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ivystoryweaver · 11 months

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With You part 5

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Summary: Jake tries to fall asleep beside you, Steven is there to adore you in the morning and Marc is still struggling. What happens when Jake breaks his lifelong silence?

Pairings: Jake Lockley x reader, Steven Grant x reader, Marc Spector x reader. Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings/notables: Fluff, longing, complicated relationship stuff. Angst. References to past abuse. Struggles with addiction/alcoholism and its effects. Probably inaccurate description of addiction. self-worth probs. Violence is mentioned. kissing and touching, implied sex but no smut, nothing explicit or gender-specific. Let me know if I missed a warning. inaccurate DID, based on the show. Not beta'd we die like arthur harrow in the back of jake's car

Dividers by saradika

PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...

Oh, he liked the idea of getting under your skin. He liked it a lot.

“Really?” He teased. “You mean you don’t scare the shit out them in the middle of the night? Follow them around? Drive them crazy...wearing that?” He threw your words back at you.

What a little shit.

“No,” you steadily answered him, your gaze open and honest. “I guess I’m just here to drive you crazy.”

With little convincing, Jake got ready for bed, so he could join you in finally getting some rest. Your 3am alarm went off as he was washing up, so you silenced the one for 4:00.

Conveniently it was your day off, so no other alarm was set. Steven did have one class mid-day, but otherwise, also had the day off.

As Jake slid under the covers, you reached to turn off the bedside lamp. Then you were left in the same position you found yourself in that first night.

The night he held your hand.

Remembering what you'd whispered to him in the dark that night, you softly uttered, "I'm glad you came back to me, Jake."

"I'll always come back to you," he swiftly replied, his voice the softest you'd ever heard it.

Slowly, you reached for him, resting your hand over his. He immediately slid his fingers through yours, just like the first night, and whispered goodnight.

Jake always came home while you were asleep, and he didn't even front every day. Usually he was only there when Khonshu bid him take to the nighttime alleyways and rooftops, or when Marc and Steven were in an exorbitant amount of danger...

...which was unfortunately more often than either of them (or you) were aware. Marc had a long and colorful past, in which he'd made many enemies - some of them, through no fault of his.

Abused, with an undiagnosed disorder, there were sections of his life missing, and problems he just couldn't control. That, combined with blackouts from drinking and a mighty temper, when provoked, had left a trail of...unfortunate mishaps. And pissed off former associates and enemies.

Time eased many grievances, and Marc had handled several problems on his own, years ago. But even after Jake himself had dispensed with Arthur Harrow, there still lingered fingers of his network. And those weren't the only problems.

Just last week, Jake had disposed of a man who had followed you home from work two nights in a row. He simply watched the first night, choosing restraint, but after he saw the mysterious man following you a little too closely the second night, well - that man did not live to see a third.

At first, Jake wondered how Marc could be so naive. He expected that more from Steven. Well, not naivety, exactly, but a general "chin up" outlook on life that the he radiated.

Steven, although far more direct, outspoken and cautious than most people gave him credit for, was an overall ray of sunshine. In protecting the system, Jake wasn't just protecting his own body, or Marc, who he had known since his youth, he was protecting Steven - the one Marc simply could not do without.

And Jake supposed that's what it all came down to. Marc had settled into a beautiful domesticity with both you and Steven. And maybe that was why Marc couldn't perceive the danger you were all in.

Jake was happy to keep it that way. If Marc was not only safe, but thriving, if Steven was growing and learning, putting his beautiful mind to work, and the two of them had someone they loved? Then Jake had done his job. As long he stayed on top of things, it could all work out.

But the drinking relapse was a problem. And he hadn't counted on you meeting him.

Jake had often wondered how Marc and Steven - for lack of a better word - shared you. He wondered if they ever got jealous. Or if you ever showed any preference for one over the other. That's why he thought it best to stay out of it. Not only did he hope to keep his head down and do his job, he was concerned that getting mixed up with you would only confuse him.

That all went right to hell when he carelessly barreled into your bedroom the other night, having forgotten to have Marc or Steven check in with you earlier, or go to bed beside you. He was equally panicked and wonderfully elated for this mishap.

And now, as your soft breathing slowed, he tried to pretend this night was like every other time he'd slipped through the window to find you asleep.

But it wasn't and he couldn't.

He wished you were still awake. He wished he had more time to hear your voice, to watch the flurry of you around the room, picking up his things, worrying after him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he remembered the press of your body against his - the soft satin hugging your shape.

Shit. He could use a cigarette. Or maybe he could beat the hell out of someone.

It was difficult to blow off steam when Marc - a.k.a. their body - couldn't drink and with Marc and Steven engaged to you. Jake tried to respect that. He had the right to his own life, sure, but he just couldn't bring himself to "blow off steam" in that way since you got engaged. You weren't his, but he was faithful to you anyway.

As if sensing his irritation in your sleep, you rolled over, burying your face into his shoulder, snuggling up to him comfortably.

Jake was walking a very fine line between soothed and riled up. If your leg made its way across his thigh, he was going to lose his shit.

Only a few hours later, as the sun struggled to climb into a gray sky, you woke up, tangled in someone. Wondering who might greet you each morning always brought the tiniest smile to your face, but on this morning, just for a moment, you wondered if it was Jake.

Your body stiffened. Did you sleep like this for the past few hours? Did it bother him? You hadn't ever thought of what you might do in the night when Jake got home from his escapades.

As the man beside you continued to breathe evenly, in and out, you decided that three hours of sleep was definitely not enough.

Hours later, you awoke to the domestic sounds of the kitchen. You smelled cooked food and heard the sink's water running, along with the clang of a pot or saucepan.

The sun had made its way through the morning fog, and a sliver of it poured through the crack between the drawn drapes and the window.

After stretching like a very satisfied cat, you freshened up in the bathroom and headed back to your closet to decide what to wear for your day off.

Steven was waiting for you on your bed, perched on the edge.

"Morning, my love," he hummed cheerily, his eyes raking down your body appreciatively. "See you've got on those nice satin pajamas I gave you."

Glancing down at yourself, you softly smiled. "Indeed."

"You're so bloody lovely," he breathed, eyes darkening as he reached out his hand to beckon you back to bed.

Feeling absolutely adored and a little frisky, you skittered over, ready to pounce, when he held up two hands to stop you.

"Careful, darling, I've made you breakfast. Or brunch, rather. It's eleven o'clock," he laughed, nodding toward the tray sitting in the middle of the bed.

Eyes wide, you beamed - but it didn't stop you from climbing onto his lap, just...carefully.

"You are an angel." Locking your arms behind his neck, you dragged your hips forward until you were flush against his body. Rubbing your nose against his, you giggled as he chased after your lips.

"Feeling cheeky this morning, are we?" he tutted after trying and failing to kiss you a few times. "Come here, you." Gently gripping your face in one hand, he opened his mouth hotly over yours. Sucking your lips one at a time, he teased you right back, easing one strong arm around your back. His forearm flexed, holding you firmly as he thrust up against you.

"Steven," you gasped, shifting in his lap to feel him just where you wanted him. Licking into his mouth, you pushed your fingers into his curls, tugging just hard enough for him to jerk deliciously against you again.

The two of you went on that way until he laid back on the bed, pulling you on top of him.

"Steven, Steven, wait--"

Too late. The tray carrying your breakfast spilled all over the bed, some of the jam-covered toast landing on Steven's adorably oversized sleeve.

"Shit, I'm so sorry." Scurrying off the bed, you rapidly gathered up the mess, hands bumping into Steven's as he struggled to help you.

"Thank goodness I've left the tea on the table then, yeah?"

You burst out laughing.

You and Steven cleaned up the bed, finished breakfast (at the table) and dressed in cozy clothes for a day off together. Steven decided missing one class wouldn't hurt anything, since he had high marks in every course.

"Thank you for taking care of me this morning, my love," you sighed contentedly, draping your legs across his lap as you relaxed on the couch. "I noticed you pulled the drapes closed so I could sleep in."

"Oh...must've been Marc, I s'ppose," he mused, rubbing up and down your leg. "Wasn't me."

"Oh, okay. But it was you that cleaned up the broken bottle the other morning, right? Before I woke up and made breakfast for Marc?"

Steven's head whipped around so fast. "Sorry, what? Marc broke a bottle? Darling--"

"It wasn't like that, I promise. It was an accident," you soothed. Reaching for his hand, you squeezed it gently, forgetting, in that moment, who could have cleaned up the bottle.

"Everything's a bit odd lately, innit?" He spoke up after a few moments. "Khonshu scaring the life out of Marc like that, deceivin' us both. Bloody stupid pigeon."

"I'm sorry, baby." You felt a shade guilty having talked to Jake twice when Marc and Steven had yet to even meet him.

"Not your fault, love. The old bird's the one to blame. Him and this other mysterious bloke I've got up here." He tapped one finger to his forehead.

"Jake, you mean." You eyed him cautiously. Feeling like you hadn't seen Steven as much for the past few days, you felt the need to confess - catch him up. "I talked to him again last night. Did Marc tell you we'd met?"

Dark eyes cut over to yours - unreadable - a rarity in your warm and open Steven. "Didn't have to. Spoke to him myself."

You gasped a little dramatically. "Y-you talked to Jake? He talked to you?"

"A bit, yeah," Steven sighed. "A bit. Might have told us we were still entangled with Khonshu so Marc didn't have to wake up in an alley like that. It's no bloody wonder he's had a rough go of it."

Gently rubbing your thumb over his knuckles, you inched a little closer to him on the couch. "So...you're angry with him then. With Jake."

Shaking his head, Steven's gaze dropped. "He's got his own life I s'ppose. Rather used to the way things are with Marc, is all."

"Must be hard, sweetheart," you sweetly sympathized, wishing you could fix any and everything for these men you loved.

"Not your fault," he softly repeated, reaching up to caress your cheek. "He does seem a bit taken with you, though."

Oh god.

"R-really," you squeaked. "Jake said that?"

"Not exactly, but...I gathered," Steven mused, his fingers trailing down over your throat to rest along your collarbone, which he traced carefully. "Made me wonder if you'd worn that lovely satin for him, if I'm honest."

You gulped. "Well...not for him, exactly. I did want to talk to him in a little more than Marc's t-shirt. I want answers too."

The corner of his mouth turned slightly upward, reminding you of Jake. "You're a vision in anything, darling - bare legs and t-shirt, or black satin. I certainly understand why he fancies you."

You skin heated up as you tried to decide how to respond.

And just like Jake the previous night, Steven seemed to enjoy you flustered like this. Giving you a devilish smile, he trailed his fingers down your arm.

"Steven...you're my fiancé," you finally managed, a little breathless. "Jake and I have only spoken twice. It will take a little more than crawling in the window at night to get to know one another."

Nodding, Steven asked, "But you would...like to get to know him?"

"Of course I would," you instantly answered, as if it were obvious. "Of course I want to know someone in our lives like this - part of you and Marc, and...honestly, someone who has you all out at night doing god knows what."

Reaching for your fiancé, you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Besides, I doubt Jake said he fancies me," you chuckled. "Doesn't really sound like him."

"Ohhh, it doesn't, does it?" Steven laughed out. Studying you closely, he added, "Would you like to know what he really said? 'Bout you?"

Spellbound, you nodded as Steven leaned in close. "I'm not going to tell you. That's between you two. But I will tell you what I think, if you care to know."

Climbing across his lap, you touched your forehead to his. "As long as it's something good, baby."

"Oh it is," he breathed against your mouth.

He never told you. But you did finish what you'd started in the bedroom.

After all the recent late night activities, plus a vigorous couple of rounds in bed with Steven, your sated bodies drifted off to sleep...

...which inevitably led to you waking up from your nap, wondering who would be greeting you. The flat was quiet and you were alone.

Feeling a little more relaxed and rested than you had felt in days, you found the clothes Steven had yanked off your body just a couple hours before. You didn't want to waste one more second of your shared day off by sleeping.

After checking the bathroom and the living room, you finally found a note in the kitchen from Marc.

On the roof. - M

Finding some shoes and Marc's tan hoodie, you grabbed your phone, realizing Marc had sent you the same message via text, just in case.

A few minutes later, you made your way out to enjoy the chilly but decently sunny day. A rare treat indeed.

"Hey there," you sweetly greeted, walking up beside Marc, purposely bumping your shoulder against his. "Where's your jacket? It's cold."

He glanced over at you, smirking. "You're wearing the one I like. Looks better on you anyway."

Even though Marc was a little taller than you were, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders as if it might warm him up.

"What are you doing?" He chuckled, already a bit cheered up by your presence.

"I'm protecting you. Like I said, it's cold."

Glancing down at you, he shook his head, amused, while his heart flared with adoration. You were always taking care of him in one way or another. He could never deserve you.

"Come here," he whispered, pulling you into his arms, folding you close. "There, now I'm warm."

"Good," you returned, nuzzling into his neck.

He held you in silence for a few minutes, rubbing up and down your back lovingly.

From what little you knew of Jake, you were fairly certain that Marc was the quietest of his alters. It was nice sometimes, to just be together in contented stillness.

But unlike Jake, there was no one in the world you knew better than Marc. And he was neither content, nor prone to remain still for much longer. Itching to prod about what troubled him, you waited longer still. You had learned to wait him out and he had learned to trust you...confide in you.

"I, uh..." he cleared his throat, breaking the silence after a while. "I came up here because I was thinking about...having a drink."

Oh.

Releasing you, as you knew he would after an admission like that, he folded his well defined arms over his chest. "Sorry." He stared out over the city, wondering what you would think of him - of how he kept letting you down.

Matching his pose, you gave him just enough space to confess, while keeping close enough to ground him.

"Sorry for what?"

Huffing out an irritable sigh, he frowned. "You know what. Sorry for wanting to. For...fucking everything up, for letting you down."

"I see," you softly returned. "Is that all?"

Turning his head, he started at you. "Is that not enough? You need a longer list?"

"No," you shrugged, keeping your gaze fixed on the cityscape. "Just asking if there's anything else you're trying to punish yourself for today."

"There's a never-ending, extremely long fucking list," he huffed, rolling his eyes. "Where do I even begin?"

Turning your body to face him, you waited a moment for him to calm down. "How about we start with what brought you up here today? Did something happen? Did you talk to Steven? Or Jake? Or maybe Addiction is just being the annoying bitch that Addiction is?"

You could see that he was already relieved to have you facing him, engaging with him. Marc could fight with the empty, thin air if he wanted to, because the person he fought hardest with was himself.

"I did...talk to Jake," he finally confessed, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "He, uh...he actually apologized...for what happened in the alley, with Khonshu."

"Okay," you slowly nodded, your heart rate doubling at the thought of Marc and Jake interacting. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Like an idiot," he huffed, pushing a hand through his hair. "I should have known that Khonshu would never leave us alone." His hands landed on his hips - a trademark Marc-is-annoyed stance. "I should have known it wasn't safe, especially for you."

"What does that mean?" you hesitantly questioned. Surely he didn't mean he was unsafe for you, or Jake was... You started to worry for just a moment, that he would try to do one of those stupid 'you're safer without me' speeches that superheroes were always doing in films.

Like hell. Khonshu could shove his bony beak right up his bony ass. He was not fucking with your engagement, or your life.

Seeing your distress, Marc reached for your shoulders. "Jake saved your life last week," he explained. "Someone was following you home from work."

