles instead, knows you prefer natural light, and nice, comforting smells. When he had hugged you that day at graduation, you smelled like the citrus candle at the grocery market. 

You don’t smell like it anymore though. Because you’d given up candles for him. For his inflamed, damaged lungs that struggled with the stale air of his favourite lecture hall. The one with the high ceiling windows, the seemingly never ending amount of chalk close to the blackboard, the projector always working. 

Over the years, as he secures tenure and Ava grows up, your sprout grows, fresh green branches hardening into delicate twigs, jagged edges of leaves springing up in every available corner. But there are no flower buds yet.

You meet him for coffee, rant about the job market to him, appalled at how you could have two, top-notch degrees, stellar references, and several first-author publications, and still not manage to land an interview. He listens, hums and shows his support, tries to rack his mind for any of his friends who took a master-out and went into industry instead who could maybe line something up for you. 

He takes you to museums and art galleries, to street food stalls afterwards and buys you greasy foods that don’t rest well with his stomach. Invites you over for dinner, watches fondly as you talk with his wife, play with his daughter. Comes to your apartment in turn, and meets your mismatched group of friends that you love fiercely and proudly. Considers himself blessed that he’s considered part of them, part of the people you deem worthy of your attention, your time, your cooking and wine. 

His marriage becomes strained. He texts you more, sets up coffee, lunches and walks in the park with you more and more. Your chatter, your fresh, still hopeful outlook on life breathes air into his lungs, new life into his soul. He finds he can forget the growing pit in his stomach when he’s with you, the terrifying fear that if things don’t work out with Mira, if they don’t figure out how to heal, leaving Mira and being left by her is going to tear him to bits. 

Instead, he laughs until he has to reach for his inhaler at your eerily accurate impressions of your shared acquaintances at the university. He tries new food with you and watches foreign films that are poorly translated through the subtitles. Exchanges books and gets into heated arguments, pushes you to use and maintain the skills you learned while writing your thesis as he vehemently stands his ground on the other side of the debate. 

Six months after you graduate, you secure a job, and a well-paying salary, with a workweek that ends Friday evening, no ifs ands buts or doubts about it. Of course you would. Jonathan had no doubt about it. And if he’s honest with himself, on a Saturday evening cooped up in his office with a stack of essays to grade, he’s jealous of you. 

The day he takes you to see that new space documentary at the movies, he gets a taste of a line you’ve never crossed with him. A line you’ve surely crossed with all your friends, except him. He notices that day that you’ve always kept him at an arm’s length away, that your friendship with him was different than his friendship with you. 

And, fuck, does it hurt, does he hate how it makes his stomach twist. 

Jonathan had just juggled the popcorn and the tickets, handing them over to the boy to be ripped when he felt you stall, stiffening up beside him. You don’t mention anything and he doesn’t ask. Just like how he never mentions Mira anymore and you never ask. You keep your conversation, your questions and attention, for little Ava. 

But, instead of following him to the last door on the right, you stop at the third door to your left. You tell him you want to watch a movie instead, a cheap thing, with a cheap budget and mediocre acting at best. He wants to say that? You sure? But your eyes are glinting and he doesn’t want to prod. 

Of course, the film is, objectively, terrible. You’re the only ones in the theatre so it doesn’t matter if he pokes fun, mocks the acting, goes discretely silent at the sex scene that really, shows too much. He’s grateful that you don’t notice how he blushes, how he wants to melt into a literal puddle on the floor. You’d surely think he’s an old fart, if it seems like he can’t handle a little full frontal nudity. 

But you’re too astute of an observator, can pick up on the cues of his body better than he can, and you nudge him and with a little flick of your head, let him know that it’s ok to leave. 

You notice how he blushed, how he wanted to melt into a literal puddle on the floor. You don’t care though. You don’t think he’s an old fart, and instead, walk behind him and throw popcorn at the back of his head until he looks at you with a glare. 

That’s when it happens. 

He hears your name called across the theatre, a rush of people piling out of one of the doors. 

