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howaboutcastiel · 2 years

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A Change of Heart

Summary: The reader is kidnapped by Harrow as leverage for Moon Knight to hand over the scarab leading to Ammit’s tomb. (This fic is not accurate to the canon of the 2022 show for multiple reasons.) Based loosely on this request because I’m easily distracted.

Content Warning: torture, violence, kidnapping, other canon-aligned dark themes. Read at your own risk. Arthur Harrow loves the sound of his own voice.

Word Count: 6.9k

Category/Rating: Mature but not Explicit. Angst.

It started like a normal day for all of you.

Steven went to work, you used your day off to go grocery shopping and tidy the apartment. You kissed your boyfriend goodbye after a quick but fulfilling breakfast together and you spent much of the morning deep-cleaning the kitchen. Steven would be home at 7, you estimated, so you planned to get ingredients at the store to treat him with a home-cooked meal.

At just after noon, you decided you would stop at the local diner before heading on to the nearest grocery store. You spent a while longer than necessary there, just enjoying the peace and watching the pigeons hopping around outside the window. That was when a stranger slid coolly into the other side of your booth.

“Don’t scream.” He warned, and you heard the click of a pistol cocking under the table. Ice shot up your spine, fire burning your throat. A voice in your head provided quick logic. Just do as the man says.

“Who are you?” You asked, your voice small and meek.

“Doesn’t matter who I am. It matters more who you are.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” You had to resist the urge to ramble. Annoying him could get you killed. The saliva in your mouth became too thick to swallow and your eyelids were becoming heavy, threatening to make you cry.

“I hear you’re a friend of Marc Spector.” What does Marc have to do with this? With this man? Why would your affiliation with Marc bring a stranger’s gun to your chest?

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to quietly come with me, no fussing and no running. We’re going to go away and have a little chat and no one is going to get hurt. Understood?”

You couldn’t tell if you wanted to throw up or pass out. Sheepishly, you nodded at the man and he motioned for you to stand up before him. You did.

“Good girl.” The words dug into your skin, stealing the breath from your lungs. You had no idea what this man wanted from you, but you knew you preferred giving up whatever it was to getting a bullet in your sternum. You followed him out the door without paying. No one noticed the gun under his coat. He motioned you to a small black car, opening the door to the back seat.

Your love of true crime podcasts was wreaking havoc in your brain, but at least it reminded you to note all you could about the man’s appearance. He was tall and thin. His hair was black and he wore a baseball cap, fairly unassuming. He had the same British accent as every other bloke around here. His lips were thin, his nose was short, and his beard was unkempt and patchy. He smelled of Old Spice and honey. Sickly sweet.

You shoved yourself into the back seat of the car and he followed suit. There were two men already in the front seat. An inconspicuous driver, obviously eastern-European, and a much more noticeable man in the passenger's seat.

“Forgive me for the theatrics.” The passenger spoke with a low, gravelly voice that didn’t match his look. He had long blonde hair, unwashed and stringy, and a permanent forlorn look on his face. His eyes were soft, a contrast to the coldness of the rest of him. He was slender and stiff against the seat. “I’m afraid that this is too important to put gently. The fate of the world is at stake.”

“Who are you?” By now, tears were streaming down your face. You weren’t built for this kind of danger. You knew that Marc had secrets, but his concealed life had never caused you trouble before. You certainly didn’t expect Marc to have any leverage upon the fate of the world.

“My name is Arthur, but I am just a humble servant. I suspect that you know all about me, though, don’t you?”

“N-no, I don’t.” You couldn’t tell if your voice was convincing, but you were sure that he knew the fear at least wasn’t an act. He made a motion with his head to the armed man sitting at your side, an almost guilty look on his face.

“Sorry about this.” The man pulled a sandbag from under the seat. You cowered away as he extended it outward toward your head, but it was no use in the confined space. He glanced at his gun, an unspoken warning, and you surrendered to his touch. He slid the bag gently over your head and you tried not to panic. “Give me your hands.”

“What are you going to do?” You asked pathetically as he fit a pair of cuffs around your wrists. I can’t believe this is happening. Am I about to die? Where are they taking me? Your breath was hot against the fabric over your face.

“That part is up to you, I’m afraid.” Arthur’s voice traveled from the front seat. “Your… partner is in possession of something, something vital to the goddess that I serve.”

“You—you mean Marc?”

“Yes, Marc. The mercenary.” There was slight amusement in his voice. Mercenary?

“I need Marc to return the scarab. It is necessary to locate Ammit’s tomb. It is of great import that the scarab is returned in a timely manner.”

“What? What scarab? This doesn’t make any sense.” The more the man confused you, the more fear grew in your gut. Each unknown was another threat to your life. You couldn’t fathom what was going on.

“I think you’ll find it unwise to feign ignorance about this.”

“I’m not faking.”

“Hmm. We shall see.”

~~~

Right on schedule, Steven waltzed through the door of your shared apartment at exactly 7:03. He’d had an exceptionally good day at work as Donna was out sick for the week. He’d managed to sell his entire stock of Taweret plushies and someone had even brought doughnuts to the break room.

Steven wanted nothing more than to cuddle up to you with a hot cup of tea. He just felt so damn good. Hell, he was willing to give the body up to Marc—or even Jake, if he wanted—just to multiply the ecstasy in the air. As long as everyone was happy. He wanted to preserve this little slice of life that had granted him such a cheerful day.

“Evening, darling!” He sang as he shut the door behind him. He expected you to be in the kitchen or perhaps on the couch, but you were nowhere to be seen. Steven called to you, thinking you might be in the loo. “Darling?”

She’s not here. A voice rang in his head. Marc was instantly worried.

“Maybe she’s asleep.” Steven pondered aloud, venturing into your shared bedroom. Still, no sign of you. “Did she say she was going somewhere?”

She was going to the store, I think. Jake attempted to hold back his panic as he tried to be helpful. Steven made his way back to the kitchen.

“She would have been back hours ago.” He searched the fridge. There was no new cartoon of eggs, no almond milk, and no sign of anything else on the grocery list. Steven’s heart dropped to his stomach. “Did she text us?”

There was no alert on Steven’s phone. Just a reminder from his Egyptology app that he had a new fact of the day to read. We should call her. Steven dialed the number.

Straight to voicemail.

Why would her phone be off? “Maybe it died?” No, she would never let it die. She worries too much. “What else could it be?”

A million thoughts shot through their head all at once, bouncing from alter to alter as they worked to find the most-likely answer. There could be a multitude of explanations, ranging from the mundane to the absolutely horrific, but only one was convincing. They couldn’t really tell which of them came to the realization first.

“You don’t think…” It couldn’t be. Marc, where’s your phone? The mission phone.

It took a minute to boot up the old flip-phone, but sure enough, there was a new message from today. From a half-hour ago, actually. It was a single, minute-long video, followed by a set of coordinates. The number itself was tampered with, untraceable. Swallowing hard, Marc took over the body and pressed play, squinting to see on the tiny screen.

“Marc Spector.”

He knew that voice. God damn it. That voice was exactly the one he feared that he would hear. Harrow spoke with the same forlorn cadence that he always did, as if his endless ‘good deeds’ had warped him into a tortured soul. Marc’s grasp tightened around the phone.

“You have something that I desperately need. I cannot do justice in explaining the importance of the scarab that you possess. It is clear that you do not wish to return it, and it pains me to admit that I have resorted to quite desperate methods to convince you otherwise. So listen carefully, mercenary.”

The camera panned from Harrow’s pretentious face to a folding chair in the corner. Marc struggled to make out much more than the fact that someone was sitting in the chair, hunched over and unconscious. As Harrow stepped closer, however, the figure became recognizable, much to the whole system’s dread. There you were, passed out from exhaustion, hands tied behind your back and sweat and blood covering your frame.

“I can confidently say now that we both have something the other desires. This message will be sent with coordinates leading you to me, but I must warn you before you come in guns-blazing. If any of my men are injured or killed by you or the old bird, I’m afraid your precious girlfriend will pay the price.”

He flashed a gun to the camera in his free hand. Marc could barely process that, though, as his eyes were fixated on you. Even asleep, your breath shuddered in your chest. Bruises in the shape of handprints patterned your neck and dried blood trailed from your nose and mouth. He couldn’t survey for more damage due to the angle of the film, but his imagination filled in much of the gaps.

“I offer to you a simple trade, Marc. The scarab for the girl, and then we all walk away from this and go our separate ways. No harm done.”

No harm done? Look what he’s done to her! Steven’s voice echoed inside of Marc’s head. He could feel a tension in his limbs that wasn’t his, though his fair share of anger was running through the body as well.

“You have eight hours to decide. I cannot offer you more, as you must understand the urgency of this all. I hope you find my offer to be generous.”

The video cut to black. Marc stood there, unable to speak, for many minutes before a wave of adrenaline allowed him to throw his phone across the room. It bounced against the wall before hitting the ground, unharmed. Those old flip-phones could withstand nearly anything.

She must be terrified. How could we let this happen? She looked like she was in so much pain—

Why would he do this? She doesn’t know anything.

It doesn’t seem to me that he cares about what she knows. She’s just there for bait.

Yeah, well, she’s pretty convincing bait. There’s no fucking way we aren’t going to those coordinates. Right now.

What if we’re too late? What do you think he’ll do to her?

We have to assume that we aren’t too late, but we are her only chance. We have to go.

Marc stumbled after the phone, pulling the message back up to copy the text that it contained. Despite all of his military training—all of his run-ins with death and decades of practice dealing with high-stress situations—he couldn’t stop the hammering in his chest and the tears welling in his eyes. This was different. He had more than himself to lose. More than his alters to endanger.

“You will not surrender the scarab for a mere mortal woman.” Khonshu’s voice boomed around the flat. Marc’s blood was boiling and Steven and Jake weren’t exactly staying calm, either.

“Don’t you dare refer to her that way!” Marc spat at the decomposing god, his voice thick with unbridled rage. “I am not leaving her there with him.”

There was no expression to be read on Khonshu’s face. Bird skeletons didn’t exactly produce detailed body language.

“Perhaps this is an advantage to us, Marc. He has revealed his location. He is vulnerable. We can nip his pursuit of Ammit directly at the pathetic bud. It will be easy to kill him.”

“No no. You heard him. I attack first, she dies. I'm not doing that.” Marc was wringing his hands as he paced, not sure exactly who was controlling his legs. Steven and Jake grumbled agreements to his statement. They couldn’t risk putting you in further danger.

“You have such little faith in me. I do not intend to put your partner in further peril.”

“Okay then. What do you suggest?”

“I will tell you on the way. We must make haste. Summon the suit.”

~~~~

Slowly, you stirred awake. Your eyelids were much too heavy and your body wasn’t cooperating with your brain. It took a moment for you to process your position. Upright, hands fastened behind you, and legs zip-tied to the legs of the chair. There was a pounding in your head.

Where am I? I can’t see anything, my head hurts so bad. Everything is blurry. Why does my nose hurt? I’m so thirsty. What do I remember?

An icy stabbing riddled your chest as your memory of the day caught up to you. Harrow had given you his ultimatum for the length of the car ride. You tried to tune him out, but the bag over your head had stolen your other senses from giving you a distraction. Arthur explained his goal of releasing the entombed goddess, Ammit. He preached of her power to see into one’s future, of her desire to rid the world of evil. His speech brought a sour taste to your mouth, but you didn’t dare to interrupt him. When the vehicle came to a stop, he said one final thing before leaving you with the armed, bearded man.

“I hope you’ll find it within yourself to share your knowledge with us.”

Arthur was convinced that you knew more than you were letting on, but you truly were completely in the dark. As far as you knew, Steven Grant worked in a museum. Marc Spector used his alter’s time off to make some extra cash elsewhere. What he did to earn it, you didn’t know. You only knew that he came home late at night, out of breath, and often mentally drained more than physically so. Maybe Arthur was right. Could Marc really be a mercenary? It would explain why he’d never told you about his time away.

The armed man spoke softly at first. Once he had led you into whatever abandoned building you had been driven to, he removed your face covering and cuffs. He almost looked pained as he tried to make his smile genuine.

“Now, doll, you’re gonna tell me what I need to know, right?” You certainly would, as you had no intention of making him force it out of you, but you really didn’t know a damn thing. You didn’t know anything about Ammit or about a scarab. Hell, you could barely find Egypt on a map if someone prompted you to.

Some of his questions were complete nonsense. He had raised his voice when all he got from you was confused stuttering. Why do they think that I know anything? You pleaded with him, to no avail.

“Where is the scarab?”

“Are you also an avatar? What god or goddess do you serve?”

A half-dozen questions in, a voice pondered in your head. The thought wasn’t attractive in the least, but you knew it was right. If he thinks you know something, maybe that will keep him from killing you. He doesn’t seem too trigger-happy. You can stall him.

Your desire to survive was slowly overcoming everything else. You began to answer his questions more cryptically, especially ones that you knew the answers to.

“When was the last time that you saw him? Marc.” That’s easy. I ate breakfast with Steven.

“I don’t recall.”

“Bullshit!”

“I really don’t.”

It wasn’t until he frustratedly put his hands around your neck that something inside you snapped. You began to punch him with all the strength you could muster, doing quite a number on him, but certainly breaking your hand in the process. Other men heard the commotion and came to his defense, restraining you in a fold-out chair. You thrashed until you couldn’t thrash anymore, and you were bound to the chair. From there, the dynamic shifted drastically.

Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die like this. This isn’t even my fight. I don’t know anything! Why won’t you believe me? Everything hurts so bad. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. God, I don’t want to die.

You had never begged for your life before. After a while, it became clear to the men that you didn’t have the information they required. They had spent enough energy getting you to talk—noting how much of a shame it was to rough up your beautiful face—and now your last ditch at survival had convinced them of your utter ignorance. Lucky for you, though not to your knowledge, they all needed you alive.

You were a bargaining chip.

They left you alone and in the dark, still tied to the chair and bleeding profusely from your nose. You weren’t sure if you passed out from the pain or from the bottoming-out of adrenaline. Regardless, when you awoke again, you were neither alone nor in the dark.

“Hello again.” Arthur called to you from the corner of the room. He looked more stressed than he had when you’d seen him in the car, and he was more feeble-looking standing up. A soft crunching sound echoed off the walls as he stepped toward you.

“I don’t know anything.” You pleaded, dreading that he had only come to cause you more pain, that he wasn’t convinced of your lack of knowledge.

“I’m aware of that. Do you know how long you’ve been unconscious?”

“No.” You honestly didn’t. You had no grasp on anything right now, save for the pain that radiated through your body.

“The sun went down a short while ago. I’m afraid you’ve been sleeping for a while.”

“Marc will know that something’s wrong.”

“Yes, of course. I’m counting on that. I left him a message just a while ago, actually. He should be arriving here any time now.”

You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but the somber look in his eyes was gone, something else in its place.

“I possess only a sliver of the power that Ammit provides, but it allows me to see great things. I have seen into your soul, as well as Marc’s, and I must say that I’m surprised that the two of you appear to have such a close bond.

“Ammit cannot allow evil to remain on this planet any longer. For that reason, I judge the scales of all of those that I come across as I await the full force of her release. Your partner, Marc, has a wildly different soul than you. He’s an embodiment of chaos. A fractured, broken man. A dangerous man.”

“That isn’t true—”

“I cannot let him continue to threaten what we have built. He is a danger not only to all of us, but also to himself. You, on the other hand…” He hesitated for a moment, a look of guilt floating behind his eyes.

“Your scales balance perfectly. I truly wish that you could live to see the world we will make, but allowing you to leave here would put our operation in jeopardy.”

Another chill blasted through you, stealing your breath outright and pushing nausea through your chest. Saliva pooled in your mouth, a sure precursor to vomit. I can’t die like this. Not now. Please. Not now.

“As I said, Marc will be arriving here soon, hopefully with the scarab in hand. I have arranged a trade with him—the scarab for your release. We will complete the trade as promised, but neither of you must be permitted to leave. I will do it myself if I must.”

You could tell that he was genuinely delusional enough to think he was doing the right thing. At the same time, though, you could see that—for all the talk of balanced scales—he was utterly ravenous for a fight. It was something feral inside him, begging to crawl out from behind the false composure and the motivational-speaker aura he dawned. He would enjoy killing Marc. He would enjoy killing you. He was just itching for a chance. For a reason. For permission.