"He...what?" You gasped. "Who? Jake told you this?"

"Don't know who," Marc replied, his jaw clenching in fury at the thought of anyone even noticing you, let alone trying to stalk you. And to think he had no idea - no inkling that you were in danger... it was unbearable. "Doesn't matter. He's gone now. I just can't believe I let that happen to you and I didn't even realize..."

Releasing you, he paced a few steps away, and back again. Back and forth, punishing himself. For not perceiving that danger still followed him around - followed you. For not being the one to save you. For not recognizing someone else was in his mind, in their body. For being the absolute most useless and pointless of his alters. For all these things compiling and making him want to drown it all at the bottom of a bottle. For being a worthless alcoholic. For being like her...

Marc was the walking embodiment of the phrase, 'that escalated quickly...'

You knew it was bad once he stopped pacing and dug the heels of his hands into his forehead. Steven would probably be joining you momentarily. Or maybe Jake.

"Marc?" You softly called, gently reaching for his wrists to stop him hitting himself in the head. You didn't pull or try to halt his motion, you simply allowed your fingers to circle his wrists. As soon as he realized that his banging motion was jerking your arms too, he stopped, allowing you to hold onto his wrists, rubbing your thumbs carefully over his skin.

"There you are," you soothed, granting him the most gentle smile and pulling his hands down to his chest. "I think you kept this conversation going without me. Probably started telling yourself a whole lot of bullshit...does that sound about right?"

Sometimes you would undercut the most dramatic of his meltdowns with deceptively gentle sarcasm. It always seemed to disarm Marc - your comments showed him your tenderheartedness rather than your slight teasing feeling like mockery. You truly had a gift for it.

You didn't wait for his verbal answer. His silence was compliance. You kept hold of his wrists, there against his chest, and tried to fill in the blanks.

"I'm guessing you're blaming yourself for not knowing everything that's ever going to happen, for not predicting the future, for not knowing every corner of your mind, and for being afflicted with an addiction. Am I close?"

His jaw clenched, this time in anguish, rather than fury.

"You don't...you don't have to do this," he choked, avoiding your gaze. "You shouldn't have to do this."

"Like I hell I shouldn't," you shot back. "I marrying you in 52 days. And on that day, I'm going to vow to love you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health - you know the rest. This is exactly what I should be doing."

"I'm sorry," he brokenly whispered. "I'm sorry I'm like this. I hate it. I hate..."

"What are you like, sweetheart? How is it that you think you should be?"

Marc shook his head, his eyebrows pinched with worry. "I-I don't even have a job or go to school, or always make you smile or feel better, like Steven. I can't even protect you, like Jake. I have nothing to give you. I can't think of one reason to even--"

"Don't you dare," you warned. "Don't you dare compare yourself to them - they are a part of you." Releasing a shaky sigh, you realized then how bad things must have gotten for Marc before he ever even picked up a bottle.

This was deeper than one encounter with Khonshu. He was calling his whole self-worth into question, comparing himself to Steven and now Jake. He hadn't failed you. Maybe you had failed him.

"Look, I don't claim to be any kind of an expert on addiction or DID or marriage," you explained to him. "I only know what I know. When Jake saved my life, you were there. You are a part of him. And-and Steven - his amazing mind is your mind too. This addiction you have - they all have it! I understand you are distinct people, and I respect that. And I don't pretend to know what you're going through or what it feels like to be you, but baby..."

Squeezing his hands, you peered up at him pleadingly. "You were my first love. I knew you first. I loved you first. You are the reason I'm here. And Steven. And Jake. We all love you, Marc and we need you. We're with you. Who else is going to help Steven remember to do his homework? Or make my coffee the way I like it? Or fix the sink every time it leaks?

"Who is going to make me feel like the most special person in the world, make me laugh, make me the best toast for breakfast--"

"Uh, that would be Steven," Marc admitted, his voice softening. "Steven does those things for you."

Thinking back through what you'd just said, you nodded. "True. He does make better toast than you but his coffee-making skills are shit."

Marc cracked a smile. Just a tiny one.

"And you do make me laugh. And make me feel special. Why do you think Steven is the only one who does that?"

"Because...I don't know, because he's so good at it," Marc shrugged, calming down a little more. Your candor was somehow soothing because he never had to wonder where he stood with you.

"Baby, where do you think he gets that from?" You stared at him pointedly, waiting for him to get it. "How many years did you try to protect him, to keep him safe?"

"Yeah, but I fucked that up too," he argued. "He was pissed when he found out about me, remember I told you that."

"Only a first," you reminded him. "But since then, you're literally his best friend. You keep him grounded. And I know it's true for Jake too. You're his moral center."

"Really," Marc scoffed, "then he's fucked."

You rolled your eyes. "You are. From what little I know of Jake, he doesn't seem all that bothered by violence... by doing whatever he feels he needs to do, for you or for Khonshu. Don't you see?"

Marc shook his head.

"When you have to use violence, you hate it, because it was used on you. You've agonized over the lives you've taken, because you value life. What is more morally centered than that?"

Finally releasing your hands, Marc rubbed his face with a long sigh. "I told myself I wasn't going to do this to you. That I was just going to go to a meeting and talk to you after. But...but I thought if I left to go to a meeting that I might stop by the store and there would be a drink, you know, just waiting..."

His hands found their way back to his hips. "What do I do?" He gazed at you as if everything in the world hanged on your answer.

"This," you said confidently. "You take a beat...take a breath, talk to me. Exactly this, baby. Everything you need to be doing, you are doing right now: admitting you're tempted to drink, stopping and thinking first, going to meetings..."

You counted his victories off on your fingers, "Using your support systems, being honest about your feelings, even the really fucking hard ones. This is exactly what you do, Marc. You are literally my hero."

Completely taken aback, his lip trembled. "W-what? No...I-I'm not."

Folding your arms over your chest, you narrowed your eyes, waiting a beat.

"You're not? Shit. I must have been thinking of someone else then." Cracking a grin, you inched toward him slowly. "You're so damn stubborn, Marc Spector, but you have met your match. Game fucking on."

Reaching for his wrists, still planted defiantly on his hips, you pulled his hands into yours. "Now, is there anything I can do to make you feel better today? I could walk you to your meeting? Or fix you some matzah ball soup? I've been practicinggg," you sang, a little playfully.

Sometimes acting like a dork really cheered up your grumpy fiancé. Maybe it would work.

"Please, god no," Marc laughed out, "it was more like matzah meal sludge. I think I could have built a sandcastle with it."

Giggling, you released his hands, sliding your arms around his torso. "Okay, fair enough. Maybe we'll do something else then."

"Yeah, like what?" He shot back, some of the tension finally draining out of his tense body as he wrapped his arms around your back.

"How about a massage?" You suggested. "You love it when I play with your hair. You could lie down on my lap, relax..."

"You're just trying to get my head between your legs, aren't you?" Marc chuckled, narrowing his eyes.

You smiled innocently up at him. "Always."

"Come on, it's freezing out here," he laughed, guiding you back toward the doorway with his arm around your shoulders.

"Still feel like a drink?" You asked, your candor never ceasing to amaze him.

"Only if you make me eat your matzah ball soup," he teased.

Just him joking was a good thing. And he probably would have you walk him to a meeting later in the day. One step at a time.

"You're really doing it, you know? I'm really proud of you," you sweetly affirmed as the two of you made your way back down to your flat.

"Thank you," Marc evenly answered, after a long silence. He hadn't really been sure how to reply until the two of you were back inside your living room. "For everything."

"One day at a time, my love. Today, you're doing it. You're doing everything right."

Wondering what he would ever do without you, Marc pulled you close, gently swaying with you in the silence of your flat. He had always felt so hard to love - his childhood had made sure of that. But you loved him hard.

@stormydaysxx laaundromat @kindlover @spxctorsslxt @deezisnotreal

@rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra this--is--music @i-still-dont-like-your-face

idk if all the tags work. I tried!

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euphoricosmo · 1 year

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Smutty Reccomends 18+

because i’m a whore for emotionally unavailable middle aged fictional men who can break my back and rearrange my guts, I’ve decided to compile a list of some of my favorites written by a lot of you unholy creatures out there😗

this list is clearly 18+ so MDNI pls and thank you🙂

Moon Boys

Office Party — Marc Spector x Fem! reader @romanarose — it was a party in my ovaries after reading this🙂

Praise Worthy — Steven Grant x fem! reader @starks-hero

Satisfactory Pt. 2 — Jake Lockley x fem! reader @welcometostayingawake JESUS. the amount of times i’ve gone back to read part one and two got me a front row seat on satan’s lap.

Tag Team — Marc Spector x fem! reader x Steven Grant x Jake Lockley @babyboibucky lawd have merthy🏃🏻‍♀️

Venus, Planet of Love — Steven Grant x fem! reader @peterthepark

Cracked Perfection — Jake Lockley x reader @jake-g-lockley just.. this man has me in a chokehold.

A Long Night — Steven Grant x reader/Marc Spector x reader/ Jake Lockley x reader @myfictionaldreams

Sunshine — Marc Spector x fem! reader @readerthatreadsss

Forbearance — Marc Spector x f! reader @inklore

Joel Miller

Morning Delight — no outbreak joel x fem! reader @ozarkthedog

Mine Truly and Forever part two — joel miller x fem/afab! reader @me-and-your-husband

The Third Date — pre-outbreak joel x fem! reader @guess-my-next-obsession good god.

The Reunion — joel miller x fem! reader @apenny4thots

Moment’s Silence — joel miller x fem! reader @nexusnyx

First Rays of Dawn — joel miller x fem! reader @deardjo

Miss Sunshine — pre-outbreak joel x neighbor! reader @nexusnyx THIS. one of my absolute favorites

Agent Whiskey

you can hear the song i know you can.

Save a Horse (ride a cowboy) — agent whiskey x fem! reader @deardjarin

Sugar — agent whiskey x fem! reader @punkpascalita

Frank Castle

Fight and Fuck — Frank Castle x reader @chrisevansredbelt

My Girl — Frank Castle x reader @frankcastlescumslut

no. no i no longer have ovaries after this so you’re welcome🫶🏻 might update as i find new favorites to add but until then, please give all these authors the love and reblogs they deserve!!

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xpao-bearx · 1 year

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"Like A Virgin"

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader/Jake Lockley x Fem!Reader/Marc Spector x Fem!Reader

Read Part 1 HERE

Read Part 3 HERE

Read Part 4 HERE

NOTES: Y'ALL the way my jaw literally DROPPED when not even H A L F a minute after I posted the first part, you guys were already exploding my notifs which I wasn't expecting AT ALL I swear Oscar Isaac's really got us sluts in a chokehold O_o

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUU!!! 😭❤️❤️❤️ This is truly wonderful and encourages me a lot, especially since this is my first ever Moon Knight fic AND the first time a story of mine blew up this much! This is also great cuz I've been terribly sick, but of course ✨️priorities✨️ I gotta shower our Moon Boys with some much deserved lovin' and it's just so fucking nice to see that it's paying off! \(^o^)/ I was so happy and inspired that I couldn't resist and just HAD to write this second part ASAP!

Dissociative identity disorder is also briefly mentioned here and if I made any mistakes, then I apologize and please kindly correct me. And I feel like the ending may be a bit rushed, but it's the best my tiny brain could think of!

I'll shut up now and I'm very proud and excited to present... PART 2!!! 🥳 And if you'd like to be tagged for any of the next parts, feel free to tell me!

Also Marc does something very asshole-y here oop

TAGS: @autismsupermusicalassassin @ungracefularchimedes @pimosworld @ababynova @sweatyroadcowboyjudge @anapnovo-blog @am-3-thyst @harrys-tittie @zukoisbabee @wiltedwonderland

Part 2: You made me feel I've nothing to hide

After work, instead of heading home, you rushed straight to the nearest boutique to buy yourself a new dress for tomorrow night. The butterflies in your stomach were doing somersaults and you felt as if you could spontaneously burst into song like in those cheesy musicals your former college roommate was so obsessed with.

You knew the employees were all looking at you oddly as you constantly giggled to yourself like some lovesick schoolgirl while you perused through endless racks of the latest fashion. Of course you knew you were acting ridiculous--crazy--but wasn't that what attraction or, dare you say, love did to you?

Besides, you wanted tomorrow to go perfectly. In your eyes, Steven Grant was already perfect--perfectly imperfect or imperfectly perfect, you didn't know or care which was which. You just knew that you liked him. A lot.

And it relieved and pleased you to the moon and back that he actually felt the same! So, who cares what anyone else thought?

You just hoped that after tomorrow, Steven would like you enough to go on another date. And another. Then another...

Maybe you were looking--wishing--too far into the future, but you swore you could almost hear wedding bells chiming in the distance.

God, is this what happens after being a total virgin for twenty-something years? There was absolutely nothing wrong with being a virgin, but your insecurity bugged you. What if you weren't at all what Steven expected?

But another part of you, a positive ray of sunshine, clobbered all your doubts. For once, you were going to be brave! You were going to take a leap of faith! You were going to control your life!

Because, in the end...it was worth it. Steven was worth it. Sure, you've experienced various crushes throughout your life, but not like this. Not with Steven. This felt more...serious. Adult.

It felt as if right from the get-go crossing fates with "Steven with a V", your life was about to change--for the better.

Of course you were afraid, and yet you've also never been more sure of something in your entire existence. You've been waiting this long and you're glad you did, and now you were ready to jump head first (and head over heels) into whatever adventure was in store for you--with Steven.

You then squealed excitedly when you spotted the perfect dress, ignoring the judgmental stares other customers shot you as you hurriedly grabbed it like a child in a toy store.

Yes, tomorrow was going to be a dream come true.

♡•••🌙•••♡

You arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes early. It was totally embarrassing how eager you were, but you couldn't help yourself. Though at least with how early you were, you snagged a good table overlooking the restaurant's beautiful back garden strung with fairy lights and you can have some time to calm down before Steven came.

And you looked stunning. Your hair tumbled down in elegant waves, light makeup adoring your face and donning the contact lenses you rarely used. And the dress you bought fit like a glove; it was the shortest dress you now owned, stopping around your thighs. It was baby blue and had an off-the-shoulder style with some frills, and it hugged your figure just right.

You felt very self-conscious. You've always fancied clothes like this, but never actually had the guts to wear them--until now. Did it really suit you? But you couldn't deny that you were happy and, truly, isn't that all that mattered?

"Shall I get you started, ma'am?" A waitress snapped you back to reality and you shook your head.

"Not yet, thank you. I'm still waiting for my...date." The word made you blush furiously, as if sharing a dirty little secret.

The waitress smiled and nodded, leaving you by yourself once more as you sighed wistfully.

You took out your phone from your purse, checking the time. 6:45 p.m. Alright, not too long now. And you double checked that the address you texted Steven was correct, which it is.

You settled back in your chair, peering over the garden and giggling softly.

"I'm right here for you, Steven."

♡•••🌙•••♡

"It's about time, innit?" Steven murmured, glancing over anxiously at his wristwatch for the umpteenth time. It was already eight p.m., a whole hour past your meeting time (not to mention he arrived embarrassingly early). And he was just informed by one of the servers that the restaurant was closing in thirty minutes, to which a pitiful look was also casted to him.

"It's not 'about time', Steven. It's late." Marc gruffly pointed out, Steven seeing Marc's reflection glaring back at him from the shiny silver flower vase set in the middle of the table. "Face it: she's NOT coming."

