Okey But Like I Genuinely Don’t Understand How Someone Can Write So Many Masterpieces !!

Good To You - 4.

Ex-boyfriend’s Dad!Mob!Bucky x Reader 

series masterlist 

Run-through: After kicking your exes out of your lives, you and Bucky are enjoying your happy ever after on his private island

Themes: smut, explicit language, age gap, possessive!bucky 

a/n: ah, we’ve reached the end of this totally unexpected series!! Thank you for all your support and love, always! I love you!! 

Looking at you, Bucky couldn’t help but smile. His life was so much better with you in it, and it would only get better and better from here on now. 

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promise

frank castle x reader

It was the first time in a long time Frank was in a deep sleep, when he heard a loud bang on his front door.

He was out of bed, half-asleep, gun cocked as he made his way to the sound, fearing the worst. As he quietly opened the door, gun ready, he let out a groan when he recognized your prone body collapsed outside of it.

“What the fuck, I was sleeping.”

You glared up at him half-heartedly. “Just calling in a favor, Castle.”

He could tell you were injured, blood staining your jacket and trailing from a cut on your cheekbone. He didn’t even think twice as he leaned down to carefully scoop you up into his arms and into his apartment; you’d done it for him enough time that he really did owe you one.

“What is it this ti-fucking christ.”

You’d pulled your jacket off, lifting up your sweater to reveal the 8 inch gash along your side. It was deep, blood pumping out at a terrifying amount.

“Just a quick stitch-n-ditch, I promise.”

Frank rolled his eyes, trying to hide his concern as he quickly grabbed his kit from under the sink. “I’d be amazed if you didn’t pass out from blood loss within the next ten minutes, sweetheart. You ain’t going anywhere.”

You gave in pretty easily, considering there was no way you were walking out by yourself at this point. A stab wound to the ribs, possible broken wrist, and most likely a concussion.

Frank didn’t say a word as he stitched you up, focusing on his work. He could feel your gaze on him, heated and soft. Like always. He could move his face an inch and kiss you. But he wouldn’t.

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You know the drill guys I don’t need to say anything…

Five Years After

Imagine going to the feed store for your sister, only you come home with more than just feed for the animals.

Words: 5.1K Author’s Note: The ending of this imagine was definitely inspired by a TikTok video :)

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“Am I still breathing? ”

I am asking myself the same question right now !

You are literally giving me life with every fic you write !!

Two Minds, One Body || Mafia!Bucky [pt3]

Mafia!Bucky x fem!reader

Chapter Summary: You pay for your attitude in the best way possible Warnings: 18+ only, smut, edging/orgasm denial, cream pie, cum-play, mutual masturbation, squint and you might see voyerism, fluff, guns WC: 2427

Main Masterlist || Bucky Masterlist || Part One || Part Two ||

Your heels clicked loudly as you stormed through the house looking for Bucky, or in this case, Winter. You knew he was here somewhere because his driver was still having a smoke outside but there were too many rooms to check each of them. Instead, you planted yourself beside the front door and waited for him to rear his head.

“Something wrong, love?” Bucky asked as he caught the vision of you waiting, hand on hip and fire in your eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” You growled as you pulled the handgun that had suddenly appeared in your handbag overnight.

“I believe it’s a gun.” He smirked and continued to push his cufflinks into his business shirt.

“Ha ha, I forgot what a comedian you were.” You rolled your eyes. “What is it doing in my bag, Bucky?”

He stepped closer and ran his hands softly down your arms but you shook him off and held your stance firm, he wasn’t going to distract you with his smouldering charm today. With a sigh he pulled away, looking to Nico for help as he entered to foyer only to quickly back track.

“Rat bastard.” Bucky mumbled under his breath before turning his attention back to you, his eyes bleeding almost to black. “I wanted to make sure you are protected in case I’m not around, kukolka.”

“Win…” You sighed as you dropped your hand from your hip. “I don’t even know how to use this, I’m more likely to accidentally shoot myself.”

“I’ll teach you.” He said, taking the gun from your fingertips and shoving it down the back of his waistband and pulling his suit jacket on to hide it. “After what you pulled off last month, we are the richest syndicate on the East Coast. That puts a target on our backs.”

