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runningfrom2am · 5 months

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cold nights // part seven

summary: all the stars aligned, and it was you.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.5k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, r is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: guyssss omg this part AHHHHH

series masterlist // playlist

After your interview, Coriolanus insisted on being discharged so he could go home. If rest was all he required, he could do that at home, is what he told the nurses.

As soon as Tigris had gotten him home and retired to bed herself, he was quietly getting dressed again. If the arena was still going to be used even after the bombing, he had to see what that would mean for you. It couldn't have been rebuilt in a matter of days, and having an idea of what it would look like could possibly give you an advantage that you so desperately needed. The donations were a good start, but he could do more. He had to do more.

He walked all the way there and then to you with a bag on his shoulder and a knee that never seemed to stop aching. He could feel every step he took in his spine, and by the time he made it to the zoo, he was relieved that he could finally take a break. And finally, he could see you.

"Y/N?" You think you're hallucinating from hunger and paranoia when you hear his voice, making you sit up. "Y/N. It's me. Come here." Coryo's voice comes again, and you're quickly standing and making your way over to the bars.

"Coryo." You smile, wishing you could hug him. You still weren't totally sure if he was really there, or if you were slowly losing your grasp on reality. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to see you." He whispers, not hesitating to reach through the bars and grab your hand.

"But, Sejanus said-"

"I got them to discharge me after the interview. All I can do is sleep it off now anyway." He says, lifting your arm to get a closer look at the stitches. It's not like he could do anything to help it now, but he still wanted to make sure it wasn't getting infected.

You let him, and from the warmth in his hands as he touches you, ever so gently feeling the outside of your cut and grasping your hand, you can tell that he's real. "I thought I'd never see you again." You whisper.

"Likewise." He replies, lowering your arm but not letting go of your hand. "Are you okay? Are you in pain?"

"No." You say softly, giving a slight shake of your head. "It's nothing in comparison to what's to come. I'm trying to appreciate what I have."

Coryo is sure that is the nicest and saddest way anyone in the history of the world has ever confessed to being in pain. "You'll be okay." He assures you. "I won't let anything happen to you. I can't. You saved me."

"His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for's power to thunder." You say quietly, a small smile forming on your lips.

"Romeo and Juliet?"

"Coriolanus." You correct him, squeezing his hand where it's still wrapped around yours. "But, I have a confession to make."

"What is it?"

"Now, when I try and remember parts of Coriolanus, all I can truly think about is you." It's true. You tried to remember something from that play for your monologue, to say goodbye and thank him in a way he would easier understand, but instead, all you could think of were his blonde curls against his striking red uniform and his blue eyes against the softness of his skin. For the first time, your mind was empty.

He blushes, but he's sure you can't see it in the poor lighting of the cold night. "Well, your name has only ever meant one thing to me."

"Which is?"

"It's only ever been you."

You don't even realize he's as close as he is until you can feel his breath brushing over your skin, both of you having leaned in closer to hear each other until your foreheads were almost touching.

The cold that surrounded you completely disappeared as your eyes fell shut, lips hardly brushing against his. You both hesitated, at first.

Being stuck in that hospital bed for days only fueled the fire inside Coryo that was slowly burning and churning out smoke that would always led his mind straight back to you. He didn't care if you were 'District', how could he? You were made for him- and you proved that when you chose to save his life over saving yourself from a fate so horrible as a death in The Hunger Games. You weren't 'District'; You were You, and he simmered in the guilt of his rejection of you for days after he had done it. His dishonesty with himself had wasted precious days he could have spent with you, or at least you could have known. Right now, he could have been kissing you for the second, third or fourth time, but now he has to live with the fact that it's possible he'll only ever get to feel your lips on his just once.

Your first kiss wasn't what you imagined it to be. Not at all. You expected that you'd be home, for one, but if you could go back and tell your younger self that you would find your very own Romeo in a blonde boy from the Capitol, she would have laughed in your face. The circumstances would have broken her heart just like they are for you right now. He was gentle, too gentle for the role he was given.

When Coryo pulls away, he's startled to see your cheeks glistening with fallen tears, eyes red once you reopen them. God, how he hates seeing you cry. Especially because of him. Especially if he had hurt you, somehow. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No." You sniff, wiping your cheek on your wrist as you look away. Maybe he doesn't mind seeing you cry as long as you're still looking at him. "It's not your fault I just... I don't know. I'm scared."

You feel annoying for telling him again. He knows. Of course he knows, you've told him so many times.

"I know... I know you are." He nods, reaching out and holding your cheek, urging you to look at him again. "But you're going to be okay."

"I'm not." You smile sadly. "Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me; the carriage held but just ourselves and immortality."

Coryo just slightly shakes his head. "No." He denies the inevitability of your death vehemently. "Listen, I went to the arena. It's completely different in there. There are places to hide, to run, you could get up in the stands or down into the tunnels underneath. You can hide now and wait it out. You can do it."

"I... I'll try." You manage to squeak out, no longer wanting to cry in front of him, making him feel worse than he does.

Coryo nods, looking around behind you to double-check check none of the other tributes are awake. "I brought you some things that may help." He whispers, dropping his hand from your cheek to dig through his bag.

He pulls out a rolled-up scarf, it's hard to discern the colour in the dark as he holds it out to you. "Coryo, I can't take anything in. You know that."

"Please." He pleads. "I need you to take this. It can kind of keep you warm, or you could..." He trails off, watching as you unroll the silk fabric in your hands.

"I can't kill anyone." You remind him. "I won't do it."

"I know. I know that." He nods. "But everyone does things they aren't proud of to survive."

You chew on your lip as you rub the soft material between your fingers.

"Turn around." He tells you, holding his hands out for you to give it back. You hesitate before obeying, handing it back to him and facing the inside of the cage. "You can't carry it in, but I think if you wear it no one will notice." He whispers, gently pushing the strap of your dress down one of your shoulders.

You understand what he's trying to do, so you do the same thing on the other side and pull your arms out, letting the top half of your dress fall down around your waist.

Coryo's breath hitches in his throat as he stares at your bare back. Your skin was bruised and adorned a burn that looked like it came from being thrown across the ground. Your skin was supposed to be clear, untouched, and unharmed, but the state of it doesn't surprise him. He reaches around you, threading the unfolded material under your arms and across your front which you quickly adjust to cover your chest comfortably as he folds it over itself in the back. "Turn." He whispers, planting the softest of kisses on your shoulder as it bumps against the bars. He wanted to touch you, to drag his fingers across your skin and cherish the only time he would ever get to see you so bare, but he couldn't and he knew that.

You shiver from the warm touch, but make a point of turning quickly as he wraps it around you again, and it's just long enough to tie in the front. He helps you, though you could do it yourself, tying it tight and tucking the knot underneath the layered fabric to disguise it better. "Do whatever you need to with it." He tells you again, letting his hands slide over the material where it wraps around your waist.

You nod slightly, looking down at the scarf now tied around you. You felt safer in it already, less exposed. It felt like a hug. His hands slide up until they're pressed against your cheeks once more, and as he looks into your eyes he's hoping you understand how much he needs you to win.

You pull your dress back on, and it perfectly covers the scarf underneath.

"I have one more thing." He adds, reaching back into his bag and pulling out a small, silver compact.

You take it, turning it over in your palm. "Don't open it." He tells you quickly. "Don't open it until you have to. The powder inside is so deadly it'll kill you if you so much as breathe it in. Be careful."

You're quickly trying to hand it back to him, shaking your head. "Coryo, I told you-"

He pushes your hand back, but holds it in his. "I know. Don't use it if you don't want to. But I need you to understand that I will just be sick if I send you in defenseless. I can't let you die knowing I could have done more to help. I would do anything."

You nod, solemnly accepting that you have to take it. "I can't go in there with you, but I will do everything I can from out here. I promise. I'm not giving up on you." He insists. "They'll give me a computer, and I can send you things with the donations people send, and we have tons. Just like I told you. You won't starve. You just have to wait it out."

"Wait it out." You mumble back to yourself, still nodding as you look down at the cold metal compact held in your palm.

"I'll be watching you the entire time. We're in this together, okay? I'll be with you, you won't be alone." He gives you a small, weak smile.

"Okay." You whisper, tears still steadily falling from your eyes. "And then I can go home?" You ask quietly. You knew the answer, of course, but you desperately needed the reassurance.

"Then you can go home." Coryo confirms, squeezing your hands. "And see the stars, and your family, and your cat, and your books." He whispers.

"And you?" You ask, tilting your head at him, smiling with teary eyes.

"I'll come say goodbye." He nods, and your smile fades. Of course you couldn't stay together, but you hadn't even considered life after the games until this moment.

"Yes. Goodbye." Your smile fades into a more sad one.

"But I'll write to you." He promises.

"And I can send you books." Your normal smile returns and he nods.

"I would love that."

"That reminds me-" You tuck the compact into your pocket, dropping his hands and holding up a finger, telling him to wait while you walk away.

You carefully pull the small blanket from Jessup's sleeping form and grab the tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet, bringing it back to him "Here. Take these now, I just wanted to make sure they got back to you."

"Thank you." He nods, taking them back from you. He wasn't sure how he'd get them back otherwise, but he wasn't sure he really cared.

"Will you read it?" You ask, pointing to the book.

"I will. I'm looking forward to it." He smiles, tucking it under his arm. "I have to go, I'm sorry..." He says, realizing that you both needed as good of a night's sleep as you can possibly get. He was sure he wouldn't be sleeping much as it was.

"Of course. Go home, it's cold out." You nod, arms wrapped around yourself and suddenly he feels guilty for taking the blanket. There it was again, that selflessness. You had endless amounts of it- he was still worried you would do something stupid in the games like sacrifice yourself for Jessup, but only time would tell.

"Hey, take my advice, okay? We're a team." He reminds you and you nod. "Don't trust anyone once that bell rings. I mean it."

"Okay, Coryo. I trust you." You agree, wanting him to understand that you really would try your best to listen.

"Good." He nods, turning to look behind him, at the path he was about to take home. He was hesitating and you could tell, he didn't want to say goodbye, so you would.

"Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow." You hum, a knowing smile on your face that he wouldn't fully understand, but you didn't need him to. It was a goodbye, that much he understood.

"Goodnight." He whispers, running his hand down the skin of your arm one last time before leaving. He couldn't stay forever, even though he wished he could.

When he got home and into bed, he couldn't resist opening the book that you had cradled in your hands just an hour earlier. He flipped through the pages under the glowing, warm light from his lamp, and the pit of sadness in his stomach only grew when he opened to where you had kept a bookmark. The rose he gave you, pressed and dried between the pages to save your spot.

He lifts the rose carefully, his eyes drawn to the words underneath. "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

#tbosas #tbosas fic #tbosas x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg #the hunger games #thg fanfiction #hunger games #thg movies #thg series #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus fanfiction #coryo x reader #coryo snow #snow x reader #snow lands on top

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g-xix · 3 months

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oh my days did u hear about wilbur soot literally physically abusing shelby

YESYESYES I DID!!!

For the girlies that don't know: I was a minecraft girlie in 2021.

And Wilbur Soot was a big part of that MC phase. He was undeniably hot, but he was also quite open ab mental health stuffs + created quite a safe space for minorities whether that be the gay community, mental health talking space... That's all from the top of my head. In short - he's hot and an empath and ppl liked that ab him

He also kinda showed his "quirky loco character" in music vids or just in streams.

Kinda ironic he's now fulfilling the role that character he mockingly made, tho.

What did he do? Well, he was in a relationship w Shelby Shubble and his way of showing "affection" would be to bite her. Kinda understand biting as a way of showing love as long as it's not life threatening, painful, or in aggression... I mean, ChrisMD does that shit all the time to ArthurTV n it seems more endearing than to really do any bads.

Thing is, Wilbur would end up hurting Shelby. Aaaand so Wil said 'hey let's make a safeword for u 2 say when it hurts so that ik and can stop so i don't harm u'.... but when Shelby used that safeword, broski wuld either grind down or go a lil bit harder b4 letting go.