"Don't you dare say that." Steven's voice was barely above a whisper, but there was a certain edge to it that one would normally not hear from the soft man. "Y/N would never do that. Not her. She's just running late, I'm sure. Traffic and all."

"Oh, please, we both know that even the traffic here doesn't take this long." Marc scoffed. "Stop kidding yourself, Steven. She's. NOT. Coming."

Steven frowned, and with a shaky hand he pulled out his phone. He should've called you since way earlier. It was the logical thing to do, after all. But he was...scared. Scared that, maybe, a terrifying maybe, Marc was right.

He found your number and called you, pressing his phone to his ear as it began to ring. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until you finally picked up, voice groggy.

"Hello..?"

"Y/N..." Steven heaved a relieved exhale. "Hey, uh, I'm at the restaurant. Guess you got stuck in traffic?" He chuckled halfheartedly.

A long, dreadful pause. And then:

"Fucking EXCUSE me?"

Steven's eyes widened, having never heard you swear before. He was just about to ask what was wrong when you continued without skipping a beat.

"Are you playing with me, Steven? Is this what it is?!" You definitely sounded angry, but he didn't miss the faint sniffles coming from you. Shit, were you crying? What the hell was happening?

"How can you be such a...such a DICK?!" You shouted, causing him to jerk his phone a few inches away from his ear. "I fucking waited for you like a total idiot until closing time, you prick! You never showed and you never answered my calls! What the fuck can you POSSIBLY gain from toying with me, huh?!"

"W-Wait, I don't understand!" Steven was nearly hyperventilating, all the colour draining from his face and his mind running a mile a minute. "I-I'm here! Right now! D-Didn't we agree? Friday night, seven p.m.?"

You were dead silent. Steven was going to check if the call was still connected when you beat him to it.

"Steven... It's Sunday."

Steven froze. Then his eyes landed on Marc's reflection, refusing to meet his gaze and it clicked.

"Y/N." Steven said slowly, steadily, despite feeling like crying himself. His eyes were still on Marc, cold and pissed. "Please. I promise I have an explanation. I just... God, can we meet? Y/N, please, I'll come to you."

"No need." Tears threatened to spill from Steven's despondent eyes at your flat response, before you suddenly added: "I'll come to you. You said you were at the restaurant, right? Stay there."

You ended the call, and Steven flared at Marc--no longer caring if other people perceived him as a lunatic fighting with himself.

"Why the fuck would you do that, Marc?"

"Steven..." Marc struggled to find the right words, and the asshole actually had the audacity to look ashamed. "Listen, she's nothing but a distraction--"

"You always think you know better, yeah?" Steven laughed humourlessly. "A distraction? YOU stop kidding yourself, Marc. This is not just your life, but mine. And it's about fucking time you stop being such a selfish bastard!"

"Um, sir?" Steven winced, greeted by a baffled waiter. "We'll be closing soon, so I'm gonna have to ask you to leave if you're not ordering anything."

Humiliated and repeatedly babbling apologies, Steven abruptly sprang out of his chair and dashed outside. He sighed deeply and collapsed listlessly on the ground, finally allowing the tears to fall.

He vaguely heard footsteps approaching until he saw a pair of worn bunny slippers in front of him. His eyes heavily dragged upwards, finding you staring back at him with an unreadable expression and breaths coming out in ragged pants.

"Y/N!" Steven jumped up, surprised you actually came despite the way he--the way Marc--treated you. Your bloodshot eyes and the dried tears on your cheeks only made him feel even shittier, much more fucked up than any beating he suffers on a mission.

Because at least with those, he can be confident that he and the boys would win no matter the challenge. But with you?

He had everything to lose.

Your hair was a total mess; glasses slightly crooked and you were in your pyjamas, a matching set of a purple tank top and shorts with stars and moons. The only thing you had covering you was a purple silk robe, drawing it closer to your chilly body as your eyes narrowed at Steven.

You should be mad at him, and you were. Still, despite everything, you hopped on to the first bus you saw and scrambled the rest of the way here as fast as you could.

But now that you were here...what in Khonshu's name were you going to do? You could scream at him with all the pain you haven't had the pleasure to release like you did on the phone, but you'd just be wasting your breath. Then again, he wasn't lying. He really is here. And it confused you more than anything.

And seeing him like this, looking so...sad. Well, it made you sad. Him miserably clenching onto a heart shaped chocolate box, fat globs of tears cascading down his cheeks as he gawked at you with his pretty doe brown eyes.

You raised your hand, and Steven shut his eyes as he braced himself for the slap he very much deserved--only to be met with your soft palm, wiping away his tears tenderly.

"Explain to me, Steven."

♡•••🌙•••♡

The travel to Steven's apartment was spent in deafening silence, but it brought upon a strange sort of comfort. Unconsciously, you hugged Steven's black jacket that he had offered you earlier even closer to your much smaller frame. It soothed your nerves, being completely enveloped in his smell; fresh soap with a hint of musky cologne.

Once you reached his unit, you couldn't help but smile. It was just so...Steven. It was a bit messy, but a good kind of messy. You didn't really know how to describe it, but it warmed your heart especially when you saw a giant fish tank with only one goldfish.

"Cuppa tea?" Steven asked to which you shook your head, facing him fully.

"No. I'm a 'get over it' kinda girl so whatever your explanation is, I'd rather we just nip it in the bud." You huffed before you halted, biting your lip. "Oh, uh, sorry... Of course, if you wanna have tea, you can. It's your home, after all."

Steven laughed, his first real laugh that entire day. "Are you always this nice to blokes you should be mad at?"

"Only if they are really into Egyptology and have beautiful brown eyes and gorgeous curls." You rolled your eyes though you couldn't suppress your grin before you cleared your throat, getting a hold of your stupid giddy self. "Now, explain."

Steven's demeanour instantly shifted, serious now and quite uneasy. But he nodded and gestured towards the couch. You walked over and plopped down, Steven sitting next to you and keeping a respectful couple inches between the two of you.

He looked down at the ground, carefully considering his words before meeting your gaze solemnly. "Have you ever heard of dissociative identity disorder?" You nodded, previously learning about it in Psychology class and researching about it due to personal interest. "That's...what I have. I'm an alter within a system, and there are two others--Marc Spector and Jake Lockley."

"Am I correct to assume that when you asked me out...it wasn't actually you?"

Steven blinked, rather startled that you were taking this so well. "Yes. Jake was the one who asked you out."

"Was he also the one who didn't show up for the date?"

"No, that would be Marc." He grumbled. "And listen, I'm truly sorry about him. He's a right twit. It may not have been me who didn't show up, but that absolutely doesn't excuse the hurt it caused you. I am so, so sorry, Y/N."

Your brows furrowed, mulling over this new revelation. But...you believed him, especially when it explained all those times you secretly caught Steven muttering incoherently to himself or staring at his reflection and quietly reacting to something. You were curious about more, of course, but Steven didn't have any reason to lie about such a serious matter. And if he was lying, there were plenty of other things he could say. But the way he acted, and just the look in his eyes--he knew the risks of opening up to you, but he did it anyway.

You clasped his hands in yours, sighing. "I know I look calm right now, but trust me, I'm freaking the fuck out." You chuckled, and Steven felt safe enough to join you. "But... I trust you, Steven. And I believe you. Tell me one thing, though. Are you...into me? Like, at all?"

"Of course I am!" He replied in a flash, making you both pause before erupting into easy laughter. "Why would you even have to ask that, love?"

"It's just... Well, if Jake was the one who asked me out, it made me wonder if you really did like me." You mumbled, looking away.

Steven gently grasped your chin, tipping your face back towards him. "I've liked you since the day we met, Y/N. In your pink skirt and the cute little pigtails you had." He smiled, eyes so amorous and gleaming with sincerity. "Truth is, I've wanted to ask you out since forever. I'm just not as...forward as Jake is."

"And that's fine. But hey, we gotta thank him 'cause Lord knows I'd just spiral into a panic attack if I ever made the first move." You chuckled. But it gradually died down as Steven continued to stare at you, and you never thought you would ever have someone look at you the way Steven did; as if you were precious treasure hidden within a sacred tomb.

Slowly, ever so slowly, your body started moving of its own accord. You were leaning closer, closer, closer--a mere breath away from his lips before he piped up.

"I'm also Khonshu's Avatar!"

"Say what?"

"Um, well, you see--" He stammered, mentally slapping himself.

'Don't say anything, Steven.' Marc warned, and it took all of Marc's willpower not to seize control and actually slap Steven.

But it was too late now. Steven already said too much, but he wanted to be honest with you. Utterly so. And since you wanted to nip this in the bud, now was the best time more than anything.

"Erm... You've seen the news, yeah?" He didn't grant you the chance to respond as he rambled. "Masked vigilantes... Moon Knight and Mr. Knight? They're actually...Marc and I."

"Steven, this is--"

"I'll show you, Y/N. I'll summon the suit."

"Summon the soup? What is happening--"

Steven stood up, and a split second later there was a whirl of white. And sure enough, there was none other than one half of the mysterious heroes you've been seeing a lot on the news recently; his glowing white eyes locked with yours, crisp ivory suit and batons clutched tightly in his hands.

"Look, I know this is a lot to take in--"

"Handsome..." You blurted out before you can restrain yourself.

"Huh?" Steven blushed underneath the mask, and you were the same as your cheeks tinted crimson. Then you rose from the couch, closing the gap between you two and removing his mask.

His curls stuck every which way and his eyes were as wide as the full moon, making you giggle. "You're so handsome, Steven. And yeah, this is a fucking lot to take in. To be honest, a part of me is still wondering if this is all just a dream." You reached up, caressing the side of his face sweetly and smiling. "But...thank you. Thank you for being honest with me."

His batons dropped to the floor, trembling hands hesitantly settling on your hips. You noticed his Adam's apple bob as he looked down at you, tears once again glistening in his eyes. Happiness, relief, adoration--how can so many exhilarating emotions crash over him all at once?

"Can I be more honest?" He whispered, resting his forehead against yours as he gazed deeply into your eyes. "I...want you to stay with me."

Your cheeks hurt from how impossibly wide your smile has stretched, wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling his nose with yours.

"I'm staying whether you like it or not, Steven with a V."

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anonymousewrites · 15 days

Text

Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Eleven

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eleven: At the Sarcophagus

Summary: (Y/N) and Steven find the Sarcophagus of Ammit's Avatar, but Harrow finds it, too.

Mouse Note: Listen...I can't say I'm sorry, but, uh, yeah.

(Y/N) and Steven continued on their way through the new tunnel. It was a bit caved in with bits of rock fallen in their way, but nothing impeded them severely. Finally, they rounded a corner, and another chamber opened up.

“Oh my stars,” said Steven.

“My god,” said (Y/N).

They stared at the room, lit by a ray of sunshine reflected off pools and trickles of water. Stepping over rocks, they approached the burial chamber of the pharaoh. Statues and murals lined the walls, and the sarcophagus itself stood on a dais in the center of the room.

Steven stared at the artifacts. “Thutmose III. Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the big ones.”

“You nearly kissed her,” said Marc, and Steven stumbled.

“Steven?” asked (Y/N).

“Just Marc talking,” said Steven, trying to ignore him as they continued.

(Y/N) frowned and looked at his reflection in the water. They wished they could still hear Marc. It was lonelier without him. They wished they could be with Layla, Steven, and Marc all together again.

“I should try to drown you or punch you again,” said Marc. “But you also told her the truth about why I’ve been pushing her away. And that was unexpected. And you protected (Y/N).” So he wouldn’t try to hit Steven.

“Are these Macedonian?” said (Y/N), unknowingly interrupting the conversation. They knelt by the relics and murals. “I can’t remember these symbols or translate them, but these are Macedonian, aren’t they?”

Steven knelt next to them. “No way. That’s impossible. Only one pharaoh…But he called himself Egyptian.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “No way. No way. Is this really…?”

“I think we’re looking at the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” breathed Steven, giddy and reverent all at once.

(Y/N) stared at it. “…Oh god. We have to open the sarcophagus.” It felt wrong to disturb the tomb, but this was Ammit’s tomb. Alexander the Great had been her Avatar. She needed to be stopped. Harrow needed to be stopped.

“That just feels wrong,” groaned Steven. “Everything inside of me is screaming not to open this thing.”

“You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” said Marc.

“Of course I don’t want him to get to Ammit,” said Steven.

“Marc again?” said (Y/N).

“Yeah,” said Steven. He looked at (Y/N). “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” said (Y/N).

Steven nodded. Together, they put their hands on the lid of the sarcophagus and pushed. It was tough going, but they managed to shit the top end of the lid off enough so that they could see the mummy within. This was the Alexander the Great. In the flesh (literally, since he was a mummy).

“Where’s the ushabti?” said Marc.

“He’s not holding the ushabti,” said (Y/N) at the same moment, frowning.

Steven nearly smiled at the coincidence and answered both at once. “If you’re gonna hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look.”

(Y/N) coughed and pulled up their sleeves. “Um, I think I know where.”

“Where?” said Steven and Marc at the same time, though (Y/N) could only hear one.

“It’s the voice symbolism again,” said (Y/N), grimacing and gesturing to the wrapped head and throat of Alexander the Great.

“Oh. Oh, gross,” said Steven.

(Y/N) steeled themself, reached out, and pulled away the wrappings around Alexander the Great’s face. “I am so sorry,” they muttered to the mummy and the memory of their parents. They shouldn’t be disturbing a resting place like this. But it needed to be done.

“Oh…” Steven grimaced as (Y/N) slipped their hand into Alexander the Great’s mouth and reached into his throat.

Forcing themself not to retch, (Y/N) felt a wave of relief as they felt a stone sculpture. Grabbing it, they pulled it out. The sunlight illuminated the return of Ammit’s ushabti to the world.

“We found it,” breathed Steven.

“Good job, kid,” said Marc, unable to hold back the pride. He deflated as he remembered (Y/N) couldn’t hear him now.

(Y/N) nodded and smiled at Steven in relief.

Footsteps approached, and they tensed, whirling toward the passage. They relaxed as they saw it was Layla. She had made it.

“Layla, look!” said Steven proudly, gesturing to the ushabti in (Y/N)’s hands. “We won!” He laughed.

(Y/N) frowned. Layla’s eyes were narrowed, and her body was tense as she came closer. Something was off.

“(Y/N) had to reach down Alexander the Great’s throat, but we found it,” said Steven. He frowned as he finally saw Layla’s furious gaze. “You alright, love?”

“Can he hear me?” she snapped.

“Alexander? No, I don’t think so. God, I hope not,” chuckled Steven, trying to keep the good energy going.

Layla kept going. “What happened to my father?”

(Y/N) frowned and flinched. They didn’t like the feeling that was appearing in the room. Everything had been going fine. And now, now, something was wrong. (Y/N) stepped back.

Layla walked up to Steven. “I’m talking to you.”

“What?” asked Steven.

“I’m talking to you, Marc,” snapped Layla, trying to get him to come out and speak to her.

Steven frowned, his eyes rolled up, and when Layla had him looking at her again, it was Marc staring out. He had gotten control of the body.

“Come on, come on, let’s go,” said Marc, trying to take control of the situation and avoid the conversation. He took (Y/N)’s arm and Layla’s hand, but Layla pulled back.

“No,” she said forcefully.

“We need to go right now,” said Marc.

