#marsh x reader

Whether you were treated like a child or an adult depended on your parents’ mood that day. At seven, your mother was venting to you about your father’s temperament. At eight, you taught yourself how to steal crusts of bread from merchant carts. At nine, your parents had another child. At ten, you realized you’d be the one raising him.

Despite their fighting, you think your father did love your mother. To some extent, anyway. Why else would a nobleman risk his life to keep visiting your skaa tenement? You told yourself you were lucky to have him even come around, but in reality you knew his presence just made things harder. The sight of him made a deep, guttural rage bubble up within your chest that you had to push down so you didn’t overflow.

He just had it so easy. He came and went as he wished. He wasn’t the one who had to go find food for your wailing brother because your mother was too lost in her emotions to do so. He wasn’t the one who had to try and comfort your mother when she murmured about how she’d never have a ‘real’ husband. He wasn’t the one who had to step in and keep your brother in line when he was misbehaving simply because your mother wouldn’t.

You were more of a father to this family than he ever was. And more of a mother, too. You wondered how both things could be true at once and yet it just was, a strange mix of the capacity to wipe your brother’s tears with a gentle touch or bark at him when he was about to run out in front of a nobleman’s carriage so he wouldn’t get trampled.

You never meant to get angry. You tried not to, at least. It was hard.

You had been twenty when the Ministry found your family. You weren’t home—you’d been out to steal some more meager scraps of food. Your brother’s body had been so unrecognizable from the mauling that you couldn’t even hug his corpse to your chest.

Kelsier found you the next day. He introduced you to Dox, to Mare, to Marsh. Apparently your skills as a Misting were valuable.

You didn’t want to be valuable. You were so tired.

But you went with them anyway because they needed someone with your abilities, and so you helped, because that’s what you lived for.

You didn’t let yourself grieve. If you did, then all of the emotions you’d stuffed deep down would come up and you didn’t want to deal with those ones. You didn’t want to think about the loss of your little brother’s wide eyes. The relief of no longer needing to pick up the broken glass of your mother’s emotions so your fingers would get bloody instead of the rest of the family’s. The guilt that came from that relief.

Months passed. Your time with the crew was…different, to say the least. Mare was about a year older than you. You’d never had an older sister before—you’d had to figure out everything yourself—so you were slightly glad to have someone around who might have been able to fill that role for you.

She didn’t. Not that it was her fault, of course. She was just human. It wasn’t her fault that you were the one who asked what was wrong after she fought with Kell. She wanted children, apparently, and he didn’t. You wanted to tell her to listen to him.

Instead you just put an arm around her shoulders as she spilled out her emotions to you, because that was what you did. That was your job.

Part of you marveled how others were able to open up like that. It seemed a waste of time, didn’t it? Why would you cry about something when you could try to solve it? And if you were in the process of solving it, why was there a need to bring it up if it was already on its way to being over and done with? You kept your own problems close to your chest, because hurrying up and dealing with them was so much quicker than blowing it out of proportion and confiding in someone else. You didn’t understand. You wanted to, but you didn’t.

The first time Marsh invited you to a stakeout, you told him no. You were already frazzled that day and hadn’t prepared anything to go out. When he asked again, you sighed out a yes. Because that was what you did.

“Just give me….just give me an hour,” you had told him, speed-walking towards your room in a rush. “I need to prepare metals for us. I have a couple extra bars, let me get a few vials together—”

“I already did.” He held up two small vials—one with bronze, the other with your metal shavings.

“Well, I should still probably make a few backups in case—”

He moved his coat to the side to display additional vials hanging off his belt.

You hesitated. “I don’t—I haven’t surveyed the area yet to check guard positions—”

“Did that yesterday,” he grunted.

“But I need to get my pack together—and probably make one for you, too—who knows how long we’ll need to be there, and—”

He’d silently picked up a satchel and held it out to you. You took it cautiously and examined its contents—bread and cheese, a glass knife, a canteen of water.

You looked up at him.

He’d only nodded towards the door. You followed, still wanting to argue for some reason but not really sure how.

When prepped vials started showing up on your bedside table, you confronted Marsh about it with folded arms. “I can do that myself, you know.”

“I know. But you don’t have to,” was all he’d replied with.

You didn’t shave a single metal bar after that.

One specific night signaled the end of a long con you and the crew had been pulling. You and Marsh had been paired together for your part in the plan because you two worked the most efficiently.

You were breathless from running by the time you and Marsh took cover in an alleyway, cheeks flushed and nose red from the cool mists.

“Lord Ruler,” you muttered, slumping against the brick wall. You were exhausted. You just wanted to go back to the safe house and sleep.

“Good work.”

You shrugged. “It was our job, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but it was still a difficult one.”

You glanced over at him questioningly. “Obviously. But we were expected to succeed.”

“That doesn’t discredit the actual success.”

You frowned, baffled. Not necessarily at his words—though those gave you pause as well—but at the emphasis he was putting on all this. “I…what are you talking about?”

He met your eyes. “I’m just saying I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You did well tonight.”

That night was the first time you’d kissed him. Afterwards, you would have felt embarrassed if it wasn’t for the way that he’d kissed you back.

You didn’t know how to be part of a pair. Sure, you had provided for others before—it was what you were good at—but you’d never had that be a two way street.

Marsh was patient with you, to the point where it almost made your heart ache. When you didn’t want to talk about something, he wouldn’t pry or gripe about how you never open up. He’d just hold you in silence until you started talking.

The first time he saw you cry was when he’d held you, truly held you, with the layers of clothes between you both removed. He let you break, let you bury your teary face into his neck to hide while he cradled you to him, murmuring soft words into your ear, telling you how well you were doing, how much he loved you.

Being with him soothed the ache in your soul you’d been carrying since you were a little girl. He wasn’t really one for flowery words outside of the bedroom, but his actions spoke for themselves. When you were with him, you didn’t need to worry about the details of anything because he took care of it all. He took care of you.

“You don’t need to worry about me all the time,” you protested once, when your…coupling was still new. “My parents never needed to.”

“Yes, they did. They should have.” He said the words so simply, like they didn’t just flip your world upside down.

But then he turned to you and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “And I want to.”

So you let him.

𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 | 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍

If there’s one thing that’s true about Marsh in bed, it’s that he’s the one that’s going to be in control. If you ever push back against his stubborn nature and give him attitude, he’s grabbing your wrists and pinning you to the wall.

You learn that he likes when you fight back a little. He enjoys putting you in your place.

Marsh isn’t really one for flowery praise, but he does enjoy giving you commands for you to obey (or make you obey). “Look at me,” he’ll growl, holding your jaw and forcing you to meet his gaze. When you’re on his lap and start getting needy, he’ll murmur in your ear, “Hold still.”

Intimacy with Marsh varies. Sometimes it’s rushed and erratic while he’s bending you over a desk. Other times, it’s slow and passionate while you’re under him. During the latter, he presses his forehead against yours and lets his eyes flutter shut.

Sometimes he’ll kneel at your feet while he mouths at the sensitive button between your thighs. Never to submit—no, Marsh would never pass up the opportunity to be in control—but more to…worship. Even while he’s on his knees, he has a talent for still being the one leading the scene. It doesn’t help that a single swipe of his tongue has your legs buckling.

Sometimes he’ll take you from behind while gently holding a hand over your eyes. The blackness scares you at first, but soon it amplifies any and all sensation he gives you, and you relax into his ministrations.

Something about this man screams authority to me—specifically that he has a thing for it. The moment the words “yes, sir,” leave your pretty lips, he’s pulling you against his chest to ravish you.

𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 | 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