And Shelby's described it as she would oftentimes scream/yell bc it was so hard, and he'd 'smile' afterwards which is mad psycho (term used loosely) imo. Because also, he'd do ts in public??? Yk, with his friendship group around him n Shelby, the lovely jovely couple? Straight out weird negl.

So, there's context.

Lots of varying opinions online which i would soooo love to get into...

BUT DISCLAIMER BEFORE I DO: Realistically, this is abuse, and thus it is a crime. I've talked about this on my page before - cancel culture can be unecessary in minor incidences, and cancel culture can be not-enough in instances whereby people have simply done illegal things.

This is one of those illegal things. So, whilst I do chat about this light-heartedly or for entertainment, gossip-y purposes - do realise that this is a real life problem that has has major issues in many peoples' lives.

Now, continuing with the juicy waffley discussions that ppl like hearing:

So firstly, some of the Twitter memes are fucking hilarious. I do love that under Wilbur's Twitter apology, loads of MCYTers have joined to clown his goofy ahh. And all those memes saying that Bill smelled such a shit apology he returned to twitter after years + the DSMP are like Avengers in Infinity War returning to all fight enemy No1 WILBUR...

But that being said, DREAM REPLYING TOO????

I spoke ab Dream being a groomer around Christmas time + heard loads of ppl out on vouching for Dream or calling him disgusting, dahdahdah... But the fact that sm ppl are turning around and praising Dream for calling out Wilbur's goofiness is acc MAAAD.

Why's everyone forgotten Dream is j as goofy? And an alleged groomer? And just plain? Not even plain something, brodie is just the plainest mf i've ever seen. Ever since he face revealed, his personality j evaporated on out of his body (anyone feel this asw?)

But no, ppl who are now agreeing w Dream to combat Wilbur as if Dream hasn't also committed what is debateably a crime (ik he 'cleared up the rumours' but it's v hard to fight of groomer allegations when you let them sit and marinate for approx 6 months) is fucking WILD shit to me.

Secondly, people are analysing loads of Wilbur's other prev actions too and saying these should've been red flags to Wilbur being an a-hole before we even heard Shubble's solid proof.

And some of these clips of evidence (e.g. Niki saying Wil bites her + threw her, Tommy getting his hand stomped, throwing apple at Techno) feel very valid.

But other bits I do wonder - are they just being over analysed? Yk, like with the clip of Wil shouting at Tommy for streaming + stealing his wallet, i was super sure that was staged as is (j had it confirmed now by the Twitter community note asw lol) and also, whilst Wil's shouting does feel extreme and hurtful from a viewer pov... Having a wallet stolen, place of work broken in to, litr knowing the place where you work to make all income could be taken away from u bc a friend thought it funny to break in n loudly + rowdily stream... i gotta say that some form of anger or upset is valid there. And this isn't to validate Wilbur's assholery, this is just to point out that whilst ppl are throwing clips into the fire and saying "this is more proof Wil was a bad person from the start" - do try see other interpretations of it and form your own line of reasoning - yk - "is this a valid point or is this someone using the drama to get some extra likes and attention to boost their account" (because believe me, ppl would - if ppl would use Techno's death to get more channel views and interactions - ppl would also most definitely use abuse as a means to engage more ppl).

Aaaaaand let's talk about the little Lovejoy band. Ngl i fucken loved their stuff, quite sad to see it go down the drain because 3/4 of them are public targets, now.

So ik we hate Wil for being an abuser. And I've seen that ppl dislike Mark bc he supported Maccies (what did he do fr tho bc i have no clue - did he j eat a McDonalds or what?) And we hate Ash Kabosu for saying it's bad to make fun of those deaths on the submarine...

Controversial opinion but I don't blame Ash allat much??? Now imma explain myself - but pls understand that i don't knoe 100% ab the situation, im v detached from the MCYT sphere of the online community.

But hear me out.

I'm a big believer in cherishing life, life is v important, life is a blessing.... Not from a rly religious pov, moreso in a spiritual way. Because if we only get one life, fuck, it's pretty damn precious. And whilst all those Oceangate memes were haha heehee funny watches, at the end of the day, people did die. And I do find that quite sad.

People say it's fine to laugh and make fun of those who were in there and died bc they were just billionaires who went down there for their own personal entertainment.

Just because they're billionaires doesn't make them any less human than us? Sure, they have a lot more money and are probably a lot more detached from working class issues which the majority of the population faces... But their drowning will have hurt and caused just as much pain to them as it would to us if we were in their situation. And my god, I can't even begin to think about the pain their families must have felt.

Those deaths were a fucking tragedy, realistically - and maybe i'm 'overreacting' here - but c'mon, empathy is literally encoded into our DNA as humans, surely I'm not the only one that can see the heartlessness in just laughing and memeing those deaths?

So Ash Kabosu haterism I don't fully understand, is the conclusion of that sub-rant.

And then I think this is the final little bit I'll discuss considering this is a loooong post:

James Marriott.

Jimbo Mazza, Jimbatron, James Marriott.

Lowkey my big flex, I've been a fan of him since 2020, and I got into his hater-commentary content initially. And ngl, when he transitioned to Minecraft? It was so fkn obvious he was trying to tailor to the MCYT audience to get their approval and entrance into the MCYT community, it made me absolutely cringe - and the blindness of everybody to that fact was insane to me.

Like, he was literally beegggging to be added to SMPs, he'd try and portray this "uncontrollable, quirky" character and would be so "unhinged" that everyone would love him... But ngl, that shit was literal brainrot, and he had you guys (me included tbf, bc i'd watch - just cringing whilst watching) ROTTING your brains with spamming the chat w allat bs that u do on Twitch

Nowadays, I like James tho. I feel like he feels ingrained enough within the community to branch out and not have to play up to the disturbing, disgusting cringefest - and so now he's funnier and having a better time streaming.

I mean, he looks absolutely great too - his tours have him confidence-boosted (rightfully so), because he's in great shape, like, he's genuinely lost noticable fat and put on muscle which has him looking trim as ever - he's grown his hair out into a flattering mullet - Shit, i believe looksmaxxing is the boy-equivalent of the makeup industry profiting off of womens' insecurity....

But the Jimbatron has absolutely looksmaxxed for the best.

That being said however, people saying "I OFFER JIMBO AS A REPLACEMENT FOR WILBUR!!" are fucking weirdos (respectfully but also kinda not)

Bro has just abused people and you're mourning the loss of a content creator and oh no - your favourite band - so you're trying to serve up replacements like a fucking chef that's ran out of a specific ingredient??????????

Yeah, James is less problematic and has 2x the personality Wilbur has- BUT WHY DOES IT TAKE WILBUR COMING OUT AS A FKN ABUSER FOR PPL TO START PROMOTING JAMES????

This is like that whole thing whereby ppl put other girls down to point out to success or beauty of other girls: it takes everyone noticing how bad Wilbur is, to point out the goodness of James.

James litr banned people who wouldn't stfu about Wilbur in his chat in early streams, bc he was sick of ppl following him for Wilbur and who just wanted to talk about Wilbur on James' platform.... I don't think James rly wants to share an identity, or have his platform built from being against Wilbur.

Not proof read this post fully. But take-aways from this: -Yeah Dream is cooking Wilbur on Twitter but don't forget he's an alleged groomer + is deffo using this as a way to get back into the audience's "good books" -RIP Lovejoy but some1 explain what Mark did fully + why ppl think Ash is so abominable for showing empathy to ppl dying -Rmbr that this is acc a serious crime, don't downplay ts -Stop fucking promoting James Marriott thru Wilbur's downfall, it rly discredits James' authenticity and original building of a community -So proud to say that after a few months of getting into MCYT stuff i felt as though Wilbur was icky + just plainout didn't like him/got odd vibes -And lol, acc so jarring how Wil reminds me of this guy in my yr - complete mummy's boy, underestimates and belittles women bc his mum handed everything to him on a plate n so he doesn't empathise w them but rather expects the world from them whilst simultaneously treating them like shit, 'radical', extremely 'woke' about modern situations but is so stubborn and refuses to see two sides of a picture.... Tbh I might j hate the guy in my yr and be projecting that onto Wil

Btw, feel free to argue w me in my inbox ab this but whilst i was quite critical - pls do not be mean to me or criticise me that harshly - if im talking to some1 one on one, i won't be this mean

(ALSO ANON, SORRY BC I WAS QUITE RUDE IN THIS REPLY BC I LOWKEY FORGOT I WAS REPLYING TO U, I WAS IN MY OWN HEAD AB WAFFLING AB SHELBY N WILL, LY AND TY FOR ASKING AB IT THO BC I DEFFO NEEDED TO WAFFLE AB IT SOMEWHERE)

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januaryembrs · 11 months

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LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [4]

description: Dove wakes up in Steven’s apartment covered in blood for the second time this week with only one thing on her mind. What the hell happened last night?

word count: 8.7k

trigger warnings: death of a baby bird (sorry little pigeon you got fridged for the plot), blood, lots of blood on her skin but it’s washed off, Marc is mean, angst ville, talks of a dead body very briefly, Marc thinks about his mother

main masterlist | series masterlist

Marc remembered being young, when he was just Marc, not Marc and Steven. Before his mother was cruel, though that part seemed tainted, as if he couldn’t quite remember a time when she wasn’t. But he remembered being a boy, before the world felt heavy, and his eyes felt tired. He remembered Randall. He missed the boy he was allowed to be when he had Randall.

The day he was no older than ten when they played in the back garden, knees muddy, trainers scuffed, sweat on their backs from the blazing July heat. School was starting soon, and he remembered him and RoRo had been trying cram in as much time together as possible before they’d go back to only seeing each other in the evening when the sun had long since set and they had homework to do.

Randall had pink on his cheeks, having quickly wiped off the sunscreen Wendy had smeared on their faces, Marc felt his own temple burning. But he didn’t care. They were on their greatest adventure yet.

Dr Grant and his faithful assistant, Rosser, were on track to discover a long since lost Aztec artefact, inscribed on it the map leading to a hoard of gold and jewels. To the everyday person the boys were jumping around their yard in search of the spool of kitchen roll Elias had drawn on that morning, and their mother’s intricate and full jewellery box they’d promised to return once they’d ‘found the treasure’.

“Look, Rosser! Another clue!” Dr Grant called out, his small arms already grabbing his brother and near dragging him to a tree hanging low enough for the two of them to climb, “We’re getting close, I can smell it!”

‘Rosser’ tended not to say much when they would play their games, but his giggle was enough to spur Marc on to continue their venture. Marc gave him a boost up for his tiny hands to grab onto the thick branch, ignoring the way the leaves brushed in his face and tickled his nose in the hopes he could spend more time with his brother. Marc followed suit, pulling himself up to stand carefully on the wooden limb, already reaching for the next one. He could still remember the way his hands scratched on the rough, dry bark; the season had been particularly hot and had taken its toll on the wildlife, stripping the wood of its moisture to the core.

“If my calculations are correct, the last clue should be at the top of this mountain!” Marc said, holding his hand out for Randall to grab onto as he pulled him up. He was sure to only go for the branches strong enough to hold the two of them, knowing his brother was afraid of heights. But Randall went along with everything he did, even scaling mountains was no chore too big for Rosser and Dr. Grant. The two of them had been about to reach for the next branch already when they both heard the tiny peeping sounds.

“Marc, what is that?” Six-year-old RoRo asked, his chest puffing in and out from exhaustion having pulled his small body now a good ten feet off the ground.

“No, Randall, it’s Dr Grant, remember?” Young Marc whined, though his ears seemed to catch onto the sound of the chirping too. The boys’ eyes widened as they got louder, Marc carefully stepping on his tip-toes to see a bundle of twigs the next branch up. Sure enough, in between a knot of sprigs and fluff lay three tiny bodies of Sparrow hatchlings.

