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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 10 months

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Breaking down the Comics: Elias Spector's Death

Okay. Okay. I'm going to try to be....a little comprehensible.... I'm going to fail. Just a warning.

I want to talk about the first run of Moon Knight. Specifically the last issues of the first run. There were 38 issues in the very first run of their own comic. After that, they reached out to a larger audience and started to print differently and started over with #1 because comics suck at a comprehensible numbering system.

In the start, we meet Marc Spector, see him have a conflict of heart, die, come back, and become Moon Knight. He starts to add in identities of Jake and Steven as a way to be anyone else but Marc Spector and claims they are just him starting over and trying to use their lives as a way to do things better. (a system that has not yet realized that it is a system. Denial is not just a river).

We see him fight some of his villains that start to play bigger parts later in the series. We see him make friends as Jake and money and love as Steven. We see bits of his past and some stories of Marc Spector’s adventures. We meet Randall and even get to see Marc fail to save people (Crowly’s son, Randall, Gena’s friend). We see him struggle with Khonshu and his identity a bit. We even see him break down a couple times.

But the way that fist run ends is to me the real defining moment for Moon Knight. Let’s take you to:

Issue #37, The Ghost.

It opens with Elias dying of cancer in a hospital in Chicago. On his deathbed, he calls for Marc.

The comic notes that they have been estranged for 18 years.

In this comic, Steven has finished organizing the files on Marc and is still grappling with the fact that he and Marc are in fact two different people. He thinks once he has organized Marc’s life, he can lock it up and they can become Steven Grant forever and never have to deal with that unpleasantness again.

Up to this point, we have been seeing them struggle with their identities. Still under the illusion that they are one man putting on different identities who can't decide what life to live.

Understandable, considering that Marc does not want to be Marc anymore. Steven detests the life that was lived as Marc and Jake pushes back on both lives, wanting to be with friends and a simple man of the people.

In many ways, Marc only surfaces when things of the past come up. He refuses to acknowledge that he's still around and when he is faced with that fact, he is stressed and full of rage.

We've seen clips of Marc's past. We see him working as a guide for not always good people through tough parts of the world. We see him working for hire with the Feds in capturing a runner. We see the CIA and world organizations hiring him. Is it any wonder that he's so skilled? That his past is often overlooked when it comes to SHIELD and other entities, because he probably not only worked for them, but probably also carried out shady business for them. But that's a different story.

In this issue, we see Steven watching a recording of one of the missions Marc was on. "Spector led a scout team. We took a terrorist camp in a cross border operation. The only problem was that our .50 caliber gunners couldn't be bothered with fine distinctions between terrorists, women, and children."

As much as we'd like to see Marc as a man of misfortune and circumstance, he wasn't always a good guy. He often tried his best to be good in his missions, often feeling conflicted and trying to save people or turning on those that he found to be of bad character, but sometimes he was a bad guy.

It's important to see these bits so we can better understand Marc and his intense trauma, his guilt, and his self hatred.

This issue uses this to show how far away from his father's teachings Marc fell. How he pushed so hard against his father that he ended up on the other side.

In my books, this is the most important Moon Knight story. The story of where he came from. Of his father and his faith.

His parents fled to America when Germany took over Czechoslovakia. In Europe, his father had been a great man that was "ordained a Rabbi at eighteen, and went on to become a brilliant scholar in the Kabbalah, Jewish Mysticism."

They moved to the poor side of Chicago where his father tried to teach him that "God loves a poor man. [...] Poor in goods, rich in spirit." (Something Jake Lockley adheres to).

Here, they suffered antisemitism. They were beaten and used as scapegoats for everything wrong.

Interestingly enough, he sites that his mother died when he was just a child. with the frequent beatings, fear, and death of his mother, it's any wonder Marc suffered some trauma?He became angry at his father for not standing up for himself or them.

His father wanted him to study to become a Rabbi and Marc turned to boxing and self defense.

When his father tries to stop him during a fight, he punches him. His father disowns him and kicks him out.

The next day Marc joined the Marines. He focused "for eight years" to become the best. When he was the best, he became a mercenary.

If you jump forward several writers, you find out that he was dishonorably discharged from the Marines for bouts of dissociation and mental health. But let's stay focused on the original story.

Steven has found out that their father is dying and he is refusing to go back. "He said he never wanted to see me again, he meant it. I won't go back."

An important aspect of this comic is that Marlene notes herself to be Steven's lover, confidant, and guru.

She acts as their guide in matters of the mind and heart. She's always the one that calms them and helps them to reconcile when the three of them start to fight one another and don't know who they are.

Despite her not understanding his DID, and they themselves not understanding it, she is a huge help for them.

I have a lot of conflicting thoughts and opinions on Marlene, but it's good to note that she was originally written as a very important part of his story.

"Marc Spector was always an escapist. When your relationship with your brother Randall soured you just forgot him for ten long years until it was too late and he died hating you. I can feel what kind of spin you're in, Steven, but you have to accept the responsibility, make amends now. Steven Grant and Moon Knight have no fathers. Only Marc Spector does."

That's a very interesting view into all their relationships and how they keep one another at arms length. Jake, Steven, and Marc refuse to believe they have the same past, responsibilities, or life.

Yet, when Marc is struggling with dealing with the approaching death of his father, and facing him, Steven takes the floor and tries to help Marc get out of it. (Just like Jake jumping out the window later in Lemier's version of the story. Always running...Maybe I'll do something on that later...)

While out being Moon Knight, he comes across a Synagogue on fire. He sees a man run into the burning building and finds a Rabbi struggling to save the Torah from the fire.

"The five books of Moses. He put his life on the line for this. My father would have done the same, I'll bet. Though he wouldn't lift a finger against the thugs who bullied him. I guess every man's got his own reason for being a hero."

He finds out that the fire was set on purpose by NeoNazis. It reminds him of when he was a child and he flies into a rage.

"I'm not about to let these Nazi goons get off with 'Malicious mischief' and a slap on the wrists."

He's been through this before. There is weight to the thought that a lot of Marc's childhood trauma stems from dealing with religious trauma and antisemitism.

I think as time moves on, we forget the time period that Moon Knight is set in. He isn't just a child of a jewish immigrant.

His father fled the Holocaust. There is a high likelihood that friends and family did not make it out. Marc grew up hearing about relatives he lost. Knowing that his blood line probably didn't make it out of Europe. That there are no pictures of his ancestors. That he can't go back and see the old houses and towns.

His father was a Rabbi, which means he was in a big part of a Jewish community that also probably fled or flat out came from the camps. He grew up seeing the tattoos, the poor health, the people with PTSD, and hearing the stories.

We're talking severe Generational Trauma.

When Marc finds the Nazi scum that burned the synagogue he has some of my favorite lines that define him:

"You know where I belong, punk? I belong with the decent and innocent folk who can't find a moment's peace. Not in the streets, not in their own homes, so long as punks like you terrorize them. I belong with the persecuted."

Detective Flint shows up and stops him before he kills them. (I honestly forgot Flint went back to the beginning. That poor man has dealt with so much Moon shit.)

Marc realizes he needs to face things and heads to Chicago.

But he is too late. He arrives in time for the funeral. He's handed a kippah and he puts it on for the first time in years.

Now, we get to learn a bit about Elias.

We come to find him as a man in desperate search of Self and Spirit. A man who was so stern and severe but also a man that sought truth and a just way to live.

His line of research focused on the "knowledge to see beyond the physical. To know the universe as a reflection of the divine image and to see mankind redeemed..."

It discusses how the body cannot meet G-d, but only the spirit and only in death can the spirit travel.

We find out later that he was seeking a way to bring back the departed who have met with G-D and the other side.

A man that refused to fight back against those that had done him wrong, who believed that given enough time that G-D would punish those that had brought them harm.

A man that sought for a way to face G-D after watching a world try to wipe his people off the very earth. An interesting thought.

During the eulogy, Marlene reflects that "It's almost as though he were speaking of you as Steven Grant. A man in search of self and spirit who rejected Marc Spector's materialism to become Moon Knight - A social conscience and moral force, just, severe, unknowable."

Steven later goes to visit their father's grave at night and comes across some thugs spray painting a swastika on some of the grave stones and vandalizing them. He’s emotional and outraged that even here there is no peace to be found. It turns out this was all a distraction as someone has stolen his father's corpse!

Issue #38, And the dead shall rise: (I love that cover).

We see Moon Knight struggling with his identity. Elias was not a father to them all. Marc is emotional and pissed, but still refusing to take responsibility for his part in all this.

"Moon Knight will find his...Marc Spector's father and return him to the dignity of a final resting place..." Steven refuses to say ‘my father’. Any mention of Elias is always in relation to Marc and even Marc can’t make himself be present when talking about his father.

Marlene is tasked with helping to clear out Elias' study and donate his papers and books to the university when she's attacked by someone who runs off with some of the papers.

Steven returns and has a small break down. "I'll find him, Marlene, and I'll kill him for desecrating my father's grave and memory!" "That's Marc Spector the cold - hearted mercenary talking, not you stev--" "How long can I deny it, Marlene. I AM Marc Spector!"

And Marc is finally taking charge. The first time he has taken ownership of his father and how he feels.

He sees his father in a new light.

"I may have misjudged my father's saintliness for cowardice and his genius and moral zeal for fanaticism. [...] And isn't moon knight in his own way a moral zealot fighting perhaps for the very same values Marc Spector once rejected?"

Now that is an interesting way to look at it. Moon Knight is about doing the right thing. About protecting those that need it. About believing in something unkillable and powerful. Moon Knight is about an idea of man being more than he is. Is this not what his father believed in?

We learn that Elias had uncovered a way to bring a soul back to the dead body with necromancy where it could then "utter its knowledge of God to a living Kabbalist."

Turns out one of Elias' students decided to test this out on Elias' freshly dead body.

He does manage to resurrect the dead body of Elias, who zombie walks towards Moon Knight.

Marc immediately starts having flashbacks and intense guilt. Even with his dead father trying to strangle him, he refuses to fight back: "No! I'll die before I ever lay my hands on him again, I swear it! Father, forgive me-"

Marlene shows up and manages to break the spell, sending Elias back to death.

Marlene tends to save him a lot in the earlier runs. Just something to note.

Marc once more is not present. Curled up on the floor after melting down, he is beyond emotional and most likely dissociating out the wazoo. "I found him, Marlene... I found...Spector's father."

Once more, Marc is being protected. Marc, who hated how his father sheltered him and wanted to feel the real world in violence and brutality is often in need of being sheltered. Steven, who wants to rid himself of Marc and the past is often doing the sheltering.

When it comes to emotions, Marc is often the one being overcome. Either in fits of anger and rage, guilt and regret, or just overwhelmed in sadness or traumatic responses. Steven Grant is usually the one that is shown to be calm and collected.

In fact, at the start of the issues, when Steven is watching Marc’s tapes and going through his things, he’s detached and unemotional. Steven has the ability to see things from a different perspective of ‘useful’ and ‘Not useful’. It’s rare that Steven responds to things with emotion unless Marc is involved and they are arguing or Marc has put them or someone he cares about in danger.

Frankly, it’s possible that Steven is the caretaker in the early comics. Mackay has shown that Steven not only manages their finances, but their hygiene and body care. He’s the rational and logical one. The one that can face down a villain without reacting. He’s also the one that does all the exercises and rehab when Marc puts them in a wheelchair.

The story ends with them returning home to New York. Steven notes that they almost died because of Marc's emotions. He also notes that Marc seems to have resolved some of the bitterness that was held with his father's memory. He comments that he feels a peace of mind and like a whole new person.