You couldn’t help but beam under his pride, your NFT plan had worked and Bucky was laundering millions every week, but you hadn’t spent too long thinking about the dangers it put you in. You had noticed the extra guards on the property and that when you went out you had almost as much of an entourage as Bucky did, now it made sense.

“Ok, but I’ll need a permit.” You said begrudgingly. “I’m not going to jail because of something stupid like that. It would just be embarrassing.”

“She launders millions and orders around the toughest mob boss in the state of New York, but was caught without a firearms permit.” Bucky laughed, stepping into his brilliantly shined shoes. “That would be pretty embarrassing, doll.”

“Who said you were the toughest mob boss?”

“Oooh, my queen is fierce this morning.” He smirked as he grabbed your jaw and pulled you forward to meet his lips. “I’ll have to fuck that attitude out of you when I get home.”

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His chest was pressed to your back, hands over yours and holding you pinned in place. You could barely breathe as his thigh nudged your legs wider and his lips brushed the side of your neck.

“Focus, kukolka.” Winter warned you as your ass naturally pressed back into him with a promise of good spanking if you didn’t heed his words. “Pull the trigger.”

You took a deep breath through your mouth so you didn’t get distracted by the Armani cologne he wore and tried to focus on the target that had been nailed to the trees at the back of the property. This was not what you thought you would be doing when Bucky returned home, you hadn’t even noticed Nico had disappeared until he returned with a hammer and a swollen thumb.

“Shouldn’t I have ear muffs or something?” You asked in another attempt at delaying the inevitable. “You always see them on tv.”

“If someone attacks I doubt you will have a pair of them on you.” Winter pointed out. “You need to know what you are in for, like the recoil.”

“The what?!” Your hands dropped but Winter caught them and aimed them back at the target. “I don’t think I can do this…”

“I’ve got you.” He stilled your trembling hand and let one of his fall to your hip. “I remember the first time I pulled the trigger.”

“I’m pretty sure you were born with a gun in one hand and a flask of whiskey in the other.”

“Close but not quite.” He chuckled and let his other hand fall to your hip too. “It’s not as scary as it seems. Pull the trigger.”

You turned your face away and screwed your eyes shut as your index finger curled over the trigger. If the deafening bang wasn’t enough to scare the living daylights out of you, the snap of the recoil did. Winter’s hands were quick as lightning as they caught yours and steadied the hold before you could drop the weapon or accidentally discharge it.

“Good girl.” He grinned and pressed his lips to your cheek.

“Did I hit it?” You blinked rapidly, still stunned by the sound and force of your shot.

Winter’s laugh vibrated from his chest as he shook his head. “Not even close, but you pulled the trigger. That’s the hardest part.”

You had to admit now that you had done it once and knew what to expect, the idea did seem easier, you would certainly hold it a bit tighter now that you felt how much it recoiled in your grip and you began to raise the weapon again. This time you aimed to keep your eyes open so you could actually see the target.

“I think I should get a prize if I hit the target.”

Winter’s hand snaked down your body, tugging up the hem of your dress so he could brush aside your panties. “Sounds fair to me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as what his fingers did was not fair at all. You found it impossible to focus on aiming as they dipped between your folds and teased your clit, soft moans filling the quiet afternoon air. “Win, fuck, thats, not, fair.”

Your hips were rolling as they sought more friction, more depth than his thick fingers could offer. “Take the shot, kukolka. Claim your prize.”

His fingers disappeared and you whimpered at the loss before he raised his glistening digits to his lips, licking them clean as your panties dampened even more. You knew the game he was playing and you wanted so desperately to win. Focus, focus, focus. You remembered his instructions and how to line up the sights on the slide, looking down the barrel and at the target beyond. Deep breath in, sight the target, slowly exhale, pull the trigger. The gun still bounced back in your grip but nothing like the first shot and you saw the bark behind the target splinter as your bullet lodged deep into the trunk.

“Ouch, bad luck, doll.” Bucky sucked the air between his teeth as he took the gun and hit the magazine release as well as the round in the chamber, tucking them away behind his back.

“Woah, uh-uh, I hit the target.” You said as you stopped him from heading back towards the house. “You didn’t stipulate it had to be a head shot.”