“By jove, Rosser!” Marc’s imitation of the fake English accent was endearing, but he knew Randall loved it when he got completely into character, “The Rare Amazonian Spotted-Dove! Maybe that’s the next clue.”

It truly had been complete chance that the nest had been so close to their next escapade, but Marc was creative when it came to their games. Randall’s chubby little hands reached up to grab the nest, not completely understanding what the fuss was about, near ready to tip the delicate bundle of twigs over to see the new find.

“Let me see! We’re going to be on the news, Dr Grant!” Randall played along, his digits wrapping around the edge of the nest, causing the birds to squawk in freight.

Marc was quick to pull his brother’s hands off the roost, pulling them away from the flora, “Gentle, Rosser!” He said with a kind chide, watching his brother's excited face descend into a sad pout, “They’re still babies, RoRo. You can’t touch them,” Marc whispered, as if to hide his break in character from their invisible audience.

“Why not? I wouldn’t hurt them,” Randall asked in his sweet young voice, his eyes still pining over the nest that was too far for him to see inside even at this height.

“Because if the Mom bird sees you holding them she’ll abandon them and they’ll die,” Randall’s face was struck with fear, looking up at his brother with glassy, russet eyes, clearly not expecting that answer.

“Why?” He asked in the most horrified of tones. Marc couldn’t help the way he held onto his brother’s hand the moment he heard it, ushering him to start descaling the tree so they could finish their game and go in for dinner.

“Dad said it's their way of making sure they only look after their own babies. If you touch them, the mom and dad bird thinks you’re the new mom and they stop looking after them,” Marc explained the best he could, though even he didn’t fully understand it either, just what Elias had been able to tell him.

“But that's horrible! That’s their babies,” Randall exclaimed, his tiny legs dangling off the bottom branch until he hit the ground with an Oomph. “We’d look after them then, wouldn’t we, Marc?”

“Right you are, Rosser,” Marc perked up with his faux accent, eager to take his little brothers off the birds and the idea of anything bad happening to them, “Good voyagers always protect the vulnerable,” Marc dusted his shorts off, straightening RoRo’s backpack and picking the sprig of leaves out of his hair, “And when danger is near, Dr Grant has no fear!”

Her eyes cracked open at the sound of bread popping out of the toaster, the smell of burning meeting her nose in a tang that had her wincing.

It was then she caught onto the fact she was not in her house at all. Nor was she in a bed the same way she had been the last time she awoke with little recollection of what happened the night before. The pain in her neck was instant, a crick in her back from being sat upright, slumped over and arse numb from hardwood flooring. It was then she felt the collar around her neck, tight enough she knew she had marks where it bit into her skin.

The panic hit her like a freight train, her body jolting forward when she realised she was bound with her arms behind her back, tied to a post with a chain and cuff secured around her neck. Her breathing came out laboured, head whipping around to see who was the perpetrator that had bound her.

She was dragged back to the before. Before she’d escaped to London. Before she’d so much as turned twenty. Before. With him. The before, when she was nothing more than a girlfriend, a puppet on a string, his doll to control. The before she’d spent so long running from.

She missed who she was before. That girl was gone. Dead, like him. Maybe that's why she was so scared, how else does someone react to feeling a ghost draw near?

It wasn’t until her foot scraped loudly on the floor, an odd sort of grain crunching under her boot, that she was snapped out of her reminiscence.

Sand. There was sand on the floor. And beside her was a bed. She was secured to a wooden beam, thick and oaky, a woodsy smell ravaging the room that she would know like her own childhood home.

Steven’s apartment.

She had yet to relent squirming in her binds, her hands tugging at the thick leather, moving enough that she could tell there were another two sets of chains wrapped around her waist and legs, making them heavy to move, the clinks of the metal links meeting her ears much too loud.

The thing that made her stomach churn however, that wasn’t helped whatsoever by the smell of charred bread that overwhelmed her nose, was the smell of metal. A coppery edge that overpowered anything else the moment she took note of it.

Her clothes felt wet, clinging to her skin, the chains, the leather collar biting in her neck the more she squirmed, the whole room collapsing in on her.

She was tied up again. She was back in the house, back in the before. Her wings clipped, her strings tied. Her porcelain cracking.

Why was her top red? A dark red, a brown red, why was it wet? Why did the room smell of corpse, or was that her?

Blood. It was blood. More blood than she’d ever seen in her life. Except that night when-

“Hey! Hey!” She hadn’t realised she’d made a sound until she felt two hands grab her shoulders and she flinched, a bleat of utter terror echoing around the loft style apartment. She hadn’t realised the wood was cracking under her strength until the hands shook her slightly, their words going in one ear and out the other, “Hey, it’s okay! It’s just me-”

Her watery eyes snapped up to meet two hardened brown ones that stared at her in concern. Marc could tell the woman that looked back at him wasn’t fully there, as though she was surfacing from a dream, as if struggling to decipher a nightmare and reality.

“I know you’re confused, it’s okay-”

“Why is there blood- Marc, why is there blood- there’s so much blood, oh god,-” And he couldn’t deny it. He hadn’t wanted to change her clothes when she’d finally worn herself out, it had taken everything out of him to wrestle her to the ground after whatever that thing was inside her body last night took over. He still felt his thigh twinge at the thought of her teeth that were not at all her teeth, that had become long canines the moment she’s turned, the razor sharp kind that sunk into his flesh as Layla and Steven both gave him the signal to get her away from civilian people.

She had practically lunged at him spitting and hissing, yowling as he’d socked her in the jaw and tried knocking her out long enough to bind her. He hated himself for the way he hurt her, but one look into the abyss like eyes told him it wasn’t her. She would never want this, never want to hurt Steven.

He’d had no choice but to chain her up in Steven’s apartment until she came to her senses. He was worried she’d wreck the place, sure, but anything was better than her killing an innocent person who just so happened to cross her warpath.

“Alright, it’s alright, it’s mostly mine and yours,” He’d meant it as a piece of reassurance, but he was quick to realise it was not nearly as pleasant as he’d thought when her face dropped and her eyes widened.

“What?” She whispered, horrified, “What do you mean- what happened? Did the jackal come back? Am I dead- again?”

He watched her for any sign of realisation, that it was in fact her who had done this to them, but he only saw the fear in her wide eyes that implored him to say anything to make her feel okay again.

Marc said nothing for a moment, sighing to himself, his eyes lowering to where she gulped and pulled at the ankle collar Steven used to keep himself from sleepwalking. It had been the only thing he’d been able to use when he’d entered the apartment with her sleeping body in his arms for the second time that week, having to head to his storage locker for the rest of the chains.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll talk,”

She’d been scrubbing her hands for twenty minutes now and the damn blood refused to come from out of her nail beds. The shower had done her good, she’d used Steven’s shampoo and conditioner, and his shower gel that brought her some comfort as she felt he was with her with every breath she drew in. She smelled of him through and through. Missed him, yearned for him, wanted to hear nothing but her name from his lips, feel his arms wrap around her, hold her close.

Marc was not one for affection, she had noted. The two of them were more different than she could have imagined, the accent alone had yet to sink in, but the thing she missed most about Steven was his kind words. His gentle touches. The way he would always know how to make her feel better. Where he was soft, Marc was rough. A tough love kind of guy.

The closest they’d gotten to endearment was when he’d handed her a stack of Steven’s neatly pressed clothes for her to change into, even down to his boxers embarrassingly enough, and taken from her a sodden, blood soaked pile of her own to stick into the washer.

They both knew there was no amount of washing that would get the blood out. Marc put it in for her anyway.

It wasn’t until she was four bites into the toast he had made (burned) for her that she showed any sign of understanding as he talked her through what had happened.

Marc had purposely dodged the part where she had grabbed Steven and had been seconds from ripping his throat out, not wanting to upset her more than she already was. Things came back to her in ripples; fuzzy, distorted, vague. Like de je vu, as if she didn’t remember them until he said it, and even then it seemed almost like recalling a dream. The feeling of slashing and biting, animalistic noises coming from her throat, like she was seeing things through a stranger's eyes. That was not her.

Yet all she could think about was the fact the blood was still settled under her nail beds, no matter how hard she’d scrubbed it, no matter the fact her skin was raw around the keratin, probably bleeding again with where she had been so brutal. She struggled with picking at the site when she was nervous, her fingers were sore already from the assault.

Marc noticed how red they were, the butchered skin ugly and damaged, but said nothing. Said nothing about the blood that clung to her raw skin.

Possibly hers. But also the jackals. Marc’s- Steven’s blood from where she’d taken swipes at him.

She could tell Marc was downplaying the severity of her condition. She could tell by the way embers of guilt lingered in his eyes, concern clouding the corners of his coffee bean gaze, that he tried so desperately to hide with his natural cold stare, that it had been bad.

She could still see the way the shower water had dropped off her in waves of red, rolled over her tainted skin and had still yet to make her feel clean.

“Look, no one got hurt, we made sure of that.” Marc took another stab at reassuring her, the way her eyes glazed over as his spoke, detached from the usual spark of life they had and staring into nothing, “If anything, the way you took out those two jackals, you saved people last night,”

“That wasn’t me,” She mumbled, her gaze falling to her half eaten breakfast. She felt sick to her stomach, felt the barely chewed pieces of bread already churning and making their way back up with every breath. Every flicker of memory that came back to her, none of it making sense.

“Huh?” Marc’s voice was unnaturally soft, as he urged her to repeat herself, not quite catching her quiet words the first time.

“That thing wasn’t me- it wasn’t me that did that, it was Seth, he was in the room before- in the room where we got trapped- when Layla had left and- and Steven had been thrown through the window- and he- I don’t know what he did to me but everythings dark after he touched me- and-”

“Hey, look just breath, okay?” Marc grabbed her wrist, and she hadn’t even realised how fast she had been talking until his hand alone snapped her out of it, and she felt her eyes burning, her lungs crying out for air. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, head snapping to look at him in the eyes for the first time all day.

Marc noted how cold her skin was. He’d noticed the way her skin looked gaunt, sunken. Sickly. As if Seth festered under her skin within the single day he’d had her.

They looked at one another for a moment, his eye brows curving upwards being the only sign that he wasn’t outright glaring at her.

“It wasn’t me,” She said again once she’d finally caught herself, voice weak and childlike, petrified.

“I know,” He says calmly, letting go of her. She looked at him again as if to check her was telling the truth, that he believed her, and seemed to comfort herself somewhat when she found he did.

As if a switch had flicked in Marc’s expression, he looked back to his own clean hands, clearing his throat and ignoring the way Steven was yelling at him from inside the body to let him talk to her. Telling him to just hug her for Gods’ sakes. Ignoring the way Steven was begging him to comfort her in any way.

“Look, I understand this thing with Seth is rough on you right now, but Harrow got the scarab while we were all trying to fix your… problem,” Marc said simply, and Dove fought the urge to not cry at the way it sounded as though he blamed her. “I’ve got an informant working on getting us a place in Cairo, chances are Layla’s already on her way over there,”

“Cairo?” Her body straightened at the idea of leaving the country unplanned.

“Yeah, Egypt,” She rolled her eyes at his dumb statement, standing to clean her still full breakfast plate.

“I know where Cairo is. I’ll have to call in sick for me and Steven for a couple days,” She said, dumping the cold toast into the bin and turning the tall brass tap on.

“Not Steven. The museum cut him off after the jackal destroyed the toilets,” Marc said, his eyes flicking to the spoon he’d used to eat his cereal, where he saw Steven frowning and pointing at him in the reflection.

“After YOU destroyed the toilets. YOU!” Steven sassed, shaking his head at the way Marc glared back.

“Shit! I can’t believe I forgot!” Suds sprayed up her arms as she spun back to look at Marc, “Steven’s fired? Is he okay? Can I talk to him?” She rushed, knowing Steven would be crushed to lose that job.