Mile-wide grin, square-set shoulders and clean-shaven. The man waves you down, and Jonathan doesn’t know where he wants to look at that moment. He follows behind you, the greasy bag of his popcorn brushing against the side of his pants and surely leaving stains behind. 

This is Jonathan. He remembers you saying, turning towards him with a smile that has the promise of an apology behind it. Jonathan reaches forward and gives the so far unidentified man a handshake, maybe a little firmer than necessary. A family friend, we go way back. 

Awkward would be one way to describe the way you talk with your ex. At least from your perspective, it really is awkward. Gauche, maladroit. It makes his skin crawl to see the way you look at him, the way you dig your nails into your palm. You hand over sugary-sweet smiles that Jonathan can see right through. It’s the synthetic sweetness of maraschino cherries, the taste of the fruit underneath, subtle and addicting, drowned out through chemicals and fructose corn syrup. High in calories, low in nutrients. 

But Mr. Patagonia jacket doesn’t seem to mind this, thinks that the encounter has gone wonderfully, since he confirms with you if you still have his number and asks you to text him, for coffee or dinner sometime. 

It hits Jonathan then, that the nauseating feeling crawling up his throat isn’t the popcorn. 

You’ve never talked to him about this stuff. People with whom you wanted to be closer to than just friends, with whom you’ve wanted to cross that line with. It occurs to him that never, not once, have you ever shut down plans with him because you had a date. It was always that there was something at work, something at home, you were just too tired. 

He’s not sure why it bothers him so much. You’re allowed to dictate your relationship with him, and matters of the hearts are intensely private affairs, not to be divulged with just anyone. So, it shouldn’t bother him. Surely, he doesn’t have the right to demand you divulge your love life to him, and he’s not going to even attempt to go there. 

But, though he tells himself to calm the fuck down, he’s still bothered. Bothered by the fact that he’s never even met one of your partners. Ever. Not in passing, not in the evenings he’s spent at your house and the ones you’ve spent at his. You’ve always opened the door by yourself, grinning wide as you welcome him inside, and in turn, you’ve always come alone, with a bottle of wine. 

Sorry about that. My ex. 

Jonathan, still deep in thought, hums and muses that he seemed like a nice guy. He says it only out of politeness. He didn’t care for the guy the minute he gestured over for you to come over and didn’t tell you to stay put so he could come towards the two of you. 

His eyes fall on you as he watches for a reaction to his words. Nothing. You don’t twitch an eyebrow or bat a lash. You make a low noise at the back of your throat and say that when he wants to be, he can be a nice guy. 

“Hey, you,” your voice is raspy, quiet with the fear of waking up the girl curled into your body. It draws him out of his thoughts and makes him acutely aware that he’s been staring at the wall ahead of him with a horrible kink in his neck. He takes a deep breath and straightens up, his back cracking. 

He peers down and it feels like he’s looking at two stars. “We can’t sleep like this,” he says just as quietly as you. All the other girls never loved Ava as much as you did, some didn’t even like her at all, had fled at the break of dawn from his bed when they saw the toys strewn across the living room. It makes his heart warm to see the way she’s fallen asleep on you now, how much she must trust you. “Ava’s gotta get to bed.” 

You’re going to ask for five more minutes, and Jonathan already knows he’s going to give you ten. 

“Five more minutes?” Your free hand comes to hold his, and you bend your head awkwardly to give Ava a kiss. “She’s so warm. Wanna stay like this forever.” 

It was about six months after he finalised the divorce that Jonathan dared something beyond the friendly touches he normally gave you. In turn, you’d sit closer beside him when you were on his couch, pressed the length of your thigh against his and made his heart beat two times faster. Three months later, he kisses you for the first time. 

He’s sitting on the floor with you in your apartment, hours into what should have been just one round of Dutch Blitz, when it happens. You’re glowing, triumphant and content with the rush of your latest win, when Jonathan realises that the only thing he wants in that moment is to feel your lips against his. Realises that he hasn’t felt a need this strong ever in his life. 