You grabbed his hand and he let you tow him to the tree trunk and pointed out the tiny tear in the edge of the paper where your bullet had entered the trunk, nowhere near close to the outline of a head.

“See, target hit.”

Bucky was trying not to laugh as he touched the spot, his finger widening the hole in an innocent way that left you breathless nonetheless. “Someone is just desperate for a prize.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Your lip was caught between your teeth as you stepped up onto a root that stretched out beneath the tree and you stood eye to eye with him.

“You wanna cum so badly, don’t you baby?” He smirked as he ran his thumb over your lip, pulling it from your bite. You couldn’t help but flick your tongue out, tasting the pad of his thumb before sucking it as his pupils blew wide and his breathing deepened. “Fuck. Turn around.”

You smiled triumphantly as he spun you against the tree, your hands splayed against the trunk as his hands bunched your dress up. The thin material of your panties were torn apart and left to fall to the leaves before you heard his zip. You were already whimpering for him as he pulled your hips back and pushed your face forward, snapping his hips so he could fill you in one go. Your cry was lost as his hand clamped over your mouth and you were reminded that there were guards roaming the property.

“You’re mine, doll, no one else gets to see you like this.” He promised between sweet kisses and sharp bites to your neck. “So be a good girl and don’t make a sound.”

His hand fell from your mouth and you bit your lip to keep them shut as he circled your clit instead. It took all of your concentration to stay quiet as your legs began to tremble with every long stroke of his cock against your walls.

“Don’t cum just yet, babygirl.” He warned as his rhythm failed.”Remember my promise this morning.”

Your head was clouded by your impending orgasm when suddenly his cock twitched as his deep groan filled your ears as he spilled himself inside and pulled his hand away from where you needed it most.

“Gonna fuck the attitude out of you first. Then you’ll get your prize.” He smirked, pulling out after his release ended. “Close your legs, doll, I don’t want any of that leaking out between here and our bed.”

He tucked his cock back in his pants and zipped it up before whistling happily along the path, stopping a moment to check you were following him. Your knees were pressed together tightly as you tried to walk without letting his cum drip down your legs but gravity was a losing battle and you decided speed would be better over strategy, power walking past your grinning beau. You dared not give him the usual lippy attitude as you passed him  in case he withheld anymore orgasms, but you knew when you finally got your prize it would be monumental.

Your clothes were discarded in a messy heap as you entered your room and waited on the bed for Bucky. Your legs were crossed and your hips slightly raised, doing exactly as you were told, when he walked in the room a short while after. His shirt had been unbuttoned and hung loose around his body, the light illuminating every defining line that cut his abdominal muscle into the six pack you wanted to ride.

“Open.”

Your legs spread wide as he stopped at the foot of the bed, the feel of his liquid silk  slipping through your folds and running over you already had you trembling and his hands dropped his trousers so he could stroke his already hard again cock. The possessive burn of his eyes set your skin on fire and your fingers inched over your hip, begging permission to touch yourself.

“Go on, love.” He nodded as he gripped himself tighter. “Take yourself to the edge, but I’ll be the one who makes you cum.”

You sighed happily as you applied the pressure you needed to your clit, dipping your fingers down to gather his cum to use it to soothe the ache on your swollen bundle of nerves. Your back arched as your fingers easily glided over the nub and your walls fluttered, more of his cum dripping from your needy cunt and earning a deep moan from Bucky as he appreciated the sight. Your eyes locked together and you felt the tightening in your core curl your toes, pushing yourself to the brink before you threw your hands away from your body and tried to fight the urge to finish.

“You are perfect.” He vowed as he climbed on the bed, leaving kisses up your thighs before his tongue lashed slowly through your folds, gathering a mouthful of his cum and your arousal. His cock rested between you and every movement left his veiny shaft rubbing over your sensitive clit as he captured your lips, tongue sharing the taste of your bodies combined. “You can cum whenever you want now, doll.”

His hips pulled back so his cock could fall between your legs before he snapped them back into you, your body putting up no resistance as he filled you to your core. You could finally cry out his name, the thick walls of your room trapping the sounds of your ecstasy firmly within them. Your fingers clawed at his back as the edging left you blinded with passion and you bucked your hips up to meet his every thrust, his pelvic bone applying just the right touch for whitehot spots of light to dart across your vision.