Marc sighed, running a hand through his hair tensely, “Steven’s not gonna be around for a while, alright? It’s better for everyone if I deal with Harrow, Steven’s not exactly got the hang of fighting,”

“I could do if you gave me a chance,” Steven snipped, sulking from his perspective in the metal.

“So I can’t see him? For what, a week?” She asked, a frown settling onto her features at the thought of it, “That’s not fair, I want to speak with him, ask him if he’s okay,”

“Look, princess, you’re just going to have to learn how to share, alright? Haven’t you got other friends to talk to?” Her face dropped, and he didn’t realise she’d yet to say anything until it had gone quiet in the small kitchenette.

His nut brown eyes cast up to hers, the sadness he found there slowly steeping into a bitter anger. Surely she couldn’t be so upset over not seeing Steven for a couple of days when they had much more important things to worry about.

That is until it dropped in his head what had gotten her so forlorn.

She had no one else. Just Steven. And now, just him it seemed.

A flutter of guilt washed over Marc’s chest as she put the plate on the side to drip dry and avoided his gaze. Marc couldn’t help but scoff at the fact she seemed to have only him, the same way he had no one else really, no one except Layla and even that whole mess was a dead rose that he’d been meaning to cull when he got enough courage to stop running from her.

And yet he couldn’t escape from the girl in his kitchen. Not when she made it so easy for Steven to stay, made it so easy for her to depend on him. He felt like shaking her silly and telling her to run as far away as she could, tell her he was an explosive waiting for a single wrong step to detonate and that he would take everyone out with him when he did. He wanted to tell her to stay away, leave him alone and never look back. And she knew it too. He could tell she knew he wanted her away, wanted her gone. That no matter how many brief soft glances she had caught, the slightest of kind touches, he wanted nothing more than for her to steer clear of him.

He was a rot, he was a virus and she was the forbidden fruit, young and vibrant and full of life that had already started wilting because of him. Because of his selfish mistakes, and his awful luck, and the disease that followed him long before Konshu and Harrow and any of this mess.

She was a delicate blossom, and he was nothing more than the weed that would choke her, kill her from the inside before she could realise she was in any danger. Because all of this, everything she’d been through the past two days that riddled her face with such malady was all his fault. It was all his fault, all of it.

“Look, just message me the flight details and I’ll meet you there,” She said with a huff, collecting her now red-brown stained clothes from the dryer and fighting the urge to cringe at the sight of the colour. Marc said nothing, what was there to say? He didn’t do comfort, and affection, getting her to take a deep breath was the extent of it. Wendy had taken everything soft out of him before it could bloom into knowing how to love, how to show someone you care.

So he didn’t. He let her leave in silence, staring at her with his cold gaze as she left. With not a single protest falling from his grimacing lips.

He waited until the door was shut before the plate went hurtling towards the wall, the delicate ceramic exploding on impact.

She had gotten all but ten minutes down the street before his (Steven’s) phone buzzed with an incoming call, a picture of the two of them in the museum stockroom lighting up the screen.

Marc huffed with effort, his fingers scratched from where he’d been cleaning up the porcelain chips with his bare hands, but he couldn’t deny the way his heart leapt when he saw her face, worry overcoming him. She was mad. She was angry at him, upset with how he’d spoken to her. And could he blame her? And yet she still called. That meant it was serious.

“Hello?” He accepted the call with an irate tone, just to make her sure how much of a bother to him the action was.

“Marc-c,” She hiccuped, and he could tell she was crying. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel his pulse spike from fear. “Marc, I’ve killed it, it’s dead- oh my god, its neck-”

Fuck.

“What? Where are you?” He asked, already on his feet and heading for his jacket.

“Marc, it’s little neck- fuck what have I done?” Fuck, what had she done? He knew he shouldn't have let her out of his sight, he was supposed to protect civilians not set off a hellhound into the wild with no leash on her bloodthirst.

“Send me your location- it’s gonna be alright-”

“I’m outside,” She sobbed, cutting him off with a low mewl of sadness, “Can you buzz me in?”

Great. Steven’s apartment, which was already a hotbed for Harrow’s followers, was now about to become a crime scene. What the fuck was he about to let through those doors?

This was all on his hands. He had given her over, let a monster take over her soul and use her as he pleased. Killing and maiming included.

Yet he did as she asked, because who else would she go to? The phone cut off as soon as he did, telling him she was likely in the elevator. Sure enough, two minutes later and he heard a forlorn knock at his door.

Taking a deep breath in and preparing himself for whatever it was he was about to see. Gods above what if she’d killed a kid? The thought of it made his stomach churn.

He opened the door with a stoney expression, his eyes immediately finding two bloodshot eyes looking back at him sorrowfully, a small sniff coming from her wet nose before she gave a short mewl.

“Marc, I’m a fucking monster,”

Fuck. Fuck she’d killed someone, gone feral like she’d done last night and he hadn’t been there to stop her because of his stupid pride. This was all his faul-

It was then he realised she was clutching something in her hands. Her hand cupped in front of her, as if keeping a bug from escaping, latched together tightly with something inside.

He looked from her delicate hands to her face, still sniffing and whimpering, eyes huge with fat tears.

She opened her hands, seeing his confused eyes, to show him the damage, awaiting her trial from the man she’d been so angry at she hadn’t been watching where she was walking.

There, in her hands, a frail, near skeletal frame of a pigeon hatchling. It was barely a few days old, its beak too big for its face, its skin dark and ugly, fluff where feathers eventually would be covering its leathery undercoat in patches.

Its wings, if he could even call them that, were bent at awkward angles, its tiny neck snapped in two as if it had been mauled.

“Why are you showing me a dead bird?” Marc said with a cold stare, his voice just as biting. The word ‘dead’ had sent her into another sob by the time he dragged her back into the apartment.

“I was so mad at your stupid arse that I-” She seemed to choke herself with the thought, “I wasn’t watching where I was going- and I” She hiccupped again, “Heard a crunch and-”

She presented him with the tiny victim again, watery eyes never leaving the chick that was quite clearly since passed. Marc huffed, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. He couldn’t catch a break from this girl and her tears. He wished Steven hadn’t gotten so attached to her, that he would be able to just up and leave her in the dust, wished she hadn’t been such a good friend to his alter that she had never gotten so wrapped up in all of this and he could simply tell her to grow up and that shit happens, birds die all the time, that if it was on the sidewalk it was probably already abandoned and she put it out of its misery quickly. He wished he didn’t find it so difficult to be cold to her, that a cloud of guilt didn’t hang over him for the whole thing.

Perhaps that's why he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, or perhaps it was the way Steven was glaring at him from the kitchen sink, waiting for him to tend to the girl as he would if he would just let him have the body. And seeing as that wasn’t going to happen, it was down to Marc to do so.

He felt her semi freeze at the contact, unable to miss the way her skin was cold to touch as it had been all day. “Do you want me to have it?” Marc held out the other of his olive hand’s, his bruised knuckles seemingly fitting as she carefully dropped the bird in his palm. She sniffled under his muscled arm, her hands out infront of her as if to not know what to do now he had the creature.

“Be gentle with it,” She murmured.

Its dead you fucking idiot. I don’t need to be gentle; is what Marc would have snapped, had she been anyone else. Yet the emergence of the words in his sour brain only revolted him. She knew it was dead. She knew it. He didn’t need to tell her, to see her cry harder.

She looked up at him expectantly, and he gave her a barely there nod. ‘I will’ He seemed to say without words.

Letting go of her he went to find an empty shoe box to put the corpse in, knowing he would likely flush the thing as soon as she left.

He heard her run the sink to wash her hands, scrubbing at her already raw nail beds the same way she was when she’d seen the blood. He’d already noticed the way she’d pick at herself, pulling off flesh as if the pain of it was nothing compared to what it was she was feeling inside. He didn’t have the heart to comment on that either, he knew what it was like to have the demon come from within.

“You’ll give it a grave?” She asked, wiping her wet eyes with sore fingers, one of which bleeding once more from her washing. Her eyes looked at him guiltily, imploring him to fix it, fix it Marc. Depollute this awful body of mine that seems to ravage everything it touches, even innocent baby birds, no matter how ugly they were.

He nodded wordlessly again, and she seemed to quieten down for a moment, though she fidgeted in her place as if to not know where to put herself. Marc wasn’t dumb, he knew she was probably waiting for a hug, the fawning and pining that Steven would shower her in by now. He writhed internally, knowing what she expected of him, watching her pitiful frame cowering in on itself, waiting for him to give her something.

“You should probably get going, I’ll bury it later,” He said huskily, his eyes avoiding how she bit her lip to stop herself from crying again. Get out, he was saying nicely, go bother some other depressed man with enough on his plate already. She nodded quietly, turning on her heel to head back towards the door for a second time that day. She felt stupid for coming here, she felt instantly as if he was annoyed at her for bursting back into his apartment in floods of tears, but as he’d already established - she had no one else. No one except a man who hated the sight of her and shared a body with her only friend. She felt even more stupid for expecting anything else from him. Even more angry at herself for taking up so much of his space.

Slouching in his, Steven’s, clothes, she shuffled towards the door, face burning at the way she felt his cold eyes on her back, no doubt ready to lock the door the moment she left to ensure she stopped bothering him.

Maybe it was the way she looked so broken-hearted as she left, or the way she was still sniffling, or the way Steven had gone back to glaring at him through the surface of the bathroom mirror, shaking his head in utter fury that he’d let her go alone when she was so clearly distraught.

Marc sighed, a grunt of annoyance building in his throat as he reached over the back of the sofa for the soft blanket Steven kept for their movie nights. He said her name, her real name not Steven’s sweet nickname for her, and it had her whirling on the spot at the rough edge to his tone. Moving to her with an almost frustrated scowl, he threw the blanket to her stunned figure, heading towards the kitchen cabinet.

“What are you-” She uttered, catching the blanket fluidly and stammering, frozen in her place. Quickly wrapping the blanket around herself, of course she’d noticed how cold she felt, how her body had seemed to die and wither since Seth had taken her. She wouldn’t be surprised if her skin began to rot and discolour any minute now.

“I’m only doing this to get Steven to stop heckling me, understand?” He snipped, pulling out a medical box and producing a box of blue plasters. “You have no idea how infuriating it is to have someone telling you what to do inside your head all day,”

They both froze at his poor choice of words. Of course she knew. She’d spent all morning in a state of shock that Seth had so easily taken over her every movement, puppeteered her as if she was nothing more than a Barbie, and here Marc was complaining as if her being manipulated by the God wasn’t his idea in the first place.

His jaw went slack, the look on his face the guiltiest she’d seen yet. He seemed so caught off guard by his own mouth, bobbing open and closed as if looking for the words to say sorry, a concept clearly unnatural to him.

Maybe it was the way that for the first time he didn’t seem cold and distant, he seemed human in his expression, he seemed so shocked and unlike the stoic face he usually held. It was perhaps the slip of character, and she was sure she’d never see such a face again, but the sight of it made her burst out laughing through watery eyes.

She was sleep deprived, still moneyless from when her date had stolen her purse, likely to be kicked out of her apartment any day now seeing as her rent money was gone, had nothing to eat for the foreseeable future, had an ancient Egyptian God playing house in her body and going on killing sprees, had an entire cult of child murderers looking for the two of them, and yet this was what had made her crack.

“I’m-” Marc started, only to realise she was laughing, genuinely laughing though he pinned some of it was probably just sheer mania from the stress. “Stop laughing at me,” He growled, throwing the plasters into her free hands that peaked out from under the blanket.

“Sorry-I’m sorry-” She cackled again as he huffed and turned around, busying himself inside the fridge, looking for something for her to eat, “I’m sorry- just your face-”

“Shut up or I’m going to Cairo alone,” Marc snapped, though he tried to fight the slight smile that teased at his lips hearing her biting her tongue to hide the giggles, making herself at home on the sofa.

“Steven would never let you,” She muttered, knowing full well he could hear her. His eyes flicked over to her as she started peeling back the paper and applying the plasters to her raw digits, her face concentrated and much less miserable than she had been.