Steven and Marc featured heavily in this with Steven shielding Marc without even realizing he was doing it. And as a system that has not come to full realization yet, it is possible that Steven is starting to understand here, which is why he feels like a whole new person at peace with himself.

This is also how the first run of Moon Knight as a stand alone comic ended. 1980-1984.

Before this issue, Jake was featured heavily. Steven was the mansion party pretty boy that lounged around with Marlene. Jake was the one out doing his reconnaissance and hanging with Gena and Crowley.

It was a good connection to link Steven and Marc’s past with the father and Jewish faith. Jake would have been easier to connect. Jake is the son that Marc wishes he had been.

But Jake is emotional. Jake wants nothing to do with Marc’s bloody past. Calls him a killer and would be happy to spend all day in his cab. If anything, when Steven and Marc talk about Jake, it often feels like two older brothers talking about a goofy but kind younger brother.

A few issues earlier, when they ended up in a wheelchair for a time, Steven lamented that he didn’t think he could give up driving Jake’s cab, as it brought him too much joy.

So I can see why this issue needed Steven to be involved. Steven doesn’t know who he is at this point. He hasn’t been defined and given the chance to figure out what makes him happy and tick. Jake has already broken off and figured out who he is. He knows he’s Jake Lockley. But who is Steven Grant aside from Marlene’s eye candy and the rich boy?

Settling Marc’s past, seeing who he was and where he was coming from, protecting him, and facing down the Nazi threat was eye opening for him. Much like in the show, Steven needed to see where they came from to see where he belonged.

Does it get easier for Steven and Marc to interact after this? Not really. Marc is still self destructive and a danger to them. But I think when Marc falls down that path, it’s easier for Steven to know where Marc is coming from. To help him get out of the spiral and let them function.

An interesting aspect is how much Marc’s past has been re-written over and over again by different writers. His mother’s role, his relationship with his brother, his religious handlings, his trauma, and his violent past are redesigned each time a new writer gets their hands on him.

No one really knows how to handle Marc’s relationship with G-D or his specific type of trauma. Marc’s guilt is’t because he betrayed his culture or religion. He didn’t turn his back on that. His fate with heaven and hell are constructed by Christian writers that don’t understand or research things well enough.

Marc’s pain is that he can’t let go of the choices he made. The regrets of relationships that he turned his back on weigh heavily on him. His inability to save people and the times he didn’t try when he should have are agony to him.

“You can’t save everyone, but you have to try.” Marc’s problem is that he will break himself trying. He can’t handle the thought that he can’t save everyone. Each one he loses is a scar on him that eats away at him as another example of him destroying everything good in his life.

Marc has gotten to the point where a flower would wilt and he’d take it as a personal hit that he didn’t try hard enough.

He lost his brother. He was too late for his father. He couldn’t help Marlen’s father. Marc needs the reminders that sometimes he has to lay down and rest. Steven tends to be that reminder.

When Marc forgets that he’s more than just a killer, Steven steps in and tells Marc to sit down and shut up. He is balance and control that both Marc and Jake lack and I really wish we got to see more of this, especially in current writings.

I want to see that Marc is the emotional hot head. That Jake is the heart and soul. That Steven is the cool and collected protector. I want to see them wrestle with G-D in a way that makes sense to them. I want to see how Marc has healed and how they are processing their trauma. I want them to show that they can work together and know what one another needs. I want them to show that healing is possible without losing any part of themselves.

Sometimes healing looks like three guys sharing time and doing their own thing. Not one guy being in control of the body full time. Sometimes healing is one guy celebrating Purim while the other two take a back seat because it isn’t their thing.

I’m prepared for disappointment, but I hope I’m pleasantly surprised.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight comics #Meta #moon knight meta #I'm back on it everyone #I was supposed to be writing something else and this happened #I'm so sorry #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #I'll find a good Jake one next #I wish the new guys would go back and re-read the old stuff #There's some gold in there that should not be missed or re-written #I'm not normal about Moon Knight #Marc needs more hugs #Someone get Steven off his high horse and back into that speedo #He needs to learn to relax sometimes #Jake needs a buddy #I miss the Moon Knight friends

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for-a-longlongtime · 2 days

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If anyone needs me I'm watching Oscar's Brioni BTS video in HD on repeat

aka they put it on their Youtube channel in widescreen instead of cropped and.... fuuuuuck.

youtube

#oscar isaac #moon knight #poe dameron #triple frontier #santiago garcia #star wars #steven grant #marc spector #I'm very normal about this #completely normal idk what you are talking about #Youtube

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pokimoko · 1 year

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#moon knight #mcu #marvel #my fanfic #my fanfiction #my fanfic stuff #poll #i finally got polls and now i am an egotist #but no really i am genuinely curious about which one of my fics is the most Beloved™#outside of kudos and hits because those don't always necessarily reflect which one is the most enjoyed #consider this the people's choice award or whatever... the fandom choice award?...mutual choice award #ahh well there is a choice and...probably not an award because then i really would not be beating the egotist allegations #also logically i knew I'd written a few MK fics but writing them out like this really drove home that:#damn I've written quite a few MK fics (insert autism creature here)#anyway mmm sweet sweet data #statistics make brain go brrr... even though brain doesn't really like maths?...statistics are a strange loveable beast #*quietly hides the graphs and charts i made after categorising my book collection* I'm normal about statistics and graphs #i will definitely not make a graph out of this promise

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mrcspectr · 1 year

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Half cocked means he’s got half a cock what’s not clicking bestie

BUT WHERE DID THE REST OF IT GO.

#tbh i thought we left that kind of insane behavior in the 80s and 90s comics #and y'know what i'm glad we didn't he should be louder about it #normalize the russian roulette that is the moon knight system's catch phrases #they should say even weirder stuff #also bestie i read this out loud to the discord vc congratulations how does it feel to be famous #anonymous #asks

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wiltingdecay · 11 months

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🧑‍🤝‍🧑

send 🧑‍🤝‍🧑 for four relationship headcanons

sometimes when morgan goes to the gym rowan will join her, mostly just to stare at her back muscles while she works out.

morgan will often steal rowan away from work to take them on a spontaneous little picnic somewhere peaceful, usually the beach

if morgan is asleep and rowan's having insomnia, morgan will probably wake up with quite a few little plaits in her hair

rowan makes a little bottle of perfume that reminds morgan of him for her to bring with her whenever she has to go back to sea without him

#asks #thank you! i'm so normal about them #knight-engale #morgan drakos #rowan aisling #when the sun loves the moon

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littlefankingdom · 1 year

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Okay. I was rewatching Moon Knight, because I love this show so much, I have been obsessed with Ancient Egypt since I could read and picked up a book on Egypt Myhtology, I'm an archeologist student, Steven Grant is relatable, what more do you think I need? Also, the show exists on its own, no mention of the avengers and shit, it's like another world and I like it that way.

Anyway, in episode 1, we get Mark's missed calls, and look at this:

Duchamp.

Normally, when I don't know about something in the MCU (like some new heroes), I don't look it up to learn about it with the storyline, which was great for Moon Knight because I didn't know about Mark and Co's DID before watching. But I got curious this time.

Duchamp is a french name, and, low and behold, Jean-Paul Duchamp is Mark's gay french bestie is the comic. My queer french ass is losing it. Oh, I want the french gay man so bad. His name is Jean-Paul Duchamp, which is great because, for once, this is a family name possible in France (contrary to a lot of french characters made by Americans, which often just sounds so dumb), however the first name is old, like nobody under 60 is named Jean-Paul. Anyway, he is gay for Mark, I cannot blame him, his alias is Monsieur LeBlanc (white just like Moon Knight's suit), I love it, Mark calls him Frenchie in the comics.

His name appearing means he will be there next season, no doubt about it. So now, I'm going to threaten Marvel to let him be gay for his bestfriend. I need my queer french representation, Marvel. And please, hire a French actor or a gay actor, or both (kinda want some of our guys to shine a bit, but like someone not really known because the others have too much ego, unless it's Omar Sy, which already was in a X-men's movie. You guys disrespect him so much with the screentime, though. He's a great actor and he's a great guy. Probably because he is extremely on the left from an USA pov)

It would be so great to have a french gay character in the MCU. It would shake things up here.

#moon knight #mcu #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #please feed me the french gay #lgbtq+#I always wanted a french character in the mcu and he's gay!#my ramblings #he dates women in the comics because he is in denial about being in love with his best friend #Layla you are great and I love you but Mark isn't good enough for you #Steven is though #anyway frenchie x mark my otp because I need it #give it to me now #if you thought I was normal no I'm not

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sarahghetti · 3 months

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moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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cookiesandcantarella-art · 9 months

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"The name of this gem is Courage. It is a single gem made of two."

Remember how they were both supposed to die but despite all odds they became friends and that's what saved them??????? I'm normal about this show i swear. Anyways happy belated anniversary Princess Tutu!!

[ID: stylized digital painting of fakir lifting duck as princess tutu in the air in a ballet pose. Both have their opposite arm outstretched. Fakir wears his knight outfit, clad in all black. Behind them, is the claw like structure at the center of the swan lake but here it’s colored like a moon and the space behind them is filled with stars. End ID]

#princess tutu #my art #lea draws #fakir princess tutu #duck princess tutu #fakiru #<-ehhh in a sense #i dont usually draw fakir dancing with tutu because he never does in the show and that's Significant but like #i wanted to draw her dress #hes in his knight outfit so were are symbolizing playing roles idk idk #i wanted to draw the dress ok dont worry about it

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moonlight-prose · 1 month

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KISS ME ONCE

a/n: i am so late with even starting this and i don't expect to finish, but i still wanted to contribute something. so this is the first fic for the moon knight bingo hosted by @moonknight-events. some of the prompts really captured my attention and i wanted to write what i could for them. i based this off yes the long long, long time, but some other jazz songs were played as i wrote. and honestly i'm obsessed with how it turned out. the divider is by the ever talented @saradika-graphics.

prompt used: butterflies

summary: dating steven grant came with its challenges. between being a superhero, sharing the body with a man you hardly knew, and his forgetfulness, you felt dizzy. so when your date goes awry, you take matters into your own hands.

word count: 1.7k+

pairing: marc spector x reader

warnings: not explicit, some soft fluff, romance, the blossoming of a relationship, flustered marc.

Candlelight flooded the darkened flat, flickering a soft orange glow along the walls and stacks of books. It would be romantic if the frustrated bangs of a man trying to fix it wasn’t the only sound that echoed back to you. The evening had started out as a date. An attempt between you and Steven to rejoin together after weeks apart. But life continually managed to get in the way.

Problems arose one after the other. But nevertheless this is where you found yourselves. Sitting at the small table, candles scattered throughout the space, and the soft sound of jazz coming from the record player in the corner. And just as he poured you a glass of red wine—the power went out.

“It’s alright. Really.”

“I’ve almost got it.” A very American voice called back to you.

Steven—the man you adored—had no clue what the fuck to do in a situation such as a this. The radiator should have been easy enough to turn back on, but by the sounds it seemed that there was nothing but difficulty. Which is how Marc—the man you barely spoke to—wound up crashing your date.

It’s not that you didn’t want to speak to him. Get to know him. You just rarely found yourself with the chance. Between him and Steven being whisked away consistently, you barely had time to speak to Steven. Yet there you were, in your best outfit, candlelight illuminating the flat, and wine poured into two separate glasses. And Marc was acting as if you weren’t there.

He was helping. You knew that, but there was nothing that could be done. At least not right now.

“Are you hungry?”