He murmurs your name, catches your attention from the glass of wine you’re topping up for him, and you smile and give him a wink. 

He pushes the cards between the two of you to the side and stands up on his knees, though they protest in old age. He’s mirroring the way you are now, and his hand comes to wrap around your waist, something he’s never done before, not like this. Not with the lights dimmed, soft music in the background and his heart beating the way it is. He hears the faint clink of the wine bottle hitting the glass tabletop, as your eyes fall on him and everything drowns out except for you. 

It feels like he’s moving purely on instinct, not an ounce of logic is behind his actions. All his thoughts are you. The aching, soul-burning desire he has for you to be his. You’ve drawn closer to him, and right now you’re looking up at him through your eyelashes. He asks you if it would be alright if he kissed you, if it would be something you liked. 

You brush the tip of your nose against his, repeating the action with your lips. Tantalisingly, as if daring him to do it, you tell him, demand him to kiss you. And he does. His lungs burn and he knows that this is it for him. That the feelings he holds for you are beyond love and adoration. They’re beyond words. They existed at the beginning of the universe, at the beginning of time. 

Jonathan, in that moment, feels both the chest-crushing pressure of nothingness of before the universe, and the sudden breath in, the moment where nothing changes into now, the beginning of time and life itself, all in your arms. His knees are killing him, and he thinks he’s a little hazy-headed from the alcohol, but nothing’s ever felt this right as it does now. 

He doesn’t think that he’s indestructible, that the world can bring him any harm. He is the world, the rivers and mountains, galaxies and stars and atoms and everything in between. He breathes life into beings and takes it away in the blink of his eye, in the soft caress of your hands against his neck. 

Being in your arms, holding you like he is now, is a solace, a safe haven for him from which he never wants to stray from. His Garden of Eden, his paradise on Earth, his home. A home that he’ll never have the temptation of running from. Why would he? 

Your rose bush blooms for him at that moment, takes his breath away. The seemingly inconspicuous, leafy bush, neither fruit tree nor weed, blossoms into love. If it was possible to ignore the space you had taken up in his body, it’s impossible now. He can’t see unless he’s looking at you, the flower you’ve grown into under the care of his hand, his friendship, his life. He knows that nothing else in his life will be worth as much as you are. 

He’s stumbled upon an underwater cave of riches, of luxuries never seen before on land, and instead of ripping them from their home, into harsh light and to be battered over by greedy hands, he’ll make his home here. Will let the saltwater flow into his lungs, give his last breath away to the ocean, and never leave again. 

In short, Jonathan realises that he loves you, that he’s loved you for some time now, and will never love anyone else other than you. 

He’s not sure how to tell you all this. The sudden tornado of feelings you cause in his chest. So, instead, he pulls away, breathless, only to push his forehead against yours, to let his hands underneath your shirt and trace the knuckles of your spinal cord. 

Kissing you wasn't an impulse at all. He wasn’t acting to fulfil a need, no matter how burning or life-threatening. Kissing you was pure logical decision-making. It was the next rational step in his relationship with you. It was like the exhale of his lungs after the inhale, the inhale to follow after the exhale. There was no second-guessing, no impulsive heat-of-the-moment movements, breathing was never like that, and kissing you would never be like that either.

You tell him, eyes glowing and filled with love, that you did like it, how he kissed you, and wouldn’t mind it if he did it again sometime. 

He sits back, and pulls you with him into his arms. His back comes to rest at the edge of the loveseat behind him, his legs fall to either side of your body as his arms wrap around your shoulders. 

He’s never letting you go. 

“Ok, baby,” his hand comes to soothe over the side of your head. It’s been fifteen minutes and it’s high time that everyone gets to bed. “Honey, I’m going to take Ava to bed, alright?” Your eyes are fluttering, and he takes the pillow closest to him and prepares it right beside his leg. As he slips out from underneath you, you barely feel it, as your head falls onto the pillow seconds later. 

He walks around and presses a kiss to his daughter’s temple before he gathers her in his arms. She’s half-awake, her voice slurred and dripping with sleep. When he asks her if she’s brushed her teeth, she tells him yes, that you helped her to do so, before the movie. 