She was right. Steven would never let him. Nor did he think he could leave her with Seth alone if it came to it. She’d burrowed under his skin like a stray dog that had followed him home, wanting nothing more than a companion, someone to bathe in the horridness of reality with.

Marc only hoped she didn’t get too attached when he inevitably drove her away, made her feel as disgusted with him and he was. They were on borrowed time before she was all Steven’s again. And he hated the idea that she was never his, never his friend. That she’d never lust over him. That the only time she��d ever looked at him with such affection in her eyes was when she’d thought he was Steven.

She was not his to enjoy. Which only made him feel all the more selfish for feeling so grateful she’d stayed this time.

English people were simply not made for heat. No matter the amount of sun cream, cool packs or ice lollies they consumed, they were simply not adapted to hot weather.

Egypt was mind-blowingly gorgeous, she would give it that. Marc had let her have the window seat, pretending to not know why she’d made such a fuss about where they sat, but he couldn’t deny seeing her practically vibrating in her seat, nose pressed to the glass to get a better look of the country upon crossing the border, hot air puffing up the tiny glass with her close breath.

“Look, Marc, look!” She said, not drawing her face away, simply reaching out behind her to grab his arm, “The sea, it's so blue,” And it was. The royalest shades of cobalt lapped at the beachy shore surrounded by archaic buildings that seemed revamped for modern life. The entire city was a buzz of activity, only made more enticing to watch by the vibrant colours that ran through it as well. A pier plunged out from the beachfront, its canopy providing chunks of new hues among the lapis blue water; cloth of cardinal red, canary yellow, aubergine purple covering citizens from the harsh weather. The lush greenery that covered the earth where roads and buildings had yet to trample over it was a sight to behold in itself, the grass only getting darker and thicker the closer to Cairo they got.

“That’s Alexandria,” Marc said, as she drew back from the window to look at him with wide, excited eyes, “Named-”

“Named after Alexander the Great in 331BC after he liberated them from the Persians,” She cut him off, eyes guilty when she realised through her history fogged brain that he had been about to speak. She would have apologised had he not given her a small nod, and had she not seen the tiniest of amusement in his eyes, “Sorry. You don’t work at a museum and study Ancient Languages and not get excited by this stuff,”

“Ancient Languages?” Marc asked, for once not a tone of annoyance or disgruntled coldness. Since the incident with the bird (which Marc did in fact bury, only it was in the park near his house since he didn’t have the heart to remind her he didn’t have a garden) he seemed more patient with her. Less outright mean every time they spoke or so much as looked at one another. She pinned it down to being pitiful for her big, naive heart and tendency to get upset by the smallest things like dead birds. She pinned it down to sorrow, real women didn’t cry like a child over something like that. Birds fall out of their nests all the time, she was the only one immature enough to blubber over it. “I see why he likes you so much,”

Her ears perked at that. “Steven?” She asked, in a practised innocent voice as if she wasn’t desperate for more information immediately.

Marc laughed, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, “Yes, Steven. Who else?”

“He likes me?” She asked, secretly hoping the optimism wasn’t shining in her eyes like the sun reflecting off the waves below them. It was.

Marc caught the girlish, excitable glee in her face at the sound of his alter’s name. It was obvious how smitten she was with Steven. He had seen it even before he knew her, before he had messed up his alter’s life. Messed up hers. The two of them were skipping around the feelings they so undeniably had for one another. Even Layla had seen it the second she met her, the puppy dog look she got in her eyes when she saw Steven so happy to see her, the gentle touch his rough hands held her with, the way the two seemed to gravitate around one another as if moved by an orbit of their own, joined by atoms no one else seemed to have.

But Marc knew it wasn’t his place to interfere, knew Steven would be so angry beyond belief if he was the one to tell her how he felt. And besides, he was sure they would have time to figure it all out without him in the way when he handed the body over to Steven for good, when he could watch them be bumbling idiots once more from inside the body.

“You’re his best friend. Of course he likes you,” Marc recovered his slip up smoothly, only feeling half guilty when her face visibly dropped and her chest deflated.

“Oh, right.” She said, straightening herself back into her chair, the elation dissipating from her face. How could she have been so dumb to think otherwise?

Marc knew he should say something, knew he should try and comfort her in some way but he didn’t know how. Which was how he felt about her most of the time anyway, unable to escape even now the thought that she’d much prefer it if he were just Steven. Not Steven and Marc. Steven would have known what to say.

“You alri-”

“Where’s this friend of yours meeting us?” She cut him off for a second time, her attention back on the window, her eyes scanning over the Mediterranean sea as it blended into the land, Alexandria slowly becoming Cairo.

Marc could have laughed and yelled at the same time. The only time he’d bucked up the courage to extend a hand of friendship to her she cut him off unknowingly.

“He’s not, he’s booked us a car to use and a hotel room to share,”

Share would be an understatement. It had been two days since they had checked in, only to discover Marc’s friend had wildly gotten the wrong end of the stick when Marc had asked for a room for two. One queen sized bed, a fancy ensuite and a tiny balcony later, Marc had been pacing the room, pissed, as he hung up the phone with the hotel lobby.

“They said the double rooms are fully booked, and unless you got enough cash for two singles, we're sharing.” He huffed, throwing his phone onto the bed where she sat, eyes wide and looking up at him with an innocence that had his heart jump into his throat.

She had got to stop looking like that if he had any chance of leaving her for Steven to have entirely to himself.

She shrugged, looking behind her at the huge, luxurious bed, much bigger than the double she had at home and made with the softest Egyptian cotton sheets she’d ever felt. “I don’t mind sharing. I’ve slept at Steven’s before,”

“He took the sofa, remember? Sharing a bed is a whole other thing,” Marc dismissed, moving to grab one of the pillows and move it to the red loveseat in the corner of the room.

“You were there?” She asked, her face pulling into a shy smile as he tossed her a look over his shoulder.

“Huh?” The agitated frown was back, one that had been missing the entirety of the way there.

“You could see me, see what we were doing?” She asked again with a bashful pull at her lips. She found it odd the idea of an outsider watching in on the time she spent with Steven, as though she were entirely herself with Steven in a way she wasn’t with Marc. Yet from that spiralled another thought, she was herself with Marc in a way she wouldn’t allow in front of Steven; vulnerable, emotional, scared. She would never let Steven know any of those things, knowing how much he worried over her. She hadn’t even told him about getting robbed by her date yet, conscious of how much he would fret.

Yet she had let Marc tend to her that first time they met in the museum, when she was bleeding out onto the beautifully polished marble. She had begged him to not leave her the day she’d woken up to find herself rather dead. She had let him console her when she’d arisen tied up in his apartment. Let him wash her clothes, make her breakfast. He’d been the first person she’d called when she’d found the bird.

She felt safe with both of them in entirely different ways. Safe knowing Steven was always there to cheer her up, to dote on her over every tiny thing she did. He was always bringing her little keepsakes that had made him think of her, bringing her the cinnamon rolls she liked from the bakery on his street on the days he knew she was running late and would have gone without food. Always walking her to her train stop even though it was entirely out of his way. Making sure she was having enough breaks at work, eating her full lunch. He remembered everything she ever told him, even the time she’d mentioned the anniversary date of her dog’s passing, he'd remembered it to the very day and given her a sympathy card and a bunch of flowers. Her favourites of course, that too had only been brought up once.

She felt loved by Steven, felt safe and cared for in a way she knew was beyond friendship. Yet she could only hope and imagine what anything more than being loved like this felt like. What kissing him, touching him in a way that went beyond what they had would feel like.

And to have such a raw feeling for someone spectated on turned her stomach oddly. She thought she’d feel more intruded on than anything, but she simply felt indifferent. It was only Marc afterall.

“It’s like I’m watching a movie, kind of. It’s more like I’m watching over his shoulder but I can’t do anything to stop him unless I really try to take the body,” He explained, though the way his shoulders tensed up had her guessing he didn’t like to talk too much about it. Marc seemed the anal type to want control over his life, and to have someone take the reins in front of him sounded torturous.

“Is he here now?” She asked, her eyes lighting up at the thought of seeing him again, “Can he hear me?”

Marc fought the urge to grunt in annoyance (that was entirely annoyance, and not at all jealousy) at her eagerness to see Steven. “Not right now,” She slumped for the second time that day, “From what I understand, we can either be co-conscious which is when he can hear and talk to me or he can just go away if he wants to. Go quiet, make it so I can’t feel if he’s watching me,”

“Huh,” She said with an intrigued look, “Well, it must be nice to never be lonely, I guess,”

Marc was ready to snark something back about how Steven was possibly the biggest pain in the ass when he was spouting off nonsense inside the headspace, how he had still yet to stop fawning over the way she looked, filling Marc’s head with a mix of his own thoughts as well as Steven’s running commentary about how her every movement made her “something out of the films, you know, like one of those actresses on the big screens, like MariIyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor, but entirely in her own way better, you know what I mean, Marc?”

It drove him insane, and he was glad Steven had taken a stand of silence for whatever reason, and left him to at least have a few days to himself.

Of course that hadn’t stopped Marc from noticing just how softly beautiful she was, but he was glad of the silence nonetheless.

And happy to have her to himself, but that was by the by.

He stopped himself from snapping at her that the reality of having someone in your head 24/7 talking to you and nagging your every move was a thousand percent more frustrating than being lonely, but then he guessed he’d felt lonely his whole life; grown used to feeling alone. Trying to protect Steven from the awful reality of what happened to him as a child, keep him from knowing what a failure he actually was, what a curse this body was, to know someone and never being seen in return. He realised it was lonely, and lonely was draining.

And he watched her eyes soften, a sadness shining through them, not intentionally but a glimpse of her soul Marc had never seen from her, as if she truly envied having someone there for him at all times. And Marc realised maybe having Steven wasn’t the worst thing to have. He could be entirely alone with his own mind, his own thoughts. He could have been entirely alone throughout his childhood, entirely alone with Wendy and her cruel hands.

Steven was annoying most days, but Steven was needed.

“I guess,” He muttered, turning back to setting up his bed on the plush sofa that he already knew would murder his back. Sighing, and fighting back his usual moody tone, he chanced a look at her, only to find she was already staring at him. It made his stomach turn to know she watched him when he didn’t know, “You know, you’re not alone, right?”

Her face hardened, eyes flicking away from his in a way that screamed she felt caught in an inner turmoil, surprised that Marc had seemed to almost read her mind, “I never said I was alone,”

Marc rolled his eyes at her pushback, wishing she wouldn’t make it so difficult for him to be kind for once, “I know that but,” He chewed over his words, “You’re not alone, you got that?” He sounded annoyed despite the fact he’d tried to rein in his demeanour, “You have Steven, and me,” Her expression faltered at that, and he was sure to turn back to rearranging the sofa cushions before she could give him anything more to admire about her. “And, you’know, Layla’s got your back through all this too, so you know. You’re all set really,” He cleared his throat, a few beats of silence. He thought that would be the end of it, that she would simply move onto something else.

He heard her stand off the bed, not thinking much of the movement other than the soft sound of her sock-feet crossing the hotel room. He froze when he felt two arms wrap around his middle from behind him, her face burying into his spine.

“What are you-”

“Don’t ruin it,” She said, her voice muffled by his body, her hands tightening around his toned waist as if worried he would pull away, “Just let me-” She nuzzled closer into his beefy back, taking a deep breath of his scent, “Thankyou,” The woman mumbled, but he still heard it.

Two large hands came to rest over her forearms that squoze his midriff, letting the girl soak into him, lean on him, take all of him in entirely in a way he’d craved from someone for so long.

Not hugging Steven. Hugging him. His friend. His Dove, too.

Marc said nothing, a small smile pulled at his lips that felt almost foreign on his permanently bitter face.

His Dove, too.