“What’s going on?” said (Y/N), pulling the end of their sleeves.

“Marc, no. No,” repeated Layla, refusing to go with him. “What happened to my father?!”

“Listen to me. We need to leave right now,” said Marc. “I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N), trying to help but unsure of themself.

“No, I want to know now,” said Layla. She glared at Marc. “Did you kill Abdullah El Faouly?!”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened, and their gaze snapped to Marc. Their chest constricted as the terrible question was left in the air.

“Of course not. Of course I didn’t!” said Marc.

“He’s…He’s telling the truth,” said (Y/N). “He didn’t kill him, Layla.”

“But he was there,” said Layla, seeing that Marc was evading the whole truth. “Weren’t you?”

“Marc?” asked (Y/N), looking at him.

“I—” Marc couldn’t answer. Lying was impossible, but the truth was painful. It would destroy everything he’d built with Layla and whatever had started to grow between (Y/N) and Marc.

“Yeah, you were there,” said Layla. She could read him clearly.

Marc swallowed. Softly, he admitted the terrible truth. “I was there. Yeah. I was there.”

“Yeah. And how did he die?” snapped Layla.

(Y/N) covered their mouth and stepped back. “The mercenaries and the archaeologists.” What Fitzgerald and Kennedy had said in the car.

“Kid—” Marc reached out to them, but he let his hand drop. “I—My partner got greedy.” He spoke quietly, tiredly, as everything he’d never wanted to admit forced itself to the surface and destroyed what he’d built. “He executed everyone at the dig site. I tried to save your father, Layla, but I couldn’t. And I—”

Layla glared at him. “No. But you brought a killer right to him. Right?” She shoved him back, and Marc just took it.

He nodded helplessly, willing to take any abuse to make up for the terrible things he’d done. “Yeah. He shot me, too. I was supposed to die that night. But I didn’t die that night. And I should have.” Marc gazed at Layla with so much emotion as she wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’ve tried to tell you since the moment we met. But I just didn’t know how.”

Layla sobbed. Then, she froze. “Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marc.

Layla turned on him. “That’s the reason we met.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they clutched the ushabti tightly.

“You just had a guilty conscience?” said Layla incredulously, and the way Marc stared back at her was answer enough.

“Layla—”

The sound of a rolling stone broke through the moment, and they all turned towards the passageway. The rustle of footsteps grew louder.

“They’re here,” said Marc in alarm.

“There must be another way out,” said Layla, wanting to stay alive to keep being angry.

“Okay, go, find it. Take (Y/N). I’ll hold them off,” said Marc, grabbing an ornamental axe from the sarcophagus.

At the same time, (Y/N) took their moment to go with Layla to stuff the ushabti into the backpack to hide it from sight. The moment that Layla darted to grab (Y/N), though, Harrow and his numerous armed men stepped into the room. Layla had to hide behind a column, and as (Y/N) tried to scramble back, a guard that had snuck around the side grabbed them. (Y/N) yelped. Marc’s eyes widened, and he took a step towards (Y/N) but froze as the guard held (Y/N) tightly and raised his gun. They kicked at him, but the man was stronger, and (Y/N) was stuck staring fearfully at Marc.

“Be gentle with them. They’re just misguided,” said Harrow to the guard.

(Y/N) and Marc’s eyes went to Harrow as he stood in the tomb with them. The scarab that had guided him there fell into his hand, the magic having done its job.

“Just you two, isn’t it?” said Harrow. “The rest is silence.” He strolled closer. “I remember the first morning I woke up knowing that Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating. You’re both free. And, of course, with that freedom comes choice. And right now, you both have a very important decision to make.”

Harrow walked towards (Y/N), and Marc tensed. He smiled at them, and (Y/N) flinched. “I know it’s been hard.” (Y/N) fought to avoid his gaze. “Being used by the gods. Pushed so far. Being so alone. But you can be alright, now.” They shook their head furiously. “You have nothing to worry about. You can let go of all the pain you feel. All the blame you feel.” He smiled kindly. “I know you think your parents’ death is your fault.” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they let out a sound akin to a whimper, a desperate plea for him to stop. “You asked for them to show you Egypt. You begged them to take you to the place they’d met, fallen in love, worked and learned. And then they died.” Harrow reached out and put a hand on (Y/N)’s head, and they winced back. “That’s alright.” He removed his hand and took theirs into his.

Marc and Layla’s eyes widened as the cane began to swing back and forth. (Y/N)’s soul was being judged.

“Stop it,” shouted Marc, taking a step forward, but the guns raised and pointed at him.

(Y/N) was tempted to shut their eyes as the scales tattoo weighed back and forth. Unable to avert their eyes, though, (Y/N) watched as it settled. Their eyes widened. The scales were green. Their soul had been deemed worthy.

Harrow smiled. “I knew I had a good feeling about you.” He took back his cane and gazed at (Y/N). They reluctantly looked up at him. “Now the choice lies before you. You have been deemed worthy. Ammit wants you on her side. You can help relieve the pain of so many. You can have a purpose.”

(Y/N) stared at him, that word pulling at them, twisted around their heart and lungs. Their eyes flicked to Marc, staring at them with such worry that they felt their heart stir despite the pressure on it. (Y/N) looked back at Harrow evenly.

“I will never join you or Ammit,” said (Y/N), the words as honest as could be.

Harrow sighed. “I’m disappointed. Nonetheless, I’m afraid I can’t let you and live freely just yet.” He smiled. “We need the ritual to release Ammit.”

(Y/N) froze, and their eyes widened. Long ago, Ma’at had taught them different rituals, bits of ancient magic that might one day be needed. One was to release the gods from ushabtis. (Y/N) hadn’t understood the significance then, nor had they questioned why Ma’at wanted them to learn it, but now that Ma’at was imprisoned, (Y/N) understood. Ma’at had known her actions in the mortal world could get her imprisoned. She had made sure the Avatar she had basically raised would be able to come and free her.

Unfortunately, now, that meant (Y/N) could also free Ammit.

“Leave them alone,” said Marc forcefully.

Harrow turned to him with a smile. “After I bring Ammit to this world and allow her to create a better one, (Y/N) can live a life free of danger and worry. I just need them for a little while longer.” Harrow gestured to them. “And you could be a part of that world, too. You just need to do the right thing.”

Marc looked at (Y/N) and then at all the armed men. He knew how to answer. He grabbed the gun of one man and dragged him closer. The man stumbled, and Marc slammed the axe onto his arm before he could shoot. He slashed at the next closest man, and then he threw the axe at Harrow.

One of his guards stepped it front and took the blow, loyal until death. The man fell, and Harrow pulled something from the man’s belt as the guard fell. Harrow looked evenly at Marc, raised the pistol, and shot.

Bang!

(Y/N) screamed as Marc stumbled back, blood pooling on his white shirt.

“Marc!” they cried, trying to pull away from the guard. “No! Marc, Steven!” They screamed for both desperately, tears burning at their eyes.

Harrow stepped up and raised the pistol again.

“Please, please, please, no!” shouted (Y/N).

Bang!

Behind the column, Layla covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. (Y/N) let out another agonized scream. The second wound bled instantly, and Marc fell back. He collapsed off the dais of the sarcophagus and landed in the pool of water.

“I can’t save anyone who won’t save themselves,” said Harrow, daring enough to be saddened.

(Y/N) let out a sob as Marc’s body lay in the water, unmoving. He was gone. Steven was gone. The tiny bit of good and warmth and connection (Y/N) had gathered in their life had been ripped away once again.

(Y/N) was alone.

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mind-travel-er · 2 years

Text

The London Daily Ride [2]

09:37

# Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader Jake Lockley x female reader # Synopsis: Before you know him as "Steven from the gift shop", you know him as "Steven from the bus stop". You summon all you might to speak to him. # Warning/Content: Fluff/Angst, Character Study, Accurate DID (triggering), Hot/Sweet!Steven, Slow Burn. # Word Count: 3.4k [read me on AO3] · [previous chapter] · [next chapter]

Four minutes. It’s all it takes. And he’s looking at you, only manifesting utter shock.

To be frank, you are as well. Seeking contact outside your comfort zone is no hobby of yours, and yet, here you are. As you’re waiting for the next bus stop, in the delimited square of the standing area surrounded by seats and passengers, your eyes have struggled to recover their independence. Irremediably drawn to the silhouette hunched over his book, glasses on his nose, unconditionally absorbed by his reading. From where you were, you couldn’t decipher the nature of the paragraphs, yet you couldn’t miss a collection of photographs in black and white with recognizable figures of Egyptian gods. As one of his hands had reverently skimmed over some parts of the illustrations, you had observed the brush of his fingers, divulging his lingering admiration. Your chest has squeezed itself into a delicious awakening. The sleeve of his rumpled jacket revealing his wrist, his golden skin was at odds with the rain. Not fitting quite right in the decorum. Like a misplaced ray of sunshine in a greyscale. Your organs are unsure if they are misplaced as well. Your stomach seems to be in your throat. Your brain, either nowhere to be found or racing like an untamed horse. Your skull, a shell for raw emotions. It requires a few seconds to realise that your body, part by part, is coming alive anew. The link that had been severed for several weeks is blooming again. You shift your feet. Detect the vibration of the large motor coming up to you. Feel the pain lodged in the arches of your feet, standing so still until now that it hurts. Your stomach grasps that it’s hungry. You forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

Outside, it’s pouring. Inside as well. Overwhelmingly. For a few seconds, you are both blinking at each other, and you feel as if it would be the perfect timing for recorded laughs from an invisible public. But no lines of dialogue come to you. You can only blankly stare at him.

"Sorry, wha’?" His voice. Boyish tone. Authentically wondering. A detail to add to your collection of appreciation. You can’t tell if the irresistible pull that drowned you in is fascination and yearning; or if it’s his bubble of comfort calling your own until both collide. Either way, you observe his book like a lifeline as he continues. You’re not yet ready to cross his gaze. You have time. You always get up a few stops in advance. "Ah, loud noises here, yeah?" he says, pointing around aimlessly, leaning slightly towards you, so you can hear him better without raising his voice too much. "Sorry, I didn’t quite catch tha’." So, you repeat the question you prepared; or rather, blurred out while you were positioning yourself to wait for your bus stop. "Good read?" Two words. It’s barely an ask, and it’s missing a verb. Cue the laughter. You don’t know if it’s you or your question that’s missing substance. And who asks yes-or-no questions anyway? How could it even create a conversation? Somehow, it does. He does . "Oh, that?" he closes the books to display the back cover, and he laughs softly, oh so softly, that with the racket of the bus, the rumbles of conversations, and the tumbles in and out of passengers, you could almost have missed it. It has an unmistakable endearment as his head falls to observe the companion of his ride. "It’s an astonishing read," he corrects with a kindness of his own. "Absolute marvel, if you ask me."

You feel his gaze returning to you as he explains in considerable detail how Howard Carter, anything but a true Egyptologist or archaeologist, and after five years of unsuccessful and costly searches in the Valley of the Kings, had ultimately made one of the greatest discoveries in History. Mister Carter, aged 48, was yet to fulfil his dreams about ancient tombs awaiting in the dark belly of the Valley. And on the 4th of November 1922, deeply buried into the protective Egyptian sand, below what was thought to be an ancient village, the door of the Tomb of Tutankhamun was in front of him, the seal of ropes and clay still on the entrance, unbroken. You’re not sure when your eyes unfocus plainly, your mind conveying fantasised images of oil lamps shining on treasures; the flickering flames revealing them for the first time in three thousand years. And then he looks at you, truly looks at you, with a burnt sienna that reminds you of the ochre steppes beyond the desert, where untamed Arabian horses are free to ride at full speed. And his traits become very still, until they are overcome with a gentle sadness of sorts. The one you’ve seen before, as the newspaper man had stepped out indifferently. He stops himself as if he was doing you a mercy.

"Look at me, rambling." And he adds with an apologetic smile: "You prob’ly don’t want to hear about tha’."

It takes you a few seconds to travel back from the depths of Egypt in its early 20s to rainy London and a cramped bus. You breathe. You observe him. Hands on his closed book. You don’t reinforce his false interpretation. You redirect instead.

"I heard that Carter was on the verge of giving up when he found the tomb. Wasn’t he helped by a Lord of some sort?"

You tend to forget many things, yet you don’t forget little fun facts about an inspiring story or piece of history. Your memory is as good as the interest you have in the documentary you’re watching late at night on the history channels, while sorting through your files for the next day’s trials.

Eyebrows raised, mouth briefly closed, a quirky little smile is twisting his lips.

"Well, someone knows her British archaeologists." He lets out a tittering laugh; somewhat astounded: "That’s amazing."

His eyes meet yours with directness and fortitude. A swirl of spice and espresso that you are somehow sure that will never quench your thirst.

"Oh, I don’t think so. I’m afraid my brain only remembers bits and pieces when it wants to." You shrug with no embarrassment. "I’ve got no control over it whatsoever."

For a few seconds, he smiles, as if he would precisely understand what you meant. And then, he frowns.

"Sorry, I don’t mean that in a creepy way, but …" You can feel how truly puzzled he is, yet can’t quite put your finger on what .

What he says next leaves you in the same state.

"I’m not imagining this conversation. Am I?" Then, he’s slightly frowning a little bit more with an almost comical disarray: "… Am I?" You like how the second time he says, Am I? like he's actually wondering. And indeed, it doesn’t feel like any ordinary London rainy day now, does it? Something has shifted from the well-constructed routine that you typically experience in the morning. The frightening and marvellous premonition that what’s happening is important . Like the tide withdrawing after a muted earthquake… or was it just the vehicle trembling beneath your feet? Maybe, just maybe, this was a shared feeling.

As silence drags itself, you realise that he somehow needs confirmation. Looking expectantly at you.

"You’re not. Absolutely not."

You hope that the hint of doubt isn’t coating your voice. At least, you feel real.

As if he’s now a bit lost, he’s vaguely looking at his book. With the commotion of the bus, you can’t make out what he’s muttering to himself. However, you can deduce that your confirmation is not enough.

"If I could …"

His eyes focus on you again.

"Wha’?"

"Prove it to you?"

The hissing of the double-decker has its stops makes you almost trip, and you’re only still standing vertically thanks to one of the yellow poles. Just like that, the shared bubble bursts. Without warning, still with red glasses on his nose, he gets on his feet instantly.

"Oh, bugger! My bus stop!!"

He gasps so hard that a few heads turn around.

Now, he’s frantically shovelling his book into his saddlebag as the bus is departing again. Then, he stands next to you, breastless, his possessions against his chest with one arm, the other almost over your head, hanging from one of the ceiling handles. A source of warmth unexpectedly at your side. His glasses now crooked, he offers a contrite smile. You don’t know if it’s just the embarrassment of missing his stops or due to your sudden proximity.

"All righ’, that settles it then."

You tilt your head in interrogation.

"If this was a dream, I wouldn’t look like a knob now, would I?"

And just like that, he has the power to reunite your bubbles again. He’s so close to you, huddled in the standing area with other travellers, that his minty heated breath is tingling the skin of your face as he’s laughing softly. A smile hidden all along at the corner of your lips blooms into a laugh.

It sure feels unreal to me, you want to say, but the whisper doesn’t even leave your lips. Time’s up.