A commotion could be heard outside, distracting you both. You didn’t know if you should be relieved or more worried. Surely Marc wouldn’t fall into this trap, right?

~~~

“Alright, no fancy switches,” Marc spoke aloud to the other alters, both of them near the front. “We keep on the armor and the cape, but we leave our face uncovered. I don’t want to scare her.”

It’s too late for that. She’s probably terrified. We should have seen something like this coming. We should have done more to protect her—

We can’t think about that right now, amigo. It’s time to fight. What’s our strategy?

“Alright, Khonshu. You said you’d talk on the way. What’s our plan?”

“In your right pocket is a replica of the scarab. You will present it to Harrow’s men.”

“A fake scarab? Really? That’s a horrible plan.”

“You are ungrateful. You must do as I say.”

“Alright.” Khonshu’s method of travel was incredibly fast. Gotta speed this up, Marc said in his head so only his alters could hear.

“Harrow will recognize the fake, but the other men will have no idea. You brandish the scarab until you get to him, and stall his effort to take it.”

“How will I do that?”

“I’m sure you will find a way. Summon the worm, if you must.” I thought we were past the name-calling, you stupid pigeon. I’ll show you I’m not a bloody worm.

“Okay, what else?”

“The mission is fairly straightforward, Marc. I will protect the girl to the best of my ability as you neutralize the external threats, but you will have to target Harrow first. Do not give him the option to escape.”

I’m gonna have a fucking field day with this. Those bastards don’t even know what’s coming. I’ll wipe that stupid, righteous look off old Harrow’s face. He’s gonna regret—

Don’t get too trigger-happy, Jake. Khonshu can only do so much. We have to make sure that she survives.

What do you reckon he’s done to her? Do you think he really would let us just walk away?

No chance in hell, man. He knows we’re not gonna stop even if we did give him the goddamn scarab. No, he wouldn’t let us leave.

I agree.

So he plans to kill her, too, then? We can’t let him get close enough for that. Scarab or no scarab, we’ve got to get her out.

We will, Steven. I promise.

You’re awfully quiet about the use of force, Steven. Since when did you get comfortable with the idea of taking a life?

Nothing about this is comfortable. He took our girl.

I know, Steven. I know.

~~~

You heard the familiar voice in the conversation outside. He seemed calmer than the others, and from what you could hear, there were numerous others.

“No funny business, okay? Look, the scarab is right here.” A murmur traveled through the thin, decaying walls of the building. They were content with whatever Marc was holding. Harrow kept his eyes on you as three pairs of even footsteps approached, but he was ready to pounce. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“I’m glad you could make it.” Harrow spoke with the authoritative cadence that he used with his men. He kept his hands crossed in front of his waist, eyeing Marc’s slow movement into the room. There was a guard on each side of him, visibly armed.

Marc was wearing something…strange. It looked like bandages, but they were organized in a pattern that met at his chest. The armor was obviously protective, layering over his body in an artificial way and separated from his chest and arms. He was wearing a cape, which trailed behind him as he walked. A metallic crescent stuck to the center of his chest, another one in his hand.

He didn’t even look at you. His eyes were focused on the man before him, the slender man planning to kill you both. He reached his free hand slowly out, not wanting to set off the guards.

“Where is the scarab?” Harrow seemed impatient. Of course he was, but not for the scarab as it would outwardly appear. He was anxious to tear into your boyfriend, to force the life to drain from his eyes.

“You think I’m just gonna hand it to you? I need some kind of proof that you’re not gonna screw me over.”

“Screw you over?” Harrow laughed dryly, the words lowly in his mouth. “And why would I do that? If you have agreed to the terms of our deal, then there is nothing else I desire from you. My purpose is to serve Ammit and my ambitions end with her. You are irrelevant to me.”

“Like I’m gonna believe that.” You saw something shift in his eyes, unnoticeable to any stranger or even an acquaintance, but you knew your boys. Someone else had taken his place in the driver’s seat. Someone much less patient than Marc.

Without saying a word, Jake reached his hand into his pocket, pulling out a beetle-shaped pendant about as big as an egg. He extended it slowly toward the man, his fingers firmly wrapped around the metal.

“The world will be forever grateful for your cooperation.” Harrow met Jake’s hand with equal caution. There wasn’t a knife in the world sharp enough to cut the tension in the room, and you would have shouted at Jake to warn him of the trap if there wasn’t at least one gun currently trained on you.

You shut your eyes as you felt a wave of defeat. Surely you were about to die. You were tied to a chair, after all, and they only had one body. Fancy suit or not, your boys were severely outnumbered.

It was a dreadful feeling, accepting your fate. Not only were you in your last few moments of life, but now your boys were going to die the same way. Instead of pure fear and sorrow, a sliver of anger permeated your body, just a tiny slab burning in the center of your chest. A strong, sudden gust of wind swept in front of your chair, causing you to open your eyes.

In an instant, the room broke out into an all-out war. Jake plunged the crescent moon into Harrow’s chest, immobilizing him. The guns that were fixated on you were suddenly pointed at him, and you couldn’t find your breath as they began to unload. They’re shooting him.

The bullets fell to the ground, failing to puncture what only appeared to be the soft wrappings of his suit. From thin air, a new layer of cloth appeared on Jake’s face, a hood covering his head as if it had been attached to the cape the whole time. Harrow groaned in pain as Jake brutally disarmed the men. His glowing eyes met yours for a split second as he broke the neck of the guard that was closest to you. You should have been mortified—aghast by the brutal, murderous rage of the man you thought you had known so well—but instead a wave of relief passed over you.

Maybe we do have a shot.

It took all of thirty seconds for Jake to disarm and incapacitate all of the men, though a couple had fled the scene as soon as bullets began to rain. It didn’t surprise you that much that Jake could make quick work of this. You might not have known about the suit and the cape and the secret mercenary work, but you knew that Jake Lockley was a force to be reckoned with in every sense of the phrase.

Harrow attempted to pick himself up off the ground, but Jake pulled the second crescent from his chest, throwing it without even glancing at his target for a second. It was a surprisingly accurate shot; the blade cupped Arthur’s arm above the elbow, pinning him down. Jake rushed to you, shedding his mask and wiping the blood from his gloves.

“Hey, baby,” He cut the zip-ties from your legs, breaking the chain of the cuffs on your wrists with his bare hands. Though you were free, you were too exhausted to move. You feared you would collapse if you tried to lean forward.

Jake saw your struggle against the pain and something inside him lit on fire. You watched as he left the front, clearing space for the gentlest soul you knew.

“Oh my word!” Steven’s voice was dripping with so much worry that you couldn’t stand it. You wanted to tell him that you were okay, that he didn’t need to worry anymore, but you couldn’t find your voice. “What has he done to you, love?”

You shook your head dazedly, trying to signal to him that he should turn his attention elsewhere. You were terrified that Arthur would somehow regain his strength and attack your very distracted lover. Steven’s face fell flat as he turned around.

“You did this.”

That tone of voice had never come from Steven before. Not in your presence, at least. It was a half-octave lower than you were used to hearing, weighted with a ferocity you had never felt from him before. Not from any of them.

“I’m very impressed,” Harrow held his head high even as he slowly bled out, the blade a solid inch or two into his chest. “I thought you were incapable of such an organized battle, Marc.”

“Try again, you utter prick.” Steven slowly approached the man, who looked significantly smaller now that he was lying on his back.

“Steven Grant?” He looked extremely confused. Steven kneeled coolly over his frame, an apparent surprise to Harrow. He pulled the crescent from Harrow’s arm, returning it magnetically to his chest. It did nothing to level the playing field.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done.” Steven’s tone was level, but it was still foreign to you. “You could have hunted me to the ends of the Earth, or dragged my body through the muck as you forced the information from my lips. You could have sent a thousand men after that bloody scarab and you could’ve summoned as many jackals as that ridiculous cane will allow.”

Steven grabbed a fistful of Harrow’s shirt, pulling upward so that his back was hovering above the ground. Harrow cried out in pain, the blade still embedded in his chest. He wrapped a bloody hand around Steven’s arm, trying to free himself.

“But you targeted her.”

You could only sit there and watch as Steven slowly, deliberately wrapped his hand around the blade. Harrow was growing too weak to fight back, his arms sinking down to his sides and his eyes blowing wide. He was choking on his own labored breath.

“You have stopped nothing. Ammit will be freed.” He uttered, stumbling over his words. Steven shook his head patronizingly. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell everything you needed to know just by the rawness in his voice.

“I don’t care. This is between me and you now.” He tensed his fingers around the metal, causing Harrow to hitch his breath. “You hurt the woman I love. A good, innocent woman.”

In one swift motion, he plucked the crescent blade from Harrow’s chest. Blood drizzled off of the tip, likewise oozing out of Harrow’s punctured skin. His breath was slow and ragged now.

“I’m making sure that you will never hurt anyone again.”

With calculated force, Steven released Arthur Harrow from his grip. He fell to the ground, his head hitting the concrete floor with a hollow knock. Harrow was still.

Calmly, Steven returned the second blade to his chest, blood still trickling from the end. He stood up steadily, his suit slowly disintegrating into thin air, revealing his work clothes underneath. He sighed deeply before raising to his feet.

Something was truly, deeply wrong. What has he done? Steven was the most mild-mannered soul that you had ever met, an optimistic contrast to his alters. From your view, Marc was capable of a bar-fight or two—and only God himself knew what kind of darkness Jake Lockley had in him—but Steven would never harm another soul. Hell, he was more docile than he really should be at times. So this didn’t add up.

When he met your gaze, he wore the same innocent, genuine look that he always did. You couldn’t fathom what you had just seen, and you would write it off as a hallucination or a nightmare if Harrow’s body wasn’t still trickling blood less than a meter behind him. He approached you slowly, but desperately, and you cowered from his touch. He didn’t seem to notice this.

“Love, can you hear me? Are you alright? We need to get you out of here.”

~~~

The silence lasted for about five seconds before all manner of hell broke loose inside his head.

What the fuck did you just do?

That was fucking brutal, compadre.

Steven? Answer me. What the hell was that?

I didn’t know you had it in you.

You’re not supposed to be capable of that.

Relax, Marc. We completed the mission just like Khonshu said.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

I’m the one that stabbed him. Steven just finished the job.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go!

Steven heard almost none of it, too busy focusing on you. He was confused. He was dazed. Why were you cowering from his touch? Steven surveyed your body for all of the damage. Two broken hands, for sure, knuckles covered in dried blood and surrounded in rings of black and blue. Your nose was likely broken, too, and your lips were split and raw. The bruises on your neck were too dark, your surrounding skin too pale and too cold.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.” He reached to brace your weight with his arms, torn between pulling you into a fire-mans carry or a bridal carry. Your eyes were wide, confused and absolutely mortified. He pretended not to see that.

I knew that she had to be in rough shape.

It’s okay, we’ll get her back home real fast. She’s gonna be fine.

She'll be physically fine. She’s probably damaged for life. Look out how scared she is.

Steven, I don’t think…

Should we put extra locks on the door? Hell, should we just move flats altogether?

She’s not in danger anymore.

But it might give her peace of mind.

I don’t think she’s worried about them. Look at her. I think she’s—she’s scared of us.

What?

Think about what she just saw.

Steven pulled you to his chest, supporting your weight but not lifting your feet off of the ground. You didn’t pull your arms around his neck or chest—they hung limply at your side, hands severely raw and swollen now. You didn’t know how to feel.

“Steven…” You started, a million questions to ask him running through your head. What would you even want to say? How could you put your thoughts into words?

“Shhh, darling,” he pretended not to notice the panic in your eyes, in your voice. “We’re going to get you home, alright? You’re safe now. We need to tend to those wounds.”

“Steven, what was that?” The vagueness of your question made it bitter in your mouth. You couldn’t muster the mental strength to elaborate, though, try as you must. “What was—who was—?”

“I’ll explain everything, okay? Or one of us will. Right now we have to get you out of here.”

You surrendered to his touch, still very much shaking under his grasp. You had upchucked your lunch somewhere in the first hour of this whole ordeal and your captors had not been kind enough to offer you water. Your body was tired, hungry, beaten, and bloody. Your mind was even farther gone.

You fell asleep—or more accurately, passed out—in his arms as he summoned his suit once again.

~~~

For the first time since breakfast, everything was warm. You awoke to darkness and silence, but not the threatening kind. Soft moonlight glistened through the window beside the bed, the low droning of the electricity of the apartment barely resonated in your ears. As you opened your eyes, you surveyed the room for where you were and who was here with you. From the foot of your bed—your bed, in your bedroom—a familiar face gave a soft gasp as he noticed that you were awake.

“Mi vida,” Jake’s voice was smooth, low in volume and in pitch. He didn’t want to startle you. “Don’t move too much, you’ve been through quite a lot.”

“What time is it?” Your vision was too blurry to make out the alarm clock on your nightstand. You tried to pull your hands to your face to rub your eyes, but your arms were heavy and your knuckles were wrapped thickly in bandages. You couldn’t move much if you tried.

“It’s just past four. Don’t worry about that, you should keep resting.”

“I don’t think I can.” Though you were exhausted, your mind was very much awake. You tried to replay the memories of the night.

Steven had carried you (or was it dragged? Or was it…flown?) from the warehouse where you had been kept. You caught flashes of the journey. It was cold, it was fast, and his grasp was surprisingly gentle, though it didn't spare the pain of your wounds. You’d heard the distant sound of water running, heard him swearing under his breath as his fingers grazed your skin. You remembered a searing pain and a pleading voice saying “please forgive me.”

“Can I get you anything?” Jake was easily the most unhinged man in the system, but he was gentle for you. He was gentle in general, until something prompted him not to be.

“Water.” You could tell that, somewhere along the bandage job, you had been given something to drink. However, your throat was still raw from all the screaming and begging and crying and vomiting. And from being asleep, too.

“You got it, hermosa.” He gracefully got to his feet, pattering lightly and quickly into the kitchen. After a moment, Jake returned with a plastic cup of lukewarm water. He’d had enough experience with this to know that cold would only exasperate the hurt.

You brought the cup to your lips tentatively, not too sure of your swallowing reflex in this state. Your body was ahead of you, though, and you found yourself swiftly downing the entire thing. Jake let out a soft laugh, more like a simple huff of air and a smile.

“I think we wrapped you up pretty good. You’re gonna be feeling better in no time, I’m sure. You’re gonna feel like crap for today, though.”

Your mind and body were at odds. Your body desperately wanted one thing, and it was screaming it to you. Hold me. My lover, my protector. Wrap your arms around me. Cover me with your warmth, a barrier from the outside world. Hold my head to your chest, let me relax into your touch. I’m safe there.

Your brain had a wildly different idea. Right now, your brain had the upper hand here.

“I need to know.” You uttered in what was supposed to be a demanding tone.

“Know what, baby?”

“Everything.”

Jake didn’t stick around for that. Someone else could provide better answers, and you deserved to hear it from him anyway. He was where the whole ordeal began.

“I’m so sorry.” Marc’s voice clued you in to the switch, as you couldn’t see his face properly in the dim light. “This was never supposed to happen. You were supposed to be safe.”

“Safe from what, Marc? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s a really long story.” Of course it was. Aside from mercenary work and ancient Egyptian gods, your boys had dawned a magic suit and cape and taken out armed men right before your eyes. Of course that takes a little while to explain.

“I gathered that. It’s one you owe to me, though.”

“I know.”

“Okay, then. Start at the beginning.”

#moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #moon knight x you #steven grant x reader #moon knight x reader #jake lockley x reader #khonshu #arthur harrow #marc spector x you #masterlist

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nicktremblaywayfu · 2 years

Text

Alvin Harrow's Masterlist (Moon Knight, Outlast and others)

My Ao3

Request : Open

This Masterlist will be updated every time i posted a new work

Arthur Harrow

Scenepacks

All Arthur Harrow Scenepacks

Fanfictions :

With a Cost of Dignity (18+)

Personal Emotional Support (18+)

Happiness For You (SFW)

A Holy Dawn Blessing (18+)

To Proof My Love Tonight (18+)

Arthur Harrow with His Daughter (Drabble)

You Were Luckier Than You Thought, Harrow (18+)

The Creation of Ammit ( Chapter 1, ) 18+

Won't You Say Hi to An Old Friend ? (18+)

The Little Bird I should Put in A Cage (18+)

Arthur Harrow x Jake Lockley (SFW)

Reader Being Brat to Harrow (Drabble) (SFW)

Arthur Harrow x OC (Moots request) (SFW)

A Private Session (18+)

Arthur Harrow x Steven Grant (Drabble) (SFW)

In The Middle of Summer (18+)

Imagine calling him Harrow instead of Arthur (Imagine)

"Tired" is All I Need Tonight (18+)

And I Shall Break The Moon's Heart to See You Smile (18+)

The Goddess Tied Our Fate ( 1 / 2 ) 18+

Desired Purity (SFW)

Killing You Would be An Act of Mercy (18+)

Additional Pleasure (18+)

Persistence (drabble)

And I Shall Be with You, Always (18+)

A Price for The Traitor to Pay (18+)

Personal Paradise (18+)

Rain on Us (SFW)

Fighter (18+)

Headcanons :

Arthur X Boyish Reader

Dr. Harrow x Moot's Original Character (SFW and NSFW)

Patient! Harrow NSFW Headcanons (18+)

Arthur Harrow x Reader with period pain

Arthur Harrow x F!Reader with Alopecia

Arthur Harrow x Steven Headcanons (NSFW) 18+

Being A Child of Harrow

Arthur Harrow x Reader with Cluster B Disorder

Arthur Harrow x Parent figure! Reader

Jealous Arthur Harrow

Arthur Harrow x Weight Insecure! Reader

Arthur's Backstory.