Tag lists:

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST

@shirukitsune @s-u-t @ahookedheroespureheart @willowseason @imonmykneessir @acceptedbyace @broadwaytraaaaash @mythicalmo @stevenknightmarc @avery88 @fandombrackets s @thelostlovedone @raythecomputerart @nyctophile-moon-child @unknownduck0 @emily-roberts

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@greeneyedblondie44 @liadamerondjarin @pedrosgirlx @andy-rocks @musicartmayheminmyheart @howlerwolfmax @ciarra–mae @lou-la-lou

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#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #moon knight x reader #moonknight imagine #moonknight x reader #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant imagine #jake lockely fanfiction #khonshu #oscar isaac imagine #oscar isaac x reader

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jovialturtleface · 2 months

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Commission are open again and I actually have a sheet to go with it! 3 slots are available as of writing. Check it out here!

#Commissions open #Jove says a thing

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seawispdenizen · 3 months

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Also I downloaded and started playing this SpongeBob game I found out about from an ad on the Family Guy game, I think they're from the same developers too? This game also made me realize that Triton and Mindy are technically siblings but due to the nature of canon we may never see them actually interact.

#Jove says a thing #also I think this confirms Patrick just finds Mermaids in general very pretty #He thought the mermaids in that legends of bikini bottom special were pretty

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unhingedsquash · 4 months

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(I wrote this in the break room at work and it’s short and on a cliffhanger bc that’s what I do best, but user @eleccy u hit my exact brand of fic preference. I probably will make this a full fic on ao3 soon if I get around to it.)

Oh.

Oh, it seemed so obvious now that it hit him in the face.

All Klavier could think about as Apollo’s crackled voice mentioned his father over the phone, attaching an image in their text messages, was of the guitar.

The guitar Lamiroir had gifted him so graciously when he had visited Borginia. She had traced her fingers delicately at the base of the neck of the guitar until they landed on a small carving. She explained that she’d had the guitar for so long that she forgot where it came from. She didn’t play the guitar, and was struggling to learn—partially from her loss of sight, mostly from her inability to have time to herself and no one to teach her.

“Your guitar playing moved me,” she explained. “The melodies are so lovely… it almost feels familiar. I don’t know where this guitar came from, but whoever played it before… I think, must’ve played as beautifully as you. I would like you to have it.”

And, of course, with great honor, Klavier accepted. It was such a sentimental gift, he felt the need to protect it. On top of that, the guitar was such high quality and in such excellent condition, it felt like he’d won the lottery.

Alas, it was unable to be saved. The incident in the summer of 2026 ripped the precious gift from his grasp before he could even put her to safety. But he was able to save a single, singed piece, with a barely legible carving, from the base of the neck of the guitar.

Now all he could do was stare at the cased up piece of wood with J.J. carved into it sitting in his guitar display as Apollo rambled on about his days in Khura’in, while the name Jove Justice rung through his head, and the all-too-familiar guitar stared back at him in an old picture of Apollo’s father.

So many instances played through his head. From the first time she reconnected after the incident, to their semi-regular coffee get-togethers where she would make comments that started to click. Things like, “How is Apollo doing? And Trucy?” and the hesitance, then denial every time Klavier offered to deliver mail or extend a phone number. And comments about remembering her past, but the resistance to provide details.

It all started to make so much sense, and Klavier wondered… did he know?

Subtly, as Apollo continued to talk, Klavier extended a text to the singer to ask what she knew. To ask for clarification. Did she know? Did she remember?

And god, what was Klavier going to do now that she admitted she’d known everything? It felt wrong not to say anything. Especially with Apollo right there on the phone, talking in total oblivion. God, Klavier even heard him mention how “they said they couldn’t find any information on my mother. It’s too bad. I hope I can find her one day—“

“Apollo.”

God, he needed to stop. It’s not his place to be doing this. He doesn’t need to be a hero right now.

“Your mother is Lamiroir.”

It’s quiet. It’s so quiet that Klavier can hear the silence. And it’s screaming at him that he should not have done that.

“What do you mean?” Apollo’s voice broke through the phone speaker again. “Klav, that’s not funny.”

Another beat of silence. More silent screams of shame and guilt.

“Please don’t get quiet after saying that, what do you mean?!”

“The guitar. Your father’s guitar?”

“…Yeah?”

“I have what’s left of it.”

#squash writes #ace attorney #klapollo mentioned and referenced and all that jazz #apollo justice #klavier gavin #fanfic #Lamiroir #thalassa gramarye #fic request

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leohtttbriar · 8 months

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the way the camera lingers on jadzia for so long after this moment, how so deeply pleased kira is with the memory of her mother at the beginning of the episode and how deeply pleased jadzia is with kira's pleasure, got me thinking about how i really wanted them to have a parallel conversation at the end of this episode, given how open jadzia is as a person and how frustrated she gets with absolutist ethics and how open they are with each other. i just think there was one single missing conversation in this episode and jadzia would've worked in that position, provided kira with something that maybe sisko couldn't, as a creature mostly focused on what is "interesting" and "fun" and pleasurable.

so i wrote it of course and decided the intimacy i most wanted to see from them in such a scene is the sort of intimacy of two people who have been each others' companions for a very long time. which made me think about how the dax symbiont is jadzia's lifelong companion and how dax and kira and the symbiont all have a specific attitude about the body and how jadzia was the only voice speaking for kira's ownership of hers...that's love, is what i mean. said "missing scene" below:

jove's doom is void (ao3 link)

There was an observation window near one of the radiation labs, curving against the plated wall of the Station like a forgotten eye on the back of one’s head. In such an uncomfortable little corner of Deep Space 9, few people stopped and worked and noticed. But Kira noticed.

She sat in front of the window on the floor, straining in the relative darkness to see as far as she could into the depths of the universe, because what else was she supposed to do? If she closed her eyes, all she saw was her mother’s face and all she felt was the rough line of her mother’s scar under the pads of her fingers and all she could smell was food.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually,” said Jadzia. She had been silent for much longer than Kira expected her to be, after finding her by the window and plopping down by her side. She’d been busy tracing the lines on Kira’s left hand and wrist, astutely sensing that that was all the touch Kira could yet handle.

“I’ve already talked,” said Kira, keeping her eyes on the darkness.

“You told me what happened,” countered Jadzia, her fingers still strong on Kira’s skin. “Not how you feel about it.”

“No, I’m sure I mentioned that.”

Jadzia huffed, always amused, but she didn’t let Kira get away with it. “You said you told Benjamin about all this, too,” she prompted. “What did he have to say?”

“Something wise.”

“Hmmm,” said Jadzia, tapping her chin with her free hand. “Doesn’t sound like him…”

Kira looked over at her, at the tilt of her mouth and the attention of her eyes, and sighed. “He said,” she glancing down at her hand in Jadzia’s lap. “He said that she did make a hard choice—that she chose to protect us in the best way she knew how.”

Jadzia was quiet again and Kira let her gaze blur, curling her hand slightly to keep Jadzia’s fingers still.

She couldn’t shake the feel of her mother’s hair or the sound of her breathless voice as she ran to the table piled with dinner. A desperate, pathetic thing—no more or less like the little girl she had shaken hands with, her own young self, starving in a cave and still trusting her parents to eventually save her from it. To innocently hide a scar on one’s face, to exclaim over fresh fruit, to find relief in a new dress…Kira found none was the behavior of a woman so often described as brave.

“Not really a choice, though.”

Kira’s fog briefly cracked open at Jadzia’s tone. She turned to look at Jadzia’s face, who was pressing her lips together and avoiding her eyes and smiling straight-on, the way she did when she wanted to keep presenting as amicable because she didn’t quite want to express her true thoughts.

“What?” Kira asked.

“Nothing,” said Jadzia, tightening her smile. She squeezed Kira’s hand gently. “Ignore me. I just want to be here for you.”

“But what did you mean?” Kira pushed.

Jadzia took a deep breath in and then said, “Benjamin was tiny bit mistaken.” She shrugged awkwardly. “I wouldn’t call it a choice.”

Kira removed her hand from Jadzia’s grasp and turned to face her, sliding back on the floor until her back hit the wall just beneath the observation window, her eyes falling over the strange refracted light on Jadzia’s face from distant stars—shining behind and around the wormhole.

“You think she was coerced?” asked Kira, watching Jadzia’s expression carefully.

Jadzia looked past Kira’s shoulder and said slowly, “I think…well, maybe. That’s one way to put it...” She trailed off.

“Jadzia,” Kira snapped. She leaned forward and their knees brushed briefly. “Just say what you’re thinking.”

Jadzia’s eyes met hers and she said in a steadier voice

“Choices within the doctrine of an uncaged will must meet a threshold of circumstantial liberty. For instance, if, within the circumstances of two choices where one of those choices is death, then no real choice can be said to actually exist.”

Kira blinked. Jadzia blinked back.

“Sorry,” Jadzia said, slumping a little. “Lela…she was a lawyer, you remember?”

This wasn’t news to Kira who was at this point always anticipating at least one moment a day where Jadzia’s personality seemed to morph or to add-together briefly into something just slightly off-center. She had such a serene presence most of the time that most people just dismissed this as being a quirk of Jadzia, fun-loving and curious and impulsive Jadzia. But Kira knew where the boundaries were. She could tell when the creatures Jadzia carried around and cared for within her body were given a small hold on the reins—normally she could, that is. In this moment, something was blurred.

“So you’re saying,” said Kira, tipping her head, studying Jadzia’s closed-off face, “That Dukat threatened to kill my mother and that’s why she stayed with him?”

“No, not…” Jadzia pinched the fabric of her pants, frowning. “Well, yes. No.”

Kira just stared at her and waited.

“Nerys,” said Jadzia, leaning back on her hands, slumping further into herself even as her voice solidified. “What was the life expectancy of workers in the processing center here? Back then?”

“Um,” said Kira, confused. “Why?”

“What was it?”

“Not long, I suppose,” said Kira. “The Cardassians didn’t exactly encourage a healthy work environment. No such thing as weekends. Or healthcare.”

“Right, and what about the labor camps on planet?”

“Same situation. Probably worse. Why?”

“And what was the typical reaction from Cardassians when a Bajoran resisted?”

“Oh they loved it. They gave us medals and cake.”

Jadzia narrowed her eyes. Kira rolled her eyes. “You know it was violence, Jadzia.”

“So, given all that.” Jadzia waved a hand. “What were your mother’s choices?”

Kira looked down at her hands, which were clenched.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” said Kira. “But I was there, too. I had the same choices. I don’t hate her, you know?” she caught Jadzia’s wide eyes, almost desperately. “I don’t hate her. I just wish…”

“She’d been more like you?” asked Jadzia softly. “Been as brave as you?”

Kira’s eyes filled for the millionth time that evening, and she dropped her face into her palms. Jadzia still didn’t touch her, for which she was almost insanely grateful.

“Do you wish she’d had to suffer like you did? Be as strong as you’ve had to be?”

“Jadzia,” choked Kira. “I really can’t. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Jadzia was quiet, her breaths deep and centering, while Kira wrapped her grief up with a barbed iron cord. Then she spoke again, softer and with less conviction, like she started all her meandering stories.

“You know,” she said. “It took a while for us to recognize the symbionts as conscious creatures.” Kira glanced up at her. Her face was turned up to the window, awash in starlight. She really did love her. “There was a super-volcano eruption a couple million years ago and our biological ancestors had to retreat underground or else be suffocated in the ash and the poisonous atmosphere. And the cold. It was warm underground. And while there wasn’t any sunlight, it was safer. They subsisted for awhile by hunting the creatures who were still able to venture above the surface—fishing in the cavern rivers—eating the roots that dipped low enough for us to scavenge. But they were growing weaker and weaker. Their skin was turning paler and paler.”

She smiled—a real one, this time, hiding nothing.