Jonathan falls a little more in love with you at that moment. For the common sense you had, for the way you could perceive what would happen once the three of you were cuddled up in bed, for the care you extend to his daughter as if she were your own. 

Once Ava’s tucked in, sung to, kissed and loved, her night light turned on, he comes back to your shared room. He manages to catch you coming out of the bathroom, little flecks of water darkening the grey of your shirt. 

“Sorry,” he feels shy with you suddenly, and shoves his hands into his pockets like a little bird tucking its head underneath its wing. You smile at him and walk towards him, your arms fall around his waist and smile up at him. He loves you. 

“For what?” You press your nose against the side of his neck, briefly bite his skin, but change your mind halfway through and kiss over the spot instead. 

He shrugs, “Waking you up.”

“It’s ok,” your hands come to the nape of his neck and you pull him down towards you. Your lips are breaths away from his. “I’ll thank you in the morning when I don’t have a kink in my back.” 

The next rational decision is to kiss you. The world wouldn’t make sense if he didn’t. It took Jonathan a while to get used to the feelings that would rush through him when he kissed you. At first, he naively thought that they would stop after a while. Now, two years after that kiss, he still feels it, just as intense, just as life-changing as the first time. The only thing that’s changed now is that he knows that he has to prepare for them. Ground his feet, take in a deep breath, so he’s not as thrown off as he was that night. 

Now, he pulls your leg to rest on the side of his hip, his other hand comes and rests on your upper thigh. You jump into his arms and he walks you over towards the bed, lays you down and hovers over you, his weight resting on his forearms right beside his head. 

Jonathan loves you. 

“I love you,” you murmur, threading your hands through his hair. 

Jonathan smiles. 

So, what's the verdict? More Jonathan Levy?

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought of it, it means the world to me! Masterlist here.

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Taglists are open!

every rejection, every disappointment

Boxer Miguel Boxer Miguel Boxer Miguel B-

yup… my final girls with the same vibe

tousled, stubbled, tired

miguel o'hara x reader

well basically I've been obsessed with the concept art for miguel so it is heavily inspired by those (x). not my fault he looks so boyfriend

summary: miguel is on the edge of a burn out, and he's the only one not seeing it.

warnings: none too important I think, just miguel being really tired because he works a lot. swearing, one small (and cringe) innuendo.

tags: gn!reader, established relationship, angst, fluff, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort?, nerdy miguel<3

word count: 2.1k

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Miguel hadn’t slept at home in days; you had been fairly accustomed to him leaving in the middle of the night for safety matters in Nueva York and coming back early in the morning, but now that the threat was multiversal and now that he was the leader of the spider society, he didn’t even bother getting to bed in the first place.

He in fact barely even left the spider society; the rare times he did were for missions, and when he came back he didn’t even take the time to catch a break; he always had something to fix, something to build, a new suit to work on, a machine to program, meetings, briefings, then more missions.

You wondered how he still had all that energy and where it came from, and you wondered how he hadn’t burnt out yet. 

Even the small naps he took from time to time – against his will, you had found him passed out on his desk one day, head resting over folded arms, mouth slightly opened, soft snores escaping – couldn't possibly make up for his lack of sleep, and even though his mutation may grant him more stamina and allow him to stay awake longer than the average human being, the dark circles under his eyes were the visual proof of his fatigue, and it was all you needed to try to drag his ass back home so he could get some rest.

You watched from a distance as Miguel was sitting on the floor, a monkey wrench in hand and a screw sitting between his lips. He looked focused, a small crease forming between his eyebrows as he tried to fix his machine – you had no idea what it was for, but you figured it must be important considering the significant amount of time he had already taken trying to fix it. 

Miguel gasped in surprise at your contact, slightly jumping at the sudden feeling of your hands over his shoulders, your unexpected and unannounced presence tearing him out of his developing state of drowsiness.

“Shit you scared me” he grunted softly, grabbing the screw at his mouth before turning to look back at you.