Having a family with Arthur Harrow

Arthur Harrow with GN! Shorter reader

NSFW Alphabets with Arthur Harrow

The Enneads :

Loving the Gods (Ammit, Khonshu, Taweret. SFW)

Ammit x Reader x Khonshu (Incorrect Quotes)

The Goddess Tied Our Fate ( 1 / 2 ) 18+

Won't You Say Hi to An Old Friend ? (18+)

The Moon System And Layla

Arthur Harrow x Steven Headcanons (NSFW) 18+

Arthur Harrow x Jake Lockley (SFW)

Arthur Harrow x Steven Grant (Drabble) (SFW)

Other Ethan Hawke characters :

Ernst Toller x Reader (NSFW Headcanons)

For talks about assorted Ethan Hawke characters, please visit the tag of "Alvin's Thought"

Outlast

Like A Wolf in The Ruins (18+)

What's The Reward for The Dunce ? (18+)

Deputy on Duty (18+)

Special

Valentine's Letters

Author Note :

If i didn't make your request, this doesn't mean you can't send me another. Sometime i don't have the time or the idea, but you are 100% allowed to send me new ideas.

Please tell me if you wanted a fics, hc, drabble, or etc. If it wasn't specified, i would write the request as hc list or fics.

Also please specify if you wanted smut in your request (sometimes the idea was so good that i wanna write smut in it lol)

All my x reader is gender neutral unless it was specific request or my personal smut, which usually used afab! reader. The gender however, still neutral.

I will write :

Characters :

Arthur Harrow (Mainly what i write)

The Enneads (Khonshu, Ammit, Taweret)

The Moon Bois

Layla El-Faouly

Albert Shaw

Ernst Toller

Ellison Oswald

Outlast character (Mainly Big Grunt)

Genre :

Smut

Fluff

Headcanons

Drabble

Requested Trope

Dead Dove

Gender / Sex specific reader request

Yandere characters

I will not write :

Age Regression

Romantic trope involving minor characters / incest

Hardcore BDSM ( Got nothing against it. Im just not good at writing bdsm, sorry. Mild one however, i can try)

Religion-based request (Again, not really good at writing it. Doesn't include Enrst Toller as i focus on the romance with his religion aspect in the story but that's all)

F/M Anal / Pegging (talking about it is okay tho)

Feel free to give me request or ask any question regarding of my works

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plutoswritingplanet · 2 years

Text

MASTERLIST

My AO3 Profile (there’s a lot of old cringey stuff there btw)

Stranger Things

Peter Ballard (Henry Creel/Vecna/001)

White Rabbit (x Fem!Reader) PART 1 , PART 2

Ptolemaea ( x Fem!Reader oneshot)

Peter Ballard and Child!Reader (requested, oneshot)

The Skin (x AFAB!Reader requested, oneshot)

Moon Knight

Jake Lockley

Release (x Fem!Reader oneshot)

Arthur Harrow

Knives Out (x Fem!Reader oneshot)

The Black Phone

The Grabber

Stop, Hammer Time (x AFAB!Reader oneshot)

Peter Pan 2003

Captain James Hook

Lady Disdain (x AFAB!Reader oneshot)

Arcane (League of Legends)

Silco

And I’ll Be Like Sugar (x AFAB!Reader oneshot)

Attack On Titan/Shingeki No Kyojin

Zeke Yeager

Cross The Line (x AFAB!Reader)

Far Cry 3

Hoyt Volker

Moon River (x Reader)

One Piece (Live Action)

Dracule Mihawk

Taking What’s Not Yours (x Reader)

Buggy The Clown

You Started It (x Reader) - Part 1. Part 2.

Mortal Kombat (games and movies)

Shang Tsung

Unpunishable (x F!Reader)

The Saw Franchise

Mark Hoffman

Enabler (x F!Reader)

Supernatural

Lucifer

Ring Of Fire (x F!Reader) - Part 1. Part 2.

Dune (Villeneuve movies)

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen

It’s A Special Death You Saved (x F!Reader) - Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.(finale)

Strip Me Down And Paint Me Black (x F!Reader) - Part 1.

Fallout (Amazon TV Series)

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul

Hand That Feeds (x F!Reader) - Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

Lost (2004 TV Series)

Benjamin Linus

The Secret of Drowning (x F!Reader) - AO3 link

#masterlist #my writing #peter ballard x reader #henry creel x reader #001 x reader #jake lockley x reader #arthur harrow x reader #stranger things x reader #moon knight x reader #captain hook x reader #silco x reader #zeke yeager x reader #hoyt volker x reader

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girlwithwolftatoo · 2 years

Note

hi can you make a master list for you arthur harrow fics :)

Okay okay dear anon!

Arthur Harrow master list:

(Do not) drink me -Doctor Harrow

Arthur x Reader nightmare

Heart keeper

Goddess within -NSFW

Where is the shepherd for this lost lamb? More father like relationship

Blood drabble

The stick and the carrot -NSFW

Devourer of hearts- 1 2 3

Not Harrow -centered but he has an important role:

The moon is a silver claw

Steven Grant and doctor Harrow angst

This list will be growing as more fanfiction is included!

#moon knight series #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fanfic #arthur harrow #doctor harrow #arthur harrow fanfiction #arthur harrow x reader #ethan hawke #fanfiction masterlist

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ivystoryweaver · 1 year

Text

With You part 5

<-prev next-> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist

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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melodygatesauthor · 8 months

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The Dark Side of the Moon - Chapter 1: Intoxicating

Vampire Marc Spector X f!Reader

Beta Read by @xbellaxcarolinax - Masterlist - AO3

Chapter Summary

Marc sees you for the first time and can't understand why you smell the way you do. The aroma is intoxicating, and he's determined to get closer to you, despite Khonshu's rules.

Tags/Warnings (for entire fic)

Major Tags/Warnings: Major Character Death - Non-con - Dub-con - Violence Minor Tags/Warnings NSFW, smut, Khonshu is human turned vampire, Ammit is human turned vampire, sex with characters other than the main pairing (Marc X f!Unnamed Character - Khonshu X f!Reader), p in v creampie, furniture grinding, scent kink, blood kink, vampire/human relationship, blood drinking, rough sex, oral sex, coming untouched, coming in pants, panty sniffing, angst, fluff, smut, forbidden relationship, secret relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, Marc does NOT have DID Dead Dove Do Not Eat - This means that what you see in the tags is what you get in the fic. If you read the tags and see "non-con" and then see non-con in the fic, don't be surprised!

Word Count: 3.2k

When Marc first saw you, he was overwhelmed by your scent.

The blood coursing through your veins held an aroma so sickly sweet that he found himself dizzy from the smell. He stepped into the lofty, spacious room where an oversized, and over-embellished, chair sat at the back. The enormous windows behind the chair faced out to the ocean, stretching on for what felt like forever. Khonshu liked to call this his ‘throne room’; a pretentious name fit only for someone who thought all too highly of himself.

“Marc, isn’t she wonderfully fragrant?” Khonshu asked from where he sat in his chair, touching the small of your back. His deep voice broke Marc from his thoughts.

Marc cleared his throat, scowling at the display in front of him. You were there, standing timidly with your wrists and ankles bound by enchanted gold chains, and Khonshu was next to you, seated like a king, legs spread wide as though he didn’t have a care in the world. You were dressed like the other cattle: ivory-white, flowing dress covering your body, though leaving your neck well exposed in case Khonshu felt hungry on a whim.

“Yes sir,” Marc agreed, body stiffening as he tried to fight his primal urges against your intoxicating smell.

“Found this pretty thing walking home from some dead end job, sobbing, living a meaningless life, isn’t that right little dove?” He started rubbing your back, and Marc saw your body tense in response. He hated when Khonshu got new servants. He hated to see how nervous they all were in the beginning.

“Y-yes,” you said, voice sounding small compared to the bass of Khonshu’s tone.

“Not so meaningless now. You have such an important job here.” He looked up at you with such adoration it made Marc’s stomach turn. “Harrow,” he said loudly, looking at the man on Marc’s left. “I need a report, did you succeed in delivering my justice tonight?”

Arthur Harrow looked over at Marc, long face twisted into an expression of disdain that he reserved only for the right hand of Khonshu. When Harrow looked back at their master’s face, his expression changed to one of admiration, but Marc knew the man’s hatred for him still festered just under the surface.

Marc listened to Harrow’s recollection of the evening’s events. It was a brief retelling of their struggles and successes, structured in a way to make Arthur sound like the heroic protagonist of the story, leaving Marc to look like his inept sidekick. Marc chuckled under his breath when Harrow mentioned rescuing a woman from a mugger. What he failed to add, was that the man doing the mugging was in his late sixties, frail, and nearly starving to death in an alleyway, just trying to get enough money to eat for the night. In other words, Marc wouldn’t have needed a suit or vampiric abilities to deal with him.

“Is something funny, Marc Spector?” Arthur asked, turning to look at his counterpart.

Marc shook his head, “not at all, continue with your very accurate and completely true story.”

Marc looked at you, heartbeat racing at the sight of your pretty face. A smirk threatened the corner of your mouth, you must’ve noticed him, but you kept your eyes on the ground. Marc’s lips turned up for only a split second knowing he’d entertained you. He hated Khonshu for always making the servants of the house avert their gaze, as though the undead were a superior race to the living. He hated Khonshu for many other things as well, but not being able to see the sparkle of amusement in your eyes at that moment was one of them.

Marc shared his own account of the uneventful evening. They’d saved some other ‘travelers of the night’, as Khonshu called them, and made sure to deliver justice to those who hurt them. He didn’t always see eye to eye with Harrow, but both he and Marc served one man, bound to him forever in an unfortunate blood pact, and for that they were very alike. He wondered sometimes if Arthur hated their master as much as he did, but Marc didn’t dare ask such a question out loud.

Khonshu looked up at you, smiling contentedly as he did before letting out a sigh, broad shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Very good,” he said, finally addressing both Marc and Arthur. “I’m hungry, so I’ll be taking my leave.” He looked over at Marc as he stood, running a hand through his thick black hair. “Marc, please attend to any queries as I would.”

Marc nodded, watching Khonshu rise, putting his hand on your upper back as he led you out of the room. Your scent left with you, not fully, but enough to allow the fog that weighed heavy in Marc’s mind dissipate. He was certain that if you smelled that good, you must taste equally as delicious…right?

~~~~

Why the fuck did you smell like that? Marc wondered moments later, sitting in Khonshu’s lavish chair in his absence. There was no reason for you to smell like that. So sweet, so delicious. Marc found himself salivating, quickly wiping his lips. It was embarrassing, the way you had made such a mess out of him after only moments of him being in your presence.

“Are you hungry sir? I can get your cattle for you,” one of the servants nearby asked, noticing that he’d wiped his mouth.

“No, no I’m…” he wasn’t fine, “I’m fine.”

He’d lived a hundred twenty-six years, and not once had he come across a scent like that. It didn’t make sense, and yet, it was permeating the air around him, making him feel mildly intoxicated once again. Harrow chuckled on Marc’s left, taking the man out of his daze. He scowled and looked over at him.

“What?” Marc questioned, tone laced in frustration.

Arthur shrugged, “hm? Oh, nothing. It’s just interesting to me, how much your age shows when you're faced with something unique, like the new cattle girl.”

“She just has a strong smell, it’s nothing,” Marc said firmly, bouncing his leg as he became more anxious.

“Right, of course,” Arthur’s expression was smug, condescending toward Marc in an attempt to rattle him.

“Why don’t you go find something to keep yourself busy, Harrow. I’m sure Khonshu wouldn’t want to think you were bothering me while I conduct his business.”

That struck a nerve, and Marc knew it would. Harrow had served Khonshu for many, many, years longer than Marc had. Hundreds longer to be more precise. Arthur was an arguably better servant as well. He would kill without question, spending no time on nuance and weighing the gray area brought on by guilt. Harrow would kill if he simply felt that someone was deserving. Marc didn’t like to fight that way, it felt wrong, and morally corrupt at its core. Marc would only kill if he thought it was a just punishment.

Despite Harrow being Khonshu’s loyal and unquestioning knight, always doing their master’s bidding without question, Marc was the one Khonshu favored most. Neither of them understood it, and both of them wished it were Harrow in that position rather than Marc. He never wanted to be Khonshu’s right hand, and when he was turned he didn’t know that’s what he was signing up for. Khonshu was good at keeping information from his servants. In fact, that’s how he managed to recruit so many. If he’d been upfront with them all, no one would have joined him.

“Khonshu is preoccupied at the moment, I’m sure–”

“Ooh,” Marc taunted, “then it would be really awkward if I had to go knocking on his door to tell him that you were being a pain in my ass, wouldn’t it?” Marc looked at Harrow, both eyebrows raised in anticipation for the rebuttal that never came.

Once Harrow left, frustrated and grumbling to himself, Marc tried to find other ways to occupy his mind, and to get his thoughts off of you. He spoke with the servants, making small talk about the weather, as though he gave a shit about whether it was raining or the skies were painted in blue. He just needed to take his mind off of you, because the more he thought about you, the more he felt his body aching with hunger.

There were so few rules that Marc needed to abide by that he’d be labeled a moron if he couldn’t manage to follow them. He could come and go as he pleased, so long as he did the work Khonshu required of him. Marc wasn’t allowed to turn someone, unless of course his master bid him to do so. And there was one rule, a big one that was upheld above all else…

Touching Khonshu’s cattle was absolutely forbidden.

That was how Marc got there, replacing the last Moon Knight that was dumb enough to try and pull one over on Khonshu. When his master claimed someone, by auction, coercion or otherwise, they were his. Marc had heard that Khonshu was kind to his servants, only taking what he needed, never drinking more than his fill. If one of his designated meals were tired or still recovering from a feeding, he would allow them time to rest before he used them again.

Marc also knew that they ate well. He saw the meals sometimes in passing being brought by the cooks to the rooms of the cattle. That’s how Marc learned that you liked strawberries, especially the large ripe ones. He would see the way the cooks made a point to pick through the smaller sour ones and toss them aside before bringing them to your door.

Were you spoiled, or did you figure that if you were going to be stuck there for the rest of your life, that you might as well enjoy yourself? Either way, a week after your arrival, Marc still wasn’t used to your scent, and it called to him both day and night. It was faint, unless he was in the same room as you, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to figure out why you smelled like that, even if it killed him.

Marc didn’t need the enchanted armor Khonshu had blessed him with to climb the wall outside to your bedroom, his jeans and dark t-shirt would do just fine. The armor only afforded him protection at will, and the crescent darts he used to deliver Khonshu’s justice. As a vampire, there was no mountain too high for Marc to climb, and no distance too far for him to run. His strength couldn’t be surpassed by even ten men, but everything came with a price.

He needed blood to live.

Without that iron flavored liquid, Marc would die. Not much could kill him, but the thirst for blood certainly would if he didn’t satisfy it. And the smell of yours was making him fucking feral.

Marc didn’t know what he was thinking, standing there in your room, watching you while you slept soundly. He had all he could to stop himself from draining your body of every drop of your blood in front of Khonshu, so what was stopping him now? Your master wasn’t around to save you, but Marc knew he could never forgive himself if he hurt you.

He knelt down by your bedside, touching your warm cheek softly with the backs of his fingers. Your breathtaking eyes fluttered open, meeting his in a gaze with a look that was as frightened as it was confused. He put a finger to his lips, shushing you, hoping like hell that you wouldn’t alert the household to his presence in your quarters; something that would surely land him in the thirst room for a minimum of half a century.

You nodded as you slowly sat up, rubbing your eyes and pulling away from Marc. It was a smart decision, he had no noble reason for being there. He just wanted to smell you. He wanted to feel you. You were doing well in your attempt to hide your fear, though he could tell you were petrified. Your breathing was ragged, and your pupils blown wide.

“Why do you smell like that?” He said in a low growl, leaning forward on your bed, nuzzling your neck and inhaling deeply, “so fuckin’ sweet I…fuck.”

“W-what are you do–”

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you, I just…” he inhaled again, breath ragged and harsh in your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeated, not sure who he was trying to convince more, you…or himself.

“O-okay,” you said in the softest, and shakiest, voice he’d ever heard.

Marc really wasn’t going to harm you, though it took every ounce of his strength not to. He wanted to devour you, drink you dry, absorb your warmth into every cell of his cold body. He leaned in more, pushing you back against the mattress, feeling every neuron in his brain firing with desire. He felt your hands, pushing gently against his chest in protest, but you clearly weren’t brave enough to try and fight back.

Marc felt his cock aching as it sprung to life against his jeans. Your legs were around him, though he could feel your knees digging into his waist in an attempt to close them. The heat from your cunt was maddening, radiating off of you through his clothing and making his dick leak profusely.

“Why the fuck do you smell like that?” He asked again, throat vibrating with a primal rumble. He breathed in your fragrant aroma some more, feeling his fangs extending in preparation to bite. “Never smelled someone so…hmmmm.”

“L-like…like w-what?”

That’s when he realized just how much you were shaking. As if he were awoken from a trance, Marc shook the delirium from his mind and slid off of you quickly, backing up to the wall, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. He gulped, looking you up and down. You looked terrified, eyes wide with fear. Your bottom lip was trembling while you sat up and stared widely at him, like prey coming face to face with a predator.

“I’m sorry,” Marc said, still panting heavily. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt so breathless.

“You’re M-Marc, right?” You asked, looking him up and down, “I’m…” your name rolled off your tongue beautifully.

Cattle didn’t have names. Once someone was branded as livestock, a human whose job was to provide blood to their master, they were stripped of their previous life, including their name. Marc had been to other households. Some masters replaced their servant’s old names with new ones. Others had a numeric system, the numbers getting higher and higher the longer a vampire had been alive and using servants.

Khonshu preferred to keep his nameless. It made it less personal when it was time to dispose of old or sickly livestock, or when he got too carried away while feeding, leading to the unfortunate demise of a perfectly good food source. Marc knew you were privy to the rules. You knew damn well that you weren’t supposed to ever utter your birth name, and yet you were speaking it freely to him.

You trusted him.

“Look…I was never here, alright?” Marc swallowed hard, looking out at the moonlit sky. “I…I didn’t mean to scare you, I just…I couldn’t help myself. I’m so sorry.”

Without another word, and without looking at you again, Marc climbed through the window and dropped back to the ground, moving quickly around the side of the manor and back to where his quarters were. The pain of his cock pressing against his zipper ached like never before. He could still fucking smell you, and now your scent was on his damn clothes. It was a mistake going there, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad he did.