The question must have thrown him off guard; his head peeking out from the bottom of the radiator. His eyes quickly caught sight of you standing there—hope shimmering in your eyes. A look that was usually only reserved for Steven. A look he’d longed to see directed at him one day. But Marc—ever the stubborn man Steven made him out to be—looked away as fast as he started.

“No I’m alright honey.” His eyes flicked back to you briefly before settling on the mirror. A quick sigh, the tensing of his shoulders, and you knew enough.

He wanted this.

You couldn’t deny the endearment didn’t have an effect on you. In fact, it was quite surprising how your entire stomach erupted into a flurry of butterflies. They normally only arose when Steven was near. How he smiled so bright it nearly killed you, how his entire heart was worn like an accessory on his sleeve. He looked at you in awe. As if you were the very light of his life, but Marc faced you with hesitancy. With reluctance and the darkened shine of anguish in his brown eyes.

What he wanted, he could never have.

That’s what he believed. Or at least that’s what you came to understand in the short time you’d known about him. That he gave everything—all he could spare—to Steven. He sacrificed a normal life to the man who already had it; to the person he could never be.

It broke your heart in a way.

Why would he believe he could never have you too? That his life wouldn’t be intertwined with yours. Like it or not you chose Steven, and whether he knew it or not…you also chose Marc. Even if he wouldn’t allow himself to be chosen.

“We ordered dinner. Thankfully. I love Steven, but I don’t trust him in a kitchen.” Smiling, you moved to grab the container you had yet to take the food out of.

Marc flinched at the word love falling so freely from your mouth. He acted as if he’d never heard the word before. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe someone never looked at him the way Steven looked at you. Although something told you that tonight might in fact change that. You never saw yourself falling for Steven—for anyone really—but Marc was a welcomed surprise.

“I don’t want to take Steven’s food.”

You shrugged. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”

“You don’t know Steven honey.”

There was that fucking word again. A rush of flutters overtook your stomach, your heart racing with the glint of annoyance in his eyes as he stared at the mirror behind you. You could practically see Steven trying to reason with him. Trying to keep Marc from ruining this night. If only the both of them could see in your mind—how you longed to get closer to Marc, to see if you could make him feel the same as you did now.

So you did.

He looked startled, stepping back a bit with his hand outstretched. The sight brought a smile to your lips.

“I want to have dinner with you Marc.”

“You’re on a date with Steven.” He sighed, eyebrows pulling together. Strange how it was so different to Steven’s frustration, so unlike the soft man you knew. “Lemme fix the radiator and you can have him back,” he muttered.

“Marc—”

“Just need a tool. Which is somewhere around here.”

“Wait—”

“And I’ll be—”

With a quick lunge, you grabbed hold of Marc’s (Steven’s) button down, pulling him close enough to feel his breath on your chin. He froze, hands hovering over your waist as you kept him there and fixed him with a look that made his heart thump loudly against his chest. That glimmer—the want—was suddenly on him. And he felt as if the breath would fly out of his lungs if he tried to make a move. He was afraid he’d scare you off.

“Eat with me.” You smiled sweet and honey like he could practically taste it on his tongue. “Don’t make me tie you to the chair just to join me.”

He huffed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed roughly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Then you’ll stay?”

He nodded. “I’ll stay.”

“The food’s cold.” You sighed, twisting in his hold to catch a glimpse of the darkened street. “And it looks like the whole street is down.”

You never saw how his eyes lingered on your lips, how he drank you in with ease. His own tongue swiping along his bottom lip quickly, chest stuttering as he sucked in a breath. If there’s one thing Marc knew it was this—you were the most beautiful person he’d seen. He wasn’t sure how Steven found you, but suddenly he found himself thanking every god he knew of that he did.

Perhaps that’s why he relinquished control so often. Solely to keep you around. Marc ruined things. He knew this. He understood that whatever he touched came away broken, but Steven…he fixed things. He brought light to the darkness and made sure it burned bright—he saved what Marc destroyed. And Marc couldn’t destroy you.

He’d die before he broke the one thing that made everything good.

“I have an idea,” you said, joy lighting up the room.

“Hm?”

You smiled, digging into your purse for your phone, the small screen lighting up your face. It was harsh to look at after nothing but candlelight for an hour, but you managed. At least long enough to find a good playlist, a jazz one Steven made for you in the first week of dating. Songs you’d danced to time and time again. It sounded echoey and small in the flat, but you played it regardless, setting the phone on the table as you reached for Marc.

“Dance with me?”

He stuttered this time. “W-What?”

“Dance with me.”

“Baby I’m not much of a dancer…”

Sighing, you pulled him close, your hand sliding into his. “That’s okay.” You felt him shudder slightly at the way your hand slid on his shoulder, your body pressed against his. “I’m not either.”

Marc knew that was a lie. He’d caught glimpses of moments between you and Steven. The soft love you both shared. It made him ache in ways he couldn’t describe with words, and maybe this was going too far. Maybe Steven would be pissed when he finally came back, but Marc refused to feel sorry for this. He wouldn’t apologize for loving you. Because there was nothing to apologize for—not when you felt so right in his arms.

He managed to sway gently with you, his feet shuffling—albeit a bit clumsily—along the hardwood floor. You didn’t notice. At least if you did, you never said anything. The music hummed a soft tune behind you, the yellow glow of the candles casting shadows across your supple skin. And Marc felt the ground vanish from beneath him.

How could someone be as perfect as you?

“I’m thinking we should go to the Italian restaurant on Friday.”

Flutters overtook his entire body. “Friday sounds good.”

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder gently. As if you were entirely at ease, planning dates with him like this had happened before. Marc did what he could to be the same. This was normal. This life, this flat, this…relationship. It belonged to him in a way; he just hadn’t seen it.

“We can go walking afterwards,” you said, your words soft—your breath washing across his neck and causing goosebumps to form. “See the moon.”

He smiled. “I see too much of the moon.”

“Then we go during the day.” Marc wrapped his arm tighter around your waist, daring to rest his hand a bit lower. You shivered at the touch. “See the sun instead.”

Marc realized then why Steven loved you, why he fought to keep you in his life. You gave all of yourself in a way he might never be able to. You jumped in wholeheartedly, with a smile on your face. Consequences be damned. And like the lights finally came back on in the apartment, he realized why he loved you. Steven—the man meant to protect him for his entire life—was an exact reflection of you.

You wore your heart on your sleeve just as he did.

You loved fiercely, hoped endlessly, and gave your entire soul to the one you chose.

Whether he liked it or not…you chose him too. Even if he couldn’t give over all of himself. Yet.

“Okay,” he murmured, resting his head gently against yours. “We’ll see the sun.”

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n #marc spector #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #moon knight #my writing #moonknightevents

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 10 months

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Breaking down the comics: Going Home.

Moon Knight, Issue #14: Stained Glass Scarlet

OH BOY OH BOY.

Just…Take a minute to appreciate this art:

Damn that’s beautiful!

Okay everyone!

Here's a bit of rogue history for you! Especially since Scarlet showed up in a recent run!

Her story is a sad one.

The story starts in an abandoned church. A story of forgotten worship, run down and empty pews, infested sanctuary, and empty promises of atonement.

"But high above the corruption, just under the church's vaulted roof in what was once the attic, there is a place of melancholy comfort... If not sanctuary.

It is here that Scarlet-- Stained Glass Scarlet-- has lived for the past three years, quiet as languid smoke, unknown by the crumbling world outside."

Damn fine narration as always, Moench.

And damn fine art.

She carries out a lonely routine. Playing on the silent ruined Organ, gazing at the vast empty space and far away stars, playing pre-recorded chess games, and at last looking through her old photo album.

"And each piece of the past is like a shard of stained glass... But all of them, even glimpsed together never adding up to a window with a clear view."

She looks at pictures of her first communion. Her wedding. Her baby.

The album ends in a newspaper clipping "Joe 'Mad Dog' Fasinera escapes prison. Guard killed in break."

Cut to a vastly different location. "A fortress of wealth and security...Sanctuary."

We are at Grant Mansion.

Here we see Steven and Marlene sharing a moment.

Marelene remarks that they really are lucky.

"[...] Referring to you, to the change you've accomplished. Going from a conscienceless mercenary to a man like Moon Knight is no light-"

"Yes... well, if it's the miraculous redemption of my spirit we're talking about-"

They sit together and look at a collected work of "Alphonse Mucha."

You have to understand something about comics. When they show you a book with a title or author, it has a purpose.

You are supposed to recognize the name or title and understand that it will have an impact on the story later.

So...

Alphonse Mucha. Who is that?

He's a Czech painter/illustrator/graphic artist from the art Nouveau period.

He did this:

Yeah. THAT. You've seen his work. You'll also notice that the second cover image has a similar style.

He also did this stained glass art piece in the :

He loved his country of Czechoslovakia and did many works celebrating the slavic people and the independence of his country... in 1920s-1930.

Yeah... You see where this is going if you know your history.

When Hitler invaded and took over Czechoslovakia, Mucha was captured as a nationalist and severely interrogated for many days. When he was released, he was in poor health. He contracted pneumonia and died a month before the outbreak of WWII.

Check out his art, it's beautiful.

You should also keep in mind that The Spectors are also from Czechoslovakia.

"The clerk in Rizzoli's said he's seen the originals of these--ten feet tall, almost like stained glass windows--hanging in belgium."

So Steven bought this book.

Why? Sure, he's about being rich and living the high light. In earlier issues (particularly the one with Mogart) he had shown an interest in art.

But why this one?

Marlene goes to the piano and starts to play "In My Life" by the Beatles.

Wait, when did this comic come out?

December 1981.

Ahhhh. The one year anniversary of the death of John Lennon.

Sometimes comics cover world events and note how they affect others.

We see them cry and hug.

"The dream is over. John Lennon is dead. [....] Guns. And guilt."

We cut to Scarlet, listening to the news on the radio.

It talks about gunfire in the Bronx attributed to the 'Mad Dog' Fasinera, the escaped convict.

The radio goes on about Mad Dog going on a murder spree.

Scarlet sheds some tears.

Back at the mansion, Steven also hears about the shootings. He runs to get ready as Moon Knight.

We cut to Mad Dog in a shoot out. He talks about revenge for his father and getting his father's money. He's going ot 'cut the old neighborhood to ribbons'.

We see Moon Knight on the roof getting into the chopper.

"Don't worry about it, Lady- Grant'll be back."

"Who will be back, Steven?"

"Okay, Already. I'LL be back."

Again, we see the push by Marlene to have them all be Steven and the push back and frustration.

Marlene still at this point thinks they are pretending to be someone else and she wants them all to just be Steven.

Scarlet also cloaks up in her signature red outfit and heads out into the night.

Moon Knight fights the Mad Dog and his gang shooting up a store. He busts in and breaks it up, taking down a few while the others get away.

He follows them to an abandoned grocery store and sees Scarlet standing outside.

She goes inside and finds the rest of Mad Dog's gang, but no Mad Dog. She demands to know where Joe 'Mad Dog' is.

She tells them that when they see Joe to tell him 'What he's looking for is in the church." She then leaves.

Moon Knight follows her back to the church and confronts her.

She tells him her story.

Joe is her son!

"I was young, Moon Knight, in love with the idea of being in love..."

She talks about how Joe was the result and consequence of her love. Now, she means to 'salvage' the consequences and save Joe.

When she was much younger, she wanted to be an actress or a nun. She chose the role of being a nun.

Once she was a nun, she realized that she was only acting and regretted her choice.

She realized this when she met a man named "Vince". Vine had just stolen a lot of money and run to the church out of guilt.

She helped him and 6 months later she married him and left the church.