"Sorry" you apologized, bending to leave a kiss at the top of his head, your thumbs rubbing where his suit was peeking out under the baggy clothes he had been wearing for probably way too long. His shoulders muscles were stiff and you felt them tense even more when he turned back to his machine with a small sigh.

You joined him and pushed the hammer and nails out of the way before sitting down next to him. 

"When was the last time you went to the cafeteria for something other than the coffee?" you asked accusingly as you looked down at the empty mug beside him on the floor, your hand resting at the back of his neck, playing with the hair there.

He shrugged, still looking at the open hatch of the machine in front of him. 

“A bagel won’t keep me awake” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled by the object in his mouth as he tightened a bolt, putting his tool back on the floor with a clinking before grabbing another.

“You still need to eat, you won’t get to finish fixing this machine if you die first” you scolded him as your hand left him, looking at him sternly.

He turned to you and let go of his screw before putting a hand at your arm, his tired eyes boring into yours.

“I'll eat, I promise, but I'll do that once I'm done. I’m really close to getting it, I almost have it solved.” he declared, tilting his head towards the machine as his grip around your arm lightly tightened.

You closed your eyes and nodded once before you opened your mouth to talk again, but Miguel had already turned back to work at his machine. You let out a small sigh and grabbed the screw he previously had at his mouth to fiddle with it.

"When was the last time you had a real night of sleep? Because I don't recall seeing you in our bed in what– almost a week at least?"

"Are we playing 21 questions?" he asked sarcastically as he turned to you again, clearly beginning to lose patience. 

You paused and looked away from him, a small sigh leaving your mouth before you looked back in his direction.

"We're playing 'I'm worried about my boyfriend', it's a game where said boyfriend barely takes care of himself and drowns in work and in which everyone around him witnesses his vital needs getting neglected." you said as you didn’t even try to make it sound like a joke, just blatantly showing him how upset you were.

He pinched his lips before his gaze dropped to his lap.

“Miguel” you called. “Take a break. Please. This is a request for now but if you keep on being stubborn this is gonna become an order” you said as you shifted closer to him. 

"I don't wanna fight with you. I really don't" you nodded as you put a hand to his shoulder. 

"And you would lose, because you don't have enough energy to outbid, and it's gonna hurt your ego so it's best for the both of us if you just listen to me" you explained, a smile appearing over your face when he softly chuckled and shook his head. "Okay?" you asked raising your eyebrows, awaiting his response.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay" he nodded, his half lidded, tired and bloodshot eyes looking up at you. 

"Good" you pinched your lips in a smile as you brushed away the shorter strands of his tousled hair falling over his forehead, before leaving a kiss there.

He tiredly smiled at you when you pulled away, leaning into your touch when your fingers ghosted over the light stubble on his cheeks that had grown over the past few days.

You shrugged. “I like it” 

“I don’t.”

You chuckled at his harsh response, your hand fully resting at his cheek. “Come back home with me and we’ll shave it.” you shrugged. “After a well needed shower” you continued, teasing him as you pinched your nose and faked a wince, making him nudge your side as he huffed out a laugh.

“I know it’s getting critical, I just haven’t had the time for it” he said grunting as he got up from the floor. “Lyla even said 'I don’t have olfactory sensors but I know that you stink'” he mocked as he took a higher voice and imitated the sassy attitude of his AI, making quotation marks with his hands.

You laughed at the a-bit-too-accurate imitation and got up too when he offered you his hand to help you up.

"Come on, let's get you something to eat and go back home"

—

You were already sitting on your bathroom counter, razor in hand when Miguel came out of the shower, towel loosely hanging around his hips. 

“Sure you don’t wanna keep it?” you asked teasingly, pointing at your own face to refer to his five o’clock shadow as he walked up to you.

“No. I don’t wanna look like Peter B” he grumbled as he joined you. You huffed out a laugh and caged him with your legs, bringing him closer to you.

He let his forehead rest against your shoulder, planting his hands at either side of the counter while you brushed his wet and dripping hair back, almost shuddering as you felt the gentle scruff of his stubble against your skin when his face shifted to your neck.