Unintelligible words tumbled from your lips as your orgasm built and built and built until you thought you would just combust into a billion atoms. Your mind splintered and for a moment there was no feeling at all, it was like time stopped as your soul left your body and every muscle froze. Then you came crashing back down, your pussy pulsing uncontrollably as your legs wrapped around his back, liquid gushing around his cock as your body was overcome with fever.

“Holy shit.” Bucky moaned as he watched your orgasm rip through you, feeling your walls draw him in and hold him tighter than ever as his thighs were drenched by the torrent of liquid squirting over him. “Oh, fuck, so good.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer, not when your eyes rolled back into your head and he knew he had kept his promise. Collapsing onto your chest, he shuddered as he spilled himself inside you once again, both of your bodies covered in a light sweat from the sweet torture you had been put through. Rolling his eyes to look up at you from where he lay you could only move enough to place a kiss on his forehead, his eyes fluttering closed at the softness.

“Are you still going to give me attitude?” He asked with a small hint of a smile, really not minding it at all.

Your chest bumped his head with a laugh and you stroked your fingers through his hair. “Am I still breathing?”

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Thank you to everyone of your beautiful people who follow my shit show of a blog 💕 I see you, I appreciate you, I want to kiss every single one of you on the forehead (respectfully, if you gave me permission of course)

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george russell having a rookie beast and tiny verstappie in the form of kimi antonelli as his teammate for 2025 is the cosmic karma they talk about

Sleepy Baby Part 5

a/n: I am super flattered by how many people have liked this little story.

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin / Reader

Warnings: Cursing

Word Count: 1700 ish

Summary: Jake has thoughts about you.

Masterlist     Part 4

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I want a BUCKY BARNES TOO !!!

Lost and then Found pt. II

Imagine being taken by HYDRA. After years with them, they set you loose on someone you haven’t seen in a while. Unfortunately for HYDRA, you weren’t as susceptible to their mind experiments like they thought. Now away from their influence, your only worry is making sure you’re prepared for your baby to enter the world.

Words: 11.3K Author’s Note: I won’t say I don’t like this because there are some parts in here that I absolutely adore. However, it is rushed and it feels forced to me, but I needed to get this out so here it is. Also, I’ve never experienced childbirth so please ignore my mediocre take on it. Haha.

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Deserve

Summary: Marc never stays with you after he fucks you. You are better left in the hands of Steven. This time, he doesn't leave you.

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader (implied Steven Grant x Reader)

Word Count: ~4k

Warnings: smut, some references to rough sex, angst (with a happy ending) - don't let me fool you this is just touch starved marc struggling with being loved

A/N: im fine im just really out here with nothing else to do but think about moon knight

Marc was an intense person. 

He was like the patter of rain against the roof, against an open window pane. He was like the shock and flash of lightning during a storm. 

The grim set of his mouth and shoulders, the unending weight of the world that made his brows dip into that hard line. Marc felt more than he let on, was affected by things people said and did, let the blows rain like ash against his skin and said nothing. 

You had learned long ago that Marc did not welcome comfort, that he felt it was something he did not deserve to receive. Soft, shaded mornings were for his alter. Everything squishy and warm, hazed in the breathy glow of a sunrise, was for you and Steven, not him. 

Maybe it wasn’t that Marc didn’t welcome comfort. 

He craved it, wanted it, longed for it. 

And he should not long for it, want it, crave it. 

He’d told you as much, over and over, the weight of your gentle hands against his skin like burning embers. 

He wanted it. He so badly wanted to sink into that flame, but he was worried it would burn him alive, melt him down into something unrecognizable. 

It was only when something went particularly badly that he allowed some comfort. 

He loves you, this you know. 

You see it in the heaviness of his stare, in the intensity of his worry, in the way he hugged you, held your hand, worried after you like you had not survived for years on your own. 

But if you ever dared to hold his hand, hug him, drag your fingers down the length of his spine, it was too much for him. These were things he could offer you, but that you should not give him in return. These were not things he deserved, these were things better reserved to his alter, who was deserving of everything he was not. 

Marc is intense.

He’s hard and wild and something close to broken some days, when reality drifts in and out of focus, when the world is best left in the hands of Steven.