"Instead, I devoted myself to my husband, hoping I could help him change, hoping I could use my own failure to redeem him... The baby came and I named him Joseph... But Vince never came to the hospital once. I had to take a cab home."

After 15 years, she realized that this too was just a 'role'. Vince robbed a bank and killed the guard. He stashed the money and got in a shoot out with the police, who killed him in front of the church.

When Joe heard his father was killed, he 'declared war on law and order."

By 19 he had killed someone and left home. He went to jail for life.

When her son went to jail, she moved to the church. "Jut to play another role, the fallen woman turned mad hemit."

Moon Knight asks her why the church.

"Just before the police caught up to him, Vince told a friend that he was going to hide the bank money in a special place where he 'pulled an angel straight down from heaven'."

She moved to the church knowing that her son would eventually come looking for the money.

Joe makes a draatic entrance and demands to know where the money is.

She begs him to stop. To give up and turn himself in.

Moon Knight gets shot in a scuffel and Scarlet shoots Joe.

Joe staggers and accidentally grabs the church bell rope. As he falls, all the hidden money falls down with him.

Scarlet stands over her dead son.

"Thomas Wolfe's Maudlin line is true, Moon Knight... You never can go home again. Once you've turned your back on it... It's gone. Forever."

(A very hard and true statement. I wonder if it hit home for Marc too. A man that ran from home and turned his back on everything. Had he ever tried to go home? Or was he still running?)

Scarlet disappears into the night. Moon Knight stands over the discarded gun. “Guns…” Lamenting on how easily they take and destroy. Much like the death of John Lennon. An idea that is killed.

Moon Knight returns back to the mansion, wounded but alive.

"Some succeed in their chosen mission. Others fail, no matter how hard they try."

That is the end of the issue, but not the last time we will see Stained Glass Scarlet.

I’ll cover each of her appearances, but this is a Moon Knight Villain that I always did enjoy.

So what about the artist? Alphonse Mucha is best known for his Art Nouveau period, but it wasn’t what he wanted to be known for.

For him, he loved his home. He loved his little country that had fought and struggled to become whole. One of his final pieces was about his own people. “History of the Slav”. It depicted his people’s struggles to survive and build their country.

It was put in a museum for a bit then rolled up and put into storage.

Now and then it is pulled out and shown in Prague, but not for long or often. His country was then invaded and torn apart over and over again. He died as it was on the brink.

Again, we have to remember that the Spectors are from Czech. While Mucha was devoutly Catholic and did a lot of work that went to the churches, he wasn’t openly recognized for a lot of it. He was most famous for the work he did in Paris.

Scarlet tried to find herself and found herself in role after role, pretending to be happy and not finding herself. Her legacy becomes her failure to save her husband and then her son, born from her misguided attempt to find her purpose. She then kills that legacy.

It’s odd in this comic how Moon Knight really doesn’t have much of a role in it. We focus on Mucha, John Lennon, and Scarlet.

The bits we do see of Moon Knight are him looking into an artist from Czech who left a legacy he didn’t want. Him lamenting over the senseless killing of a man that meant so much to a lot of people. And him hearing the story of a woman trapped in finding her meaning and her past.

It’s one of those issues that leaves you feeling like you are taking a peak behind a curtain but can’t quite see the full picture. It also leaves you wondering.

And later, much later, in recent issues, when we see the remains of Scarlet, there is a sadness there. A bit of the past that Moon Knight could never let go of. And we’ll see more of that later when she shows up again.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight Comics #Moon Knight meta #Analyzing the comics #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Jake Lockley #Stained Glass Scarlet #Moon Knight's rouge gallery #For everyone that had no idea what that new Stained Glass Scarlet episode really was about #I want more than anything to dive into the idea of Steven wanting to know his past #I want Steven to research his own people #I want Marc to talk about going home #I want Jake to touch on the fact that he has built his own people because he has none #I'm not normal about Moon Knight #I love Stained Glass Scarlet #She always makes Moon Knight pause and reflect #He lets her get away

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ladyempty · 1 month

Text

Yan! Rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader

° | !English is not my first language! |

° | This is a yandere work and may contain triggering behavior. I'm not in favor of that in real life. |

For Rhaenyra, being attached to you since birth was normal. You were born together, with Rhaenyra clinging tightly to your heel with no intention of breaking free or parting.

It was just his birthright above any title or throne. It was the other half of her soul, a life that had blossomed with her in her mother's womb and was destined to stay that way.

Together. united for an eternity that would extend beyond life and death.

This was how things should be, and she cared little about the laws of men or the condemnation of the seven. Dragon blood flowed through his veins. Proof of your rights.

In the early years, the princess' behavior was not seen with suspicious or malicious looks, she was just a sister wanting her company. What was wrong?

Even though it raised eyebrows every time the young princess became excessively irritated when you mentioned other ladies or had the opportunity to discuss matters deeper with them. Why did you need others? Rhaenyra was there, blood of her blood, with an infinite desire to listen to you.

King Viserys reassured the worried with soft, relaxed smiles and negligent behavior. He was blind to the situation unfolding in front of him.

Rhaenyra has always been obstinate and somewhat petty, her worst personality traits always came to the surface when the subject was related to you. Has another lady looked at you excessively? Rhaenyra would spare no bitter words or the cruelest lies her mind could come up with.

The princess also had no qualms or shame about skipping boring classes with the Septas or taking you out of your classes with the Miestres just to fly with you through the skies with her dragons or steal lemon cakes from the kitchen.

But when you want to teach her something or read some old book that has suddenly become very interesting, she never protests.

Sharing your attention, even with your parents, is out of the question. She's the only person you need to worry about.

And don't doubt your ability to be manipulative or play mind games. She will definitely cry and pout if you try to reprimand her behavior in any way.

How could you do this to your younger sister? She just cares so much about you!

Her behavior only gets worse as she enters adolescence • The hormones and feelings that arise, controlling your thoughts and actions.

She will certainly overhear and have conversations about courtship and knights in shining armor with other court ladies. Even though Rhaenyra found them all boring and annoyingly silly, the conversations about the other boys were interesting. • Every time one of the girls told, between laughs, something new she had done with a gentleman, Rhaenyra couldn't stop letting her thoughts wander. • What if it was her and you? • If it were her and you secretly exchanging kisses in the empty, forgotten corners of the fortress? • The feeling of tingling and restlessness in the belly. A heat that quickly rose through your body until your cheeks were red. • She knew these thoughts were not correct or appropriate. She knew of the Septas' countless boring monologues about purity, women's duty, etc.

The kind of thing she had never paid attention to before. But she found herself being terrorized and reflecting more and more in recent days.

The thoughts that haunted his dreams at dusk became more constant. With only the moon as a witness to his restlessness and confusion. • She just knew she needed you. She needed something that even she didn't know what it was. But it was running through his veins on instinct. • The girl suddenly became more demanding with your attention focused solely on her. She felt bitter and betrayed by any mere exchange of glances between you and any other woman or man. Lady or not. Lord or servant.

The Gods granted her such beautiful eyes for the sole purpose of looking at her alone. • She felt possessive and angry. With a growing pain, deadly and bitter, as fierce as if you were hers and had been unfaithful.

And when she heard whispers about the possibility of a marriage being arranged for you, She knew she couldn't keep her feelings quiet any longer.

No. She wouldn't sit by and watch you belong to someone less deserving.

I couldn't bear to see your other half give himself to someone other than her.

You were born to burn with her. And it was time for others to know this.

#Rhaenyra targaryen #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere house of the dragon #yandere x reader #rhaenyra Targaryen x Reader #yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon x Reader

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redeyerhaenyra · 8 months

Text

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

Summary: It's been a month since you've broken up with the moon knight system, and you start to notice someone.. watching you

Warnings: Stalking, breaking and entering, kidnapping, yandere themes, angst, no beta we die like harrow

Notes: So after all the positive responses on this post I just had to create in headcanon form- for those who want to listen to the song that inspired this fic, here :)

Breaking up with the moon boys was the hardest thing you'd ever had to do, but it did need to be done.

With the near constant dissappearing to do Khonshu's bidding, sometimes for weeks on end, with only a note or a text to tell you where they were and then radio silence, it was just too much for you. Your heart couldn't take waiting for them, worrying that they would never return, even if Khonshu was protecting them.

And so, you had begun the process of moving out during the time they were away on a mission.

Marc had come home to find your clothes, trinkets, anything that would indicate your presence gone.

You were there though.

Normally you'd be so happy to see him again, running up to him and kissing him with all your might.

Today, instead, you sadly smiled at him.

"Baby, what's up?" Marc had asked, gently holding your forearms after you had rejected his hug. He could tell you were upset.

"Baby?" "I'm leaving, Marc. I'm sorry."

He had stared at you, dumbfounded. You swallowed down your tears- "I can't do this anymore." You didn't have to explain, you knew what he meant.

You waited anxiously for his response, instead spying his eyes roll back into his head, and now you were faced with Steven and oh god, his eyes, they were already tearing up.

Coward, you thought of Marc, which was admittedly a little harsh but breaking up with them would be so much harder facing Steven's sorrowful gaze.

Steven looked terrified, moving to cup your face in his hands and you had to physically move back to stop him.

"D-darlin', please, what'cha talkin' about?" "I'm sorry steven-" "Please don't leave us love, please, 'can't do it without you please-"

"Stop it." You'd said firmly, Steven sobbed. You couldn't help but take his hands in yours, ever wanting to comfort him.

"Steven.. I will always love you," "Then why'd you have to leave!?" "Because I can't do this anymore!!"

You were both crying now. "I-i can't take waiting for you to never come home to me anymore, Steven, I can't do it."

Steven's gazed was fixed on the ground, his tears dripping onto the floorboards. You gave his hands one final squeeze, before pulling away.

"I will always love you, all of you, but my heart cannot take it anymore.. goodbye."

The strength with which it took to pull yourself away from Steven should have won you a medal, and you couldn't stop yourself from crying even more as you left him.

That was a month ago- with the help of a few friends you'd found yourself a decently priced flat for rent on the other side of London. Far enough away, you hoped.

It wasn't far enough. Jake had found out where you lived within days of you leaving. He knew it was wrong, but the part of him that didn't care grew and grew into something monstrous. At this stage the other boys weren't saying anything to disapprove of his actions, and so he continued to watch you.

He'd drive circles around your block to relearn your new routine, and you hadn't yet realised it was his cab you kept seeing.

The one person you actually hadn't said goodbye to was Jake- he hadn't fronted when you'd left, and you would always wonder if he was there, just choosing not to show himself. But if he wasn't? He'd have woken up to the discovery that you weren't together anymore and you'd always feel guilty for that.

But... you tried to move on with your life, as best you could.

It felt wrong to start dating again, but your friends had urged you to, even if it was a one night thing.

The guy you'd matched with on bumble was nice enough, smart, good looking- he wasn't them though. While he was polite and friendly during your dinner date, he wasn't your boys.

He'd walked you home, and you'd set up a second date. All things considered it was successful- but you just felt.. wrong about the whole thing. Like you were cheating, even though you weren't.

You'd guessed it wasn't all that successful, as he'd ghosted you a day or so after your date.

It was a week or so later that you'd seen the news report of his body having turned up in the Thames. God how awful! He hadn't ghosted you- the poor guy had been murdered.

Jake had really earned a bollocking off of Steven and Marc for that one, but he knew they were relieved you wouldn't be seeing that man again.

You'd decided to halt the dating game after that, for a while at least.

You were lonely though, there was no denying. Having no one to cuddle up to in bed sucked.

And so.. the logical conclusion was a pet, no?

Eventually, you found a young, ginger tomcat named "Franklin" in a nearby animal shelter and you just fell in love, you brought him home the same day.