“And then they met the symbionts. These little grubs swimming around in the extensive underground river systems. The symbionts collected nutrients and radiation all from sources under the surface of the earth. The proto-Trill followed them and studied them. They learned from them. They learned to survive. And some of them learned to speak to them—briefly. The Trill skin had grown so thin and almost transparent that the symbionts could communicate just through touch. They would return the Trill’s thoughts back to them—they would remind them where to go for food at certain times of the year—they would remind them of how to cook it—they would remind them of their lives…”

Kira found herself relaxing from inside out, listening to Jadzia speak. Something of the horror of her day (of her history) faded into a small white noise.

“For thousands of years, the Trill used the symbionts as record-keepers, as pets, as tools. Ancient lords would wear the symbionts around their necks, refreshing them with fluids only once a day. And only the lords were allowed to touch one, to keep one, but symbionts so outnumbered Trill at that time that Lords ended up having many—keeping them locked away from each other and companion touch until the day they would be used. And this was the status quo. Until one day, a Trill lord went too far—and ate a symbiont.”

One of Jadzia’s hands slid over her stomach, over the small lump that was always there, always moving and twisting and living with her. Kira watched her long fingers trace over Dax’s outline.

“And,” Jadzia continued, “As I’ve heard, as it’s been passed down from generation to generation, every symbiont in the world that day went quiet. And then they sent lightning—super-charges originating from their neural-structures—raining down upon the caves and on their hosts. They killed every lord who happened to be in contact with a symbiont at the time. But in the process they nearly wiped themselves out.”

Jadzia sat back up, her other hand going to her stomach, her gaze dropping from the stars to her middle. Her face went slightly shaky, as if she was remembering something not even she was old enough to remember.

“I don’t understand,” said Kira, thickly. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Lela wrote a paper about Trill legal history in law school,” said Jadzia, smiling sadly up at her. Her eyes were wet and Kira ached but she also couldn’t bear the idea of reaching out. “All Trill law comes down to this one moment in history. Nothing has been written since that isn’t based on this.”

“On the symbionts almost going extinct?”

“On the fact that the symbionts felt they had no way out.”

Kira looked at her, breathed, and then threw herself to her feet. She tried to stomp away, then turned back, then turned around again, saw Jadzia’s watching and infuriating face, turned away again, all while Jadzia just continued to sit on the floor in silence. Kira got halfway down the hall, abruptly turned on her heel, marched back and then lent against the window, pointed her finger down at Jadzia’s upturned nose, and said, “Are you ever going to explain what you mean?”

Jadzia just looked up her.

“I know you’re not the ‘type’ to have convictions,” said Kira, feeling herself get nasty. “But you could at least explain your weird academic nonsense before I go insane.”

“‘Liberty finds no refuge in a jurisprudence of doubt,’” said Jadzia, clearly quoting something.

“What does that mean.”

“It’s a decision that Trills made a long time ago. We decided that symbionts had personhood. That their bodies were to be cherished and respected as any Trill. And to demonstrate that, we would no longer wear symbionts as accessories to power. We would take them unto ourselves and keep them like the caves of their home did—until we died.”

Jadzia rose to her feet and stepped just a little closer to Kira.

“We decided that--because bodies are sacred,” she said. “We decided that because choosing to share your body is sacred. And can never, ever be abused. Lela remembers one early legal scholar at the time when joinings were becoming the standard wrote: ‘At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of conscious life.’ Anything that might impugn that…” Jadzia’s eyes drifted down to her symbiont again. “Well that’s fundamentally wrong.”

Kira tilted her head back against the window and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

“I know you would have chosen death, Nerys,” said Jadzia, and Kira could tell she was truly crying now, that if she looked at her dear face she would see the evidence of her hurt—all of if for Kira—like she deserved it. “I know you have chosen death over and over, as the only option you thought you could bear. I know that even if it breaks my heart a thousand times over to think of it.”

“I’m not your damn worm, Dax,” said Kira, her throat strained thought she had barely spoken.

“You’re not your mother, either. You’d rather die than be abused. Than be occupied or attacked or owned.”

Kira closed her eyes hard, feeling sick.

“Except for all the times that you didn’t,” said Jadzia. “You took on months of mid-to-late term pregnancy for a friend. You handed over you body pretty quickly for that, even with the enormous physical toll not just of pregnancy but of an alien living inside you for months. An alien that ultimately was not yours to hold.”

She pressed a hand to her heart. "You took on part of me, when I wanted to meet Lela, do you remember? You let her--me--live in your body, even if for only a moment."

Shaking her head, Kira whispered, “Stop.”

“You gave your body to another alien,” continued Jadzia. “To your gods—which would have destroyed you had Kai Winn not saved your life.”

And suddenly the thing blurring in Jadzia—in her tone, in her presentation, normally so easy to read for Kira—become clear. Jadzia was angry with her.

She looked at her, at the lines of her smile still trying to hide, and she said, breathlessly, “I thought you understood why I did that.”

“I do understand.”

Kira shook her head again, narrowing her gaze, fixing it on the corners of Jadzia’s eyes, which were pinched in a way they typically weren’t.

“You’re…disappointed in me.”

Jadzia held out for one more second before ugly honesty reared. She took a step back and crossed her own arms.

“You just handed off your body and life like it was nothing,” said Jadzia, simply. “You didn’t even say goodbye. And then Odo said you would’ve wanted it. Odo said that to me, as if I'm not intimately familiar with all the things that you think you want because of what you believe.”

“Yes, well, I would’ve wanted it,” said Kira, feeling off-kilter. “I did. I'm not pretending."

"That doesn't mean you felt like you had a choice."

"As if you wouldn't have done the same," responded Kira, bitterly. "As if I haven't watched you walk willingly to your own death to save everyone else from it.”

Jadzia ignored this. “The wormhole alien called you a vessel," she said, her whole body twisting as she said the word, a curse.

“You call yourself a vessel all the time! You and your symbiont! Like the woman I love is just a home for a worm--like the caves you were just talking about."

“So what precisely do you think the right answer is?” shouted Jadzia, eyes flaming up. "What are you trying to say?"

Jadzia was so rarely angry and even more rarely loud in her anger. She kept her deepest convictions close to her chest and she kept her honest righteousness shielded behind a distant intelligence and friendly demeanor. But for all that she performed the curious and impulsive scientist, just there to stare at comets and have a fun time, Jadzia understood commitment in a way Kira had seen in very few people before. Beneath her jokes was a sort of iron jaw that had her stepping to Klingons or captaining ships into battle. For some reason, she appeared to be clenching that jaw now.

“I’m not looking for a right answer,” said Kira.

“Yes, you are,” said Jadzia, unhesitating, somewhat merciless. “You told Winn there was a right answer when all she did was save yours and Jake’s lives.”

“I stand by that! We don’t know what will happen with the evil one out there now! We don’t know and it wasn’t her choice.”

“There is no choice when the other option is death!”

“So you think I’ll be happier believing my mother was just doing what she had to to save her life?” Kira’s hands were in her hair, tugging desperately. “That it’ll make me feel better to think she didn’t actually care for Dukat at all? That she was just violated over and over and—” Kira cut off on half a sob, which she swallowed.

There was quiet.

“No, Nerys,” said Jadzia, the fire gone from her voice. She stepped closer again. “I don’t think anything will make you feel better. I’ve expressed this all wrong. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She held out a hand which Kira grabbed onto so quickly she nearly tripped in the effort. Jadzia pulled her slowly and gently closer until Kira could tuck herself under her long, spotted neck. Arms wrapped lightly around Kira’s shoulders and back, light until Kira squeezed Jadzia’s waist hard and Jadzia returned the pressure.

“The only thing I meant to say, before this all got away from me,” said Jadzia into Kira’s hair. “Was that I think your mother was brave. I think it's okay to think she's brave.”

Kira sobbed once, then twice, into Jadzia’s uniform collar. Then she held her breath until the sobs dissolved in her chest. She tightened her grip on her. Between them, she could feel the Dax symbiont moving on her stomach.

“I think you’re brave, Jadzia,” she said, stuffy nosed and devastated and ridiculous and sad.

“Most people call it reckless,” laughed Jadzia in a whisper.

“You’re as sturdy as a rock,” said Kira. She smiled, just slightly, as she felt Jadzia press a kiss to her forehead, just under her hairline.

“Such flattery,” said Jadzia, obviously grinning, obviously trying to hide how actually flattered she was.

“Just don’t move,” said Kira, pressing her face closer against Jadzia’s shoulder.

Beneath her feet, she could feel the faint tremors of the Station twisting around her space, the many people moving around in its halls and rooms, and she thought of how fragile the whole of it all was, the Station and its parts, floating in such a cold place as the vacuum, yet also how such a body had held so much already, including her mother, including herself and Jadzia, standing together, in each others’ arms.

“I’m here,” said Jadzia. “Not planning on going anywhere.”

#kiradax #my fic #star trek #ds9 #kira nerys #jadzia dax

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luminetti · 6 months

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𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 2

༘⋆Notes: sorry for the wait! This chapter turned out a lot longer than expected and I had more I wanted to include but it was too difficult to fit in. Ch3 will have more conflict, so until then, enjoy some fluff and pure idiocy at the end.

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆[2]┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

It goes without saying that you had absolutely zero plan for taking in a near-corpse. Amongst the various other oversights, you were particularly struggling with finding a way to sneak breakfast into your room every morning. Despite Gale’s remarks, you thought yourself to be fairly crafty. The good ol’ ‘stuff-a-pancake-in-your-pocket’ trick was one of your proudest ideas, even if your company refused to see the ingenuity of your ways. You thought it worked well enough for the time being, but with Gale’s slow healing and several pockets worth of maple syrup, you reluctantly decided to look for other options.

Unfortunately, your search was ultimately cut short one night in the kitchen by none other than Sebastian Neredras, your eldest sibling.

“Put the bread down.” Sebastian spoke from the doorway, arms crossed. Ever since your father had died, Sebastian had taken on a more authoritative role with you and Euphemia. Though you would assume that he had more important things to worry about than interrogating you at eleven at night.

Turning slowly to face him, you slipped the thick piece of focaccia into your dress pocket. “What bread?”

He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Tav Neredras,” he began, hauntingly calm.

Yikes. Full name.

“What is it for?” Sebastian continued, sternly.

From behind him, you could see Euphemia watching from the foyer, distraught.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” He shifted his weight, blocking Euphemia with his body. “Bread. Explain. Now.”

You tore off a piece of the focaccia in your pocket and popped it into your mouth. “Midnight snack?”

Sebastian’s fingers tightened into a fist and he took another slow breath in. Turning around, he diverted his attention to your sister. “Phemie, by Jove, my fist will–lovingly–be through this wall if you don’t tell me this instant.

You focused all your efforts into burning a stare into your poor sister’s eyes. Out of everyone you’ve ever met, she had the loosest tongue by far.

She apologetically met your stare as she blurted out, “He’s a Viscount!”

From the doorway, you watched as Sebastian’s posture visibly stiffened and he turned with bone-chilling fluidity. “And who, exactly, is ‘he?’”

Mustering up your best innocent smile, you cleared your throat. “Gale Dekarios.”

“–of Waterdeep.” Euphemia chimed quietly.

Sebastian hastily strode towards the guest room with Euphemia in tow. He had just barely placed one hand on the door knob when your sister cleared her throat, eyes flashing towards your bedroom door.

In disbelief, Sebastian slowly crouched to his knees as if all energy had finally left his body. His eyes closed and his chest heaved with several drawn out breaths. “Tell me you didn’t.”

You silently teetered on your heels. “I, uh, I think we both know.”

His breath came out all at once in a shaky exhale. “Phemie, please offer the Viscount a proper dinner.” Sebastian slumped against the wall, utterly defeated. “I will set up the guest room.”

“What about-

Sebastian held up a hand, cutting you off with his eyes still closed. “I can’t- I don’t- I’m not even going to start with you.” Pointing to the corner of the dining room, he waved you away. “Just sit. Sit and think about your actions.”