There’s always a beating heart of anxiety behind everything he does, that this time he will not be enough, that this time he will not be fast enough, that this time the universe would get the last laugh again.

So when Marc fucks you, he is intense, he is like the weight of the all consuming world poured out. Salt water in wounds. 

You don’t mind. 

The times he’s gentle with you, you get the sense that he’s mourning, like the act is grief, something lost that he’s stealing back from the gods. Something that is temporary and definitely not for him. 

This night, he had come to you like the storm he bred inside him, the hatred of self and fear of a future he could not control, of a tentative reality of things only he could see. 

Marc was rough with you.

His fingers in your mouth, his hand hard against your cunt, against your ass. He had buried himself inside you, set a punishing pace. When his mouth was on yours, his kiss had been more like an effort to consume you. When his hand wrapped around your throat, his eyes had snapped to the mirror, and you had known Steven had been cautioning him, that you were in fact breakable, no matter what you said, that he should be careful of you. 

But you’d covered his hand with your own and tightened his fingers, eyes fluttering closed as you lost yourself in whatever bit of himself he would give you. 

~

A last stuttering breath passes your lips, eyes screwed closed, pleasure lighting up the insides of your veins, molten, like a river of fire that never ends. 

You clutch the sheets beneath your fingers and turn your face into a pillow as the last waves of your orgasam shutter through you. You bite off the moan that bubbles to the back of your throat when you feel Marc shift inside you, so full it's almost painful. 

Your thighs tremble, the insistent pressure of Marc’s hand against the back of your neck keeping you in place. His other hand kneads the flesh of your hip, and you know a bruise has already formed there. 

Marc pulls back, and thrusts into you one last time, a pleasant satisfied ache beginning between your legs. 

The firm fingers at your waist finally let you drop your hips to the mattress. 

You feel weightless and warm, content, like you’re floating through a cloud. Marc presses a kiss to the space between your shoulder blades, before the heavy bulk of his body surrounds yours. 

Disappointment darts through you in a brief little flash, because this is Marc’s parting gift to you always. 

The kiss between your shoulders, the all consuming fire of the warmth of him against you, before he hands the reigns to Steven. 

Marc never stays with you, after. The kiss against your spine is all you get from him. Whether because he can’t be bothered with taking care of you or because he feels he doesn’t deserve to, you aren’t sure. 

Steven is always there though, to kiss you back to life, to smile at you, make love to you so slowly and sweetly it was like a dream you never wanted to wake up from.  

His fingers slide up your arms, massaging as he goes, until he reaches your clenched hands, gently uncurling them from the fabric of the sheets until he can twist his fingers with yours. 

You feel him squeeze carefully, his nose dipping to the crook of your neck. 

A stillness falls over you both, silence, peace, creating a warm little bubble. 

You don’t mind his weight against you, it settles the frantic beating of your heart, drenches you in warmth. 

Normally, Steven would say something to you when he fronted, a kiss against your cheek and a softly spoken hello, love. 

Today, he’s silent, arms tight and grounding around you. 

But it's Steven, you know it must be. 

Because Marc never stays. 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose against his arm, feeling his damp skin against your cheek. You want to open your eyes, reach up and touch the little black curl of hair you know must be stuck to his forehead at that moment. 

You’re content to stay like that with him, content to feel the gentle drift of his nose along the curve of your jaw. So you keep your eyes closed and let your mushy, sex-addled brain drift, as lips press along your jaw, behind the curve of your ear. 

And you’re happy to stay in the gentle warmth being offered to you, the glow of being loved so well.

But then, he does something inexplicable. 

Steven pulls away from you. 

He gets up. 

And he leaves. 

An empty feeling that you don’t like crawls up from the pit of your belly. A feeling that’s suspiciously like abandonment, that you know is not grounded in reality. 

Steven never left the bed, not without saying something to you first, not before checking in with you to ask what you needed or wanted. Especially not when Marc had been so rough with you. 

It was a routine that was being broken, a sacred step you didn’t know needed spoken out loud. 

You swallow thickly, peeling your eyes open. 

You don’t like the dirty, used feeling that’s overwhelming you, like you did not matter. 

Pushing yourself up is a monumental task, the ache of your bones like the grinding of cinder blocks against your flesh. You glance over your shoulder at the door. 