He was great, not exactly filling the whole in your heart left by three men but you certainly adored him, and who wouldn't say no to curling up in bed with a cat every evening? Certainly not you.

One day, you'd left work for your lunch break only for the horrifying realisation to hit you: You'd forgot to feed Franklin that morning! You rushed home as fast you could- only to discover that, you had fed him, even when you were sure you hadn't.

And yet there he was, munching on his bowl of kibble.

Something squeaked under your foot- you looked down- oh, it was one of Franklin's toys. You threw it across the room for him to play with but- hang on... you didn't remember buying him that toy.

You shook your head free of thoughts that you were going mad- everyone forgets things, even buying specific cat toys. Or maybe one of your friends had left it when they'd been over- it didn't matter.

You moved to leave your flat and return to work- only to find your door lock jammed.

The locksmith you'd hurriedly called in was able to fix it in a jiffy, though advised that the jam was probably due to a break in, and that you should change your locks.

A chill ran down your spine- you checked and double checked, nothing of value had been stolen, but someone had been in your home! Is that who had fed Franklin? Who'd left him the toy?

You changed the locks, and threw out the strange toy.

Jake couldn't stop watching you. It was becoming more and more of a problem.

He was ignoring Khonshu and actively pushing Marc and Steven out when they tried to front, knowing they'd put and end to his antics.

But none of them could deny that they wanted, needed you back. Jake just considered himself the only one with the balls to get you back.

There was no warmth in his life now that you weren't there. Steven's flat no longer felt like home without your t-shirts in the laundry, or the brand of coffee you love but Marc hates in the cupboards.

He knew he ought to leave his little girl alone, but the fact remained you were his little girl. Jake would stop at nothing to have his bebita back.

Now it was two months since you'd broken up with the system. Life wasn't perfect, but you were chugging along.

You turned the lights on in your flat, yawning. Work was tough today, but it was Friday, and you had some left over popcorn in the cupboard. Film night~!

"Franklin? Baby? Mummy's home~!" You cooed, knowing that he always came bounding up and purring whenever you came home.

But.. he didn't. Your flat was silent. No distant meowing or the jingle of the bell on his collar. Nothing.

"Franklin?" You stepped further into your flat, worry seeping through you.

"Franklin..?!" Your tone became more and more erratic with the realisation that Franklin wasn't home- and then someone had covered your eyes with their hand, and pressed a strange scented cloth to your mouth. You kicked and screamed and struggled but it was no use- the chloroform had knocked you out in seconds.

Jake held you tenderly to his chest as you faded into unconsciousness. Steven had earlier expressed his distaste at this plan, but neither him or Marc said anything now, so close to having you again.

You woke the next day, nauseous and tired. The distant meowing you heard gave you comfort- it had all been a bad dream.

But when you opened your eyes, you were met with the horrifying scene of Steven's flat, not your own. So familiar, in any other situation you would have been glad to be here.

You shifted to sit up, eyes working their way down to notice your ankle tied to the bed with the restraint normally reserved for Steven.

You choked back a sob- a hum ripping your gaze to the other end of the room.

There lay Franklin, enjoying some pets from the man who's lap he laid on.

Jake Lockley stared back at you, you could tell it was him, you could always tell between them.

"Buenos dias, hermosa." His voice was rich like coffee, normally so comforting but now? It sent a shudder down your spine.

"You and I have some things to discuss, sí?"

#jake lockley moonknight #jake lockely x reader #jake lockley #jake lockely x you #jake lockely imagine #jake lockley angst #jake lockley headcanon #moon knight x reader #moon knight #moon knight angst

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moodymisty · 4 months

Note

Listen I know the wall husbands heads are full of concrete but I'm interested in what you could do with a black templar

Maybe having a cleric darling (Thinking more of a lay person vs someone like a sister of battle) so there can be some delicious religious subtext

But I also know some black templars are very much into seeing when normal baseline humans can overcome the odds and rise above with their own zeal.

Maybe she isn't a combatant but by the God Emperor she will help out however she can even if it is just passing him boltgun magazines.

I got ideas for Black Templars but they're all over the place! Maybe you can make more sense of my ramblings and since it's still on the brain it could be Yandere or not just however you can make a Black Templar with a Darling work

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: So... I went apeshit. I apologize. I just fucking love doing religious subtext and whatnot. Also the frail maiden with her knight. Combining them? Awooga. Like this is my dream prompt. I hope you enjoy.

Summary: His thumb presses against your lips, and your mouth opens. You can taste the metal on your tongue, like bitter iron. His hand despite being so inhumanly large is so dextrious and gentle, and the thoughts that enter your mind are sickening.

Relationships: Unnamed Black Templar/Fem!Reader (there aren't pronouns used but the lady/knight vibe is super intense)

Warnings: A smidge lewd but not NSFW, Vague traditional gender roles-like talk (being gentle/needing to be protected etc), Religious under(over)tones, Forbidden romance undertones, Vague yandere/yandere beginnings, Armor kink if you squint, Brief mentions of blood and murder, General 40kness

Word Count: 2209 oops uwu

Ceramite boots thud against the floor like the thunder overhead, echoing in the high, vaulted ceilings.

He hears a tile crack underneath his right boot as he shifts his weight onto it mid-step.

He was always heavier than his brothers. His armor had to be adjusted three different times to fit him as he outgrew it.

'Leave him, he’s off to go for his prayers, and to stalk the locals.’

His one battle brother had laughed at the other’s comment, as he left them all behind to return to the cathedral. It's far from his first time here, in these sanctified halls. He finds himself returning here after almost every patrol, every outing, every moment alone.

His armor shifts with his movement, and he rolls his left shoulder during his walk. He’s had the armor fixed after a stray round hit him in the shoulder, but it still feels off. Like the motion is ever so slightly delayed in comparison to his other interface ports.

He'll get it looked at again. For now he has a different pursuit.

It’s the dead of the night, moon high in the sky as he walks through the nave past pews filled with nothing but air. At this time of night he knows it will only be you here, keeping candles lit and rolling scrolls. A stray servoskull might flutter past every now and again, but other than that, you remain in complete solitude.

No distractions, no needless fluff. You're always busy, fluttering about, making yourself useful where you can. You aren't able to fight, not this threat, but your obedience in cleaning armor- weapons when an Astartes allows- and other such duties has earned you enough to stay where your fellows have left.

Many of the other human refugees have been shipped off at this point, to become the Militarium's logistical problem. You and a few others however have earned your keep. At least in the eyes of the Black Templars.

You'll be far safer here than in a Militarium camp stuffed in with hundreds to thousands of others; Like animals waiting to be shipped off world.

You'll be far safer here with him.

There you are. He can spot you from across the cathedral, and a part of him wonders why it has such an effect on him. His hearts beat faster and his neck tenses; It feels like how he does whenever he's about to fight, but also distinctly different. It almost makes him feel like he's sick from an illness he can't explain.

The moment you hear him however, knowing the sound of an astartes this late and this far away from his brothers could only be him, your back straightens. You've been leaning over for awhile, and your body makes uncooperative cracks as you stand at his approach.

He stops in front of you, at the bottom of the ambulatory steps that rise up to the main altar. You stand at the top of them, quickly moving aside so he can come closer. When he does, you can feel his gaze through the lens of his helmet. It always feels heavy, even when his helmet isn't tilted you way you swear you can feel whenever his eyes are on you.

With both hands he unseals his helmet with a soft hiss, grasping it by the rim before handing it to you. It’s almost too heavy for your grip, but you manage to hold it close to your chest and avoid dropping it. Meanwhile he takes a knee, elbow on his knee as he drops his head in prayer.

His chainsword shifts on his back, over top of a long, tattered cape that's stained with mud and blood at the bottom hem. Astartes don't leave their armor during war, and so the cloth holds the weeks long stench of iron and rotting flesh. It simply burns however, until a few minutes later and then you can no longer smell. For the best, more than likely.

The cathedral is cast in complete silence, his shoulders shifting underneath plates of ceramite. He always is whenever he prays, unlike his brothers in the few times you've seen them. Perhaps it's just a quirk of his. Or maybe they're the odd ones.

Then again, they aren't the ones visiting an empty cathedral in the dead of night, only to meet a single person. Over and over again.

When he rises, he gently takes his helmet from your hands and latches it onto his belt. You speak up for the first time since he appeared.

"Have you made good progress out there? The weather seems to only be getting worse."

He looks down at you; His short, hastily chopped hair dry and pressed in odd places from the pressure of his helmet. It's mostly dry now, but you can tell it was wet not long ago. He must've taken his helmet off in the rain and was instantly soaked to the bone.

"The Emperor watches over us. We will prevail despite the deluge."

Said deluge batters on the tall glass windows of the cathedral, and thunder cracks not much later. The sound gives you a momentary jolt. This particular storm has been going all day, but the area has been battered with rainstorms for weeks now on and off. It might not slow them down, but you can see dried chunks of mud where they've had to trudge through it to progress. Most of it is washed away on him now, the rain having cleaned his armor significantly.

Your hands grasp each other tightly, no longer having his helmet to act as some sort of grounding.

"I tried to pray like you do, this morning." His eyes noticeably brighten ever the slightest, as your voice echos in the empty cathedral. "I wanted to pray to the Emperor that you stayed safe out there."

You don't know if he finds it amusing; But the corner of his mouth quirks upward ever so slightly anyways.

"Then pray for our victory, not our safety. What matters is that we succeed," He states.

You hear the mechanics in his armor shift as he leans slightly more on his left leg than right. It's like the armor is simply an extension of himself, and you suppose it is.

He is the first astartes you've even seen, so your knowledge is sparse. A small part of you has so many questions you'd wish to ask him, not knowing if he'd even entertain you with an answer.

You're fascinated by him; You wonder if he thinks the same of you. The way he acts lends you to think so, but you don't know how to feel about it.

In the corner of your eye you notice movement, and turn to the right just a bit and see someone walking across the nave. But when they catch sight of you and one of the Black Templars, the scurry out of the main hall like death was on their heels.

It isn't the first time someone has made a conscious effort to avoid you, now that you have an astartes taking such an interest in you. People are keen to spend as little time around them as possible- as despite them being the primary source protecting you all, they have more than displayed their fickle nature. One misspoken word and you could be gone. It's happened before. You know of a few faces that have disappeared with little a word.

You must look away from him for too long, as suddenly his armored hand grasps your jaw, turning your face back to him. The awkward angle due to his height makes your neck ache, and you grasp at the seams of his gauntlet for any sort of support.

"Are you going to try and run like they did?"

He says, watching you like he's looking for something more than a simple answer.

You wonder what he sees. If he notices the way your heart has begun to race in fear and something else, as he overtakes your vision. That something else was only for those rare moments of solitude where your reasoning left you, and your mind wandered to areas it shouldn't. If you'd known any better, you might've thought such things were blasphemous, or something of the sort.

Suddenly, you remember that he's waiting for an answer; You watch as the scars on his face move when he shifts his jaw.

"No."

He takes a step closer and with no more room your back presses against the altar just behind you. You risk nearly bending over it from how close he is, his dominant leg taking root just close enough that your legs have to part to let his knee past.

The shadow of the window mullions decorate the back of his armor, the light making the shadows against his face even harsher. You can even see the shadows of large rain droplets against his pauldrons, sliding down as if they've actually fallen on him. You can hear them hit the glass as the wind whistles outside and rattles the glass.

You watch him wondering; His eyes and face are completely unreadable. Astartes are so stoic, any little emotion is held invisible deep within themselves. Trying to figure out what he's thinking is an impossible task, though it's clear the interest he has in you is no longer just curiosity. That thought makes your heart pound against your chest as if it's trying to escape, your blood hot.