"I better jog on before I miss my stop again… Nice meeting you," he says embarrassingly, not knowing what to do with his busy arms, wanting to probably squeeze your hand but thinking better of it before rapidly taking off his glasses, precariously balancing on the bridge of his nose. Your raincoat brushes his grey-clay gabardine as the bus is stopping again and finally opens its doors. He squeezes himself between the others, stuttering and apologising while making his way out. He adds before he gets off: "I will see you… on the flip-flop."

On the flip-flop?

Stepping out, he’s sheepishly smiling at you before partly disappearing behind the automatic closing doors. His face takes on features expressing pure dread, as he seems to realise he has omitted a crucial element. Through the doors, you hear him shout at the departing bus:

"THE NAME IS STEVEN BY THE WAY"

The belly laugh you get after that has been the best you’ve had in years. You don’t care about the passenger sending either a concerned look or a smile to share your hilarity. It's the kind of laugh that fills one’s core with ease and light. When you brush the corner of your eyes to dry saline drops, you are desperately, positively wrecked with joy.

Morning after morning, Steven becomes part of your daily routine. His illuminating smile. His wave. Your cheerful “Good Morning!”. Your re-found sense of comfort. The usual empty seat on his left becomes yours. Habits have the reputation of dying hard. You enjoy loneliness until your craving for connection is so strong that you can finally rejoice at the prospect of long conversations with your friends and parents. A coping mechanism that served you well these recent years, creating distance when everything becomes too much. Allowing your mind to be consumed by objects of desire and passion. Plus, what law firm would complain about the ability to work intensely for eight hours straight? Your addiction to seclusion has its ups… and lows. At one point, you can feel how your mind is desperate for an authentic interaction. As starved as your stomach that morning in the bus. However, you perceive that for Steven, starvation ignites from elsewhere. There’s no self-infliction. No harmful habits are involved. He did not choose seclusion; not like you. Seclusion seems to have chosen him. That’s when your endearment turns into something more profound. Steven isn’t really the shy guy that you first thought; avoiding social interactions. On the contrary, as you observe him day to day, it turns out that’s the other way around: Steven is so driven and desperate to connect with others, with so much enthusiasm … that it becomes awkward for most people on the other end. And that’s what most people are afraid of: deep and uncompromised consideration, with an intent to genuinely bond. And who is brave enough to let the mask down before a stranger? You understand what Steven can’t. People fear the possibility of attachment —his intent to truly bond— because they fear vulnerability. Steven was the opposite of everything you ever knew. The opposite of masculine stereotypes. Gentle. Caring. Willing to be vulnerable . Even the choice of his food was a far cry from the raw, bloody, virile steak. More than that, the more you come to know Steven, the more you come to redefine falling in love. Until now, you had experienced the rush of falling. The intense months of passion and then the degradation throughout the years. You had always thought the butterflies were the predictable sign of true, unyielding attachment. The sign that someone is a match for you. Then … Why was it never good enough to sustain a relationship? The fire of passion is all good and well. However, what good is it when comfort is never built? When the wood is lacking, and there’s no fire left; what is left? As one would expect, there’s always a bit of nerves to a new encounter, but it had become abundantly clear that even if there was alchemy, meeting Steven each morning wasn’t the nerve-wracking experience that you ordinarily had with men. Instead, it was soothing. Your favourite TV show after a strenuous day. The purring of your little black and white cat on your lap. Your decade-old copy of your favourite book that has lived in your high-school backpack, dog-eared pages, spine broken, yet losing none of its powerful story. Steven was all that and more; conveying a tranquillising warmth that felt like home . When we are loved through passion and passion alone, what interest does that person really have in you ? Besides the butterflies? Besides the attraction? All that’s left is a fusion of well-matched bodies. And when the chemical reactions finally fade, as the neural pathways are used to the rush of hormones, what is left to celebrate? In your hard-earned opinion, passion is more about losing oneself in another than truly knowing the other. Lonely were some nights in your tiny flat cramped in the heart of Camden. Lonelier it was to be loved by someone who believed that passion could build and solve all. And for a time, you were no exception.

So, when Steven naturally places his hands on your shoulder, as any friend would, showing you a paragraph of his readings about an artefact, saying: “Oh, no, no, that’s impossible. You’ve actually never seen it?". Your head says no. “Oh, all righ’ then. You’re in for a treat now, aren't you! I’m pretty sure you’ll love it. Come by the museum Thursday, yeah?”. You’re convinced that that guy doesn’t want the passion . He merly wants to share his favourite place to ever exist in the world. Romance has nothing to do with it.

When Steven holds his sides for laughing too long, one morning, when you compare Donna to a velociraptor, you feel as if you’ve known him for years, and is this what a best friend feels like ?

When you gently nudge him to point out at the window an advertising sign for Cammas Hall, revealing how you absolutely adore going to the countryside, just north-east of London, and Steven leans in so very close to you, as to make a confession: “Their maize maze is mental, innit? Ah! Say that three times fast. Maize maze, maize maze … ”. And you laugh; you know there isn’t an ulterior motive. No excuse to get close or physical. The glimmer of copper in his eyes tells another narrative. Again, he just wants to be a part of, to make you a part of .

When Steven sits in silence beside you, exhausted from his sleep condition, and finally drowses off; only for his head to fall on your shoulder, your heart doesn’t hammer. You run your hand through his oh-so-soft brown curls to clear his face; to ensconce his head in the crook of your neck, as a mother would do for a child. The tenderness living under your chest radiates and encompasses the both of you. You just want him to be okay. And you can only hope that it is the same for him.

In fact, you’re pretty sure. Because it’s another element with Steven: he doesn’t make you doubt his attention or his building affection. He lays it bare, for everyone to see. Just like his bubble. Every paper is about superheroes these days. It’s filling the news and every talk show. They aren’t talking about unsung heroes, those from ordinary life; those who lay bare their hearts.

There is no game here. No “can’t wait to get to the next base”. As if Steven would be forever happy to have those simple moments to share. Alchemy is just a bonus. Not the other way around. I’m not imagining this conversation, am I? You swear that sentence could have come straight out of your mouth.

You think again about your loneliness, your “almost-addiction”, and how it shields you from the bad … and the good. With Steven nearby, seclusion appears to be less attractive. And the outer world feels like a decent place again.

Changing harmful habits is a challenge. Yet, with the right person, it seems to fall like the scab of an old wound, rather than a vivisection.

It was both wonderful and terrifying … that one person, one encounter, could change so much.

The picture of Steven Grant is constructing itself. Even its flaws.

Attentive, caring, devoted to what he loves. A sensibility and sensitivity like an acute nerve, exposed to the elements. You know all that. That’s why when Donna crushes his hopes to be a tour guide yet again, you truly question how those devastating interactions are pretty much all the socialising he gets. He has colleagues, but friends ? Surely, this isn’t healthy. Adding to that, his sleeping condition is bringing questions to the surface, when one morning, he’s thrilled about his new puzzle, a new variation of the Rubik’s Cube. A tetrahedron that will undoubtedly keep him awake this time .

"Oh, it’s ace. Yeah, it’s amazing. New shape, new algorithms, you know what I mean?"

"So, you’re able to sleep," you point out a cup of warm coffee in your hand, sitting next to him. "It’s just that you … won’t?" There’s nothing accusatory, you’re just pointing out the incoherence.

You’re working in a law firm, for God’s sake. Finding incoherences and counter-arguments is what you do. Your ex had a lovely little nickname for that, calling you “The Scalpel”. Acute questions. Pushing and inquiring where it hurts. Incisive . “Can’t you stop analysing and arguing on every fucking point all the time? Just … let it go ”. At that time, you were pretty sure you were mostly cutting through bullshit. But now, Steven is at your side, vulnerable and sensible and right, this time, it’s different, don’t be such a fucking scalpel, dumbass, you admonish yourself.

The white of his eyes is more visible, and his forehead wrinkles, as he stares wide at you. He babbles a confused explanation; how of course he can sleep, but, you know, his body wants to get up and wander about, he’s not an insomniac or narcoleptic or anything now is he. And he laughs awkwardly— and he crosses your eyes again and oh, oh— he realises that’s exactly what you assumed. But yeah, nothing to worry about, the sleepy part was fine, it’s the dreams you see. The vivid dreams that make Steven exhausted and how is this a medical condition you think racingly; when dreaming is more exhausting than living ?

There and then, the perfect picture that you’ve assembled of Steven begins to crack. Like an oil painting, as time does its work, the thick layers of paint begin to split and break. Reluctantly showing the rough sketches under; exposing the wood beneath. You were wondering how deep the fractures were. If the cracks you were witnessing were just the thin upper layer of varnish giving up, in need of light restoration. Or were the lacerations so deep that they would eventually break the painting apart? If it was ever the case, would Steven be the whole piece of work; or merely a section of it ?

But you don’t press . You do not invade and question. No arguments or counter-arguments.

Somehow, you think you understand.

Aren’t we all parts and pieces, holding together by sheer will?

#steven grant #oscar isaac #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader #jake lockely x you #moon knight #moon knight tv #moon knight fanfic #ao3 #marc spector x you #marc spector x reader #steven grant imagine #jake lockley imagine #wholesome #the london daily ride

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davosmymaster · 2 years

Text

Fallen from Heaven, Grown on Earth -Part 4-

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, mentions of injuries and blood (graphic), canon-typical violence/themes, claustrophobia, birth control, panic attacks, shock, death (??)

PAIRINGS - Steven Grant x fem!reader ; Marc Spector x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 12k

A/N - Epilogue will be out soon!

FALLEN FROM HEAVEN, GROWN ON EARTH - PART FOUR-

Marc left before you woke up, taking Steven with him to Cairo and not bothering to wake you up before he left. Truth be told, if you had thought about what the next day would be like —instead of instantly falling asleep in his arms—you would've guessed he wasn't going to be there, and you would've been right.

That was a matter that needed to be discussed when he came back. He had not said goodbye when he was first posted and that lousy habit had apparently sunk into his psyche. No one liked farewells, but that didn't make avoiding them the right thing to do.

With a sigh, you rolled over his bed; capturing his —their— smell on his side of the bed. You buried your nose in the pillow and swallowed your tears.

Today was one of those horribly hot days in London, which wasn't too hot to be England, but still uncomfortably hot and humid at the same time. The curtains did nothing to shield your body from the rays of sunshine, and you found yourself getting out of bed in an instant, for a change. But not even the summer approaching and the uncomfortable heat made you crave the proximity of your boys any less. Yes, even Steven, even if he hated you with all his being.

There were way too many things to worry about, and you had very little power over most of them. You worried they got killed in Cairo, looking for some ancient scarab whose power you didn't even understand. You worried that Steven would never forgive you, and even if he did, you had a bad gut feeling about it.

Maybe he would understand, after all, maybe Marc would explain the whole thing to him, but that wasn't a guarantee of anything. It was painfully obvious that Steven wouldn't have you anymore. And then you will have lost them both. Many of your past relationships had ended for far less, but you guessed that comparing the two men with your previous exes was as useless as it was ridiculous.

After having the longest shower ever, getting dressed and feeding fake Gus —who seemed to be begging you not to go— you were ready to leave the flat. But before that, you walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and make sure everything was turned off. That's when you saw what Marc had left for you.

You almost chuckled when you saw the box of plan B on the kitchen table, but you thanked him immensely nonetheless.

You two should've been more cautious, better than that; but it all happened so fast and you were so lost in the moment that neither of you had thought about anything else until it was all done. Marc had already apologized the night before, profusely. After what happened, you were planning on taking the pill either way, but the gesture was certainly nice of him. He woke up at some ungodly hour in the morning to buy it, came back to the flat, left again for the warehouse, got his luggage and then started his journey to the airport. You almost wished he hadn't bought it, just thinking about it.

Next to the box, another yellow sticky note, and a set of keys.

I'll call you when I land.

You can take it if you want, I won't force you, but it is for the best. We'll figure something out if you don't want to.

Take care of yourself (and the fish). You can stay as long as you want.

See you soon. Love you.

-Marc.

You almost laughed at how awkward he sounded, how unsure of his own words he was. He had written we'll figure something out as if it was true, but you both knew you didn't have many options at that point; not unless you wanted a kid with his curls and hazel eyes, a kid that looked like Steven and Marc.

You found yourself thinking that maybe someday, if it came to that point, but not today, not like this, and certainly not surrounded by that mess. In your mind, there was no other choice, and despite it all, you were thankful that the ultimate decision was yours to make.

And then there were the keys. You knew Marc far too well to know that he wasn't giving you the keys for Gus. He wanted you to stay, maybe for longer than you would've thought.

It didn't take long for Steven to find out.

He became co-conscious when the plane began to take off. Marc, who —fortunately, or not—had been given the window seat, caught his own reflection in it without yet being aware of Steven's presence. The pad of his fingers looked for the mark, the love bite, on the tender flesh. Marc only had to pull a little from the collar of his shirt and there it was: a mix of red and purple dots; slightly painful to the touch. A pain Marc seemed to enjoy, as he kept slightly pressing the pad of his fingers over the bruised skin.

He looked ahead, to his reflection in the window, and saw himself still looking at the hickey with a different glint in the eyes, one that wasn't happy at all. His heart sank in his chest as he saw Steven's glassy eyes, the corners of his mouth pointing downwards as he joined the dots in his brain.

Marc waited and waited for Steven to look at him, say something. But, instead, he vanished, long gone and lost in the headspace.

He wished Steven had yelled at him. Maybe even hit him. Anything would have been better than that terrible silence.

Marc arrived at his hotel in Cairo a few hours later. It was a family-run hotel, not at all luxurious. The bed was too hard and there were too many mirrors for his taste, but it had an incredible view of the pyramids of Giza that anyone else would have paid extra for. Not Marc, he wasn't there to admire Egypt's iconic sites or sightsee. Despite the view, it was the cheapest and best-located hotel he had found.

First thing he did was take a shower. Small, cramped and crowded places such as planes had the habit of making him sweat. Marc usually had to take pills to even have the courage to get on planes, but this time —with such short notice— he had to rely on plain breathing exercises and focus on his five senses in order to have a clear mind. After all, the pain blooming on his neck had come in handy for that.

His claustrophobia was yet another sequel —and a horrible reminder— of what had happened the last time he had seen himself stuck somewhere.

Everyone —his parents and relatives— remembered Randall's death. But no one had ever seemed to stop for a second and think about the repercussions the accident had on Marc. He had almost drowned too, he had screamed for his mother at the top of his lungs as the cave filled with icy water, while he ran out of oxygen. He saw his brother die, and even if at the time he had been wide awake, watching and in extreme panic when that happened, his brain had shut down and erased all traces and details about Randall, which was probably for the best. In his memories, all Marc could remember were the insistent coughing, the cramping on both his legs, the overwhelming sensation of being stuck, not able to move his own limbs or breathe, the darkness that swallowed him whole as he squeezed his eyes shut and coughed, the sensation of crying underwater and not feeling his own tears on his face, his clothes uncomfortably clinging to his small frame when his father pulled him out by the shirt, the pain on his knees as he fell to the ground and lied there, eyes still tightly closed as he hugged himself. A ray of sunshine fell directly over his face, almost like an omen.

He would live to see another day, many many more days, but the accident would scar him for life.

Marc only survived because he was a few inches taller than Randall, a few inches that gave him the advantage of time. If he had been shorter, he would be dead. If his father had taken thirty seconds longer to get him out, he would be dead. Him being alive today was a miracle, a miracle eclipsed by the death of his brother, a miracle Marc had always hated, a miracle that felt like a curse at times; but a miracle nonetheless.