~~~~

He got into bed that night, stripped down fully, planting his feet firmly against his mattress, cock in hand and jerking himself off to the thoughts running through his mind. He balled up his shirt, holding it against his face and smelling your aroma still saturated in every fiber. His grip was firm around his girth, gliding over his length at a slow pace, imagining what it would be like to feel you on top of him.

Marc ran his thumb over the precum leaking out of the slit on his fat tip, using that to keep his palm slick while he worked. A pathetic whine left his lips, throat closing as he gripped the sheets and arched his back upward. You’d take him so well, he could tell just by the way you looked underneath him earlier. You’d cry and whimper but you’d love every second, begging him to fuck you until you couldn’t walk right.

He rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his cock between his abdomen and the mattress, grabbing the sides of the bed and rutting his hips forward. The grind along the smooth sheets was enough to electrify his entire body. Marc choked on the groan that threatened to leave his lips. He put the shirt on his pillow, burying his face in it, fucking the bed faster. If you had been under him, he would’ve broken you in half…or shredded you to pieces.

He bit into the shirt, growling lowly and continuing to roll his erection over the soft mattress in an attempt to curb the growing need to have you. Your voice was so small, so sweet, so pretty. Fuck, fuck… The way you looked at him, afraid, timid, like he was going to hurt you. He wished he could say with confidence that he would never hurt you, like he had promised you earlier in your room, but he knew that was a white lie. He would always try never to hurt you.

He shuddered on his next snap forward, the friction becoming more slick as his leaking head left a mess in its wake. His grip on the sides of the mattress was tight enough to make his knuckles ache, aiding in his speed. He didn’t even care that the bed scraped against the floor with a loud shriek on every pass. He kept his nose deep in the fabric of his shirt, inhaling deeply, intoxicated with your smell combined with his. It smelled right, like your fragrances belonged together.

You belonged with him.

“Why does she…why does she smell so…so-fucking-good-ohgodohgodohgod…!”

Marc’s hips finally came to a stammering halt, warm sticky ropes of cum shooting out from his throbbing cock, making a mess of his bedding that he knew the servants would mumble about amongst each other when they thought he wasn’t listening. He huffed through his nose, hips still sliding his dick over the glob of slippery white that he created while thinking of you.

He wasn’t a fool, but Marc hoped desperately that masturbating his nights away would be enough to satisfy his needs. Deep down though, he knew that was bullshit, and he knew that as long as you were around, his life was at risk.

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#moon knight #marc spector #Marc Spector X f!Reader #marc spector headcanon #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector smut #moon knight drabble #marc spector drabble #moon knight smut #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fic #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector fan fiction #moon knight fan fiction #khonshu #ammit

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lizzie-is-here · 1 year

Text

lonely is a man without love- series masterlist

summary: you’re an ex-black widow, now working with the avengers. and marc spector, a soldier gone vigilante, is your target. so who’s this steven guy, and what’s up with the giant skeleton bird?

relationships: moon boys x fem!reader

total wordcount: 20k

warnings: violence, language, episode five, specific warning listed in each part

ALSO I’M DELETING LAYLA I’M SORRY I LOVE HER TOO BUT I FOR THE SAKE OF THE FIC I MUST

this series is complete!

[pictures aren’t mine]

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

part i- the mission

“and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness.” -mahmoud darwish

you head to britain to begin your most recent assignment: to find the vigilante marc spector.

part ii- the scarab

“the moon taught me there is beauty in darkness too” - marine ashnalikyan

steven gets arrested, there’s a cult, and apparently, a magic bug. how did you get roped into this?

part iii- cairo

“i am a deserted sky, and you are the moonlight” - manoj muntashir

arthur harrow causes more problems

part iv- the hunt

“the moon in me finds the sky in you” - dikshasuman

a bit of breaking and entering, a touch of mummy surgeons

part v- the boat

“we are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side” - kahlil gibran

grave robbing and a shootout lands you in a bit of trouble. ok, i guess being dead is a lot of trouble

part vi- fault

“someday someone will bring the moon down for you in the shape of their love” - dikshasuman

a dive into the past to save the future

part vii- choice

“hug me like the night holds the moon” - alexandra vasiliu

two resurrections that could arguably give that jesus dude a run for his money

part viii- home

“love you to the moon and to saturn” - taylor swift

you come back from your mission with a little more than you expected. namely, a boyfriend.

#marvel #marvel x reader #x reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight #steven grant x reader #steven grant #marc spector x reader #marc spector #jake lockley #khonshu #arthur harrow #steven grant x fem!reader #marc spector x fem!reader

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dominantslasherking · 2 years

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Are your requests, mayhaps open? 👀

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!!

Yes, My requests are currently OPEN.

Extra side note: For all the wonderful people leaving me sweet and heartfelt messages, Thank you all, I do read THEM ALL...And it just warms my heart.

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unabashegirl · 3 months

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Vicious 4 || Harry Styles x Mafia

Summary: Harry Styles, the cold and calculating son of a powerful mafia don, must consolidate power after his father's passing. He faces challenges from his unpredictable younger brother, Silas, and navigates a complex world of alliances, ruthless decisions, and family loyalty. Amidst the intrigue, the elegant and alluring Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, attends the funeral and finds herself drawn to Harry. As power dynamics shift and the future remains uncertain, the story explores the dark and dangerous allure of the mafia, the weight of family legacies, and the potential for unexpected connections in a world defined by secrecy and ruthlessness.

Author's note: asked to get tagged! Here is my Patreon in case you want to get ahead and get early access to more chapters.

word count: 2.0K

masterlist

The scent of blood permeated not only one's nose but also clung to hair, clothes, and anything one wore. The atmosphere in the chambers was perpetually cold and damp, creating an unsettling ambiance. It was a dark, eerie place, one that instilled fear in young Harry when he was just a boy. Back then, he knew it as the forbidden place where his father would take people to "take care" of them.

It remained off-limits until Harry turned fifteen, and Arthur began to introduce him to the macabre secrets within. The first day proved harrowing; overwhelmed by anxiety and the overwhelming scent of blood, Harry couldn't endure it. He vomited and cried to his mother, vowing never to return. However, that resolution crumbled as his father included him in the sadistic practices of torturing their enemies.

Arthur meticulously groomed him, desensitizing him to the gruesome reality until he could slit someone's throat without flinching. The cold, merciless chambers became a training ground for the heir, shaping him into the unyielding figure he would eventually become.

Harry lingered in the shadows of the chamber, where the man accused of desecrating his father's corpse sat. Bound to a wooden chair in the room's center, the accused man met the somber gazes of the onlooking men. Sympathy tinged their expressions, but a collective understanding resonated - what needed to be done had to be done. Even in death, loyalty to the former boss persisted. Silence enveloped the chamber as Harry contemplated the situation, contemplating the best course of action.

"What did you plan to do with the body?" Harry inquired, his voice cutting through the chamber's heavy air as he methodically made his way from the back to the front. He aimed to confront the accused, locking eyes with him before delivering the punishment that awaited.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man named Dimitri retorted smugly, a hint of defiance in his demeanor. He understood the perilous situation he was in, yet he remained prepared to face the consequences. Dimitri had been sent on a specific mission, aware of the risks involved in targeting Arthur. What he hadn't anticipated was Harry's foresight in stationing men to guard his father's grave.

Harry cast a brief glance at Lex, and in that moment, the first blow landed on his face, sending him into a quick daze. Dimitri hadn't seen it coming, unaware of Lex standing beside him.

"I'll ask again. What were you planning?" Harry queried, turning his back to walk up to the tools laid out for the impending ordeal.

"You're just like your father. A fuckin' prick," Dimitri spat out, the second hit landing with brutal force, rupturing his eardrum and filling his senses with a piercing ringing. Despite the pain, a twisted laughter escaped Dimitri's lips, echoing through the chamber.

“You don't know who I am? I was there that day. I can still here your mother’s screams” Dimitri taunted in his mother language, revealing to Harry who had sent him, striking at the rawest nerve.

Harry moved swiftly, catching Dimitri off guard. A knife sliced through his leg, triggering screams and shouts that fueled Harry's anger. Dimitri's calculated reference to Harry's mother only intensified the fury within him, leaving no room for remorse.

Harry moved quickly before Dimitri could realize what he was doing. A knife went through his leg. His screams and shouts fueled Harry’s anger. He had brought up his mother which only proved to Harry that he didn’t feel one bit remorseful.

“I will ruin you "Harry whispered back to Dimitri in Russian, his voice cold and resolute as he took hold of one of his hands. The room bore witness to the painful, torturous task ahead as Harry embarked on the painstaking process of pulling off each of Dimitri's nails. The chamber echoed with Dimitri's agonized cries, a symphony of suffering orchestrated by the relentless pursuit of revenge.

Amidst Dimitri's agonized cries, the chamber transformed into a chilling tableau of retribution. Harry, unmoved by the torment he inflicted, continued his methodical descent into sadism. The room's atmosphere thickened with tension as each nail was ruthlessly torn away, leaving Dimitri writhing in unbearable pain.

Harry's movements were deliberate, fueled by a potent mix of anger, vengeance, and the haunting memories Dimitri had sought to exploit. The language of retribution spoke through every tortured scream, a visceral manifestation of the vendetta playing out in the dimly lit chamber.

As the gruesome task unfolded, the weight of Dimitri's betrayal echoed through the room. He had ventured into the territory of the family, a realm where loyalty was sacrosanct, and his actions had triggered a cascade of brutal consequences.

The air was charged with the scent of blood and the cacophony of anguish. Harry, unrelenting, continued his merciless pursuit, driven by a determination to extract the full toll for the transgressions committed against his family. The echoes of Dimitri's cries reverberated through the chamber, marking the relentless march of retribution in the heart of the shadows.

“This fucker” Federico muttered under his breath as he rose from his seat once again. The wait for Harry's return had stretched beyond an hour. "How can he keep us waiting?"

Y/N remained silent, wary of uttering words that might incite her father's anger. Her mind, however, couldn't help but wander, envisioning what Harry was currently engaged in and whose fate he was sealing. Having grown up within the mafia, Y/N was no stranger to the methods employed to handle business. From a young age, she had clandestinely listened to her father discussing the gruesome details of his operations.

"Why are you so quiet?" he asked her in Italian. "You've barely said anything since we came."

"I am fine," Y/N responded, her gaze fixed on the backyard of the estate. "I've just been analyzing everything."

"You have to report everything back to me," Federico declared, his eyes scanning the estate's surroundings. "I must know everything that happens within this house." The motive behind agreeing to Y/N's marriage to Harry became clear—Federico sought intel and marrying her off to Harry was the strategic move to have someone on the inside.

As Federico spoke, Y/N nodded subtly, concealing her inner reservations about the web of alliances and deceit that surrounded her. The weight of her dual role—Harry's wife and her father's informant—pressed upon her, creating a delicate balance she had to maintain.

Federico's watchful eyes turned back to Y/N, a stern expression etched on his face. "Your role is crucial," he emphasized. "We need to know Harry's every move. The success of our family depends on it.”

Y/N nodded again, her gaze flickering toward the entrance as anticipation built. The door creaked open, and Harry stepped into the room. His demeanor was composed, betraying nothing of the tumultuous affairs that had transpired in his absence

"You're still here," Harry pointed out as he strode into his office, taking a seat behind his desk.

"Is everything alright?" Federico inquired, his curiosity evident. He wanted to understand what had caused the delay.

"He won't be a problem anymore," Harry replied succinctly, weariness evident in his voice. "Is there anything else pending?" His desire for a drink and a moment of respite was palpable. The mention of his late mother had taken an emotional toll, a vulnerability that he seldom allowed to surface. She didn’t deserve what had been done to her. She was an angel among all the devils.

Y/N observed the change in Harry's appearance—different suit, bruised knuckles, slightly damp hair, and flattened curls. Something had transpired, and she couldn't help but wonder about the details.

"Just determining where the wedding will take place. I personally think it should be in Italy, at our home," Federico suggested. However, Harry shook his head, instantly dismissing the idea. He wasn't about to lead his men into a foreign country, into the lion's den, even if they were allies. Harry knew better than to underestimate potential risks.

"Here is best. Safer," Harry asserted, leaving no room for debate. The location of his wedding wasn't up for negotiation with Federico. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to take care of." With that, Harry signaled the end of the conversation, his focus already shifting to the matters that awaited his attention.

Federico stormed out of the door, visibly irritated by the dismissal of his suggestions. Y/N discreetly rose from her seat, feeling the weight of Harry's intense gaze on her.

Lex wasted no time entering the office once the Italians had departed. "How was that? When are you getting married?" he inquired, adding with a smirk, "She's not ugly."

"In a month," Harry revealed, a sardonic laugh escaping him at the absurdity of Federico's proposal. "Federico wanted us to have it in Italy."

"Fucker," Lex chuckled. "What are we doing with the Russians?"

"I think we should send them back a gift, don't you think?" Harry suggested, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He looked up at Lex, who nodded in understanding. "Send back what they sent," Harry instructed. Lex acknowledged the order and said, "Take care of that and let me know when the package is ready." The plan was set in motion, the wheels of retribution silently turning in the shadows.

Lex nodded, acknowledging Harry's directive. "Consider it done." he affirmed, a steely determination in his eyes.

Harry lingered in his office for a few more hours, seeking solace amidst the familiar surroundings. Pouring a glass of whiskey and lighting a cigarette, he settled into his seat, attempting to find a moment of respite. The day had been a whirlwind of chaos, and though the desire for rest weighed heavily on him, the pressing tasks ahead refused to be ignored.

The dim glow of the office cast a reflective ambiance as Harry contemplated the intricate web of responsibilities that now rested on his shoulders. Each sip of whiskey brought a momentary warmth, and the tendrils of smoke from his cigarette curled lazily in the air.