His thumb presses against your lips, and your mouth opens. You can taste the metal on your tongue, like bitter iron. His hand despite being so inhumanly large is so dextrious and gentle, and the thoughts that enter your mind are sickening.

It feels like he's toying with you; Experimenting with something new as he watches the way your soft skin gives under his armor. Your hands and gentle skin have faint crumbles of candle wax and ink on them from your work, as they grasp his armor.

You're terrified. You want more of him. You'll be happy to burn if that's what it requires.

"You'll come with me, when we are finished here."

You whisper his name, telling him yes as if you were foolish enough to think you had a choice in the matter. No one but him is here to hear it.

If someone was you wouldn't be able to see them from the way his massive armored form overtakes almost all of your vision, swallowing you in a sea of shadow and pitch black armor. They would see as he leans down, his thumb leaving your lips. You can feel his hot breath on your skin. The way he almost seems to suffocate you with how much of his body looms over you, just to get close. You can hear your own heartbeat so you just know he can, his eyes dilated and nearly total black.

Your back hurts pressing against the edge of the altar, feeling vulnerable underneath his unreadable stare. The fabric of your clothing bunches in places and rises up on your body, catching on the seams of his leg plates. His armor might be cold, but astartes run hot; Like their blood is boiling, so beneath that metal chill is the heat from the skin visible on his face and neck. You think if the cathedral was any colder, his hot breath would be visible.

His lips hover over yours, brushing as if he's so thoroughly detailing every step of this. Savoring each moment, or perhaps just toying with you. Watching the way a human so much smaller than him writhes under his grip at his mercy. You want to finish it, but the hand clamped around your jaw won't allow you, as much as you want to yearn and beg and plead to k-

'Brother. Return from toying with the refugees, the chaplain has returned with an update.'

Suddenly audible is a deep voice shaken by vox distortion emanating from his helmet; His head turns ever so slightly in it's direction. The bow of his upper lip brushes over yours as he does so. His brow furrows and he seems visibly irritated, interrupted during the worst possible time. You are as well, though it's more of desperation as you try to silence the way the your body aches for just him.

But as quick as it had begun it all ends, as he rises to his full height and removes his hand from your jaw. It complains with the promise of a hefty bruising, as he uses the same gauntlet to one handed slip his helmet back onto his head.

You can feel him stare at you even through the lenses, as he shifts in his armor and walks past where you stand splayed against the altar, clothes a mess. Your legs wobble as if about to give out from underneath you without his support, a weight like a rock in your lower belly.

He walks down the ambulatory in silence and leaves you alone once more, but you know it won't be for long.

#if you want me to name him and design him feel free to say! but for now you can make him the astartes ken doll of your dreams #warhammer 40k x reader #space marine x reader #black templar x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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patheticdarling · 7 months

Text

Consequences

Summary: Reader has been kidnapped by the Greens as payback for the murder of Ser Criston Cole. Now, Aemond, alongside the rest of the Blacks must plot to get her back.

Finale of the Traitors Series

Part I, Part II, Part III Here

Warnings: war acts/cussing/blood/sexual assault (implied & talks of r*pe)/kidnapping/crying/torture & injuries/incest/infertility/moon tea (iykyk)/arranged marriage/mentions of breastfeeding/VERY DARK & ANGSTY

Word Count: 6695 (it's a finale, it has to be long!)

*NOT MY GIF*

Aemond awoke that morning to find his bedside empty, which was not unusual per se. He was quite used to you waking up earlier to go nurse the twins. Though as he dressed for the day, he half-expected you to return, so that you would accompany him to breakfast like normal.

However, the urgent knocking at the door, pulled him from his thoughts, "Enter," he answered as he finished dressing.

"My Prince," the guard bowed quickly, "Her Grace has called an emergency council meeting and requests that you make haste to the Great Hall."

Aemond nodded, "Has my wife been notified as well?"

"I beg your pardon, my Prince, but I cannot be sure," the guard explained, "But Her Majesty sent the Queensguard to gather all members of the royal family."

Aemond gave him another nod before the two made their way to Dragonstone's Great Hall. All the Lords and Ladies stood around the Painted Table, muttering amongst themselves. Aemond tried to push past the uneasiness he felt when the room fell silent upon his entry.

"Your Grace," Aemond bowed to your mother, "Apologies for not accompanying the Princess, I was not sure where-"

"Aemond," her voice a bit hoarse, "Something has happened."

The prince felt his stomach sink further, "Where is Y/N?" he asked with the silent hope that you'd walk in at that very moment.

"There was a message delivered earlier this morning," your mother's shaky voice explained. Maester Gerardys held a piece of parchment, the green Targaryen seal broken, as he began reading it over the table.

"To the False Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and all of the traitorous members of her Black Council. The Bastard Princess Y/N must answer for her crimes against the Crown. Including the murder of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole. The Princess will be tried and if found guilty, executed on the morrow. Signed, on behalf of His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," the Maester concluded.

Aemond's jaw tensed and his fists balled. Anger seemed to be steaming off of him, like a dragon exuding smoke.

"What is to be done about this?" Luke spoke up.

Jace nearly scoffed at your younger brother's question, "They have our sister. I do not care what means they wish to justify, we will reign fire upon them and-"

"Jacaerys," your mother's tone stern.

Your older brother's jaw tensed, "My apologies, Your Grace. That was out of turn."

Eyes fell to Aemond, one of his hands already gripping the handle of his sword on his hip. His breathing seemed strangely even as he kept his gaze focused on the glowing King's Landing carved into the Painted Table.

"What do we believe to be the best course of action?" your mother addressed her advisors.

Before anyone could move to speak, Aemond turned to leave the Great Hall. That was before various members of the Queensguard took a step into his path.

"I will only say this once, out of my way," the first thing that had left his lips since learning of your kidnapping. All of the knights looked to their Queen for further instruction. Aemond's own head turned slightly.

"Where are you going, Aemond?" she asked.

Your husband turned around slowly, "I'm going to kill our brother."

An almost hushed gasp left the mouths of the Black council, "Aemond, you must know that is foolish," she began to argue, "You'd be slaughtered. And what good will that do Y/N?"

"I do not plan to act alone," his eye fell to your brothers, "The young princes will help me to escort her safely from the city."

Your mother moved to protest, already shaking her head adamantly, "No, they will n-"

"Yes, we will," Jace had already stepped up, joining Aemond's side as Luke trailed behind.

"Jace, Luke, this is far too dangerous," she argued, "You could be killed. All of you. I will not risk my children if I do not have to. Let me send Ser Erryk and the rest-"

"With all due respect, Your Grace, she is our sister," Jace argued.

"It has to be us," Luke finished.

Your mother closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh, "Fine. I grant you leave. Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, your sole mission is to stealthly and safely extract the Princess Y/N from the Red Keep. Prince Aemond," she turned to address your husband, his face remained hard, "You are aware of your mission."

"Your Grace," the three young men bowed. The Queensguard stepped aside, allowing your brothers and husband to pass. Jace and Luke taking off to the Dragonmont first after exchanging their goodbyes with your mother.

"Aemond," she stopped your husband, "If you do this, may the Gods have mercy on your soul."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, it is not my soul you should pray for, Your Grace."

But even the mercy of both the old Gods and the new, would not be enough to save Aegon from his younger brother's wrath. Not after Aemond found out what Aegon had been doing.

"Now I can see why Aemond is so taken with you, sweet niece," Aegon snickered as he laced his britches back up, "Most women's bodies never look the same after having a baby."

You lay facing away from him, curled into yourself. The blood ran down your legs, staining the once-pale linen sheets as you let the tears fall across your cheeks.

Aegon knocked back another cup of wine as he finished dressing. He came around to your side of the bed, "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll put another baby in your belly. Wouldn't that be fitting? Bastards for a bastard," he pushed your messed hair from your face as you stared blankly ahead, "Ugh, you know you're dreadfully boring. I liked you better when I was fucking you."

"He's going to kill you," your voice cracked, raw from your screams.

Aegon rushed back over to you, tugging your head back by the nape of your neck, "What did you say?"

"He's going to kill you," you hissed, "Aemond," the letcher tried hard to hide the fear in his eyes, "You think that chair keeps you safe? After he finds out what you've done, there won't be a place in all Seven Kingdoms you can hide from my husband."

"You've never known when to keep your bitch mouth shut," he threw you back onto the bed, "My brother can try to kill me all he likes. It won't undo what's already done, will it?" Aegon cackled drunkenly, "Have the maids change the sheets. I want them fresh for when I return after supper."

And with that, he left you. In a ball of pain, tears, fear, anger, and blood. Locked away. And Aegon was right. Even if Aemond or your mother's council managed to save you, it wouldn't change what Aegon had done to you.

You couldn't be sure how much time had passed when you heard a soft knock on the door, "Y/N?" a soothing voice called for you.

You turned, sitting up from your fetal position on the bed, "Helaena, come in," you sniffled as you pulled on your nearby robe.

She gave you a pitiful smile, a tray of various articles in her hands, "These will help." Helaena made her way over to you, taking a small basin of warm water and a cloth, "May I?"

You nodded as she carefully wiped over the cuts that littered your bruised face and body. She was even more gentle when she wiped the blood from the inside of your calf, offering you the rag before she got higher up.

"Thank you," you muttered as you wiped the remaining dried blood away, wincing slightly.

Helaena extended two warm mugs to you, trading them for the red-stained cloth, "One is milk of the poppy to ease the pain and the other is moon tea to..." her voice trailed off as she rang out the bloodied rag instead.

You drank them both down quickly, handing her back the emptied cups, "I know what it is for. Thank you, Helaena." She set them both down and moved the tray off the bed.

"I am sorry," she spoke as softly as usual, "I hope you know that you do not deserve this, Y/N-"

"And neither do you," you finished.

Helaena avoided your eyes, "He is my husband and their King."

"But not your king?" she stayed silent, "Helaena, it is me, good sister. You may speak freely. You know I'd never betray your trust."

"He is a monster," her voice trembling as she spoke, "Mother said it was my duty to provide him with heirs. I've always wanted children. I tried. But the Gods will not allow it. And I cannot blame them. Why would they allow me to bring a child into this?"

"Oh, Helaena," you took her hands in yours, "I am truly sorry. I know you never desired to be married to Aegon. Had this all been right, you should have married Jacaerys. You might have even been happy. Surely happier than you are now."

"Do you miss your family, Y/N?"

A shaky breath left you, "Very much. I miss my mother and my brothers. I miss my step-sisters. My grandmother. Even Daemon," you laughed a bit before the sobs caught in your throat, "I miss my children. My sweet babies. I know they would love to meet their Aunt Helaena."

She smiled sweetly through her tears, "And Aemond?"

You nodded, sniffling as your own tears fell, "Yes. I miss Aemond. I miss them all. So very much."

Before the two of you could properly find comfort in one another's vulnerability, the chamber doors swung open. The Dowager Queen entered along with Ser Otto Hightower and Ser Arryk Cargyll.

Queen Alicent confused as to why her own daughter was with you, "My Queen," they all bowed to Helaena, "What are you doing with the prisoner?"

"Y/N should not be our prisoner. She is my sister. She is Aemond's wife, the mother of his children-"

"She murdered the Lord Commander, Your Grace," The Hand cut in, "And as for your younger brother, he will be dealt with when the time comes. Now, come along, my Queen. The accused must ready themselves for their trial on the morrow."

Helaena looked to you, apology and pity on her face, "It's alright, Your Grace. Thank you for your help."