For the same reason Marc sweated on planes, he took extremely quick and hot showers. He got out out of the shower barely three minutes later. The mirror wasn't even fogged by then, and he heard the familiar voice of Steven as he wrapped a towel around his hips.

"You two slept together."

It wasn't a question, but Marc still felt like he needed to answer it, and he didn't know what to say. He stared at Steven in the mirror, the same half-naked and wet body but with an entirely different expression on the face.

He felt his fingers dig into the skin of his neck, but this time it wasn't Marc who was in control of his own hand.

"You two slept together," he insisted, slightly louder. "Didn't you?"

Marc bit the inside of his cheek. He really really didn't want to hurt Steven, but he couldn't undo what he had done, and neither would he if he had the chance. He remembered your words when you told him how much hurt could've been prevented if he had just been honest from the beginning. And even if he was scared shitless, he tried. He said the truth.

"I love her, Steven," he said, his back a little less heavy. "I've loved her for years."

Steven clenched his teeth in the mirror, he gave a step ahead and looked at him with a face so full of disgust that he wondered if he was going to be sick, a face Marc had never seen in sweet and calm Steven.

"AND WHAT ABOUT ME?!" Steven's scream shook him to his core, the surprise causing Marc to back off. "Am I a joke to you, to both of you?"

"She loves you too."

Steven smiled, a wry laugh leaving his lips when he talked.

"Oh, please..." he said. "Don't make me laugh."

"Believe me," Marc said, getting closer to the mirror and resting his palms on the edge of the sink. "I don't know how she likes me either, but she does."

Steven didn't believe him. He mirrored Marc, his face getting closer and closer to the surface of the mirror. He looked intently into Marc's eyes, and for a second, Marc had a vision of his alter emerging from the mirror to choke the life out of him with his own hands.

"You're gonna hurt her," Steven said. "...and worst of all is you know that you will. You ruin people's lives. That is all you do. You abandoned your wife, you kill people..." the way Steven said it, the way his eyes bore into his, caused a seed of fear to implant itself in Marc's heart. "I won't let you do the same to her. I will make your life, my life, a living hell. You parasite." Marc trembled, a shiver growing in his own marrow. "I hope you enjoyed it, because you will never touch her again."

Before he knew it, his fist smashed the mirror, splinters getting buried into his knuckles as he hit the broken surface over and over again. Blood —his blood— quickly stained the whole pristine sink. Drops of it all over the mirror, the walls, the shower, the floor. Rivers of crimson on his white towel.

Marc gasped, screamed from the pain. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink. If he didn't calm down soon, he knew he would throw up.

"When you are done with Harrow, you give me the body." he heard his voice and turned to see Steven in yet another mirror, in the bedroom, even if the sound didn't come from it, but from his own mind. "That was the deal. Then you get out of our lives."

Marc walked out of the bathroom, until he reached the other mirror in the bedroom. He was still breathless. He clenched his jaw. He knew what that meant.

"No," Marc responded. "Change of plans. I'm not giving you shit. What are you gonna do about it?"

Marc knew Steven like the back of his hand, he had grown watching him, but Steven had become rather unpredictable the last couple of days. Marc would have never imagined Steven yelling, threatening him, nor would he have pictured that deranged look on his face. Marc didn't know what he expected Steven to do, but he sure as hell didn't expect him to cry.

Steven clenched his jaw in the mirror, so much so, that Marc swore he felt the pain in his own teeth. A tear fell from one of his eyes, and then another, and then another, and another. A scream pierced Marc’s ears; Steven now sobbing loudly on the floor.

"Steven..."

He saw him fall to his knees, close his fist over his chest as if he could squeeze his own heart in his hand. The image reminded him too much of a certain moment in his life, not long ago, and Marc's heart sank to his feet. He took a step forwards, his fingers caressing the surface of the mirror as if he could touch Steven somehow. As if he could reassure him. He never meant to hurt Steven. He had always seen and admired how strong Steven Grant was, how never, nothing got to him. And yet there he was, breaking down in front of him. A sobbing mess on the floor.

"Steven, listen to me..."

The cries were suddenly over, the noise in his head gone. The last thing he heard from him was a word. A plea to the heavens. The most-asked question between the martyrs.

"Why...?"

Marc made the first call shortly after, sitting on the floor with a bottle of whiskey in hand. He had somehow managed to put a pair of black boxers on, and that simple act had consumed the last drop of strength in his body. The fight with Steven had worn him out, his body feeling limp, numb everywhere. First, the crippling fear of leaving you alone not knowing if he would ever see you again, then the plane and the tiredness that followed; last but not least, the fight with Steven.

He wouldn't be surprised if that night he couldn't manage to crawl to bed.

Even in that situation, he called you. It was a quick call because he couldn't pretend he was okay for longer than a couple of seconds. Still, your voice calmed him down, enough to close the blinds and get on the bed. It would have almost lulled him to sleep if he wasn't as shaken as he was. He forced himself to drown in your voice, memorise it. He knew in the next couple of days he would hardly hear it. He had work to do, and he needed to be careful and look over his shoulder at all times. He couldn't get distracted, a lot of lives depended on it.

Two days later, it was Steven who called you.

He was finally in the driver's seat. He finally had the body. Not because Marc had allowed him to, but because it was necessary. By then, Steven had understood —despite trying to get to the airport in a taxi a day earlier— that there were more pressing things than his desire to get home to his quiet, lonely and boring life. There were things at stake, things that were more important than any of you.

But Marc still pressed him to call you, to let you know that they were okay. And Steven, despite the heartache that the sole sound of your name caused him, agreed.

"Hello, it's me," Steven said. "Your friend here told me you two had some shit going on about some calls, but I have the body now, so you'll have to deal with me."

Because of the way he addressed Marc, you knew he wasn't exactly happy, but the fact he still chose to call you gave you hope.

"Thank you," you responded, a relieved sigh leaving your lips. "Steven, I'm really sorry about-"

You were trying to apologize for leaving his flat, for your last conversation. But Steven was way past that, there were worse things that bothered him. He left the tent he was in, walking in circles before he found a rock and sat on it. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands, hard. Since he had taken hold of the body he couldn't stop feeling like he had sand on his eyes. But he knew the sand wasn't the only reason why they were always teary.

"Save it, (y/n). I know you two slept together," he said, his voice much more emotionless than he intended. He saw Layla far away, stepping out of another tent, and he signalled that he was okay when she shouted the question. She was too far away to hear the conversation, but Steven knew Layla wasn't as oblivious as to not know who he was talking to. "I'm frankly gutted, but I should have expected it, right?"

"No... no, don't say that," you almost begged. "That's not-"

You then heard Layla's voice in the background, urging Steven to end the call. You didn't exactly understand her, but you knew it was her.

"Is that Layla?"

"Yep, yep," he said, standing up and walking in the opposite direction, finally reaching the car and leaning against it. "Layla El-Faouly herself. Any complaints about it?" he waited, and the line went silent. "Of course not. It would have been hypocritical of you, wouldn't it?"

"I don't get it. Did Marc bring her there? He didn't say."

Steven looked at the rear-view mirror, at Marc's pained expression as he read Steven's face. Marc shook his head, a silent plea. But Steven wouldn't lie to you and say that Marc had brought Layla there, because he hadn't. Layla had followed Marc without him knowing, and Steven didn't have the need to piss you off, despite all the hurt you had inflicted over his poor and shattered heart. He wouldn't lie to you, he wouldn't cause any unnecessary pain.

"You have no idea how much I'd love to say yes, but no, Layla came here by herself. We had no idea she was following," he said instead, looking at the way Marc closed his eyes, a relieved expression washing over him. Steven, annoyed by his reaction, tapped the rear-view mirror as if he was a fish. "But I do love to have her here, honestly. We have a lot of things in common. She says all she wants from Marc is honesty... Sounds familiar? Guess you two are made for each other..."

You couple of liars, he wanted to add, but he bit his tongue. That was too much. And yeah, he was hurt. But the fact that you hurt him didn't mean he had to be cruel and hurt you back. He would never do such a thing. He wasn't that kind of person.

And neither were you. You had never meant to hurt him, not on purpose at least. Despite his words, you understood how he felt. You guessed you'd have probably reacted worse if it was the other way around. But none of that mattered now, not in the great scheme of things. They were fighting for their lives as much as for the lives of others. They were heroes, even if they didn't feel like that yet.

And you had finally understood, after your last conversation with Steven, that you never know what your last words to someone are going to be.

So you took a deep breath, calmed down, and opened your heart to him.

"Steven..." you sighed. He noticed the change in your voice, the relief. "I'm glad you are okay."

He frowned.

"Because that means he is?"

You rolled your eyes, but he didn't see that.

"No," you told him. "What I meant is I'm glad you are fronting and... fine, and I'm relieved to hear your voice, your accent," you said. "I've missed you. I know you are angry with me, but that doesn't make me love you any less."

Steven is hurting. He knows it's natural to feel that way, and he knows that it's natural not wanting to feel that way. He lets the pain drown him, though, because that means he cares, that it was all real and still is, at least for him. In such uncertain times when he's doubting even his own name, the pain is a reminder that his love was real; that at least his was.

It was supposed to hurt, it was part of what he signed up for, and he let it hurt.

"I love you, too," he said. "Guess that's not that good for me, though."

"I'm very sorry, Steven," you responded. "But I need you to know that it's true. I love you. It will always be true. The same way it has always been true for Marc and I."

There was a tense silence filling the line. Steven got a steadying breath and wondered for a second if all this talking had a purpose, or if it was simply the two of you torturing each other with meaningless words. Were they meaningless, even? Were you lying to him again? Could he ever trust anything you said?

He called your name, and you responded, but he didn't know what to say. He wished he could go back in time, call past you, and hear her talk for hours instead. He wanted to hear your voice. He wanted to listen to your ramblings. He wanted to go back to what the two of you shared before Marc appeared in his life. Meanwhile, his mind was blank. He didn't know how or even where to begin to fix the situation, that is if he even wanted to fix it.

Luckily for him, you talked first.

"I know you hate me right now..."

"I don't hate you," he squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He cursed himself for saying that so quick. He sounded desperate and he hated it. "I said I was gutted. I didn't say I hated you. I could never..." he filled his lungs. "I could never hate you, angel."

He heard how you went silent, a few cries following shortly after. The nickname crushed you the same way it crushed his heart. It had been so long since you had last heard it that you thought you would never hear it again. Steven didn't know if it even had the same meaning, if he still thought you were an angel fallen from heaven.

But he would never use the nickname for anyone else, and he missed you.

"I'm so sorry, Steven."

A sad smile took over his expression. Steven looked ahead of him at the bright blue sky, at the line on the horizon where it melted with the yellow sand. The desert gave him peace, somehow. And he took it as a sign that everything would be okay in the end.

"I'm sorry too," he said.

His apology was not the result of remorse, and you knew that. There was nothing Steven had done wrong, and there was nothing he felt guilty about. The only thing he might regret was falling for you. But even that, he couldn't bring himself to do.

"Take care, love," he said. "We talk when I get to England, yeah?"

"Yeah, alright."

"I don't wanna hear you cry anymore," he said, and heard you chuckle through the tears. "I mean it. I'm tired of it."

Even on the phone, you knew he wasn't annoyed by it. You knew he cared. You knew he said it because he genuinely cared.

"I'll do my best."

He smiled.

"You better do."

You tried not to spend all day in Steven's flat, but by day three —a few hours before the call with Steven—, you found yourself carrying a suitcase and the Taweret stuffed hippo to his flat.

Not only was his bed extremely comfortable —and smelled of them— but the head teacher of a nearby school had also given you an interview for the next morning. It was something that would serve as an excuse to stay for a few days. Plus, the internet said goldfishes ate three times a day, and you were way too lazy to take the tube six times a day.

Staying at Steven's flat was simply convenient, or so you told yourself.

The truth was you missed them way too much. It formed a permanent hole in your chest, the fact that they were out there risking their lives for something greater than themselves. It hurt you to an imaginable level the fact that Steven had been dragged into the whole thing without any knowledge or fault of his own. He didn't even know he had DID. He didn't even know his mother passed, still doesn't.

You wished you could talk to Marc about it. Steven deserved to know. But even if you decided that telling the truth was the best thing to do in these circumstances, the calls were not long and neither of them answered the messages you sent to Marc's phone. It didn't take you long, either, to find out that Steven's phone had been left behind in London.

Despite Steven thinking you didn't like the presence of Layla, you knew she was trained for that, after all. She was good with weapons, she knew Cairo as the back of her hand. She was born there, raised there, married there. And you couldn't compare yourself to her. You would have only been a burden, a nervous wreck. You were actually glad she was there. You were happy they were not alone.

On the fourth day, neither of them called.

You nailed the interview, got the job on the spot. From the very first moment, the new school looked welcoming and playful, with not a hint of the grey and depressing walls that had adorned your previous workplace. The hallways were covered in paintings, poems and quotes. The playground was much bigger and the head teacher introduced you to all the teachers that were then in the teacher's lounge. None of them had an ugly black scale on their forearms.

When you finally left, you couldn't wait to give the good news to both your boys, but had to keep yourself from calling them anyways. You didn't want them to get in further danger. In your mind, the loud ringing of Marc's phone could give away their location while they were hiding somewhere; or even worse, knowing Marc he would pick up thinking it could be an emergency and get distracted long enough for his enemies to hurt him. Yeah, not only you had watched too many movies and had a very creative mind, but you were also an anxious wreck even when —apparently— there was no reason for that.

By the time the sun began to hide behind the skyscrapers of the city, you had already called them a couple of times, not able to hold your nerves in check. Was Marc even fronting yet? You didn't know, but you felt a little more relaxed at the idea of Marc having the body and protecting Steven from fights he didn't know how to win, so you told yourself he was, in fact, fronting. And prayed that he picked up the phone, but then midnight happened and you still had no news from them.

With tears on your face and a deathly grip on your heart, you hugged Taweret as much as you could. And somehow, it felt as if the soft cotton of the stuffed hippo hugged you back. You were sitting on Steven's couch, and hated that you had turned on the tv to feel a little less lonely and keep the thoughts at bay as much as you could. It was a lost cause now, though. You couldn't stop thinking something horrible had happened to them. You felt it in your own flesh, beyond what you could possibly explain with words.

And so you called Layla.

You had never been very close with her, and there had been a time in which her stern face and determined eyes made you think she secretly despised you. But she didn't, of course. She was a wonderful woman, one you admired most of the time and envied whenever Marc held her close. But it wasn't an angry, red-stained envy. It was a sad one, a baby blue coloured, the last swim in the river in the summer, the last sunset before coming back home to the city. You had longed for Marc for the longest time, but not one of your thoughts was ever directed at Layla. In fact, you loved to see Marc happy, even if it wasn't you who caused his smiles and laughter.

She picked up on the last ring.

The line was deadly silent, and you knew what that meant before she even spoke.

"Layla..." you called, trying to drown your own tears, trying not to sob, trying to keep the pieces of yourself together as much as you could. But you felt like a paper plane landing on a lake, the edges getting heavy as it made contact with water, then slowly unravelling, breaking into small, thin and drenched pieces of paper. That's how you felt; heavy and breaking.