With a few more meetings lingering on the horizon, the dimly lit corridors of the English manor buzzed with the hushed conversations of individuals seeking Harry's favor. The air was thick with the weight of their requests, each plea underlined by an unspoken acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics within the English mafia. These were more than routine meetings; they were symbolic gestures of allegiance, a testament to Harry's emerging reign and the challenges that lay ahead.

As the last petitioner departed, their gratitude hanging in the air, Harry emerged from his office. The room behind him held the scent of aged leather and the echoes of decisions made, a silent witness to the myriad responsibilities he bore as the new don.

Intent on locating Charlie to discuss matters of importance, Harry's purposeful stride led him to the foyer. There, amidst the surroundings, he unexpectedly discovered her presence. YN sat on an intricately patterned rug, her form a stark contrast to the grandeur that surrounded her. Two suitcases, well-worn and marked by the passage of time, stood sentinel by her side.

"What are you still doing here?" Harry's voice echoed through the space, genuine surprise etched on his face as he beheld the unexpected scene. His eyes, sharp and discerning, sought answers. "Where is Federico?" The inquiry hung in the air, anticipation threading through the atmosphere like a subtle current, as the layers of loyalty, alliances, and unspoken tensions played out in the grand foyer of the manor.

click here to read chapter 5

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worldserasingandcreatinginmymind · 9 months

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Bloody Beetle - Masterlist

Fandom: Marvel, Moon Knight

Pairings: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Arthur Harrow x Reader

Summary: A night on the late shift with Steven ends badly when a creepy guy with a scales tattoo shows up searching for a beetle

- Part One

- Part Two

- Part Three

- Part Four

- Part Five

- Part Six

- Part Seven

- Part Eight

- Part Nine

- Part Ten

COMPLETE

#moon knight #Steven Grant #Marc spector #Arthur harrow #moon knight fanfic #moon knight imagine #Steven Grant x reader #Marc Spector x reader #Arthur Harrow x reader #moon knight x reader

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moeitsu · 20 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 13 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 2)

Summary: Arthur’s life is ebbing out like the tide. Kate must work quickly and diligently to reverse the cruel hands of fate. She is aided by the help of an unexpected ally.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

TW: Blood, Body fluid. Injury recovery.

A/N: Low-key made myself tear up writing this one. ~7k words.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

The journey back stretched on endlessly, each passing moment burdened with the weight of exhaustion and despair. Kate's body grew numb with cold, the blood from Arthur's wound staining her clothes, a chilling reminder of their ordeal. Arthur's once-warm body now felt icy against hers, his warm breath the only sign of life as he rested his head on her shoulder, his panting offered a fragile reassurance.

Exhaustion etched lines of stress and fear on Kate's face, her features reflecting the toll of their harrowing journey. Arthur had succumbed to unconsciousness shortly after they set out, leaving Kate to bear the weight of his limp form behind her. With trembling arms, she struggled to keep him upright, her own strength waning with each passing moment.

Lorena, too, felt the strain of their journey, her steady gait faltering under the weight of fatigue. Belle, injured and weary, added to the challenge, requiring constant coaxing to keep moving forward. Each tug on the reins filled Kate with guilt, knowing the mare's fear and exhaustion mirrored her own. But they couldn't afford to stop, not when time was their most precious commodity.

During their frantic journey back to camp, Kate made the decision to flick off the switch of her emotions. She knew that upon their arrival, she needed to confront the situation with a clear conscience. Despite her fear, she understood the gravity of suppressing her emotions and presenting a facade of strength. This was a matter of life and death, and she couldn't afford to let her trivial feelings interfere.

River had instilled in her the necessity of shutting off her emotions long ago, albeit unintentionally. He had warned her that her empathy would only serve to endanger her life, emphasizing the need to remain cold, unforgiving, and fully present in the moment. Following his advice, Kate embraced this mindset wholeheartedly.

As they burst back into camp, Kate's demeanor was that of someone leading a charge in battle. She disregarded any semblance of decorum, screaming for the others to wake up and rallying them to action. Her urgent cries echoed through the night, disregarding any concern for the late hour. With determination, she guided Lorena directly to Arthur's tent, paying no heed to the camp rules about horses in living quarters.

The first to respond to the commotion was Miss Grimshaw and the other women, their tent positioned adjacent to the camp's entrance. The shock on the old woman's face was palpable as she gasped, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth at the distressing sight before her.

Kate dismounted Lorena with a determined yet gentle grace, her arms already reaching out to lift Arthur's heavy body. He stirred from his sleep, groaning softly at the sudden movement. In an instant, Hosea and Charles appeared by her side, their faces etched with equal parts concern and fear. Together, they silently maneuvered Arthur to his cot, their actions speaking volumes of their care and solidarity.

As if summoned by the urgency of the situation, a small crowd gathered around the back of Arthur’s wagon. Composed of Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen, their nightgowns billowing softly in the night breeze. Fear and horror danced in their eyes, mirroring the turmoil of the moment.

"Is he going to be okay?" Tilly's voice quivered with worry, breaking the tense silence.

"Kate, what the hell happened?" Mary-Beth's question was laced with urgency.

"Jesus, is he even still alive?" Karen's comment hung in the air, heavy with concern.

Kate felt the weight of their questions pressing down on her, but she couldn't afford to be distracted. "Not now girls!" She replied sharply, her tone unintentionally dismissive. She knew they were only expressing their concern for their friend, but she couldn't allow herself to be pulled away from the task at hand. Despite the pang of guilt that stabbed at her heart, she pushed aside her own emotions, focusing solely on Arthur's well-being.

"Miss Grimshaw, I need you to bring me hot water and as much clean cloth as you can find," Kate instructed urgently, her voice carrying the weight of conviction. She turned to Hosea and Charles, her gaze unwavering. "Hosea, gather whatever tools you have for cleaning and stitching wounds. Charles, grab me the strongest alcohol we've got," she dished out her orders swiftly, each word heavy with a sense of importance. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. "And find me something he can bite down on," she added hastily, her mind racing ahead. The two men nodded without question, already moving into action.

Kate wasted no time, swiftly lighting the few oil lamps beneath Arthur’s makeshift room. Miss Grimshaw returned moments later with a bucket of hot water and wads of fresh cloth. She placed them on the table behind Arthur’s cot, efficiently clearing the space for Kate to begin her work.

A nod of appreciation passed between them as Charles reappeared at her side, a large bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pair of Arthur’s leather suspenders in the other. "I can fetch more from the chuck wagon if you need," he offered, his concern evident in his voice. "The leather will be the most gentle on his teeth," he suggested, his eyes searching hers for approval. Kate accepted the supplies gratefully, taking the suspenders and folding them in on themselves to create a thicker object for Arthur to bite down on.

Arthur stirred, his groans morphing into soft cries as pain flooded his senses in relentless waves. He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, the whites of his eyes still tainted a violent red. "K-Kate... I-I have to w-warn–" he managed, his words fragmented by shallow, forced breaths. Confusion and agony clouded his mind, a lingering aftermath of his torment.

"We're home, honey. You're safe now," Kate reassured him gently, her voice a comforting anchor in the midst of turmoil. With efficiency, she retrieved her hunting knife from her belt, swiftly cutting away the remnants of his union suit. Each movement deliberate yet tender, exposing the rest of his battered form to the humid air of Lemoyne.

Arthur recoiled, a feeble protest escaping his lips. "Ngh–n-no, stop... p-please stop," he pleaded, his voice laced with anguish. Memories of humiliation and shame flooded his mind, unseen hands groping and poking his wounds, violating his most vulnerable spaces.

Undeterred, Kate continued to strip away the blood and filth soaked fabric, revealing his raw, wounded flesh. With a sheet draped over his torso, she shielded him from prying eyes, her touch gentle yet purposeful. "I know, Arthur. I'm sorry. But I have to. I need to see the extent of what they did. These hands won't hurt you, sweetheart," she murmured soothingly, guiding him through each step with care.

As she worked, Kate fought to suppress the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm her. Just a week ago, she had stitched a small wound in his side, marveling at his strength and resilience. Now, under the dim light, she beheld the extent of his suffering, his once robust form marred by bruises and scars. Shuddering at the stark contrast, she longed for the sight of him untouched and whole, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Uncorking the weighty bottle of whiskey, Kate poured a liberal amount over her own soiled hands, tainted with dirt and streaked with his blood. "Arthur," she began softly, angling her head to meet his gaze directly, "we're home now," she reiterated like a sacred chant, "I'm going to take care of you, but I need you to bite down on this hard, okay?" Before he could object, she gently pried open his jaw and slipped the leather between his teeth. "It's going to hurt, but it will be over quickly. I just need to disinfect your wounds."

Hosea returned, clutching a small black box containing lock-picking tools, along with a needle and thread. "I've already sterilized them over a flame. They should be ready for use now," he explained briskly.

"Thank you, Hosea," Kate acknowledged, motioning for him to position himself on her other side. "I need you to hold him down if he starts to move." Hosea nodded in urgency, his hand already resting firmly on Arthur's uninjured shoulder, his gaze lingering on the gaping wound on his other side.

Taking a moment to steady herself, Kate drew a deep breath. Picking up the bottle once more, she held it poised over the wound in Arthur's abdomen. This was the most critical issue; she needed to staunch the bleeding first. "Take a deep breath, Arthur," she instructed, waiting until she saw the rise of his chest before pouring the whiskey over his stomach.

Arthur gasped sharply, his body recoiling at the searing pain coursing through him. Charles swiftly maneuvered to the foot of the cot, securing Arthur's legs to provide stability. Meanwhile, Kate seized a bundle of damp, warm cloth, swiftly commencing the task of cleansing the area surrounding his stab wound, a grisly mix of blood and filth. Biting the leather straps, Arthur let out a muffled groan, his jaw clenched in agony. "Keep breathing, Arthur," Kate coached, her voice steady and reassuring. "You're safe now. We're almost through."

As Kate worked, the sting of whiskey on his wound drew another pained whimper from Arthur, yet she pressed on, discarding soiled cloth as Miss Grimshaw replenished her supply with fresh cotton. Hosea, in his resourcefulness, passed her a pair of tweezers from his lockpicking kit. Beneath the faint glow of the oil lamp, Kate meticulously cleared the wound of debris, extracting dirt and tiny fragments of grass until it gleamed as clean as possible. With a final cleansing douse of alcohol, Hosea deftly threaded a needle, handing it to Kate who skillfully began the task of stitching him closed. Though the wound spanned a mere two inches, its depth hinted at internal damage. Kate silently prayed that her efforts had stemmed the bleeding, if only temporarily.

Approaching Arthur's tent, a new set of footfalls announced Dutch's arrival. "My son..." his voice trailed wearily, concern etched into every syllable. "Is he going to be alright?"

Annoyance flickered within Kate as Dutch finally showed concern, likely stirred by Arthur's cries that had surely pierced the night, rousing the camp from its slumber. They now loomed in the shadows behind Dutch, silent spectators unsure of their place.

Without lifting her gaze from her task, Kate's response was curt. "I'll let you know you when I'm finished," she retorted sharply, her exhaustion seeping into her tone. Her circle was reserved for those who truly showed care for Arthur, those who stood by him, aiding her in his need.

If only Dutch had said something about Arthur’s absence, perhaps this all could have been avoided. She placed a partial responsibility for his tortment on him. Why hadn’t he said something? Did Hosea know Arthur was supposed to meet them? Arthur spoke highly of Dutch, and Kate knew in a way he was like a father to him. Her questions festered in the back of her mind as they remained unanswered.

With each discarded cloth, Kate worked diligently, ensuring the wound was clean enough to be wrapped. Charles and Hosea delicately maneuvered Arthur's body, allowing Kate to envelop his torso completely in the protective layers of cloth, securing it tightly above the injury.

Seated on a chair thoughtfully provided by Miss Grimshaw, Kate afforded Arthur a brief respite from the relentless assault on his body, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. With gentle care, she reached out, tenderly brushing the sweat-dampened hair from Arthur's forehead, his distress evident in the beads of perspiration and the furrow of pain etched upon his brow.

"You've been incredibly brave, Arthur," she murmured, her touch soothing against his tear-stained cheek. His bloodshot eyes sought hers desperately, finding solace in her presence, as if she alone tethered him to reality, a lifeline amidst the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. With a reassuring tone, she continued, "I'm going to clean your shoulder now, alright? I'll be right here beside you, every step of the way." In that shared gaze, a silent pact formed, an unspoken trust that his life rested in her capable hands. Arthur's response was a subtle nod, a fleeting acknowledgment of their connection.

"Keep breathing deeply," she coached, demonstrating with a slow inhalation, Arthur following suit, never breaking their gaze. "That's it, good. You’re doing great honey," she encouraged, her words a balm to his weary soul, wrapping him in a comforting embrace of reassurance amid his fear and exhaustion.

Once more, she seized the bottle, its pungent aroma of whiskey assaulting his senses before a drop even touched his skin. Arthur clenched his eyes shut, fighting back the flood of memories, anchoring himself in the present. Here, with Kate by his side, he was safe.

As the icy liquid cascaded over his shoulder, a fresh wave of searing pain tore through him, igniting his nerves like flames licking at his flesh. The mingling scent of whiskey and agony turned his stomach, each inhalation a struggle against the bile rising within him. His bite on the leather tightened as he clenched down, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. Yet amidst the turmoil, Hosea's reassuring touch pressed against his chest, grounding him. "Deep breaths, son," came his gentle whisper, a reminder to draw in each breath despite the growing discomfort. With effort, Arthur obeyed, each inhalation a battle against the rising tide of pain and unease.

Kate's voice drifted to him once more, a soothing melody in the chaos. "That's it, sweetheart," she murmured, “the worst is almost over,” her hands working diligently on his shoulder, the warmth of wet cloth cleansing away the layers of blood and grime, revealing the rawness beneath. Another pour of alcohol elicited a primal scream from his throat as his back arched in agony, the bullet wound laid bare and vulnerable.

With steady hands, Kate poured whiskey over the set of tweezers, the bullet still stubbornly lodged within. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness; perhaps Arthur's left arm would yet see use again.

Through panting breaths and tears, the overwhelming pain threatened to engulf him, each sensation pulling him closer to the precipice of unconsciousness. Kate's voice, a lifeline amidst the tumult, echoed in his mind. "You can let go, Arthur," she whispered, as if sensing his perilous dance with darkness. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

With those words, Arthur surrendered to the bliss of sleep, his weary mind finding solace in its embrace. His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his jaw releasing as he placed his trust in Kate's capable hands. In her words lay the promise of a future, each syllable a gentle encouragement driving every beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Picture a man. Like a speck out at sea as you gaze upon him from the shore. He’s swimming beyond the breakers, like he’s done this all before. He sees the coming of the swell, and knows it will drag him out a greater length. Far beyond the shallows of the bay. But he knows his strength, he tries to gather it. And he swims on, turning back to shore again. He feels the rising of the wave and knows at once he will not withstand it.

Like that man, Arthur sinks down into the depths. The water burns his lungs, his body aflame as he exerts himself to stay afloat. The darkness engulfs him, a starless night lost at sea. He fears he will drown, but then, her voice returns to him. Ushered down from the sky above him. Like a beacon in the night, a melody that lights the path before him. A distant lighthouse, guiding his willing soul to shore.

Her words flow through him as he swims against the current. All of his loss threatens to pull him under, but all he can think of is her. The light that leads him, and the air that fills his lungs. Command a new life that breathes into him.

Amongst the shadows, he witnessed two figures upon the shore. They gaze upon his struggling form. But he feels no fear, he swims on towards them. Kate's words command his every movement, keep breathing Arthur. All of her goodness is with him now. This woman, who never once asked him about the wrongs he committed. So persistent in her devotion.

He was housed by her warmth; transformed, reborn. Like a bird he flew to her now, swimming against a sea of fire. The blinding light of her voice shown upon the figures in the sand. Arthur could see a large shadow, next to a much smaller one. They held out their hands, frozen like angels beneath her radiance.

Their spirits reached for him, unfazed by the darkness of his heart. The waves leapt and violently crashed at their feet. Arthur could feel their love, though mere aberrations, their hands were warm and strong. Pulling him swiftly back to land.

They laid him down soft and sweet, in her low lit light beyond them he could finally see the features of a man and a young girl. He blinked, realization dawned that a mere child had rescued him. Though their faces remained unrecognizable.

The man reached down and helped him to stand, keeping a steady arm on his back. The young girl looked up at him with a familiar warmth in her smile, she took her small hand in his.

