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blogfullofemos · 2 years

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Lonely is a Man Without Love

(Thank you sssooo much guys for the many receptive love I've been given. Truly appreciate the time you guys took out of your day. Here's the next part. @later-gators12 enjoy my friend 😌.)

Warnings: We got some blood but other than that, nothing bad. A little action ain't hurt nobody.

Pairings: Steven Grant x fem!reader, original character x fem!character.

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: Steven just loves to pull on your heart strings huh? How can you keep your cool... Also Steven fighting... Please help Marc.

Writer Notes: I know I squish the words together when Marisol talks, but being hispanic myself, you know exactly what I mean lmao.

The thin white drapes of your small motel casted a dreary hue within it’s British-inspired walls. London’s thunderous storm adding more to its depressive pull. You sit at one of the corner-ends to the twin-size bed as a small antique radio quietly plays news static. Next to it rested Athena standing with pride as her sword pierced the stone beneath her, a torn piece of paper covering her face. Steven’s big shaky handwriting of his phone number written sloppily against the lines. You stare as a small smile crept up, reminiscing the many reintroductions of Steven Grant as the days passed. The way his face gotten redder and redder as you both shared a passionate discourse of Greek Gods & Goddesses, the many big smiles he gave as you explained your side to its history. “I’m sorry madam, but the shop is now closing.” the female cashier informs you with a courteous smile. Piercing Steven with a highly annoyed side eye as she walked off, pissed about cleaning up the shop’s mess, especially Steven’s. Steven giving her a sympathetic crooked smile, he brings his attention back to you, “I’m sorry (Y/N), I’m going to go help Frances clean up shop. It was really amazing meeting you. Goodbye for now.” he says as he quickly follows behind the seething Frances.

Your heart couldn’t help but flip at his courteous moments, rather rare to see in such a man. But the further he went, the more your mind screamed “GET HIS NUMBER YOU CLOWN!!”.

“Wait!!” you yelled unexpectedly, causing them both to turn to you. Steven with bewilderment and Frances with “Now what’s wrong with her?” look. You didn’t have to yell, well you didn’t mean to honestly, your face burned up with embarrassment. “Um, can I get your number?” you ask lowly, your head instinctively going down to hide your vulnerability.

“What was that beautiful?” he asks walking back towards you, his ears not picking up the words at all. Your face smoldering more by his compliment, you hated this. You hated this so much. You force yourself to look up at him, exposing a beet red face to Steven making his blush look rather fake “I said can I have your number?” you repeat with clenched fist. God why did this hurt so much? Steven bites his bottom lip as he tries to contain a foolish smile, digging his hands in his pants pockets. He pulls out a crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper and quickly ripped the top corner of it. Thanking the heavens that he’s a tour guide to nothing but toddlers.

“Hey Frances, you got a pen?.. Marker?.. Anything to write with?” he asks as he realizes he’s missing the most important part of this ordeal.

M: Now how are you a teacher without a pen? We gotta do better Steven…

Steven ignores Marc’s sly comment as Frances intentionally slams a marker in his hand, rolling her eyes as she walks away. Steven places the small, ripped piece of paper on the window and quickly writes numbers with dashes on its crumpled surface. Once he finishes, he hands it to you, a smile never leaving him. “Don’t lose it now.” he says shyly.

You bite your bottom lip as your mouth instinctually pulls upward. He probably thinks you lost it by now, but today you’ll find your way back to him. Suddenly your phone lights up as it vibrates harshly next to Athena, the screen showing: Marisol. You get off the bed and take your phone of the dresser’s wooden surface, swiping to pick up the call from your best friend. “Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail box of 100% that bit-.” you say in monotone, trying to steady your breathing from laughing.

“Shut the fuck up bitch.” Marisol’s spanish accent laugh out making you laugh “You almost got me.” she finishes. You sit back down and twirl your fingers around the thin blanket, your eyes wandering back to Steven’s number. “So when were you going to tell me?” Marisol asks with fake hurt.

“Mari, you know this is part of my job description.” you sigh, “You think I want to keep leaving you behind.” you say as you plop your back down on the uncomfortably firm bed, affirming the most hated part of your job. Resting the back of your hand on your forehead, you stare at the speckled ceiling weighing the pros and cons of being with Steven. “I know, BUT PARIS!!” she elates.

“It’s not Paris, speci-.” you try to retort but Marisol’s excitement cuts you off.

“You better send me pictures or something more, you know, I wouldn’t mind a little piece of Paris in my mundane life.” she theatrically emphasizes mundane, making you chuckle at her guilt trapping words.

“I’ll see what I can do. But for the time being, I must prepare. Luckily I’ve gotten a break since I’ve landed, but I know I’m going to be assigned for something soon. Anywayyy how’s everything back home?”.

“Girl…” you can feel Marisol’s classic eye roll from your small talk.

“What?” you laugh already knowing the answer.