Then there’s a clatter from the bathroom and the door swings open, Steven emerging in only a pair of briefs. He still doesn’t say anything as he approaches and encourages you with gentle hands to roll over, the brief warmth of a washcloth between your legs. 

Which is odd. 

Because Steven would normally lie with you and talk with you, until you were coherent again, until you were secure enough for him to move away without feeling the sting of abandonment. 

Steven also talked almost non-stop to you, never without something to say. 

Normally,  you would throw on a shirt and play cards in bed, watch something on your laptop. Sometimes, Steven would just hold you and talk. Sometimes, he would make love to you again. 

But none of that happened until you were ready. 

Steven still doesn’t speak to you as he climbs back into bed, handing you Marc’s discarded shirt, which he gingerly helps you sit up and slip on.  

Steven’s head twitches toward the mirror, and you watch him watch his reflection for a moment. You frown, wondering what Marc could be saying to him. Marc, who always and without fail disappeared and walled himself off from both of you. 

And then it dawns on you. 

In your post-orgasm haze, and without the sound of his voice, you hadn’t noticed the signs that this was very clearly Marc still fronting, not Steven. 

Marc never stayed with you, never. 

Your throat is tight when he doesn’t say anything, his head is still swiveled toward the mirror, brows drawing tighter together with each passing minute. 

“Hey,” you clear your throat, “c’mere.” 

You snuggle down and hold out your arms. 

You half expect him to huff out an exasperated breath and lay back but avoid your touch. 

But he doesn’t. 

He curls into your arms, nudging his nose into the hollow at the base of your throat. He cradles you close, inhaling gently. 

But to your utter surprise, he lets you smooth your hands over his shoulders, through his unruly curls. The motion of it soothes you, comforts you. 

You glance toward the mirror and wish that you could see Steven there too, so you could ask what was going on in Marc’s head, why he was pretending to be Steven. 

“You okay?” You say as he lets you run a hand down his face, over the ridge of scar above his brow. 

It takes Marc a long time to respond, buried in your skin as he is, breathing you in, tracing rough hands along your hips and over your thighs, massaging where he knows you must be sore. 

You kiss the top of his head, blearily giving him all the love he was usually too prickly to receive.

He nods against you, so you slip hands down his back, over his hair. You aren’t sure why he’s pretending, but you find you don’t mind. It’s the kind of love you always want to shower Marc with but that he rarely allows. 

You want to ask him why, why he didn’t let Steven front. But you worry he might think you’re asking to see Steven, that you don’t want him there with you. 

Emotionally, Marc was a fortress, impenetrable and soldily quiet. Things simmered down in his gut, pushed away and down down down, until they overwhelmed him, until they burst to the surface in a violent torrent. 

Most often, it was when someone he loved was in danger, when the past became something he could no longer stare down, when the things he avoided were impossible to ignore.

And you’re terribly afraid that if you say anything now, he’ll clam up, shut down, pull away from you, leave the flat and take your heart with him. 

Gently, you slide down, until you’re eyelevel with him, one hand against his neck, thumb tracing the line of his jaw carefully. 

You feel Marc’s hands go to the small of your back, big hands gingerly tugging you closer, until your nose is touching his, until you share the same air. 

And you can hardly believe that the man who had smacked your pussy, held you down and fucked you until you felt like you couldn’t breathe, whispered filthy things in your ear that you can hardly remember, that your brain fuzzes out when you think about too much - is now holding you so gently you may as well be made of delicate glass, is now allowing you to stroke your hands through his hair, pet his broad shoulders. His eyes are closed, trust you didn’t think Marc possessed pouring over you in waves. 

You know why. 

You know why he’s doing this. 

Marc would rather accept love in the guise of his alter than ever believe he was worthy of it himself. 

You think about the hatred that lives inside Marc, about the self-hatred that loomed always at the back of his mind. The hatred that ran so deep, that he felt so potently, that even his alter had thought the worst of him at first. 

Killer, mercenary, cold-blooded. 

Things that Marc accepted into the folds of who he was without question. 

Marc never let you hold him like this, and so you do so for as long as you can bear, tilting your chin into his so you can kiss him softly, feeling the slow drift of his hands down your sides to the curve of your ass, over the bruised skin of your hips and thighs. He hooks his fingers behind your knee and tugs your leg over his hip. 