“My momma is gonna take real good care of you Arthur.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate toiled tirelessly through the night and into the early embrace of dawn, the gentle symphony of birdsong heralding the arrival of a new day even before the first rays of sunlight graced Clemens Point. Sometime amidst the evening, Miss Grimshaw had taken it upon herself to gather extra canvas cloth, draping them around Arthur's makeshift abode, providing a semblance of privacy to his recovery

After extracting the bullet from his shoulder, Kate meticulously tended to the wound, carefully wrapping it in cloth to secure it tightly. Already, signs of infection were beginning to manifest, but she remained hopeful that with diligent cleaning, she could impede the progress of bacteria before sepsis set in.

As the night wore on, Kate turned her attention to Arthur's other injuries, dismissing Charles and Hosea to their rest. Though they hesitated to leave her side, she reassured them with a determined nod. Rest was a luxury she couldn't afford until she had assessed the full extent of Arthur's injuries, strategizing for his slow recovery. His life hung precariously in the balance, and Kate was resolute in her commitment to remain by his side, in his hour of need.

With steady hands, Kate fashioned a splint for the broken fingers of Arthur's injured left arm, the paleness of his skin betraying the severity of the damage. Despite the faint pulse she detected, she couldn't shake the fear that his arm might be lost if the sensation in his hand failed to return entirely. The bullet, though mercifully, hadn't shattered his shoulder completely, which still offered a flicker of hope.

Turning her attention to his feet, Kate's heart sank at the sight of the swelling and the telltale blackness of his toes. Lacerations from shackles bruised his skin. The harrowing signs of prolonged suspension and the loss of circulation. She dared to pray that with time, the swelling would subside, though the realization of how long he had been hanging upside down twisted her stomach.

The bullet wound in his ankle presented its own challenge, having narrowly missed the bone yet tearing through muscle. It spared him the ordeal of shattered limb, but promised a long road to recovery, rendering walking a daunting task.

After cleansing his body with the last remnants of cloth, Kate reached for a salve crafted from sage, honey, and pine. With gentle strokes, she massaged the soothing balm into the myriad of cuts and burns that adorned his skin, paying particular attention to the rope burns on his wrists and the torn flesh around his ankles. It was a homemade remedy passed down by River, renowned as a 'Cure-All' within their tribe for its effectiveness in treating various skin injuries.

Satisfied with her ministrations, Kate settled back in her chair, her own needs forgotten as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Arthur's chest. Her eyes, heavy with dark circles, never left him. Slowly, exhaustion enveloped her. Attempting to blink back the darkness, she succumbed to its embrace, her head lolling as she drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Mere hours later, the soft glow of early morning seeped through the cracks of the small room, casting a gentle light upon the stillness within. The usual hustle and bustle of the camp was conspicuously absent, the tension of the previous night lingering in the air. Kate stirred from her sleep, roused by the faint sound of Arthur's muffled cough.

Blinking away the heaviness of fatigue, Kate's body protested against the soreness and hunger that gnawed at her. Arthur, writhing on the cot in discomfort, sought to sit up, his face twisted with pain. "Easy, Arthur, you're alright," she murmured wearily, her voice a tired yet comforting presence as she reached over to ease him back onto the cot. Knowing his agony must be unbearable, she thought to brew him an elixir, one of the remedies River had taught her, to alleviate some of his pain.

With sudden force, he pushed against her. “Mmf…m-ove,” his groans muffled yet urgent. Confusion furrowed Kate's brow as Arthur's movements grew more frantic, his right arm struggling to lift his heavy frame from the bed. Before he could tumble to the floor, Kate swiftly caught his head in the crook of her elbow.

"Arthur—" she began, her voice tinged with concern, her hands moving to guide him back onto the bed to prevent any further harm.

But Arthur's breathing escalated into dry heaves, his grip on her arm tightening as he pleaded, "Kate... m’move!" His words were strained, pushed out with desperate force. Before she could react, his head jerked forward, a guttural whine escaping his throat as warmth spilled over her arm, coating her lap and legs in sticky heat.

A chill washed over Kate as she looked down, her heart freezing at the sight of dark red blood mingling with the acidic contents of Arthur's stomach, forming gruesome clots. Her efforts had not been enough; he was bleeding internally, and there was nothing she could do.

Kate's breaths quickened, shallow and panicked, as she held him close. Arthur's body trembled with violent shudders, tears and bloody drool mingling as they cascaded down his chin. "M’sorry…m’so-sorry Kate," he mumbled, voice muffled against her arms. As he hid his face in humiliation.

Frozen with fear, Kate's arms trembled as she clung to him, a silent witness to the cruel fate that now enveloped them both.

Like the steady light of a distant train cutting through the quiet of a forest on a moonlit night, fragments of Kate's past came hurtling down the tracks of her memory. She couldn't help but recall her late husband, his figure fading in the dim light of their shared bedroom. His body was ridden with disease that cruelly spared her. Months of relentless coughs had ultimately led to the collapse of his lungs, his final breaths accompanied by the heavy wheezing that echoed hauntingly in her mind. Countless nights were etched in her memory, each one marked by his desperate struggle for air, the taste of blood staining their shared existence.

It was happening again.

With a heavy heart, Kate sat up, her hands tenderly cradling Arthur's head as if he were a fragile newborn. Slowly, she guided him back onto the cot, her voice trembling with emotion as she sought to offer comfort in the face of impending tragedy.

"S’alright, honey," she cooed, “not your fault.” Her words a fragile attempt to reassure him, though tears threaten to betray her facade of strength. Despite the weight of her own grief, she desperately tried to remain calm.

The clamor lured Hosea to the tent, concern etched on his features as he approached. "Kate, what hap—" His words trailed off as he caught sight of her blood-stained attire and Arthur's bloodied mouth. With swift determination, he reached Arthur's side, quickly pulling the sheet from his torso, revealing the gruesome display beneath. Kate's breath caught in her throat.

Pale white, mottled skin surrounded his knife wound. Dark spider-like veins branched out like a twisted oak tree.

As the walls of her resolve crumbled around her, Kate felt fear and trepidation seep into the cracks of her psyche. She fought valiantly to suppress tears, her gaze pleading with Hosea for guidance. "Hosea..." she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty, "I-I don't know what to do." The words choked out as the dam of her emotions finally burst.

Hosea, sensing the urgency of the situation, took in the sight of her with a gentle yet urgent tone. "We're getting a doctor," he declared decisively, wasting no time as he rose to his feet and strode towards the entrance of Arthur's tent. With a firm hand, he pushed aside the flap and called out to Lenny and Sadie, who sat nearby at a table. "You two, go to Rhodes and find a doctor! No excuses, spare no expense. Bring him back here, by any means necessary!" His words carried the weight of authority, a stern directive from a father to his wayward children.

Lenny and Sadie sprang into action, disappearing into the distance with a sense of urgency. Meanwhile, Kate struggled to steady her breathing, her chest heaving with each sob that wracked her body. Emotions boiled over, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure.

Returning to her side, Hosea gently grasped her arm, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the turmoil. "No. No, Hosea, I can't leave him," Kate protested hastily, her eyes pleading for understanding even as her heart screamed for reassurance.

"You need to rest, Kate," Hosea's gentle voice broke through the haze of exhaustion, his concern palpable in the warmth of his suggestion. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the last reserves of her strength before nodding in acceptance.

With his steady support, Kate rose to her feet, allowing him to guide her towards the entrance. His reassuring squeeze spoke volumes, a promise of gratitude and solidarity in the face of adversity. Retrieving his bandana from his vest pocket, he whispered softly, "You've been so strong for him. Thank you." As he tenderly wiped away her tears, Kate offered a tremulous nod, her lips quivering with emotion.

In a daze, she made her way to her own tent and bedroll, each step heavy with fatigue. Discarding her boots with weary resignation, she found herself lacking the strength to remove her soiled clothing. Instead, she stumbled towards the shoreline, the cool embrace of the water beckoning to her.

Sinking to her knees in the shallows, Kate began the arduous task of scrubbing away the blood that clung to her skin, each stroke fueled by a fearful urgency. Her nails scraped against her flesh as her breathing quickened with the intensity of her movements. The blood, stubborn and unyielding, seemed to taunt her, clinging to her body like a relentless specter of the past.

It was happening again.

Quiet sobs escaped her lips as panic tightened its grip around her, her body tensing with the effort to hold herself together. Her heart pounded in a desperate ritual of purification.

Kate remained lost in her torment, oblivious to the sound of Charles's approach as he waded into the water. A startled gasp escaped her lips as he enveloped her in a comforting embrace. "It's alright, Kate, I've got you," his deep, reassuring voice washed over her, instantly recognizable and soothing in its familiarity. His arms encircled her, offering solace and protection.

In that moment, Kate allowed the walls she had built around herself to crumble. She sobbed openly into Charles's arms, her anguish pouring forth unchecked. "You did everything you could. It's okay," he murmured gently, his words a balm to her wounded spirit. "Arthur owes his life to you," he added, a testament to her unwavering dedication.

With a hiccup, Kate confessed, "It's happening again, Charles." Emotions long suppressed surged to the surface, memories of loss and grief flooding her mind, her late husband's foremost among them.

"Shh, don't speak like that. We're getting a doctor for him," Charles reassured her, his voice a steadfast anchor in the storm of her emotions. "Arthur is resilient, Kate. He's a fighter."

"When will it be enough?" she pleaded, her voice raw with anguish. In response, Charles simply sighed and pulled her closer, offering silent support as she wept in his arms, their shared grief binding them together in solidarity.

As Kate's sobs gradually subsided, Charles continued to hold her, the gentle lull of the water surrounding them like a protective barrier against the outside world. Sensing the weight of her burden, he spoke softly, his words infused with understanding and compassion.

"Kate," he began, voice tender, "you don't have to carry this alone. You've put on a strong arm for so long, but you don't have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Kate's breath hitched at his words, a mixture of relief and uncertainty washing over her. For years, she had believed that strength meant shouldering her burdens alone, but now, in Charles's embrace, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to seek solace in the arms of those who cared for her.

"I'm scared, Charles," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt as if seeking an anchor in the tumult of her emotions.

"I know, Kate," Charles replied, his tone gentle yet resolute. "But you're not alone in this. We're all here for you, for Arthur. Every step of the way."

With a shaky exhale, Kate allowed herself to lean into Charles's figure, finding solace in the warmth of his presence. In that moment, surrounded by the soothing embrace of the water and the unwavering support of her friend, she felt a sense of relief ease off her tired soul.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

With just enough time to change her blood-soiled clothing and hastily consume a small meal of dried meat, Kate had brushed off Hosea's well-intentioned advice to rest. Though Charles's comforting presence provided some measure of relief, she knew that sleep would elude her unless she was by Arthur's side. His condition could turn on a dime, and she wanted to make sure she was there to comfort him. As the distant sound of approaching hoofbeats echoed through the camp, she emerged from her tent, her gaze fixed on the large wagon rumbling towards the entrance, its contents jostling on the uneven terrain.

Lenny's figure emerged from the midst of the commotion, leading a man towards Arthur's tent—the long-awaited doctor had finally arrived. Without hesitation Kate lept to greet them.

The sudden disruption caught Dutch's attention, his annoyance palpable as he emerged from his tent, demanding an explanation. Before he could voice his protest, Hosea intercepted him, offering a gentle diversion as he ushered Dutch back into his tent to address the matter in private.

Meanwhile, a young black man clad in a gray suit, adorned with a vibrant purple vest, dismounted from the wagon, his demeanor professional yet compassionate. Kate was surprised at his age, most doctors she knew were older. She noted the side of his wagon; Dr. Renaud’s Traveling Medical Company.

As they approached Arthur's tent, Lenny briefed the doctor on the situation. "Kate brought him in last night. He's in bad shape, Doc—bullet wound to the shoulder, knife to the stomach," Lenny explained tersely.

The doctor nodded solemnly, acknowledging the severity of the situation. With a sense of purpose, Kate accompanied them into the stuffy makeshift room. Lenny bid them farewell and goodluck before departing, leaving Kate alone with the newcomer, the supposed savior who held the key to Arthur's survival.

Surveying Arthur's broken form, “oh my lord,” he muttered to himself. The doctor pressed his fingers to his neck, checking Arthur’s pulse, then turning his attention to Kate. "I presume you're Kate?" he inquired, his voice carrying a mix of professionalism and empathy. Kate offered a hesitant nod in response.

"Dr. Alphonse Renaud," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Kate accepted the handshake, her movements awkward and uncertain, her mind racing with apprehension. Arthur's fate, and by extension her own, hung in the balance, resting upon the skill of this newcomer.

"Are you his wife?" Dr. Renaud's question jolted Kate from her anxious reverie.

"N-no," she stammered, her nerves palpable. Gathering her composure, she clarified, "I'm not his wife. Just a friend." The weight of responsibility settled heavily upon her shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the magnitude of the situation. "I managed to stop the bleeding last night. But I'm afraid he's still bleeding internally, he was vomiting blood this morning." Kate explained, her words rushed and urgent, wasting no time in conveying the severity of Arthur's condition.

Dr. Renaud clicked his tongue in response. "A knife to the stomach will do that to a man. How did this happen to him?" he inquired, gently shifting the sheet covering Arthur's abdomen to assess the extent of the injury.

Kate hesitated, unsure of how much to disclose about their precarious circumstances. After all, Arthur was a wanted man. She couldn't just disclose to a stranger the details of a violent gang feud between outlaws, he would surely leave in a heartbeat. "Tortured," she replied tersely, her tone brooking no further discussion.

“Oh, my deepest sympathy for your friend,” he replied with a solemn nod. Dr. Renaud moved to open the flaps on the side of the tent, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the extent of Arthur's wounds. As he gazed upon Arthur's face, now bathed in the soft afternoon glow, a flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Wait a moment," he murmured, gently turning Arthur's face towards him, "I know this man... Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Morgan."

Fear gripped Kate as she processed the doctor's unexpected recognition of Arthur. How could this man possibly know him? A myriad of troubling scenarios raced through her mind—had he seen the wanted posters plastered across towns? Or worse, had Arthur crossed paths with him in a less-than-favorable manner? The weight of uncertainty bore down on her, her heart pounding with dread. If Dr. Renaud refused to help them now, Arthur's fate would be sealed.

To her relief, Dr. Renaud's expression softened with understanding. "Mr. Morgan saved my skin a few weeks back," he explained, his voice tinged with gratitude. "Some racist fellas, calling themselves Lemoyne Raiders, stole my wagon. I knew if I went after them myself, they would surely lynch me. So Mr. Morgan set out to retrieve my belongings." Kate's breath caught in her throat as she released a shaky exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"He wouldn't even accept payment for his troubles," Dr. Renaud continued, his determination evident in the clasp of his hands. "Now, it seems fate has afforded me the opportunity to repay his kindness." Kate felt a surge of emotion welling within her. She wanted to cry; tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of heartbreak. Because of course, of course, Arthur had gone out his way to help this young doctor. That was just the kind of man he is. So clouded by his own demons, he still can’t see the pure heart that glimmers beneath the surface. By some twisted dance of fate, his kindness would grant him the opportunity for a second chance at life.

In that moment, Kate knelt beside Arthur's cot with renewed purpose, her gaze fixed on Dr. Renaud with determination. "What can I do to help, Doc?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. This was their chance—a chance for Arthur to receive the care he so desperately needed, and for Kate to play her part in ensuring his survival.

Dr. Renaud carefully examined the wound on Arthur's stomach, his fingertips gauging the heat of the inflamed skin. "I can stop the internal bleeding," he observed, "but you'll need to keep a close eye on his recovery. Regularly cleaning the wound is crucial. Sepsis can be deadlier than bleeding out." Kate nodded eagerly, absorbing his instructions.

His focus then shifted to Arthur's shoulder wound. "You've done a commendable job stitching this," he acknowledged, but pointed out the yellowing skin around the starfish-shaped crater. Pressing gently, he noted the alarming signs of infection. "The infection's already taken hold here. It's eroding the muscle. If it spreads to the ligaments, he could lose his arm entirely.” Kate nodded quickly, understanding the gravity of the situation.

Taking Arthur's injured hand, the doctor examined it closely. Kate watched as he ran a fingernail over the calloused skin of his palm. Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, prompting a glimmer of hope. "That's promising," Dr. Renaud remarked. "And the bullet?" Kate nodded silently, confirming its extraction. "Excellent. You have a natural talent for this, Kate," he praised with a reassuring smile. Though Kate tried to reciprocate the smile, her concern for Arthur remained paramount, her gaze fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, each breath a testament to his battle to remain alive.