"Good night, Princess," she curtsied, "The sapphire will shatter the ruby." It was never unusual for Helaena to give such cryptic messages and yet, you still only understood them once it was too late.

"Ser Arryk, escort Queen Helaena back to her chambers," the Dowager Queen instructed, "I need a moment alone with the Princess Y/N."

Ser Arryk heeded Alicent's commands and led Helaena from the room. Ser Otto exchanged a glance with his daughter before following the young Queen and knight. The door shut behind him as Alicent lingered about the room.

"I remember the last time the two of us were in this room, Princess," she spoke.

You refused to look at her, staring out of the windows at Blackwater Bay, "As do I, Your Grace," your hands falling to your stomach, remembering the sweet feeling of when it swelled with you and Aemond's babies.

"I have heard little about what became of my grandchild. I pray they are alive and well."

You tried to bite back the tears at the mention of your children, "Grandchildren," you corrected her, "Twins. A boy and a girl. Both healthy. And silver-haired, I know you tend to worry about things like that, Your Grace."

Alicent let out a small laugh, or possibly a scoff, "Even though we are the ones who carry and bore them, children do seem to have a habit of inheriting their father's features. What are their names?"

"Viserys and Visenya. For my Grandsire and baby sister. They were born on Dragonstone mere days after both their passings."

"Such a sweet sentiment. I hope to meet them someday," she muttered, "Princess, last time we were in this room, I offered you a deal, do you remember?"

This time you outright scoffed, "How could I forget? My life and the lives of my unborn children in exchange for bending the knee to Aegon and betraying my own mother."

"I would not have put it that way. But it does not matter now. Aegon is King and you are here just the same."

"What is your point, Alicent? Unless you merely came to gloat about how you've managed to tear apart our entire family."

"Tomorrow, your life seems to be up for forfeit yet again. So, I come to you with another proposition," your brow raised as she spoke, "The Hand thinks it wise to annul your marriage to Aemond, as he is a traitor to the Crown-"

"As am I, if you've forgotten," you interrupted, "I do not think you will find another lord who would take my hand. And my lack of virtue will definitely not aid in that."

"It is not a lord that we intend and I can assure you that your lack of virtue will not be considered a fault," she answered, your brow furrowed with her pause, "King Aegon."

You wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it and yet you felt your heart sink at her unwavering demeanor, "You're madder than even I wished to believe."

The Queen Mother cleared her throat, "The King is in need of heirs. You have proven to be fertile enough to provide him with them. You said it yourself, healthy babes with silver hair. And that is exactly what His Grace requires."

You were in utter disbelief, "What of Helaena? You'd have me displace your own daughter."

"It is in keeping with Targaryen customs, is it not? Aegon the Conqueror took both his sisters to wife. Why should my son be any different than his namesake?"

"Your son is no conqueror," you spat, "You and that council of leeches have tried time and time again to break Aemond and me apart. What makes you think this time will be any different?"

"Because this time your life is forfeit, Princess. As is the rest of your family's," she explained, "If you are executed tomorrow, war is inevitable. Hundreds will die, if not thousands. Including your children and Aemond."

"You'd kill your own son and grandchildren? All for a wastrel who never wanted to sit the Iron Throne in the first place."

"I only do what I believe to be in the best interest of the Realm, Princess. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two about that, especially if you are to serve as Queen."

"You are not only mad but completely foolish if you think forcing me to marry Aegon will do anything good for the Realm. My mother, my husband, they'd never let it stand."

"As I told you once before, Rhaenyra will not attack the Capital with her daughter in it. Especially not if her only daughter serves as Queen Consort and if the Gods are good, not if she's carrying the future heir to the throne."

"Do you truly believe the Gods to be as foolish as yourself? You think they would allow me to bear that degenerate's children? Do you truly think I would allow myself to do so?"

"Aegon is our King," she refuted, "His Grace is to be spoken of with reverence. Carrying his children would be a blessing to not only you but House Targaryen and the whole of the Realm."

"You have always known what he is and you toil in his service anyway," the Dowager Queen stood tense at your words, both of your gazes shifting to the blood-stained sheets, "And even as a new mother, I can understand only acting in what you believe to be in the best interest of your children. But does that truly mean turning a blind eye?" you spat, slowly approaching her as she stood ridged, "There are a few things I wish for you to understand, Your Grace. I want you to understand that I will never marry Aegon. Understand that he has never been half-worthy of the throne he sits," mere inches kept you from her face as you lowered your tone, "And I want you to understand this most of all, that it was you who put him there. It is you, Alicent Hightower, who will be to blame when the entire Realm burns for it."

She fought the tears you watched brim in her eyes before swallowing thickly, "Have it your way, Princess. I have tried to be more than fair. May the Father and the rest of the Seven show you just mercy on the morrow. The maids will be in soon to change your sheets. I'd hate for you to sleep in such a mess."

And with that, the Queen Mother left you. Your hands shook and before you knew it, you were tearing the messed bed sheets apart yourself, broken sobs clawing out of your already raw throat. Your chest heaved as you stared at the tattered bed before your knees fell weak and you collapsed to the carpet-covered stone. What was to become of you now?

You weren't sure how you managed to soothe yourself enough to find sleep. The Dowager Queen had commanded that you be bathed and the room rectified for His Grace. And now you were just as you were earlier that day. This time, nobody to help you clean yourself after as you lacked the strength to do it yourself.

"Sleep in it," Aegon had drunkenly mocked as he redressed, "It'll remind you how lucky you'll be to carry my heirs, Princess. Or should I say, my Queen?"

Your body snapped awake when you heard one of your chamber doors creak open as the dim light from the hall illuminated the room. Your body was ridged as you prepared yourself for the struggle yet again. You felt the bed indent behind you, it was odd for Aegon to go about it this way but you thought it best to stay as quiet as possible.

Suddenly a large hand came over your mouth and you did not hesitate to kick, flail, scream, or scratch your attacker. Your tangled hair obscured your eyesight as you fought blindly.

"Get off me!" you cried, "Stop it! Please, no!"

"Shhh, ñuha jorrāelagon, it is me," your body ceased at the familiar tones. A soft touch pushed the hair from your eyes and a sharp gasp left your lips as you were met with the sight of an eyepatch and a soft lilac eye. My love.

"A-Aemond," your voice trembled. Your hands moved to hold his face, tracing the sharp features, "Is that truly you? This is not a dream. A figment of my imagination, perhaps."

He met your hand on his face, "No, my dear wife. I am here. I came here for you."

You should have felt relief at his words but all you could manage was shame. You pulled yourself from Aemond, retreating into your designated fetal position.

"Y/N? What is it?" he reached out for you once again.

"No," you stopped him, "P-Please, do not touch me. I can barely stand you looking at me."

Aemond's brow furrowed before finally taking in your disheveled state. Your hair tangled and damp with tears and sweat. There were gashes all throughout your nightgown. Cuts and bruises decorated your body. And finally, the blood. The blood that stained everything. Your nightgown, the sheets, your legs. He had seen enough of Aegon's previous serving girls, other lowly girls from around the castle, even Helaena. There was no saving Aegon now.

"Y/N, did he-" Aemond could barely bring himself to say the words, "Did Aegon do this?"

You answered first with a sob, "I begged him to stop, Aemond. You must believe me, I did not want-"

"Shhh," he moved to hold you before pulling himself back as you flinched again. His heart breaking, "Of course, I believe you, my love. And I'm sor-"

"Please do not say you are sorry," you cut him off, "That is the last thing I want to hear. Just please promise me it won't happen again. I-I can't go through that- I won't."

"Y/N," Aemond merely placed his hand near you, careful of his movements, "I swear by the Old Gods and the New, he will never lay his hand on you again." Or anyone ever again, once Aemond was through with him.

A wave of relief washed over you as you finally managed to let your hand intertwine with Aemond's. That familiar sense of security enveloping you once again.

"I hope I can assume you have a plan to get us out of this rat's nest of a Capital?"

Aemond nodded, pulling a cloak from behind me, "Put this on. Your brothers are waiting for us."

"My brothers?" you questioned, a tug at your heart at their bravery and dedication to you.

You finished tying the cloak around you before taking Aemond's hand as he led you through the secret passageways that ran through the Red Keep. Finally coming out of the back of the castle onto one of the beaches that surrounded it. Jace and Luke standing beside their own dragons as well as Vhagar and Seasmoke. How they managed to sneak four nearly-adult dragons into King's Landing was a mystery to you.

"Sister! Y/N!" they both turned, running to you, arms open.

Aemond stepped in front of them as you stood ridged, "Slowly, boys." Both of them exchanged concerning looks.

Jace's fist curled around the hilt of his sword at the realization of why Aemond had stopped them, "He did this?"

Aemond gave a quick nod as you looked away shamefully, "And he will be dealt with accordingly."

"I'm coming with you," Jace stated, "Luke, you and Y/N fly back to Dragonstone. Mother will be expecting you."

"Go where? Jace, what are you talking about?" you questioned.

Aemond turned to you, taking your hands gently again, "You are safe and that's all that matters. Now, I need you to mount Seasmoke and fly home."

"I will. Once you do the same with Vhagar and Jace with Vermax."

"I cannot come with you this time, ñuha jorrāelagon." My love.

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you came to understand what was happening. Aemond could not let what Aegon did stand. The threat you had made to the drunken usurper had come to fruition.

"Gaomā daor emagon naejot gaomagon bisa, Aemond. Kosti jikagon lenton. Kosti sagon lēda īlva riñar. Kostilus, ñuha jorrāelagon," you pleaded with your husband. You do not have to do this, Aemond. We can go home. We can be with our children. Please, my love.

"Nyke daor shijetra ñuha lēkia syt bisa. Ziry gaomas daor gūrogon ziry. Ziry ōdrikagon ao," Aemond slowly and gently took your face in his hands, "Aegon must face the consequences of his actions. I must kill him." I cannot forgive my brother for this. He does not deserve it. He hurt you.

"Aemond, if you do this, they'll-"

"Kill me," he finished, "I know."

"And you are just accepting of that? You are just accepting that you are abandoning me? Abandoning our children? Our family?!" your voice cracked as it rose.

Your husband let out a trembling sigh, "I am your sworn protector. That means I swore to rid the world of those who would bring you harm. I do not intend to abandon you, my sweet wife. My priorities were to get you out safely but to also ensure that my brother faces the dire consequences of his actions."

Arguing was pointless, Aemond's mind was made up. But that did not mean you could not try, "As my sworn protector, you made an oath to always be by my side. And our children's. And while I know your mind is set. I just ask that you promise me that you will try," his brow quirked at your request, "That you will try your best to return to me. To return to our babies. Promise me that you will try not to die, Aemond."

He took your hands in his, bringing them softly to his lips, "I promise, my love. For you and our children, I will try."

You wanted nothing more than for Aemond to wrap you so tightly in his embrace and never let you go. But another part of you could hardly deal with his hands intertwined with yours. And Aemond knew this, which is why he pushed no further.

"I love you, Aemond."

"And I love you, Y/N."

"Y/N! Aemond!" you turned to see Jace pointing up at the Red Keep, Aegon's knights marching about, looking for you.

"You must go," Aemond pulled you over to Seasmoke, aiding you as you mounted his back, "Tell our children I love them."

"You will tell them yourself," you stated. Aemond gave you a soft smirk before kissing your hands once again. Jace waved him back to the tunnel before the two of them disappeared into its darkness.

The commotion from the castle stirred the dragons, "Sagon gīda, Seasmoke," you cooed at your dragon. You turned to your younger brother as he finished mounting Arrax, both of you signaling your readiness. Be calm, Seasmoke.