“Alright” 

He tilted his head back up at you, the worn out expression over his face paining you. 

You took a hold of his face and shaved him in silence, and you didn’t blame him for the lack of conversation and clever things to say. He probably had been dealing with a lot of stuff this week, trying his best so things wouldn’t turn out to be catastrophic so he probably wanted it all to be quiet now.  

Following along his sharp and defined jawline, you shaved to the shape of his face, razor gently and thoroughly following each line, careful not to go too fast and slip and cut him. 

“I'm so tired. Working twenty-four seven didn’t give me time to realize it but now it's crushing me” he mumbled, his voice barely louder than a whisper so his movements wouldn't be too harsh and wouldn't make you slip.

“I know. It all comes crashing down one moment or another” you said with an empathetic smile, rubbing your thumb over his left cheek once you were done with that area. He responded with a small hum.

It didn't take too long for you to be over with your task, and you put the razor down by the sink before grabbing the aftershave bottle, squeezing the lotion onto your hands and gently lathering it over his face, appreciating the smell you never realized you were that used to.

"Done. All clean shaven" you declared as he put his hands at either side of your neck, smiling tiredly before slotting his lips against yours.

"Thank you" he softly smiled.

"Come on, let's get you dressed and let's get you to bed" you called as you jumped down from the counter, exiting the bathroom as he followed you to the bedroom.

—

“You know, at this point you could build us quarters at the spider society” you chuckled, rummaging into the closet looking for the same kind of comfortable clothes he had been wearing lately.

“Don’t tempt me, I could make that happen” he declared as he shifted from his sitting position to lay down onto the bed with a grunt. “That’s actually not a bad idea”

You hummed in reflexion. “I could look after you, make sure you’re not doing too much” you shrugged as you turned to him to throw him a pair of clean boxers.

“Forget about what I said. ‘Don’t need you to try to babysit me all the time, I already have Lyla for that” he chuckled as he let the towel down to put on the clothes you were progressively throwing at him.

“Where was she to babysit you these past few days?” you asked as you joined him and crawled onto the bed.

“Had to turn her off. You, I can’t” he teased with a small smirk plastered over his face before putting his shirt on, grunting as you pushed him back down onto the bed.

“Asshole” you playfully hit his chest, leaning down next to him. "Right, you could only turn me on." You stared at the ceiling as you waited for any type of response, a chuckle, a small laugh, a nudge, but nothing came, nothing happened. 

Your look darted to his direction, and you giggled as you watched him trying to hold back a laugh.

"That's a bad joke, for my defense I'm exhausted so it doesn't count" he shook his head, covering his eyes with his hand, desperately grunting.

"Yeah, right" you huffed out a laugh as you let your head rest over his chest. 

The tension quickly diffused, the atmosphere getting calmer and the room getting quieter as you absentmindedly let the tip of your fingers trace patterns over his chest slowly rising and falling.

"Thank you" he softly muttered, breaking the silence, tearing you out of your thoughts.

"What?" you asked, confused, your fingers stopping in their trail. 

"Thank you for dragging me out of there, out of this hole"

You paused and shifted so you could look back at him, propping your elbow next to his face, holding your chin in the palm of your hand.

"Miguel, you know I'll always have your back, right?" you rhetorically asked, your fingertips now tracing his face, all soft from the aftershave.

He nodded as his eyes darted to your face.

"Yeah. I know" he pinched his lips in a soft smile as he looked at you, fighting so his eyes could remain open. 

You mirrored his smile, leaning over so you could leave a kiss at his lips, running your fingers over the side of his face one last time.

“You can rest now. I got you”

He softly hummed before his eyes closed under the weight of the responsibilities weighing on him, a small sigh of relief leaving him as your fingers raked through his hair. 

It didn't take long for you to register he was asleep, his breath slowing down, the steady heaving of his chest and a peaceful expression over his face.

You couldn't bring yourself to move, couldn't bring yourself to leave him.

—

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