✣ ✣ ✣

To your surprise, a fortnight passed by fairly smoothly. Sebastian most definitely not gotten used to Gale’s presence, but he was handling it… well. Gale was more like a house pet than anything else. You and your siblings each took on different roles when it came to caring for the Viscount. Euphemia started to cook larger portions for each meal while you managed his healing process. Sebastian probably helped in some way as well, though he was quite adamant that it was not his issue to deal with.

Gale seemed to be faring well, despite his situation. You had been routinely checking up on his wound, changing the bandages when needed, and tracking the medication that he was on. Despite your consistent encounters, you knew almost nothing about the Viscount and vice versa. Well, that was until about a couple days after he was ‘accepted’ by Sebastian and moved into the guest room.

It began slowly.

Every so often when you came to check on Gale or bring him dinner, he somehow found a way to slip in a question about your personal life. Your favorite colors, foods, flowers, all of which he managed to slowly pluck out of you, night after night. Honestly, you were pretty astonished at his perseverance. However, you were perhaps even more astonished at your own reciprocity, easily relinquishing facts and anecdotes about yourself each time he asked. You were fond of most colors with the exception for certain shades of orange, you could not stand tomatoes, and you were particularly fond of eglantine flowers.

Occasionally you even found yourself asking questions back to him. After only a week you learned that he prefers the color violet, enjoys fancy wine, and his favorite flower is–appropriately–the violet.

“I never did ask,” you began one night, sitting down for the routine bandage change. “How did you manage to get this?” With the wound exposed you could see the ripples where the bullet tore his skin alongside the taut scarring that covered the edges.

Gale bristled as you pressed a cold cloth dipped in medicine against his abdomen. “It was a duel,” he explained. “I had received a letter from someone, requesting to meet on the outskirts of Waterdeep.”

You removed the cloth to apply more ointment. “Sounds like quite some havey-cavey business.”

He chuckled, humorlessly. “I’d have realized it sooner had the letter been adequately labeled with the true correspondent.” Sitting up, Gale leaned towards you, allowing for easier access to his wound. “In place of the woman I was expecting was a man who demanded an affair of honor–a duel, in her name.”

For some reason you couldn’t fight back a sharp pain in your chest at the mention of his old flame. Well… you assumed it was old. “I suppose tabletop games are more your style,” you offered, attempting to liven the gloomy atmosphere.

Gale let out a heavy breath, his body easing at your change of subject, seemingly relieved. He placed a hand on the new white gauze covering his abdomen, thanking you quietly as you collected the old bandages and exited his room.

As you walked down the hallway, you found yourself heading towards the withdrawing room. Adorning the walls were your paintings from over the years, a variety of several still life subjects and a couple portraits of your siblings. The soft glow of moonlight beamed into the room, illuminating the thin layer of dust on each surface, appropriate for the lack of usage in the past couple months. You had been so occupied with Gale’s condition that you hadn’t had the chance to even think about painting. The more you examined your surroundings, bittersweet nostalgia festered in your gut, tugging you towards your abandoned easel.

A quick paint wouldn’t do any harm, you thought to yourself, placing a fresh canvas on the platform and settling into the stool. You stared at the large white cloth for a couple minutes, considering your subjects. There was still life of course, but you had painted pretty much everything in the room already. Well, everything except the old chessboard. For as long as you remember, that chessboard had never moved from the small table in the corner. Sebastian had spent hours in your youth attempting to teach you the most popular openings, despite your inability to remember which way the ‘horse’ piece moved. A subject for another time, you decided, looking for something else.

A faint glow of purple caught your eye through the window. Looking closer, you spotted a small patch of violets in the garden, accompanied by various other colorful flowers.That’s right, Euphemia loved floriography and had taken an interest in gardening several years ago. Before your father’s death, she had several flora related projects. One of which being an attempt at a rainbow garden with ombre flowers packed neatly in the dirt.

Instinctively, you felt your hand rise, placing quick strokes along the canvas and blocking out the basic shapes of the garden. Once you were satisfied with the sketch, you fished around for your palette and paints, blowing off the dust and flicking away dried pieces stuck to the tubes. It didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm, painting like you had years ago. Maybe it was the way your mind quietly wandered, or the soft scratch of bristles on canvas, but you found yourself drifting off as you worked. Your movements slowed until finally, you let your head rest in your arms beside the abandoned paint palette.

The next thing you knew, a warm palm gently nudged you awake. The moonlight from before had been replaced with bright morning sunbeams that bore down onto you and your painting as you awoke.

“A bit of an odd place to sleep, but whatever suits your fancy,” a warm voice resounded in your ear, startling away your grogginess.

You jolted awake to see Gale observing your unfinished painting, looking it over.

“Oh, good morning.” You yawned, stretching your aching back.

Gale’s attention turned back to you, standing quietly off to the side.

Gale?

Standing?

Snapping upright in your stool you stared at him, standing right in front of you as if perfectly fine. “What are you doing up?” You rushed to your feet, placing a hand underneath his arm and hustling him into the chair beside the old chessboard.

“There’s no need for this,” he complained, but sat anyway despite his protests.

Surely it hadn’t healed that fast?

You hesitantly nudged the bandage covering his stitches, waiting for a response. To your surprise, he made no move to flinch or push you away.

“Nothing?”

He shrugged in reply.

“How bizarre..” you pondered out loud. What could have possibly quickened the process so much? You certainly weren’t that good at medicine.

If Gale was surprised, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked quite bored of the topic, as if his good health was old news. Instead, his focus turned to the dusty chess board.

“Do you play?” he asked, instinctively setting up the board.

It had certainly been a while. You barely remembered what the pieces did. You knew the pawn and King can one square per turn, but that’s about where your memory left off.

“Of course I play,” you confidently countered, scooting your chair to sit across from him. “Quite masterfully, actually.”

Gale’s brows rose in disbelief. “”Really now? Well, I’ll be sure to perform at my highest.”

In a matter of about four turns, he had your King completely pinned in checkmate. From across the table, you glowered at the board.

“Yes, quite masterfully,” he chuckled, amused at your bewildered expression.

“These things are useless.” You toyed with the pawn between your fingers, tossing it back onto the board where it rolled miserably in a circle before coming to a pitiful stop. “What even is this?” You picked up a strange paintbrush-looking piece.

Gale stifled a laugh, watching you scowl at the small piece of wood like it killed your entire family. “That would be a bishop,” he spoke as he gently took it from you. Placing it on the board, he slid the piece diagonally across the squares.

“As far as it wants?”

“As far as it wants.”

You hummed, absently watching as he deftly reset the board. Gale seemed brighter today. Gone was his sickly hue, replaced with a much warmer liveliness.

He made two moves, starting by moving one of his pawns two spaces forward, then pushing out his bishop several paces diagonally.

“This is an opening. Bishop’s opening, if you want to get technical,” he told you, gesturing to the board. “It’s a specific series of moves to set up for a specific strategy.”

You stared as he deftly played against himself, taking pieces back and forth until he had won. And well, lost.

There was a sense of expertise in the way he moved around the board, as if years had been spent practicing. You found yourself wondering if he taught himself everything he knew, or if it was learned from someone else. Either way it was certainly impressive.

“So you’re an egghead?”

Gale shuddered dramatically, clutching his heart. “Harsh words! I’ll have you know, I prefer ‘well-read.’”

Alright, sure. You admit he was charismatic. The way he looked at you through eyes creased by a smile never failed to elicit a strange uplifted atmosphere. You couldn’t help but feel a bit lighter than air whenever he was around.

“My brother used to be really interested in chess,” you started. The ambience of warm sunlight and good company left you relaxed enough to begin rambling about whatever came to mind. “He tried to teach me but I didn’t get it at all so he gave up and tried to teach Euphemia, but that didn’t work out cause she felt bad about ‘getting her soldiers killed’ so he gave up again.”

You told him about your attachment to the knight piece, which you only recently learned was actually called a ‘knight’ and not a ‘horse’ like you originally thought.

On the subject of horses, you had one as a stuffed animal, actually. Bought from a local vendor and gifted to you by Sebastian for your tenth birthday. He had suggested horse-like names, like Chestnut, or Horace. But in childlike fashion, you settled on the name ‘Horse.’

“How creative,” Gale spoke, snapping you back into reality.

You stared at him puzzled for several seconds until coming to the mortifiying realization that you had bombarded him with tales of your childhood stuffed animal.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he grinned, a glint of mirth in his eyes.

The room felt significantly warmer than before, making you squirm in your seat. “You should’ve said something sooner.”

Gale chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, almost too earnestly to be genuine. “On the contrary, I’m a bit disappointed that I said anything at all. You showed no signs of stopping.”

“Please, don’t remind me.”

He waved you off, leaning back in his seat. “You listened to my chess talk. It’s only fair.”

You pursed your lips, still a bit mortified. “It’s your turn in that case. Drone on.”

“Drone?” He dramatically gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I’m offended, I was under the impression you were interested. Is chess not riveting to you?”

“What can I say? As a chess master, I need something more mentally stimulating.”

Something glinted behind Gale’s eyes as you spoke, breathing slowly out his nose as he watched you. As he leaned forward his earring swung lightly, catching your attention. You hadn’t noticed the little metal piece before. Circular in shape but adorned with a small purple gemstone, shining brighter than the average jewel. It seemed far more ostentatious than jewelry you expected Gale to wear. Somehow, the gaudy earring never seemed to catch your attention over the man who bore it.

“Something more stimulating?” He repeated, thoughtfully. “What do you know about mages?”

The sudden change in topic startled you back into attention. Mages were certainly uncommon, only few known people being able to wield such a power. Some thought that mages were too dangerous to live amongst the Ton. Others thought mages were nothing more than an old wives tale until a high ranking noble had revealed their innate abilities, but you had been busy in your painting phase while it happened. You hardly remembered how it ended. You silently chided yourself for not paying more attention to the happenings of the Ton. Perhaps Euphemia would remember. You made a mental note to ask her eventually.

Between nonbelievers and

“I know they exist,” you started, raking your brain for any helpful bits of information. “I know they are quite rare. I’ve never met one if that’s what you were asking.”

Gale inhaled shortly, shoulders rigid and tense. He fidgeted with the fabric of his shirt, gently rolling it between his fingers. “And if you met one, what would you think of them?”

“Did I know them prior to knowing they were a mage?” You asked, unsure of where he was headed.

He nodded.

With hesitation, you continued. “Then they would still be the same person, would they not? I don’t think it would change my impression of them.”

Gale exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, shoulders easing slightly as he relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, I agree,” he replied, letting his hand return to the tabletop and releasing the fabric he was toying with. “Are you busy tonight?”

Your mind spun in confusion at another quick change in topic. “I believe so? Why do you ask all this?”

He waved you off, earring twinkling as he abruptly stood from the table. The air felt lighter than before and Gale now wore a bright smile, eagerly putting the chair back in its place. “I’d like to see you back here tonight after dinner. I have something to show you that I think you’d like.”

Feeling your cheeks redden, you sputtered. Meeting you late at night? Has he always been so forward? “But we aren’t even courting yet.”

Gale paused in shock as he failed to stop his smile from growing, his own ears beginning to bloom with pink. “Courting?” He repeated, voice soft and honeyed, the world pleasantly rolling off his tongue.

The feelings of mortification rushed back to you and all of a sudden you felt transparent in front of him. “I have greatly misunderstood, haven’t I?”

Blinking, he seemed to startle himself back into reality, clearing his throat. “My apologies, I hadn’t intended to imply… Not that I wouldn’t- I mean, only if you wanted- I just-” Gale stuttered, nervously cutting himself off and refusing to meet your gaze.

“I’ll be there.”

Gale’s eyes caught yours and he took a deep breath. “I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” He gave you one last look before withdrawing from the room, leaving you alone as the door swung closed.

taglist:

@vhaldren

#gale dekarios x reader #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 x tav #bg3 x reader #gale dekarios x tav #gale of waterdeep #gale x reader #alternate universe #bg3 #gale dekarios #wizard of waterdeep #regency #tav bg3 #gale x tav #gale romance #regency au

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