"Down there!" you heard a voice call from one of the cliffs. A small army of guards rushed down to the beach.

"Go, Luke!" you called to him, the panic in his eyes growing as he took flight, "Sōvegon!" Seasmoke took to the air just before the guards were able to circle you. Fly.

The beaches of Dragonstone had never looked more welcoming as they came into view. The usually burnt smell emitting from the Dragonmont was enough to make most gag but right now, it filled your nose like the scent of fresh lavender oil.

"Y/N," Luke approached you wearily as you dismounted from Seasmoke, "A-Are you alright?"

You nodded as the tears brimmed in your eyes at the relief of being home and safe, "Thank you, little brother. I owe you my life."

"You're my big sister," he smiled softly, "And I know you would have done the same for me. Would you like to take my arm? I can escort us to Mother."

That heaviness in your chest dwindled a bit at your brother's sweet gesture as you wrapped your arm in his, "Thank you, Luke."

His eyes fell sad at the bruises that littered your arm, "I can fetch Grand Maester Gerardys afterward if you'd like."

You said nothing but nodded as you continued up the steps and through the halls of the castle. You arrived at the Great Hall, entering the relatively empty room. Only most of your immediate family seemed to be present.

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon and Princess Y/N Velaryon!" Ser Erryk announced quickly, a slight smile on his face at the announcement of your return.

Your mother turned quickly, an alleviated smile spreading across her face as she rushed to you, "Y/N!" she wrapped her arms around you. As much as you hated the idea of being touched by a man, nothing could have eased you more than your mother's warm and protective embrace.

"Mother," your hands clinging to her dress as you both sobbed into one another.

She caressed your hair, tucking it behind your ears, "Oh, my sweet girl. My beautiful princess," she cried as she caught sight of your cut lips and bruised neck, "I am so sorry this happened. And I promise you, they will pay for what they have done."

"Aemond and Jace are making sure of that," you muttered.

"Jace?" she questioned before her eyes moved to a guilt-ridden Luke, "Your brother went with Aemond?"

Luke nodded hesitantly, "Please do not be angry, Your Grace. Jace only did what he thought was right-"

"He deliberately disobeyed me!"

"You said it yourself they must pay for what they've done! Aegon hurt Y/N! He rap-"

"Lucerys!" you cut him off, preventing him from revealing what Aegon had actually done to hurt you, "That is enough."

Your mother's ridged at her assumption of what Luke would have said had you not stepped in, "Y/N, what did they do to you?"

You refused to answer, instead staring her down with your tearful gaze and heavy breaths. This gave her more time to take in your extensive injuries.

"Luke, find Grand Maester Gerardys," her eyes never leaving yours as she delved out instructions, "The rest of you, leave us. We will reconvene later."

"At once, Your Grace," various agreeing statements came from everyone as they exited Dragonstone's Great Hall.

Your mother's breath trembled as she took your hands again, "You do not have to speak if you do not wish. I am only going to ask you this once so we may proceed forward with the same knowledge of what happened to you there." She swallowed thickly as the tears fell down both of your eyes, "Did Aegon rape you?"

And the answer to that very question is what led your husband and elder brother to find themselves creeping through a hidden doorway into Aegon's chambers.

"The guards are busy looking for her," Jace whispered over to Aemond, "We should have plenty of time."

"Mmm," Aemond grunted in return. Aegon was passed out, an empty wine goblet looking as if it had fallen onto his floor. Knowing that Aegon could sleep so soundly after defiling you made Aemond's blood boil. The rage coursed through him as he snatched his older brother from his sleep.

"Huh?!" Aegon grumbled, "Aemond?"

"Hello, big brother," Aemond practically growled. Aegon moved to yell before Aemond clamped his hand over his mouth, "If you so much as make a sound, I will cut off your cock and shove it down your throat before your guards even have time to make it through the doors. Am I clear?"

Aegon huffed before nodding his head, "I see you brought along our Strong nephew. It is so good to see you, Jace. Been a long time, too long really."

Jace finished barring the door, "Uncle. I would not be too happy to see me if I were you."

"And to what do I owe this little surprise visit, Brother?" Aemond only glared at his brother, "Oh, it is not me you wish to see, is it? The Princess Y/N-"

Aemond's hand came across his elder brother's face before taking him by the collar of his shirt, "You dare speak her name? After what you did, you dare-"

"It was only a bit of fun!" Aegon giggled, the wine still having a very obvious effect on him, "You have really got to learn to share, little brother. Keeping a woman like Y/N all to yourself? Well, it's just not fair to the rest of us."

Another blow to Aegon's now bloodied face, "I have never known you to be a wise man, Aegon. But only a fool would do what you did and expect to live long afterward. A debt is owed."

"You do know you will die for this," Aegon muttered.

"You're older, it is only right that you are first," Aemond answered as he pulled his dagger from his belt.

Back on Dragonstone, most of your outward problems had been remedied. The Grand Maester had ensured you that the bruises would fade soon, he had also sewn your bigger cuts and put a soothing poultice over the smaller ones. Your mother and he both instructed the kitchen servants to bring you milk of the poppy when you wished to sleep.

And now you were to finally be reunited with your babies, "They've missed you. I can tell," your mother explained as she escorted you to the nursery.

"It's been less than three nights without them and I still felt as if I would burst into flames," you explained.

Small laughs were exchanged between the two of you, "Your Grace, Princess," one of the maids greeted you, "The babes are in their cradles. Though their next feeding is soon, I can return whenever it pleases you."

"That will not be necessary," you answered, "I will continue feeding them myself as I did before."

"Y/N, you are still recovering," your mother tried to intervene, "I'm sure, she would not mind-"

"As I said before, I will feed my babies."

The wet nurse turned to your mother who gave a curt nod, "As you wish, Princess. Your Grace," she curtsied before leaving the nursery.

You had walked over to the cradles. Your two sweet babies cooing and wriggling about. A smile spread across your face as you took each of them in one arm.

You winced a bit at the added pressure to your bruises, "Careful," your mother moved to take your son, "Here, let me-"

"I'm fine, Mother," you snapped, turning away, "I'm sorry," you sighed, "I know you only mean well. I just need to take care of them. On my own, please."

"I know, my love," she sighed as she pushed your hair from your face, "When you and Jace were born, I hardly let anyone near the two of you. Your father was the exception, most of the time anyway."

"Which father?" she shot you a discerning look, "I am a grown woman, Mother. Not a child. Besides, it is just us. We may speak the truth as we both know it."

Your mother sighed, "Both," she chuckled slightly, "Laenor, Harwin. They both wanted to be involved, a rarity in men nowadays, let alone almost twenty years ago. But I could hardly bear not having you in my arms. I had to protect you. So many people knew the best way to hurt me was to hurt one of you. I could not let that happen. You two were all I had before the rest of your brothers."

You swayed with your own babies, "I love you, Mother. And I can only hope to be half the mother you are."

"You are already better, sweet girl," she caressed your face, "These two have no idea how lucky they are to have you for a mother."

Gazing down at your silver-haired babies brought your mind back to the man they had inherited it from. And your chest grew heavy at the possibility that you might never see him or your twin brother again.

"But they need their father," your voice strained, "I was lucky enough to have Harwin and Laenor for as long as I did. Even Daemon. I cannot imagine if my babies were to never experience that."

Your mother moved to speak, "Y/N-"

"He has to come back," you cried softly, "I cannot do this without him. I just-"

"Your Grace!" the wet nurse had burst through the doors, "Princess, I-I apologize for the intrusion but-"

"The Princes have returned!" Ser Erryk followed into the nursery, his chest heaving as he spoke.

"The Princes?" Ser Erryk nodded at your mother's question, "Gather everyone in the Great Hall as fast as you can," she turned back to you, "We must go."

You nodded, giving each of your babes a hastened kiss on the head before handing them over to the wet nurse, "I shall return."

Your mother and you hurried to the Great Hall. The various members of her council stood by anxiously. You scanned the room and your heart nearly skipped a beat at the sight of your husband and brother. You ran over to them, embracing Jace first.

"I'm so happy you are alright, big brother," you sighed.

Your brother gave you a soft smirk, "It is so good to have you home, Sister, where you belong."

"Aemond," you finally turned to your husband, taking his chiseled face into your shaky hands, "You kept your promise."

His hands fell over yours, "Of course, I did. What would I do without you and our beautiful babies?"

Gazing at your husband allowed you to finally take in his tattered sight. His hair was frizzed, blood smeared on the leather of his clothes, and yet he seemed to be unharmed.

"What happened?" you asked, "Is he-" your voice caught in your throat at the mere thought of Aegon.

Aemond nodded at you before turning to your mother, "Our usurper brother is dead. I imagine the Greens will be on Dragonstone's shores in mere hours."

"Their cause is lost. Are they truly so opposed to my ascension?" your mother asked.

"Alicent Hightower gave the king three sons, Your Grace," the Sea Snake answered, "And not once did your father waiver on you being his appointed heir. She and Ser Otto are far too scorned to give up now."

"Lord Corlys is right," Daemon stepped in, "Aegon's death is merely a further justification of their Rhaenyra the Cruel narrative. We must prepare for war, Your Grace."

Aemond's hand clutched yours as all eyes fell on your mother. Her jaw clenched as she looked around the room, fighting the tears as she looked at you and your siblings.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, "Let us prepare then."

The plan was set. Everyone knew their duties, their missions, and goals. But now they were no longer hypotheticals, they were happening. In real time.

You walked into your children's nursery, standing over their cradles as they slept soundly. Their frail chests rising and falling with their small breaths. The shuffling of armor pulling you from them.

Aemond stalked into the room, his hair tied back and his armor fastened against him. He joined your side at their cribs.

"It seems we spend more time saying goodbye to them than anything else," he spoke softly.

A slight chuckle left your lips, "It's just not fair."

"No it isn't," Aemond agreed.

"My mother was telling me about how protective she was over Jace and me when we were born. She said so many people knew the best way to hurt her was to hurt one of us," you stroked the soft silver fuzz on your twins' heads, "I usually don't like to admit when she's right," you both chuckled, "Our greatest weaknesses."

You felt Aemond's hand take yours, "And our greatest strengths."

You sighed, smiling up at your husband. His usual stoic exterior was soft as he smiled back, "Avy jorrāelan, Dārilaros Aemond." I love you, Prince Aemond.

Aemond kissed you softly, longingly, all his love pouring through. You pulled back, resting your foreheads together, "Avy jorrāelan, Dārilaros Y/N." I love you, Princess Y/N.

The bells of Dragonstone rang and you could hear the clamoring happening just outside. Neither of you wanted to move, neither of you wanted to accept the reality you were living.

One of the wet nurses entered, "Prince Aemond, Princess Y/N," she curtsied, "I've come to escort the children to the keep safe."

You both nodded, each of you taking a swaddle into your arms, careful to mind the armor you wore, "Goodbye, my sweetlings," you kissed their heads, tears staining the cloths they were bundled in, "I love you."

Both of your hearts sank as you handed the babies over to the young girl. No pain could ever compare to the idea of something happening to you or Aemond, something that would prevent you from watching your precious children grow. No pain except for someone hurting them instead.

"No one is ever going to harm them," it was as if Aemond read your mind, "We will see them soon."

You had just finished mounting your dragons. Your hand curled around the hilt of your sword, "Let us ensure it."

You exchanged small smirks with your husband before commanding your dragons to take flight. Ships, men, fires, dragons. Dragonstone had turned from a piece of Targaryen history to a Targaryen war zone. And now it was your turn to fight for everything you held most dear.

"Dracarys!"

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