Returning his focus to Arthur's abdomen, Dr. Renaud placed an open palm on his stomach, tapping it lightly. A swishing hollow sound reverberated in the air. "Hear that?" he asked, glancing at Kate. She nodded, her brow furrowed with concern. "It’s filled with fluid, most likely more blood. After I close the wound, his stomach will be sensitive for some time,” his tone gentle and informative. “He might struggle to keep down food and water, so make sure he stays hydrated, okay?" the doctor advised. With practiced ease, he retrieved a small vial of orange iodine and a pair of rubber gloves from his briefcase.

"Put these on and start applying this over his stomach. I'll go grab my tools from the wagon," he directed, handing Kate the supplies. She nodded in acknowledgment and began spreading the iodine as instructed.

As they worked, a gentle breeze wafted through the makeshift room, carrying with it the scent of lake water and grass. It offered a brief respite from the heavy atmosphere of blood and sickness. Refreshing her lungs with strength and clarity. Dr. Renaud administered a shot of morphine to Arthur, providing temporary relief from the pain. In focused silence, Kate followed the doctor's lead, handing him tools and meticulously cleaning the wound.

Kate's breath caught as Dr. Renaud delicately reopened the wound on Arthur's stomach, using a slender blade to extend the incision. She gripped the forceps, holding them open. Steadying herself as he meticulously stitched the lining of his stomach back together. The tension in the air was static with urgency, each movement of the doctor's hands deliberate and controlled. Kate watched in silent admiration, marveling at his skill and composure amidst the lethal task ahead.

An hour later, Dr. Renaud had painstakingly resealed the wound, layering on another dose of antiseptic before dressing it in clean cloth. He then turned his attention to Arthur's bullet wound, methodically cleaning and rebandaging it. Explaining that he may never regain complete mobility of his arm again.

He examined Arthur's eyes, reassuring Kate that the swelling and bloodshot appearance would gradually subside over time. Concluding his service by informing her that his feet should return to their normal color, but he may have difficulty walking on the ankle even after it heals.

Kate’s heart throbbed with his every word. Arthur would never be the same after this, if he even survived. He was a cowboy, a gunslinger. His skills on horseback were carved into his identity. His quickdraw was paramount for the survival of his kind. Kate knew he prided himself in his work, afterall he was Dutch’s second in command. She understood what it felt like to have your integrity challenged in the face of death. To say goodbye to a part of yourself.

Dr. Renaud packed his things as he prepared to leave once he was satisfied with Arthur’s care. "It's going to be a challenging road to recovery," he remarked solemnly, "I can't make any promises, Kate. It's ultimately up to Arthur to fight through this."

"But what about the infection?" Kate interjected, her voice tinged with concern. No amount of determination on Arthur's part would matter if the infection spread unchecked throughout his body.

Dr. Renaud retrieved a small bottle from his briefcase and presented it to her. "This is a new antibiotic called penicillin," he explained, handing her the glass bottle containing small white pills. "It's groundbreaking medicine, but still in testing. I advise you, use it cautiously."

Kate nodded gratefully, clutching the vial of hope close to her heart. "Thank you, Doc. Please, let me pay for it," she insisted, reaching for her satchel.

Dr. Renaud halted her with a gentle touch on her wrist. "As I've said before Kate, the debt is already settled. Medicine is my calling, and meeting Arthur breathed a new life into me. He gave me a second chance." He shook her hand firmly and bid a farewell, “we need more of his kindness in this world.”

Kate remained seated beside Arthur, her ears catching fragments of Lenny and Sadie's conversation with the young doctor. Their voices drifted like distant echoes, discussing Arthur's condition and treatment plan. A surge of gratitude swelled within her, a profound appreciation for the doctor's expertise and the reassurance he provided. It was a stroke of luck, she thought, a lifeline thrown to them in their darkest hour. Kate couldn't shake the disbelief at their fortune, it was as if her prayer had been answered.

The depth of human connection astounded her, the way lives intersected in unexpected ways, offering solace and support when it was needed most. It was a testament to the human spirit. Kate knew Arthur was not a bad man, no matter how much he believed himself to be. So blinded by self-hatred he couldn’t see the kind loving man beneath it all. She longed to bring out that side of him.

Tears pooled in Kate's eyes once more, a bittersweet blend of grief, relief, and gratitude. Leaning closer to Arthur, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her gesture a silent declaration of love and unwavering devotion. "Someone up there is on our side, Arthur," she murmured softly, her voice choked with emotion. "We’re going to be okay.” A widow's vow to remain by his side, till death do them part.

---

AN: I'm pretty proud of Kate's development in this chapter. I feel like we see a lot more of her emotional struggles.The next chapter will include a lot of recovery as well as interactions with the other camp members as Arthur is healing. Lots of fluff and comfort too :)

(pls ignore how inaccurate the medical stuff is to the time period, I'm lazy)

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jokeringcutio · 7 months

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WE NEED MORE ALBERT SHAW X FEM READER FICS ‼️ ethan hawke just hits diff

YES! See my Grabber x Reader fic Masterlist below this text (: I have attributed a few to the fandom by popular demand. And there's a Reader having her Period Request Fill coming up right after Halloween. So keep an eye on my Tumblr if this takes your fancy. There are more prompts pending. I also write for other Ethan characters. I have quite a few fills for Moon Knight's Arthur Harrow, and my very first Ernst Toller fill for the Halloween prompts is online. Send me more, I would love it.

MASTERLIST BLACK PHONE

The Black Phone (2022) Albert Shaw / The Grabber: Stories: *~* The Chance to make a Change (Grabber x Reader) When you end up in front of the Grabber’s house, you decide to take matters into your own hands and stop Albert Shaw from kidnapping and murdering these innocent boys like he does in the movie. You have good intentions. But will you succeed? (Rating Explicit, Lots of warnings and tags such as odler man/younger woman, age difference, size difference, rape/noncon, violence, dead dove: do not eat, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, daddy kink, major character death, etc) *~* The Gift (Grabber x Reader) Your curiosity got the better of you (Mature, though not overtly explicit, kidnapping, older man/younger woman). *~* A Gift for his Gift - Albert Shaw / The Grabber x Reader Insert [ WARNINGS ] (Explicit, Dub/noncon elements/can be seen as a continuation of ‘the gift’). *~* TEARS - Albert Shaw/The Grabber x Kidnapped!Reader (Explicit, lots of warnings, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Non-con elements). Reader hasn't succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome yet. *~* HALLOWEEN DECORATION – SWEET GRABBER X READER VERSION (Explicit) Reader is Albert's coworker. *~* TRICK OR TREAT – SWEET GRABBER X READER VERSION (Teen, No Warnings except perhaps dark undertones? But overall quite innocent). Reader rings Albert's doorbell to trick-or-treat.

Drabble: *~* Grabber Finds a Plushie, Yellow Bunny in your backpack, NC-17 due to themes. *~* A warm spring day in the garden with your family (implied kidnapping) * ~* You’re kidnapped and have insomnia (Smut), Explicit, Non-con warning. *~* You’re kidnapped and have amnesia [ Part 1 ], Mature. [ Part 2 ] *~* You’re his new neighbor and meet him when Samson enters your garden. Sweet, light drabble, bit of flirting, Rating: Teen. *~* The Grabber returns for you after you escaped him. Modern AU. Mature. Imagine: *~* Albert Shaw x (Teacher afab) Reader - Search Party

Crossovers: Black Phone & Joker

Drabbles:

The Magician - Reader and Arthur go to see a show, but the Magician is getting a bit too friendly. Rating: PG13, no real warnings except jealousy and possessive men. Bumping into Albert on way to date with Arthur, Rating: Teen.

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ivystoryweaver · 1 year

Text

With You part 6

<- prev next -> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist

Summary: Will you always have to wake up in the middle of the night just to get to know Jake? Marc and Steven notice your yearning to see Jake again.

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

Word Count: 3k

Warnings/notables: Fluff, complicated relationship stuff, cursing, angst, sex but the language is not overly explicit and nothing 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"...

One of the delicious advantages of being with Marc was that he liked to bury his angst, longing and inadequacies inside your body. Perhaps fucking through his feelings wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was better than drinking, and cheaper than therapy.

That's not to say Marc didn't see a therapist - he did, pretty regularly. But being inside you felt so much better than unearthing the shit from his childhood.

That's where you found yourself now, face down on the mattress, Marc's strong chest pressed to your back. Your sweat-soaked bodies writhed in tormented bliss as he thrust in and out of you - hard and almost frustratingly slow.

His thick fingers pushed their way through yours, intertwining, pressing your hands high above your head as he twisted his body deeper into yours.

You were helpless beneath him. And you loved it.

Marc was able to control so few things about his existence. The use of your body was one thing you happily and trustingly put completely in his control.

You and Marc did make soup together for dinner, but no matzah balls were harmed in the making of the soup. It was hearty enough for Marc, but also vegan for Steven. You made a mental note ask Jake what kind of food he liked.

"I don't think Jake's a vegan," Marc spoke up, reading your mind. "I think he's the reason my sandwiches are gone half the fuckin' time."

Marc and his sandwiches. He had sworn up and down, on more than one occasion, that either you or Steven had eaten his damn roast beef sandwiches. You always denied it, preferring turkey to beef. And Steven always fired back with, "Y'know I don't eat that shite, mate."

"Oh my god, I think you just solved a mystery," you marveled. The Mystery of the Roast Beef Sandwich and its thief.

Yeah, Marc wondered what else Jake was prone to stealing. Clothes? Money? You?

Then again, Marc couldn't really say anything about money at the moment. He didn't have a job, unless he counted the occasional times he fronted during Steven's university library shift. You were the breadwinner, at least for the time being, lovingly supporting Steven in getting a degree to actually match up to his intellect.

But sharing you? Was it even sharing if it was the same body? And was it even his business if you wanted to be with Jake? He had no fucking clue. All he knew was that you were about to be his spouse. Steven's too, really. But you barely knew Jake. How could you marry someone you didn't know?

"I can hear you thinking," you teased, slathering some fresh-baked bread with butter. "Wanna talk about it? Cause I don't think I can go anymore rounds today - between you and Steven." Meaning Marc wouldn't be able to bury his worries inside you until your body got a damn break.

"Do you mean between me and Steven and Jake?" Marc pointedly asked.

You dropped the butter knife. "W-what?" You squawked. "I haven't slept with Jake."

"But...you want to." Easing beside you, Marc leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Do you?"

You reallly should have spouted off a quick 'no'. But you hesitated.

"Shit," he groaned. "I shoulda known."

"I didn't say anything!" You protested, a little too innocently.

"Exactly," Marc huffed. "You didn't deny it."

"You kind of put me on the spot," you defended, retrieving the knife and returning to your task, furiously coating a slice of bread with five times too much butter. "Besides, Jake drives me crazy. If he climbs in the damn window again, I think I might shove him right back out."

"Ah, hell, it's worse than I thought," Marc grumbled, folding his toned arms over his chest in a distinct, defiant pout.

"How is it worse?" You scoffed. "And...what is worse?"

"You... him... shit," he sighed. "He got to you."

"He didn't," you protested. "Nothing happened. N-not really..." your voice trailed off as Marc's eyes flashed with possessiveness.

"Not really? I thought you said he didn't touch you. What the hell..." He paused, glancing at his reflection in the microwave.

"Is that Steven?" You interrupted, barging in to what you usually respected as private conversation between the boys. "What is he saying?"

Fixing his eyes back on you, Marc smirked triumphantly. "He's saying you look 'a bit flustered,' which would make sense, since you wore those black satin pj's and set your alarm just to see 'that mysterious bloke'."

"Steven, you are such a traitor!" You whined. "You guys are ganging up on me! I just wanted to talk to him."

"Mm-hmm," Marc hummed, caging you in against the counter with one arm on either side of your body. "So that's all you did - talk? In black satin? In the middle of the night?"

Narrowing your eyes, you called his bluff. "You guys are really obsessed with those pj's. Maybe you would have preferred I only wore your t-shirt? Or, I could have slept the way I sleep with you half the time - in nothing."

"Sure, mm-hmm," Marc playfully nodded down at you, mockingly agreeing with every word out of your mouth.

"Besides," you added, giving his chest a playful shove, "who knows how many times Jake has come home and found me like that - then slept beside me anyway?"

Marc went dead silent.

"I'm gonna kill him," he decided, waiting just a beat before scooping you up and throwing you over his shoulder, spinning you around the kitchen playfully. "First him..." you squealed as he tickled your side, feeling a mixture of giddiness and dizziness as he manhandled you, "then you. And then him again."

"Marc, put me down, put me down!" you giggled delightedly, banging your fists on his back.

After a few more twirls, and howls of laughter from you, he conceded, steadying you back against the counter. The two of you were smiling, breathless... his strong arms caged you in again as he wet his lips with his tongue.

Ducking down, he pressed his body into yours, breathing hotly against your open mouth.

"Promise me something..." he murmured, sucking on your bottom lip and swiping his tongue inside your mouth. He pulled back just a little, teasing you.

"What?" you impatiently demanded, chasing after his lips.

Sliding one hand around the back of your neck, he crushed his lips to yours, giving you what you really wanted. Gripping your jaw, he slid his tongue over yours, licking hotly as you groaned in satisfaction. You could never get tired of kissing this man.

"Promise me," he finally whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, nuzzling your cheek with his nose. "Promise you'll tell me if something does happen - with Jake, I mean."

Easing back, he stared down into your eyes - his own warm, brown gaze pleading. "I know you don't have to. It-it's not my business, really, but..."

Sighing reluctantly, he poured his heart out to you. He knew he was safe with you - safe to show you what he really felt inside. "It's not like Steven," he admitted. "I don't know Jake. I just...I don't want anything to happen to you."

Nodding quickly, you reached up to caress his face. "Marc, of course. You're going to be my husband - of course I would tell you that."

"Really?" His eyes sparkled with relief and love.

"Yes, really," you sweetly whispered. "And I know there's no part of you that could ever hurt me."

After all that fuss with Steven and Marc, and the damn black satin pajamas, you actually thought you might see Jake again soon - particularly since he had finally introduced himself to his alters.

You thought wrong.

Jake went back to being Jake, not interacting with you or Marc or Steven, and the three of you were none the wiser about how he spent his time.

You couldn't wreck your entire sleep schedule just to look for him every night. He clearly had no intention of interacting with you during waking hours. You tried very hard not to take it personally. After all, you barely knew one another. But Steven and Marc could tell you thought of him...worried after him.

"I think you should wait up for him one night, love," Steven suggested one evening as you sat cuddled on the couch, reading together. London was being London again. The heavens had opened, dumping cold, wet rain for hours, and creating the perfect, candlelit night in for you and Steven.

Glancing over at your fiancé, so adorable in his oversized jumper, your eyebrows knit together questioningly. "You mean, set my alarm? 'Ambush' him again?"

Reaching up to pull his reading glasses off his nose, Steven shrugged. "Don't think it's much of an ambush, really. Just lovely you wanting to talk, is all. No harm in that."

Smiling warmly, you reached for his hand. "I don't think he sees me quite the way you do, my love."

"Not very bright then, is he? Running 'round at all hours for the old bird, missing the chance to come home to a wonder like you."

"Steven," you gasped, grinning at him. "Talking like that is going to bring an end to our night of reading very quickly."

"Fine by me, darling," he chuckled, tossing his book aside without even bothering to mark the page - something Steven never did. "Because I'm not the dimwitted bloke ignoring what's right in front of me." Scooting closer, he pulled you into his arms. "His loss is my gain, I'd say. Have you all the more to m'self."

So it was decided.

You would wait up for Jake (or wake up -whichever) to see if he wanted to interact with you, and ask how he was doing. It was possible, and in your mind, likely, that he didn't want to be a part of your life. But you wanted to hear it from his own mouth, especially since he slept beside you - in your bed, in your home.

Despite your general apprehension, you decided to be your most normal self and sleep (or in this case, stay awake) in one of Marc's white undershirts - they were so soft and smelled so deliciously like him. Steven's fuzzy goldfish socks found their way to your freezing feet.

You took a long nap and drank a huge cup of coffee (made perfectly by Marc) before bed. You were determined to stay up and see how Jake typically began his nighttime routine. He always ninja'd around like some sort of Father Christmas - waiting til everyone was completely asleep before darting in and out of the flat.

It would be your luck that Jake probably wouldn't even front tonight, and your caffeinated body would stare at your sleeping fiancé for the next several hours.

At first, it was difficult to resist cuddling up with your sleepy Steven. He did manage to adorably whine that he needed you, but you quickly reminded him that this was his idea.

"Just miss you 's all," he murmured, drifting off to dreamland.

You got bored very quickly. Steven had recommended a podcast called, 'Welcome to Staying Awake.' Finding some headphones, you tried it out, following the directions it suggested - reading, solving a puzzle, and so forth.