"He's dead," she said, and you swore you had never heard her cry until then. "They... are. Both of them. I'm sorry."

The entire flat gave a violent turn, your own stomach following shortly after. Something soft and hard landed on your cheek at the same time. Your whole body gave up, falling on the couch with a thud. It took you more than a few seconds to realize that you were now lying on the couch, on your side. The cartoons you had been half watching, half ignoring until then, became a blur, a mixture of bright yellow, light blue and orange that you couldn't distinguish anymore. The only thing that kept your awareness, the only thing you still cling to, was the phone. Your fingers gripped it for dear life, pressing it so hard against your face that a blunt ache bloomed on your skull as your earring pierced through the skin there.

You didn't feel it. You were more concerned at the fact that your heart had seemingly stopped beating, your lungs constricted in the cage of your chest as if you had been kicked on the diaphragm.

For a second, you wondered if you were still alive. Then you heard her talk.

"Harrow shot him, twice," she said, her voice now stoic, determined. "I'm going to kill him."

You wetted your dry lips, and tried to wipe away tears that weren't on your face. Wasn't it funny how feelings shut down when the hurt is too much to bear?

"No," you said, but before she could answer, you regained your own voice. Words left your lips before you even could shy away from them. "Kill them all, Layla. Not just Harrow."

You heard her chuckle, music to your ears.

"I will," she said. "I swear I will."

"Don't leave one of them standing."

"I won't."

The call was the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing you whole. And when it was done, when silence took the place of Layla's voice, there was nothing standing between you and the unwavering loneliness, the never-ending pain that felt like a cramp in every single joint and muscle. A sharp pang went through your chest, then, and without making a single sound you parted your lips and silently screamed. Hot tears now —finally— burning the flesh of your face and neck as they ran through the skin and died either on your lips or on the floor.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. You would never see them again. They would never make it back home. You would never hold them again, talk to them again, run your fingers through their hair.

Take care, had been their last order, their last wish and hope. And it wasn't until now, way too late, that you understood. Take care (whether we come back home, or not), take care (even if we are not there), take care (whatever happens).

Take care. Always, take care.

They had promised to come back home, but they failed to keep their word.

You picked up the phone and threw it against the wall. It shattered in an instant, splinters fell as the screen became a puddle of broken glass on the floor. It was as if the whole thing exploded, the phone was now a mess on the carpet. You picked it up a while later, after staring at it and realizing you felt a lot more broken than the thing was. You picked it up because you wanted to see Steven's face. A picture of him at the karaoke night had been your lockscreen until then. Not anymore though, the stupid thing wouldn't even turn on. And you cried, because you wanted to see them and you couldn't. You could never do it again, you never would. Neither your best friend nor your lover.

The idea of a world in which Marc didn't exist was a hard one to grasp, one that left you limp on Steven's bed for the rest of the night. Not that it was easier to think about Steven, but Marc had been next to you for such a long time that you could barely remember a time, or a phase in your life, in which he was not present. He had been your first and truest love, your first kiss, your first and last best friend. He had given you your first sip of beer, your first taste at what true friendship was like, too. He had caused a lot of pain, sure, but comparing it to what you felt now, the pain of longing had been sweet, salted-caramel-like. This ache was different. It was dull, dark, and hopeless. And it gave way to fear. Fear of how much darker the world would be without your only two lights to help you wander through it.

You wondered how you'd live the rest of your life knowing you could have had Steven but decided to hurt him instead. You wondered how you could have ever lied to his pretty face, how you could cause so much pain in his already aching heart. And above all, you wondered if you could live with the fact that you had never —actually— talked things through, never fixed things, never tried to mend all the agony in his body. All you had ever wanted was to see him happy and content, even if that didn't mean having a relationship, his happiness was all you ever wanted from the very first moment he came up to you and asked you about the scriptures in the museum.

At the end of the day, all you had ever wanted was for both of them to be okay. And even at that, such a simple task, you had failed. In every way, shape and form, you had failed.

You had promised yourself you would never fail them, hurt them, again. At least one of you could keep their word.

Despite desperately needing to, you didn't sleep all night. You didn't drink or eat anything, either. All you did was hug Taweret, and lose yourself in the hallways of your own mind, in all the raw and unfiltered memories. The next morning, you managed to crawl out of bed. The only thing that could make the situation somewhat worse, was if you killed Steven's beloved pet by accident. He would never forgive you for that.

You thought you had no more tears left to cry, you thought if you didn't drink anything maybe you would never cry again, you wouldn't have the tears; but as you approached Gus' tank, you felt them once again prick your eyes.

"I'm sorry, Gus," your voice broke as you looked at the vibrant orange goldfish. For a second, you wished you could be him, forget about the pain, be clueless. "I'm so sorry, darling."

It was another warm day in England, but this time you couldn't manage to get out of bed anymore. Despite the heat, there was a coldness, a freezing cold feeling coming from your bone marrow, from your heart, from seemingly everywhere in your body, that you couldn't shake. You lost consciousness and regained it several times during the morning. But every time you woke up to an empty bed, and a world without Marc and Steven, it felt like a worst punishment than death. By midday, you started to wish Layla failed, that Harrow would come after you to finish what he had started in the museum. Even if he had no reason to, because he already had what he wanted and Layla was his only obstacle left.

You really shouldn't have smashed your phone last night. It was only then that you started regretting it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care even then. Not even curiosity was enough to bring you out of the state you were in. They were dead, both of them. What did it matter anymore? If Marc was right, you'd be gone in a couple of hours, at most. If not, then your guess was Layla had succeeded.

In the midst of your pain, you imagined Steven on the bed next to you. If you were going to die, you might as well have a peaceful death; surrounded by the people you loved most. You imagined them as vividly as you could. When you pictured Steven, you saw the bright eyes, the soft skin, the kind eyes. When the image switched to Marc, you saw the wrinkle between his eyebrows, his clenched jaw, his pleading eyes, the child you had met almost two decades ago.

You fell into a dreamless sleep, restless. You had thought you'd have another one of your nightmares, like all the other times you had fallen asleep that morning. Thankfully, your own mind decided to give you a break. And you slept, but did not rest despite your efforts. Maybe imagining them next to you had helped to some extent, maybe if you kept imagining them next to you, you could make it through the day, maybe a few days, maybe longer, who knows.

When you woke up, they were still there.

"Afternoon, angel," Steven said, a little smile on his lips.

He looked different, very different from the image you had first projected when you fell asleep; an certainly different to any Steven you remembered. This Steven had deeper circles under his eyes, and they had a darker shade of purple. He looked exhausted, a few years older, even. His hair was messy, but that wasn't a first. The way he looked at you, as if you were sand that slowly slipped from his fingers, as if you were a vase he was trying not to break, was what really had you concerned.

Well, that, and the fact that he had talked. Were you that close to a nervous breakdown? Were you dreaming, or had you finally entered psychosis? Whatever it was, you didn't mind, you didn't care; because now you had Steven. Even if it was for a short while.

His brows furrowed, his eyes squinted.

"Love?" he said. And you thought that must be the way he died; confused, frightened. Steven brought a hand to your face, lingering over the skin of your cheek, wondering if he should touch you. But he finally did, and the warm hand, the vivid sensation of him caressing your face, was enough for you to gasp as if he had physically hurt you and squeeze your eyes shut; trying to breathe through the pain. "Oh... I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry for everything. But I'm here now. We both are."

Steven pressed his forehead against you, and you recoiled as if you were a wounded animal. You didn't understand what was happening.

That's when his voice changed.

"Listen," Marc said, his hands now cupping both your cheeks. "Open your eyes for me. I'm here. Everything is alright. We're home. We're fine."

You opened your eyes, but didn't dare to believe him. You were now dreaming, that was for sure. It wasn't the first time you dreamed of someone you had lost. And you knew the more you engaged the more it would hurt when you woke up. Layla wouldn't lie about this. She wasn't that cruel. She wasn't capable of doing such a thing. It had to be a dream, a painful and vivid dream, the result of your weak mind breaking down.

Tears pricked your eyes again, as if you hadn't cried them all last night. You were tired, exhausted, you just wished you could make the whole world stop for a few seconds. You wanted to close your eyes, turn back time and find yourself back into your boys' arms again. Safe, loved.

Now kneeling on the bed, Marc brushed the hair out of your face and tucked it behind your ears.

"I called you a hundred times," he said, and just then you saw how exhausted and frightened he looked too. The slight yellowish colour of his skin, the frantic eyes. He chuckled, but far from a relieved laugh, it was a sad one. "You gave us quite the scare."

If this was your mind playing games, you were quickly getting pissed off about it. But everything seemed so real, too real. You weren't sure you even cared at this point, if it was real or not, but you'd appreciate if they stopped trying to bring you out of your stupor. All you knew was that you wanted to live in this exact moment forever. You didn't want it to end, you didn't want to wake up. You needed Marc and Steven like air. You needed them home.

If this is heaven, you thought, please don't let me fall.

His accent changed again, briefly.

"Please, love," Steven said, brown eyes full of concern. He leaned slowly and kissed your forehead, once. "Say something... come back to us," he whispered.

His words tugged at your heart.

"You were the one supposed to come back to me."

He squinted, but a second later his pupils got lost somewhere in your face, as he listened to what Marc had to say about it. Then, his shoulders squared, his face morphed into Marc's once again, his lip stopped trembling. One of his hands urged you into a seating position against the headboard, gently grabbing you by the waist and guiding you against the wooden surface. Soft hands warm against your clammy and sweaty skin. And you couldn't help but reach out for him when he stood up and turned, trying to leave.

"Marc..."

You don't want him to go, you might never see him again if he does.

Turning back to face you, he took your hand —which was gripping his white t-shirt like a lifeline—, between both his palms and gave a gentle squeeze; his thumbs drawing circles on your skin, trying to comfort you somehow.

"I'm not going anywhere," he sofly talked, as if he could read your mind. He then said your name, and went on. "...you're in shock. But it will pass soon. You have to let me help you."

That made sense, or at least that's what you felt, and as your mind tried to join the dots and give sense to his words and your surroundings for the first time that morning, you let him go. He stayed unmoving for a couple of seconds, sitting on the bed next to you, making sure you were okay before he left. He then stood up and disappeared behind the bookshelves that divided the bedroom space from the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a bowl and a cloth. He sat down next to you.

"Give me your arm," he said, and you did.

Taking an ice cube from the bowl, he pressed it against your forearm, drawing circles on the skin. The cool sensation was immediate, the burning taking away the numbness. Marc gestured for you to hold it, and soon enough he was pressing another one to your temple, his arm pulling you against his chest by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, just above your ear. “She shouldn’t have said anything.”

The ice was melting against your hot skin, the heaviness in your muscles quickly disappearing, your mind finally clearing out, leaving the fight or flight response for the first time in more than twelve hours. The full force of your anguish hit you then, and as he held you in his arms you sobbed, burying your nose in the crook of his neck despite the uncomfortable heat.

“There you are, finally,” he said, you could barely register his hand rubbing your back up and down. “That’s it. Let it all out.”

You were tearing your insides apart. Your heart was broken beyond repair, your lungs punctured, your muscles unmoving, stuck in place. But it wasn't a quiet and peaceful sadness; you were full of rage against everything and everyone and even fate itself. You couldn't possibly believe anyone could hurt Marc or Steven. It was as inconceivable as the idea that you could ever forget them. It just wasn't going to happen.

"I'm gonna miss you," you whispered, between hiccups. "I loved both of you so much."

Marc squinted, his whole exhausted face now even more concerned if that was even possible.

"Baby, I'm here."

But you didn't listen, you couldn't possibly listen to him. You didn't want hope, didn't want reassurance. There was no space for that, you didn't want to make it worse when whatever that was happening ended. He had to be a dream, a precious dream, but one you hadn't asked for.

"Look at me."

You did. And Marc, dipping his hand in the bowl and bringing as much water as he could, spilled some of it in your cheeks and forehead; as if you were a sickly feverish child confined to bed. He then looked into your teary eyes, your reddened face, your trembling shoulders and fingers. He couldn't help but think that you seemed barely a shell of a person right now, and he hated it.

Rearranging himself in front of you, clothed legs crossed right next to your thighs, he took one of your hands in his. Then, he brought it up to his naked chest, pulling the t-shirt up enough for your arm to get under it. He pressed your hand against his heart and kept quiet.

His breathing was steady, but his beating heart was the complete opposite. It was pounding hard against his chest, so much so, that you could almost feel it in your hand, as if there was no flesh or muscles standing in between. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sensation on your fingers, on the sound of his steady breathing; but you could feel a grimace forming on your face, not being able to cover your own feelings. Your features contorted in a pained expression, the corners of your mouth pointing downwards. And you tried to breathe through it, bringing your attention back to the present moment, to what he was trying to show you.

"I'm alive," he said. "Steven is okay, too. He was here a second ago. And you..." he said. You opened your eyes just in time to see him press his big, warm hand against your chest, to where your hollow and broken heart must be. "You are safe. You're fine. We'll be alright. It's all over now."

Marc smiled trying to get you to trust him, to believe him. It was a small one, even if the pleading eyes remained. He didn't remove your hand from his chest, and nor did you do it from his.

Getting closer, legs now intertwining in an intricate knot as you got closer and closer to him, you closed your eyes and tried to focus on reality; on what you just now began to identify as your reality, the present moment. You tried to focus on Marc. He was back, and that was all that mattered.

"(y/n)," he called.

Pulling his shirt up, you encouraged him to take it off. He obeyed, both his hands surrounding you as your forehead fell against his warm skin, your lips barely brushing the hot flesh, the gentle curve over his pectorals, a curve dying in the dip in the middle of his chest. You pressed your cheek so hard against him, that you could feel how the chain of his necklace got imprinted there.

Then you heard it, the quickening beating. Even if that had not been your intention, you thanked your own actions for allowing that melody into your ears.

"Let's stay like this for a while"

There was a change, a gentle one as his muscles got slightly tense, regaining the initial softness just a split second later. You didn't realize what had happened until he spoke.

"Of course, love," Steven whispered.

The moment was short-lived as questions kept popping up in your mind. Your thoughts, your curiosity, were so loud that you could barely focus on the way he held you. Still, you waited there, closed your eyes as you ravished in his touch on your back, in his breathing making your baby hairs swing back and forth, in his naked flesh against your ear.

"Steven?"

"Yeah?" he responded, a hand rubbing your back. He didn't give you any time to talk. "Tell me what you need."

"When did you learn to switch so quick?"

It took all your willpower to part ways, to separate your body from his, even if all your limbs and all his limbs were already intertwined with each other. Steven chuckled under your watch, his tired eyes becoming bright and contentment filling them up. A small set of wrinkled appeared on the corners as he squinted.

It striked you then. He was okay. Marc was okay. You were okay. Everything was okay.

You wanted to kiss him.

"Long story short..." he said, "...we've become mates now. If you can call it that..." his eyes wandered for a second, the same as his mind. "He said not to call him that, but I'm gonna do it anyway."

You couldn't help but smile at his words, your fingers in his nape getting knotted in his curls. When your now —finally— focused eyes locked in his, a miserable look on them, Steven felt his own heartbreak; an invisible hand grabbing the muscle in a tight fist and trying to pull it outside through his throat.

"What happened?"

Don't tell her, Marc said in the headspace, but there was no need for that. I don't think she can handle it right now.