You finger a curl at the back of his neck, the glow of brown skin molten in the low light of the flat. 

You swallow and hope that you don’t drive him away, but you can’t stand it any longer - his thinking that this is softness you would only grace Steven with. 

“Marc,” you whisper. “I know it's you.” 

Even the way they hold you is different. Of course, you can always tell. You did not need their voices to tell you who was fronting. 

Marc’s eyes flash open and you’re surprised to see fear there. 

You hold fast to him, though he doesn’t try to pull away. You raise a questioning brow and resume your gentle ministrations, trying to show him without words that you did not treat him carefully because you thought he was Steven. 

“How’d you know?”

You shake your head and press your thumb against the center of his chin, “I can always tell. It’s not something you can really hide.”

He tries to tug his face away from your hand but you don’t let him, stubbornly making him look into your eyes. 

“Baby,” you say, “You know that you are just as deserving-,”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Don’t do that.”

“But you are, Marc. I always want to do this but you always leave me,” you stoke a hand through his hair. “I know Steven has talked to you about it, too. Told you that you don’t have to go.”

Marc is stiff against you and you consider for a moment letting him go. 

But you don’t. 

You hold on, and murmur, “It’s okay to want this. It’s okay.” You keep feathering your hand through his hair, your touch as gentle as you can make it. “I love you, you know.” You touch the gold chain around his neck and finally glance away from his eyes, staring at the hollow of his throat instead as you say, “You don’t always have to have your walls up. I’m not - I won’t -,” you stop and consider your next words. “I love you exactly as you are.” 

There’s a long moment of silence after that, one in which your heart beats painfully fast and you wait for Marc to push you away. 

But it doesn’t come, his body slowly relaxes against yours again, your fingers continuing their careful press against his skin. 

His head tips toward the mirror on the wall, and he nods after a few long minutes, carefully plucking up one of your hands, to kiss each of your fingers, the flat of your palm, and then to curl them closed again, hold your hand against his chest. 

You can feel the steady thrum of his heart, and Marc doesn’t look at you when he says. “I want it too.” 

You wait a moment but he doesn’t say more. 

“I’m happy to give it to you, Marc.” 

“You - you give too much as it is.” He pauses for a long moment, before pushing you onto your back, hovering over you, his eyes darting over your face. 

And you’re amazed, wondering, at the love struck expression he wears, like you were the pinnacle of a universe that barely made sense, that was barely held together. 

“Steven deserves this,” he nods down at you. “He’s never-,” 

You hear the unspoken words - that is why Steven was born after all, to be all the things Marc thought he wasn’t, to shield himself. 

“Stop it. Marc, you are not your past. You are not bad. You carry around the weight of the world and these sins you think are yours alone. They aren’t.” You tip your head up to nudge your nose against his, Marc’s hands pinning both of yours to the space beside your shoulders. 

Marc is looking at you in that intense way of his, brows furrowed, mouth tilted in that overly-serious line. 

“And what if I don’t think I deserve it, huh? To get you like this?” 

“Don’t listen to you, then. Listen to me.” You hitch your knees up to frame his hips, holding him against you, levering pressure into the backs of his thighs until he drops down fully against you. “You deserve it. More than most.”

You know everything he’s ever done is flashing through his mind. His brother’s death and his mother’s wrath. His time as a mercenary, his time in the military. The way he thinks he breaks and folds and isn’t strong enough, never strong enough, not enough. The mistake of Khonshu. The way he thinks he failed Layla and Steven, and that he will do it all over again. 

“Hey,” you nudge his jaw again. “Quit that.” 

Marc nods slowly, intense stare pinning you down. “I deserve it.” He says it like he expects you to disagree with him, to laugh. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’ll remind you of that.” He releases your wrists, burying his nose in your neck, the breath he sucks in is shaky and wild, the drum beat of a storm he stored inside the stoic stone that surrounded his heart. 

You cup a hand against the back of his neck, your other hand sliding down his side, tracing the violent scars that dot his ribs. Carefully, you slide his boxers down his thighs. Your touch is soft against him, your body already welcoming to him, and he slides into you with a quiet groan. 

It’s not like making love with Steven, who was sillier and goofier than Marc would ever be. 