“You know you’re the only eventful person I have in my life. When I’m bored, I run to you, so how do you think everything is going?” she says sarcastically.

“Pretty relaxing.”

“BITCH ITS BEEN DEAD!! Jariel has been cooped up in our home office because of work, and between you&me I haven’t gotten any for a minute. OH!! Your mama is doing well and toldmetotellyou to call her when you can. Also Gobbles is giving me a headache.” she growls as you hear Gobbles the pug do his screech, never learning how to bark like a normal dog. You hear his nails scatter about through the receiver. You giggle as you roll around the bed and kick your feet up, Steven’s bashful face floating around your mind. If your cellphone had a cord, you’ll definitely be twirling it around your fingers right about now. You cuss at yourself mentally as you see the start of a love dopamine rush. Snapping yourself out of its addictive pull. “Marisol… It happened again.” you hint, losing the fight with yourself.

“What.” she quietly exclaims, her excitement muted.

“Sooo there’s this guyyy.” you drawl, dropping your hopeless romantic face into the bed.

“OMG, TELL ME EVERYTHING AMIGA!!” she screeches like when you guys saw your favorite boy band appear on stage. You gave her the rundown of Steven, exaggerating some details and getting giddy with others. You finally finish with rushed breathing as you laid on your back again, exhausted from rolling around the bed as you gush. Yeah, Steven’s made an impression that was hard to scratch away. “(Y/N) put that number on your phone and stop being a baby. You know I don’t get you someti-.” Marisol says but your focus gets ripped away by a loud beeping sound inside the top dresser drawer.

“Mari, I’ll call you back.” you end the conversation, as your body’s temperature drops in seconds. Hanging up, you get off the bed and toss your phone on it. You open the empty drawer and retrieve the beeping burner phone, flipping it open “Hello.” You say cautiously.

“They still have you on their radar, keep moving. We’ve created you a new identity card and we’ll drone it to your location. It might take months before they’ll cool off, be careful with your side endeavors. God bless, be safe Niner.” The call drops, vanishing into its technological ether. Your heart races as you cuss silently, slight paranoia creeping into your mindscape as your eyes frantically assess your surroundings. You toss the burner phone on the dresser’s hard surface as you take a deep breath in, gripping the side of it with white knuckles. You look at Athena once more as cold sweat quickly builds up within you.

Meanwhile…

Steven slams the human-like cougar into London’s-soaked asphalt alley, simultaneously the cougar demon grabs his tie causing Steven to fall by the force of his. Landing on top of the cougar-man.

M: And this is why we don’t wear ties in a gunfight Steven.

Steven rolls around with the cougar demon, throwing punches, some connecting, most hitting back the pelting raindrops. As Steven ends up on top of the demon again, he wails at the cougar’s face, but for some reason it doesn’t seem to affect the demon as it did past ones. “Marc this is-.” but Steven is interrupted by the demon gripping his head. Headbutting Steven with the force of a jet. “GuS, is ThAt YoU?” he says dazed, as the demon hits him with another one; knocking Steven back on the ground. The demon stalks its body back up as it purrs seeing Steven’s unconscious masked face seeping slowly with blood coming out his nose. Suddenly white fabric snakes around the demon from behind, before the demon has time to react the tough fabric tightens. In seconds the demon collapses as its head pops off from its body, turning into rain-soaked soot. Khonshu’s God-like silhouette looking down at the irradicated demon’s dust, thunder lighting up the cloudy day above. Khonshu kneels and swipes his gloved hand in the soot, investigating it as he circles it around his fingers. “He’s back.” he summarizes.

Khonshu stands back up and walks toward the still unconscious Steven, watching as Steven’s costume dissipates as his feet stops by his shoulders. Steven grunts as Khonshu taps the end of his moon staff on his cheek. “Steven.” Khonshu says displeased continuing his incessant staff taps.

“No Gus… It’s not for you to eat.” Steven mumbles with a snore, still lost in his sleep as he slaps the staff.

“STEVEN!!” Khonshu booms causing Steven to sit up quickly as he wakes up shouting Marc’s name. Steven frantically searches around him, calming as he sees Khonshu’s bird-skull face looking down at him. “Is it gone?” Steven smiles with a bloody mouth, one of his front teeth chipped ever so slightly. A slanted gash on his nose, as his left eye swells and darkens ever so slightly. Khonshu walks away from him and disappear, but not until he smacked Steven on the back of his head. “OWA!!” Steven exclaims as he tries to rub the pain away.

“Let Marc handle the hands next time.” Khonshu’s voice echoes throughout the thunderous rain.

M: I try to tell him Khonshu, but nooo Steven’s name is with a V.