Steven knew Marc was right, but for a second, he wondered if it wasn't that —the hidding, the lies, the running away— what had brought yours and Marc's relationship to the darkest point in its history. There weren't many things that Steven hated more than that, the lies.

He brought a hand to your forehead, the pads of his fingers delineating —caressing— the lines and curves of your face.

"It's a long story, dear," he said, but the more he tried to keep a serious face, the harder it was. "It was truly an adventure. I was inside the Great Pyramid of Giza, I talked to gods. It was absolutely bonkers."

By the time he was done, his brown eyes were shining. The contrast against the purple circles under his eyes made him look a bit bonkers indeed. But despite that, you couldn't help a smile growing on your lips. You knew you should've been angry, after all, you had gone through hell the last couple of days, but you couldn't bring it against him with how excited he seemed to be. And you knew not everything had been a fun ride.

"Are you alright now?" he asked, speaking soflty, looking intently into your eyes. You nodded. "Good. I'm so glad."

Steven hugged you, he pressed your body against his so much that he accidentally lifted you from the mattress, and you were now kneeling, one of his thighs between your legs. The hug was so tight, his strong arms squeezing you against him so much, that a faint ache spread throughout your ribs; but you couldn't be bothered to care.

He drowned his nose into your hair, smelling the scent of you in your neck. Tears started pricking his eyes without notice, and before he could stop it, he felt himself out of breath.

"I was so scared," he whispered.

You let him calm down, not ending the hug anytime soon.

What he didn't say was what he was scared about. Steven was, overall, a very honest man. And he hated drama as much as he hated bullies. For those reasons, it even surprised him when he wanted to be detailed but couldn't. Words got caught in his throat, but also knotted in his mind, as he found himself not only unable to say them but also unable to thread them properly to form sentences. Steven had been anxious the whole journey, scared too, but he didn't address that fear in particular. It wasn't until he felt the piercing, burning wound in his chest that he knew everything was fucked up.

But what really got to him wasn't the blood or the water surrounding him or noticing his body exhaling his last breath. No. That had been comfortable, almost peaceful. Death was easy. It had been everything that followed what had scarred him, filled his inert veins with fright. The whole time in the boat he had wondered and worried about what would happen to you, how were you doing, what would you do once you heard the news. And the more his thoughts spiralled, the more he was convinced about finding a way out of the underworld. He didn't know how, but he knew he had to. They both had.

The feeling had only been aggravated when he dived into Marc's memories. Not only he felt as if his soul had been shattered when he realized how awful his own mother had been to —him— Marc; but the boat had also shown him precious memories that Steven —despite feeling slightly jealous, in a good way— found precious. He understood why Marc had treasured those memories, why they were neater and sharper than any other memory he had. Steven saw himself in Brighton and everything that followed. He saw your first kiss on his dad's car. He saw Marc desperately coming back to London after becoming Moon Knight, not resting until you were in his line of vision. He saw you at his mother's funeral through the window, even if you didn't see him because he didn't dare to get in. He watched with tears in his eyes how you brought 14-year-old Marc to your home and almost burned yourself trying to light up a couple of candles over a cake for his birthday. After seeing how his father had given up on celebrating his birthdays, and his mother always ruined it by being too drunk to get out of bed, Steven couldn't help but be grateful that you had been there.

After all he saw, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at any of you. In anything, he felt annoyed that it had taken so long. He felt as if he had seen an uncomfortably long romantic drama that seemed to never quite unfold.

When Steven fell to the freezing cold dunes of the Duat, that's when he abbandoned himself to terror. The whole time he was there, he screamed in his own mind. He cried, he yelled. He couldn't even breathe, not like he had the need to anyways, but the sensation was equally uncomfortable. Panic surged through his veins. When the realization of never being able to see you again striked, he wished he could move just so he could fold his own body into itself and sob.

Now he was okay, safe, alright. But if he was all those things, why did he feel the same terror, the shadows of something crawling at his feet, trying to drag his soul back to the Duat?

Steven focused on your breathing, on the slight movement of your back behind his fingers as you breathed. And that —you— was the only thing that calmed him down. It was the only thing that could calm him down.

It's alright, Steven. Marc said in his mind, noticing the knot in his throat, the fright. Steven had to admit that he wished Marc had shown himself before. He wished he had those reassuring words sooner, when he was at that time in his life in which panic attacks were his bread and butter.

"I'm so thankful you were there," he said, caressing your back as if he was comforting you when, in reality, he was comforting himself. "At my mom's shiva, I mean. It means a lot to me that you were there, even if she didn't deserve it."

His words surprised you, that was obvious, but you didn't let go just yet.

"I wasn't there for her, Steven."

You hadn't been there for him, either, not for Steven at least. But that didn't take away any of his thankfulness; because he saw Marc as a part of himself now, and everything you had done for Marc, Steven took it as something you did for him too.

"I know," he said, finally separating, leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek before he did. "Thank you, anyways."

That's when you saw it.

With your eyes looking down as you pulled away from him, you discerned the scars on his chest. Two circles, two swirls of healed skin in the middle of his chest. One just over his diaphragm, the other directly into his stomach. Your eyes widened as you caught a glimpse of them, your fingers quickly touching the surrounding skin. You guessed Khonshu had healed them —if not, how could they be there?— but you had watched enough movies for you to imagine it. The placement of the wounds was enough to kill anyone instantly, piercing through many major organs and even not allowing them to inhale any oxygen.

"Oh, that, yeah...," Steven said. "It's alright. It wasn't as painful as it seems."

Speak for yourself, dude. Marc complained. I literally had my throat full of blood, but whatever.

"Don't be a wanker," he responded, whispering, quickly correcting himself as he saw your confused expression. "That wasn't for you! It's Marc, he's..." he pointed at his temple. "he's whining. You know how he is."

I'm not whining!

Steven rolled his eyes. Whatever.

"Are you sure you're alright?" you asked. A flash of your own frightening thoughts coming to the front of your mind, the memory of the cold barrel of a gun pressed against your back. "You can talk to me if you need to. Marc, you too."

Steven smiled, and when the movement in a nearby mirror caught his attention, he saw Marc smiling too.

"Don't worry about us," he said. "It was quick. A couple of seconds and... puff," he mimicked two explosions with his hands, closing and opening his fists. "...we weren't even there anymore. It was honestly worse what happened afterwards."

"What do you mean?"

Congrats, Steven, you fucked up, Marc said in the mirror. And he didn't respond because he knew Marc was right. Marc might have known you longer, but it didn't take Steven to know you for years to know that once something piqued your curiosity, you wouldn't stop until you got to the bottom of it.

"Uhm..." he murmured, his own body suddenly stiff, restless. Steven disentangled your body from his and got out of bed. "Why don't we get a cuppa? I've missed that so much."

You squinted.

"Steven..."

"Yes, love?" he said, about to surround the bookshelf to get into the kitchen. That was his first mistake, to look into your concerned expression for such a long time that he felt as if the guilt was eating him alive. He sighed quietly. Steven stood in front of you, playing with his own fingers like a kid that had accidentally broken a window playing football. "Can we talk in the kitchen, please? We have so much to tell you. And I'd really like doing it over a cup of tea."

Who would reject such an offer? Not you, that much was clear.

Unlike many people in the world, Steven was one of those people who once he said something, you could expect him to fulfil his intentions. He said he would tell you all about it over a cup of tea, and that was exactly what he did. He told you everything he had experienced, but also gave you pieces of what Marc told him had happened in the scarce moments in which he was not either fronting or conscious in the headspace. He didn't hold back, he told you absolutely everything. The fight with Marc the first day, the meeting with the gods, Alexander the Great, the shots, the underworld, everything... And he tried for his fear —and jealousy— not to show up when he talked about how Marc passed to the Field of Reeds while he stayed in the cold sands of the Duat. His own heart felt swollen and warm when he talked about the way Marc had left the field looking for him.

It was a long chat, and much of it didn't make sense from a logical point of view. But the world was a messed, confusing place; and there was no point in denying or doubting anything they said.

After a few seconds, the sounds coming from Gus' tank the only thing filling the silence, Steven squeezed the mug against his fingers. It was now cold, and he wetted his lips before talking.

"Marc and I made an agreement," he said. "About... well, us," his dark, kind eyes looked into your own, looking for a reaction in them. "You know, us."

"Yes, Steven," you softly chuckled, and gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. "What is it about?"

"Well we agreed that he's horrible at words."

You chuckled.

"That's not news to me."

"Yeah..." he smiled, looking down at his mug again. "That's why we agreed, and it makes sense having in mind you two already fixed things, that it would be me the one who did the talking," he said. "For the conversation."

"The conversation," you nodded, trying not to smile as he said it. You found it amusing, despite the true meaning of his words. But your throat still closed around in a knot, your stomach giving a violent turn in a second. "Okay. That means you talk first...?" you asked, "...or I talk first?"

Steven smiled, shook his head and gave you a gentle squeeze back. His hand surrounded the one that was caressing his wrist over the table.

"Let us do it," he said.

You nodded. Your teeth dragged your bottom lip between them —a habit you did when you got anxious—, until Steven's thumb reached for your chin and rubbed the pad against your lip, forcing you to let it free. He was sending you a sign with his actions: there's nothing to worry about, love.

"Not only we relived everything at the boat," he said. "We had plenty of time in the plane to talk, even if we were in a rush to get here, and we panicked much more than we should have. We had five and a half hours of flight, and we guessed that we might as well put that time to good use.

"I'm gonna talk for me first, but Marc already knows this," he took a deep breath, rubbed his face with both hands and swallowed. "I know it wasn't fine what you both did. Us, getting to know each other, as if you didn't know who I was beforehand. But I do know, now, that neither of you had bad intentions. And what happened between us wasn't... orchestrated," he stopped, looking into your eyes for the first time. "Marc thinks what I felt for you was so sudden because I mistook his feelings for mine. But I don't think that's true. Even if it was, it doesn't matter now. I still love you-"

"Steven..."

"No, let me finish," he said, still holding your hand. "I liked you from the very first moment I saw you, and that is something that I won't give him credit for. I like you because of who you are, and I grew to love you. Quite soon, that's true. But I don't think timing is any problem here. You love who you love, when you love, and after being lonely for so long, I won't make myself feel guilty for that," he swallowed the lump in his throat again. He was scared, he didn't want you to run away from him, and he feared he might frighten you with the extent of his feelings.

“I used to think that you fell from heaven, that God sent you to me for some reason,” he said. “I know now that’s not true. You didn’t fall, you grew on Earth, next to us. We helped each other, we fed each other, and we loved each other in every way a person can be loved. You saved Marc, and saved me without me noticing, and we’d like to think we saved you, helped you and loved you in the best way we could; even if I was a bit late to the party, even if Marc ran away from it.”

“You’re a part of us in the same way Marc is a part of me. You were not a miracle or a blessing or fate. You are the realization that we, as humans, are made of the people that we love most, that there's always a part of us that belongs to the person you love. I believe there’s no us without you, and as bad as it is that I am the one to say it, there’s no you without us either."

Steven closed his eyes, he could feel his anxiety adding up to Marc's, and he needed to finish what he had to say. He was almost done, he had to.

You are doing great, Marc said. Better than I ever would.

Tell me about it, Steven responded in a whisper, even in the headspace he felt out of breath.

Thank you.

"We’ve left fingerprints on each other," Steven's eyes looked into yours. The purest longing drowning them. "We can’t run away from that. I don’t want to run away from that," he played with his fingers, and kept doing it as he looked ahead, at the reflection of Marc in Gus' tank. Marc nodded. "Before the Duat, we saw the other as competition, an enemy. We were jealous because each of us had something with you that the other never could, and because we couldn't conceive the idea of the three of us together; because we hated each other. That's not a problem now. So..." he took a breath, his fingers gave you a gentle squeeze before his eyes locked in yours again. The brown melting your heart. "...if you will have us, we would love to have you. And we'd love to be yours, too."

That was everything you had ever wanted to hear.

You smiled, the most relieved smile any of them had ever seen, as if the weight of the world had been lifted up from your shoulders. You rose up from the chair, and rounded the corner of the table. Steven moved away from it, making room for you. His eyes, both Steven's and Marc's, looked at you with such adoration from where they sat, that you felt every bone in your body melt under their gaze. The love that pervaded their souls was as pure as it was moving.

Before you sat, Steven was already holding you, bringing your body against him by the waist. You took a seat over his thigh, and far from bothered, he felt privileged.

"What about Layla?"

That wasn't what he expected to hear, but the light in his eyes didn't vanish.

"Marc signed the papers yesterday night," he said. "She knows everything."

You nodded, but you were still deep in thought. There was just one more small detail that you couldn't quite shake, the only thing still creating distance between your own heart and his. Steven's specifically.

"What is it?" he asked, as he brushed the tips of your hair with his fingers, mindlessly. "Tell me."

There's one thing..." you began. "Steven, you said you thought I didn't love you, that I only loved Marc and liked you, just because you looked like him," your own words hurt, even if it wasn't the first time your ears heard them. "Do you still think that? I don't want you to think that. Ever."

He smiled, shook his head. His fingers digged into your naked waist, below the t-shirt you had slept in.

"Who do you hug while you sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"Taweret," he said, he brought your face closer to his. "You hug my present, every night, a present that has nothing to do with Marc. No, angel, I don't think that anymore."

His calloused hands got buried into your hair when he pushed your face down. His lips quickly found yours, hungrily devouring your mouth like a starving man. And he sure as hell felt like one. He felt as if he was still in Cairo, in the desert at midday, surrounded by sand that burned his flesh, under a punishing sun and Egyptian gods full of wrath and, and soon, in his mouth, under his fingertips, an oasis. Fresh water and shade, salvation.

"Thank you," he whispered against your lips when it ended; his forehead pressed against yours, your hot exhale over his mouth. He didn't know who he was thanking: you, or God. Probably both. "Thank you."

"Can I..." you asked, a fun giggle coming from you that made his heart swell. "Can I kiss my other boyfriend now?"

Steven laughed, and his eyes widened at the same time.

"Your other," he repeated.

Steven wanted to mock you, laugh, tickle you. He hadn't felt this alive in a long time. But Marc was just as excited, his heart just as full.

Give our girl what she wants, Steven. Marc said, but before Steven could surrender control, Marc was already in the driver's seat; fronting. His own teeth nibbling at your lower lip before he even realized he wasn't in charge anymore.

From the surface of Gus' tank, he found out it was almost just as pleasing to see you kiss Marc, as it was to kiss you himself. None of you —not one out of the three— could believe your luck. Marc drowned you in kisses, in all the kisses he hadn't given you in all those yours. Now you'd have plenty of years to make up for the lost time.

"We could visit Brighton now," Marc heard you whisper. You were now laying on the table as he kept giving you lazy kisses, covering you whole with his own body.

"Heard that, Steven?" he asked, looking at the reflection. Steven had the biggest grin on his face. "He really wanted that, you know."

You nodded under his body, your lips kissing his arm, his collarbone, anything you could reach.

"I know," you said.

Endless nights since you had met them, you had prayed for things to be different. For all of it to unfold in another way, one that didn't hurt as much. But being there now, you wouldn't change one thing for the world. It had taken a lot of tears and blood to get to that point. And there were scars —both visible and not— to prove it. What all of you failed to acknowledge, is that it only takes to win once, to achieve greatness. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter how many battles were lost. If at the end of the day, it was war that you'd win.

And you did, all three of you did.

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