It’s different to how Marc normally fucks you, when the mood strikes him to give it to you slow. 

This time, it's sweet, it's like the smoky burn of incense, like the homecoming he’d been waiting for for years. Marc kisses you softly, groans into your mouth when he was normally quiet aside to talk to you, demand things from you. 

You tighten your legs around him, encourage him to move slower, push deeper. 

“Fuck,” he whispers against the delicate skin of your neck. 

Sweat beads on his forehead, the glow of him against you like the sun. When you push the curls back from his forehead to look into his eyes, you catch something vulnerable in your heart, like the knife of everything Marc was storming into you. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs again. 

He ducks his head to kiss a path along your throat, where earlier his palm had circled the flesh. 

You drag your nails along his back, rub a hand through his hair, rock the cradle of your hips along with his. 

Marc reaches for one of your hands, kisses your fingers before guiding your hand to your cunt, “Sorry baby, I’m not gonna last. Need you to touch yourself for me.” 

You’re only a little bit shocked, but you tip his chin up to kiss him. Marc normally had a stamina that could win awards. 

Not now, it seemed. Not when you had given him permission to be slow and gentle and soft. 

Your breath is squeezed from your lungs, the heavy drag of him inside you almost enough to make you come. 

Marc doesn’t let you breathe, his mouth an insistent press against yours until you pull away with a gasp and you hear the sound of a quiet laugh against your throat, teeth digging into your jaw. 

You come unexpectedly, hips jerking up to meet him as Marc gives a harder thrust, looping an arm beneath one of your knees to open you up more, to slide that much deeper. 

The spot he hits within you makes your toes curl, makes it hard to catch a breath. 

“I can destroy you like this too, huh?” Marc asks, grinding against you, hips swirling as you groan from the breathless pleasure darting up your spine. 

“Don’t ruin this, Spector,” you huff, nipping at his jaw, only laughing a little. 

“Keep touching yourself. I didn’t say to stop,” he answers. 

Your eyes roll back when his tongue curls against the hollow of your throat. “I want you to come again,” his voice is a husky rasp in your ear.  

You’re still wearing Marc’s shirt, but when he releases your leg to palm your breasts through the fabric, you regret ever letting him partially dress you. 

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, “You’re so tense. Come for me again, hm? Come for me.” When he pinches your nipple and rolls it between his fingers, you do. White hot pleasure courses up your spine, makes your mind go blank. “Fuck, are you coming?”

“Yes,” you moan, “I’m coming for you.” 

“For me,” he repeats. “For me.”

“Marc,” you whisper, pleasure making your vision go fuzzy, your exhausted body trembling. “Marc, I love you.” 

His hand goes to your ass, angles your hips, before he thrusts so deep you see stars and he spills inside you.

You make sure to wrap your arms around his head, tightening your grip until he wiggles. “Can’t breathe, baby.” But you don’t want him to go anywhere, you don’t want the idea to even occur to him. 

You loosen your grip but say, “Don’t leave.” 

Marc’s jaw tightens, “Sorry about that.” 

“S’ok. Just don’t go.” 

“Not going anywhere tonight, honey.” 

You nod, nuzzling your nose against his cheek when Marc takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your fingers and wrist, your forearm, the crease of your elbow. 

“Stop that,” you grouse, a giggle at the tip of your tongue.

“I’m obsessed with you. I can’t.” 

You do laugh then, and he rolls you onto your side. He slips free from you and you feel the emptiness immediately, but then Marc is kissing you again, insistent and demanding, and it's forgotten. His fingers dance up the column of your spine, tracing the delicate vertebrae of bone with soft fingers. 

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he whispers. It's so rare to see him without that stoic facade, the burned in self-hatred, that your heart gives a painful thump. 

You kiss his sweaty brow and think to remind him of something. “You’re so good, Marc. You deserve good things. You deserve kindness.” 

He doesn’t answer and you know he’s fighting down that automatic response, so ingrained into him it was almost a part of his DNA. 

“I deserve it,” he murmurs eventually and you figure it's as close as you’ll get to agreement. 

Marc lets you hold him, and he doesn’t try to move once. 

girls who learned all their vocab from books and are now constantly embarrassing themselves by pronouncing words slightly wrong in conversation