You were just starting to doze in the comfy chair in the bedroom's corner when your fiancé stirred...only to roll over and fall back asleep.

"Ugh..." you huffed, pushing off your chair to head to the kitchen. After a quick splash of water to the face and a long drink of water, you stumbled back to your bedroom...

...where you saw Steven? pulling a pair of tailored black trousers up his legs - his cozy pj's nowhere in sight. Fastening his pants, he turned around - shirtless - nodding once to acknowledge you.

"Jake?" You tentatively greeted, breaking the late-night silence.

"Hola, mi amor," Jake's rich, deep voice greeted you smoothly - his chocolate eyes flickering down to your bare legs. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Jake," you exhaled shakily, easing toward him slowly. "You didn't wake me up. I was waiting for you."

Warmth bloomed in his chest, but he simply reached for his white dress shirt, quickly easing his arms into the sleeves and fastening the buttons.

"Where...do you keep your clothes?" you cautiously asked, inching closer.

Nodding to the closet, he remained quiet, knotting his tie and sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and shoes. Khonshu had awakened him. Time to get to work.

"Where are you going?" you questioned after a few quiet moments watching him getting dressed.

Finishing the lacing of his shoes, he stood, reaching for his leather jacket. Realizing your question was not rhetorical, he granted you a slight smirk. "You know where."

"Can I come with you?" You blurted, already flustered. How did he manage to do this to you?

Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head, tutting a bit condescendingly. "You're not serious."

"I am," you insisted, scurrying over to the drawer to find some joggers for your bare legs. Of course, in this state, compared to Jake, you would be way underdressed. He looked head-to-toe incredible.

The faster you moved, trying to get dressed in enough presentable clothing to go out into the frigid rain, the slower Jake moved. But each action was nonchalant, as if he barely noticed your effort.

Why was he so damn infuriating? Then again, those were the exact words he'd said about you...

Pulling a leather glove over his long fingers, one dark eyebrow shot up inquisitively.

"Almost ready," you huffed, feeling like a child asking to go to work with a parent.

Realizing you were serious, Jake yanked on the second glove, giving his knuckles a crack. "Mi corazón..." he warned, pulling his flat cap over the lustrous curls on his head, and wondering what had gotten into you. You couldn't possibly think he would let you anywhere near his night life.

You were dressed now, in a weird mixture of your clothes and Marc's, but your goldfish-clad feet still poked adorably out of your joggers. Glancing all around the room, your eyes frantically searched for the nearest pair of shoes.

Approaching you confidently, Jake reached for your elbow, bringing you to a standstill. "I have to go. You should sleep."

Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you huffed. "I told you I don't respond well to orders."

Rubbing his gloved hand over the stubble on his chin, he nodded, "Goodnight," and turned to walk out of the bedroom.

"No, I'm coming with you, Jake, wait--"

"No, mi corazón. No." He whirled around, his gaze burning into yours.

"Why not?" you shot back, your hands landing on your hips. "You're going to work, right? I need to talk to you. And I want to see what you do."

He scoffed. "No. You don't."

"Stop telling me no," you snapped, realizing this whole stay-up-and-talk-to-Jake thing was already an unprecedented disaster. You simply could not keep your cool around this man.

"Ah, I see - I can't tell you what to do, but you can give me orders." Stalking back over to the night table, he reached for Marc and Steven's phone.

"I-I'm not giving you orders...I just- why can't I come with you?" You were desperate. You realized, at that moment, that alll this was not a good look on you. What happened to cool, calm and collected you? What happened to the you who respected the hell out of Marc and Steven's autonomy and choices?

You went so far as not even trying to dictate to Marc whether or not he should drink. It was his choice, always - it had to come from him. So why couldn't you do the same with Jake? You knew the drill - people were going to do what they decided to do. Arguing the point was only arguing with reality itself.

Sure, you could explain your fears or needs, and Jake could take that information into account. But ultimately, every person in the world always chose what they were going to choose - period, the end.

"I'm not taking you out there. You know it's not safe," he explained with infuriating calmness. "I'm not exactly working a normal job here."

"You mean...you mean Moon Knight. Like...saving people. Like you did with me that night."

His eyes flashed - you couldn't decipher if it was anger or surprise. "Marc told you."

"Yes," you answered softly, taking a moment to breathe in deeply. You had to calm down and stop sounding so desperate. "I just don't understand why you can follow me - why you can watch over me and save me, but you won't just talk to me." Your lip trembled as you started to realize he just may not ever want to be in your life.

"I thought you said that I was your family," you whispered, moving close to peer up into his eyes. "But you haven't talked to me in a week. I've been worried...I've been thinking about you."

Wetting his lips, Jake swallowed hard and shifted from one foot to the other - the first inkling that you were having any effect on him whatsoever. His dark eyes flickered down to yours. "I told you I can take care of myself," he gruffly responded, his resolve beginning to crack. "So stop worrying about me."

"Stop telling me what to do," you fired back, refusing to shrink away. "You're driving me crazy. If you don't want to talk to me, or know me - if you want to sneak in and out of here every night and never see me again, then just say so."

Your chest heaved with emotion. "I won't like it and I won't ever stop worrying about you, or wanting to know you, but --"

You didn't get to finish because Jake roughly pulled you into his arms and crushed his mouth to yours.

@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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daphnefisherofficial · 8 months

Text

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER TWO

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

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CHAPTER TWO - DREAMS OF FATE, FAREWELL AND NEW BEGINNINGS.

The past two months had been a relentless parade of dreams for Marc Spector, dreams that twisted through the labyrinth of his fractured soul. His thoughts have long been adrift in the sea of uncertainty that had become his life. Nightmares have always haunted him for most of his life, but it recently came to a point where they had intensified to an unsettling degree. Night after night, his subconscious mind became a battleground for the ever-present specter of his past.

The latest of his living nightmares have been his own death at the merciless hands of Arthur Harrow. He should have been used to the sound of a gunshot by now, but apparently it didn’t prepare him enough for when he was at the receiving end. His fractured soul had been unceremoniously cast into the Duat, the realm of judgment for the ancient Egyptian afterlife. He and his alter, Steven Grant, have stood before Taweret’s watchful eye as she weighed their hearts in the scales on their journey to the Field of Reeds.

Steven made a comment back then of how it should have been Anubis, Marc thought.

To balance their scales and hopefully come back to life, Marc was forced to confront the darkest corners of his past: Randall’s death that spiraled Wendy Spector’s slow descent to madness. The abuse he had suffered during his childhood at the hands of his mother continued to haunt him - the once happy memories of him and his family shattered by his mother’s twisted way of expressing her ‘love’.

But amid the shadows of torment, there was a glimmer of salvation. Steven Grant has finally understood the need for his creation at the dark corners of Marc Spector’s accursed room, having realized that it was Marc’s way of coping with all the combined strong emotions that a small, innocent child wouldn’t have been able to go through. Steven was Marc’s secret joy - the living embodiment of what his younger brother, Randall Spector, could have been had life been kinder.

Through all of their shared history of pain and survival, Marc Spector’s bond with Steven Grant had deepened. They were no longer just two sides of the same coin - they were brothers transcending the boundaries of blood and forever bound in ways that defied explanation. Their connection was no longer a mere confluence of minds; it was a fusion of souls, two halves of a fractured whole. They had weathered death together and returned, their fates irrevocably intertwined.

After rising from the dead and helping to stop Arthur Harrow and Ammit from wreaking havoc in this world, Khonshu fulfilled his end of the bargain to release both him and Steven Grant from their servitude as his avatar - his Moon Knight.

To Marc’s displeasure, however, the nightmares never stopped. Among the myriad dreams that plagued him day after day, one stood out above all others— a dream that seemed more like a forgotten, distant memory.

In this dream, he watched as Steven Grant raised his arms to the heavens. The sky itself yielded to his will, shifting and swirling as if bowing to a higher power. Marc could feel his own life force ebbing away, his connection to Khonshu, the ancient Egyptian god who had granted him his powers, dissipating like grains of sand in a desert storm. Yet, even as he felt himself slipping away, he also felt a divine presence, a heavenly female voice that reached out to him from the depths of his foggy memories.

“It cannot end like this. I will not let you die - any of you”

Marc then felt soft lips descending upon his, a passionate kiss that carried the divine breath of life as it flowed into his lungs. The kisses he shared with Layla couldn’t even begin to compare with the mysterious woman of his dreams. It rendered him breathless as a warm, euphoric sensation seemingly boiled his blood with pure longing for someone he never even recalled meeting.

"Arise, Moon Knight. With the power of the moon, I grant you half of my life."

Marc’s eyes fluttered open, abruptly ending his dream as he bolted upright in his bed. His whole body was drenched in cold sweat, his eyes darted wildly around the dimly lit room as he felt his own heart pounding strongly in his chest. He then reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on, allowing a soft, warm light to fill the dimly lit hotel room where he’s currently staying.

That dream again? Steven asked in Marc’s head, his reflection on the nearby mirror wearing an inquisitive, sleep-deprived look.

“The very same”, Marc shook his head, finding himself chuckling in disbelief. Every night that ended with that shared kiss under the moonlight left him with more questions than answers.

Why did these dreams haunt him? What do they actually mean? And who even was the enigmatic woman appearing in his dreams for the umpteenth time in a row now?

Marc glanced at the nightstand clock, reading 5:58 AM of today’s time. He could no longer sleep after the unsettling dream he had, so he decided to get ready for the day ahead. He busied himself with the mundane tasks - taking a long, hot shower, the steam and warmth helping to clear his mind, at least momentarily, of the enigmatic dreams that had plagued him. Brushing his teeth before the bathroom mirror, his eyes narrowed at his own reflection as he caught a glimpse of a crescent moon tattoo inked into his jugular notch. How did I even get this tattoo? Marc questioned in his mind, prompting Steven's reflection to shake his head, having no recollection whatsoever of the tattoo's mysterious origin.

I honestly don't know, mate. Steven sighed. It might be from Khonshu - may be the residue of his magic when he freed us. Marc accepted Steven's theory for the meantime, effectively taking his mind of his own endless questions as he finally dressed in a crisp, charcoal-gray suit, trying to appear composed and confident for what was sure to be an emotionally charged day.

The Motorola flip phone on his bedside table pinged, prompting Marc to open and check his latest message. Layla’s text greeted his eyes, abruptly reminding him of today’s agenda in the first place.

See you in the courtroom today. I’m on my way.

Marc sighed, lamenting how it had all come to this. Their divorce had been a mutual decision, born out of a recognition that their romantic love had faded, wilted by the melancholy of distance and the weight of their shared history. They both have decided to part ways on amicable terms, to seek their own paths and find happiness on their own terms. He would be lying if he said the whole ordeal wasn't painful for him, but he recognizes the necessity to conclude a chapter between him and Layla that had already run its course.

Two hours later, Marc Spector finally entered the premises of Chicago Family Court. While waiting patiently in the hallway outside his assigned courtroom, he couldn't help but revisit the dreams that had plagued him. He fiddled with his tie, a nervous tic that betrayed his inner turmoil. He wondered if these dreams and nightmares he’s having were mere manifestations of his trauma—the trauma of dying and coming back to life, of shedding the mantle of Moon Knight, the vigilante avatar of Khonshu.

Steven's voice whispered in his mind, a soothing presence amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

Don’t overthink it too much, buddy. Steven suggested, reassuring him that perhaps they were just processing their past in their own unique way.

Marc nodded inwardly, grateful for the reassurance. They were no longer avatars, no longer bound to the whims of Khonshu. They were free, and yet, the mysteries of their shared dreams remained. It left a lingering unease in his soul as he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to them than met the eye.

A yawn escaped him, a reminder of his sleepless night. He took a seat on one of the benches, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He leaned against the cold courtroom wall and slowly closed his eyes against his better judgment, hoping to find some respite from the weight of his thoughts. Exhaustion washed over him like a tidal wave, and he drifted into an uneasy nap.

"Morning, Marc"

His name was called, gently waking him from his restless slumber. He blinked and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Layla El-Faouly stood before him dressed in a white blouse, black pencil skirt and gray flats, her dark eyes weary but kind. In her hands, she held two cups of coffee, the aroma of freshly brewed beans wafting through the air.

"Layla," Marc greeted, his voice raspy from sleep.

“How are you holding up?" she asked softly, her tone tinged with a mix of concern and empathy as she handed him a cup of steaming coffee.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose”, Marc managed a weary smile. "Thanks for the coffee."

She offered him a small smile, a hint of sadness in her toffee-brown eyes. "You looked like you could use it," she said. "Are you ready for this?"

Marc nodded, his gaze fixed on the steaming cup in his hands. "As ready as I'll ever be."

“We both know it’s for the best”, Layla spoke in a serious tone. “With everything that has happened, this will put everything behind us”

He nodded slowly as he let her last words fly by. They exchanged small talk, avoiding the weightier topics for the moment. Soon after, they both heard their names called by the court clerk.

“Mr and Mrs Spector, please come to the front”

As they entered the courtroom, Marc couldn't help but steal a final glance at Layla. Her beauty had always captivated him—the way her raven-black hair cascaded down her shoulders, the warmth of her eyes, and the grace with which she carried herself. She was a striking reminder of what had drawn them together in the first place.

Finally, their case was called. Marc and Layla sat side by side, their hands barely touching as they listened to the legal formalities. It was a somber affair, with a judge presiding over the dissolution of their marriage. Both of them answered the necessary questions with a solemnity that matched the occasion. They signed the paperwork, their signatures sealing the end of their shared lives and setting one another free.

The judge’s words as he delivered the final ruling in their divorce case brought a semblance of peace in both Marc and Layla’s hearts. There was no sadness, anger or regret of any sort - only happiness in its melancholic yet empathetic form. It was the end of an era, the closing of a chapter in their lives.

With the court proceedings behind them, the two walked out of the courtroom and into the corridor, their steps slightly heavy with a sense of finality. Of all the divorced couples in the family court, only Marc and Layla hold hands with a rueful smile on their faces. Outside the courthouse, the two hailed a taxi to take them both to the airport, albeit in separate flights. The taxi ride was a quiet one, the city passing by in a blur of buildings and people.

They may not have worked out as lovers, but they can surely live with being each other's best friends.

"It's time," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as the closing distance of the airport loomed before them. Marc nodded, his throat tight with unspoken emotions.

"Yeah," he replied in a hushed tone. "It's time."

A few hours later, the newly divorced couple finally found themselves at the boarding gates. Going their separate ways have never felt so bittersweet.

“Take care of yourself, Layla”, Marc said as he pulled his now ex-wife in for one last hug.

“I was supposed to say that”, Layla chuckled, returning the embrace as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Don’t be a stranger - you and Steven”

Tell her to not skip any meals, Steven piped inside his head sadly. His British alter’s brief infatuation with Layla didn’t really help to dampen his already melancholic mood.

“Steven said you shouldn’t skip your meals”

“Tell him I appreciate the thought”, Layla nodded, smiling serenely as if looking directly at Steven himself. “Goodbye, you two. See you around”

With a final, lingering look, Layla turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of other airport travelers. Marc watched her go, feeling a mixture of sadness and relief. The weight of their marriage had lifted, but it left behind a profound sense of loss and emptiness that he wasn't yet sure how to fill.

Marc still has a few hours left before his own flight, so he decided to pass the time at the nearby airport bar. The departure board above displayed rows of cities, each with its own departure time, a digital countdown matching the frenetic rhythm of the bustling terminal around him.

Nursing a lukewarm coffee and absentmindedly flipping through his passport, he suddenly heard the announcement over the intercom, crackling and distorted but crystal clear in its message.

"Ladies and gentlemen, calling all passengers for flight BA294 to London Heathrow. The boarding gates are now open"

The overhead announcements ceased, and the travelers, like Marc, turned their attention to the departure board. In bold, digital letters, the gate number for his flight to London illuminated.

"Flight 294 to London Heathrow: Gate B13."

See you around, Layla’s voice echoed in Marc’s head once more, prompting him to mildly chuckle to himself as he stood up and went on his way to the boarding gates. He knew it would take a long while for them to meet again. Layla has new responsibilities as Taweret’s new avatar - the Scarlet Scarab as dubbed by the people of Egypt. He, on the other hand, will have to pick up the pieces of anything he recalls as a semblance of his old life.

London was their home now, and Marc and Steven were eager to return to the familiarity of its streets. This time around, it’s up to them to figure out how the next chapter of their new lives will begin. But one thing is for sure - finding out the true meaning of their collective dreams would be the first step.

END OF CHAPTER TWO.

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