“Piss off.” Steven retorts as he slumps his body, trying to regain strength in his sore muscles. He lets the rain pelt his bruised body, as he tries to get a grasp of the demon he fought minutes ago. Usually the demon’s weren’t hard to kill, even though Steven panic-quit mid fight most of them. Marc always having to take the brunt of it. But once in a blue, they would be blindsided by how they killed their opponents. But this demon, this demon wasn’t easy to even shake. A sound of wind chimes breaks his thinking, as his phone vibrates in his shirt pocket.

He hisses in pain as his head aches from the sound, pulling the phone out and swiping the screen. An unknown number texting him.

You: Hey Steven it’s me (Y/N). I’m free today if you want to continue our fast chat.

You: Last* 😅

Steven forgets everything that happened prior as a huge smile dance across his beaten face. His fingers quickly tapping against the wet screen, like his heart.

Steven: I would love to (Y/N). Give me 2 hours tops, and I’ll be ready.

M: Steven let me front.

Steven finally gets off the ground with a grunt as he feels his muscles stretch out the pain. “No Marc, she doesn’t even know us yet. Plus this is-.” he’s cut off by another notification sound.

You: Okay… Where do you want to go since I’m new to these parts of town. 🤠

Steven chuckles at your corny text, limping as he walks blindly to his flat.

Steven: Wow you’re putting my tour guiding skills to good use already. But how about a café. I know one that serves great tea with the best bakery goods any man would die for.

Steven: Okay I might’ve over done that last one, but like

Steven: I would die for it

Steven: Not really though

Steven: Okay that might’ve been a lie… 😅

M: You’re doing too much with the texting Steven. 5 messages in 25 seconds… Not a good look.

“I’m sorry Marc, that I’m excited about this. I haven’t had a proper date since….” he drawls as his face falls a little remembering Layla, “You know.” he finishes. He looks around London’s streets as he checks the address signs, seeing that his flat is not too far from here.

His phone chimes again and he physically gasps in disgust at your text.

You: So Starbucks it is.

Steven: 😐🤢🤮😥 How could you….

You: What? I could go for a cold brew right about now.

Steven: 🤧 Please no more…

You: And those cheese danishes…. Warmed up…. A gift from the Heavens.. 🙏

Steven lets out an ashamed wail, making passerby’s even more uncomfortable near him. “Marc she’s been corrupted.” he exaggerates his shame to a random stranger.

“My names not Marc.” the Irish man says defensively, ramming his shoulder into Steven’s as he walks off. Causing Steven to mumble “Sorry mate.”, as the force of the shoulder bump made him spin around and walk backwards.

M: Steven let’s get to the flat before you start any more unnecessary issues. We have a date at 5 sharp and looking at you…. We need to hurry.

#steven grant x y/n #steven grant #moon knight #marvel #moon knight fandom #moon knight fanfic #a little bit of action #marc spector #a hint of khonshu #original character #phone conversation #I love me some steven #this made me smile while writing #also Egyptian demons are type wild

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shewhohangsoutincemeteries · 1 year

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bubble bath

marc spector x reader prompt: warmth theme: fluff (tags under the cut)

You sighed happily as you sunk into the near-scalding water of the bath, bubbles popping lightly against your skin. The heat washed over you, a shiver rolling up your spine. “Say what you want about being put up on a billionaire’s dime, but it definitely has its perks.”

Marc smiled, the expression shifting to a wince as he pulled you into his lap. He groaned lightly as the water shifted around you, spilling out onto the tiles. You grimaced apologetically as he exhaled a slow, pained breath, but your attempt to slide back off of his lap was thwarted as he wrapped his arms around your waist. One hand spread over the flesh of your thigh, kneading into the muscle gently.

“I guess I can agree with that,” he said, his voice stiff against the pain in his ribs. He’d taken a beating, and the soft bloom of purple on his torso suggested a possible broken rib. Considering just how indestructible his suit was, it had been worrying when you’d finally been able to drag him away from the others and had first seen the marking. Still, he leaned forward, kissing the side of your neck softly. “But I still don’t like the guy.”

You breathed a laugh, running your fingertips carefully over his collarbone. Marc’s hand slid slowly up the curve of your back, wet fingers curling in your hair. “When Feathers starts footing the bill for out little trips abroad, we can stop hitting up my old friends for a place to stay.”

“I’ll have a word with him about the budget,” your paramour replied in amusement, his smile warm. His hand tightened in your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp as he brought your lips down to his. His kiss was intoxicating, and you relaxed against him blissfully.

“Ow.”

You jerked back from him sheepishly as he mumbled against your lips. “Sorry.”

“Did I say stop?” Marc smirked despite his discomfort, pulling you in for another kiss. You returned it more gently this time, cupping his face in your hand. You giggled lightly as you pulled away again as you saw the bubbles clinging to his face. You wiped them away with your still-soapy hand, and Marc grinned at you, blowing bubbles off your hand. They popped against your face, and your own smile widened.

“God, you’re cute.”

You ran your hand through his hair, trailing warm water and jasmine-scented bubbles through the dark locks. “That’s what I was going to say.”

tags: @dragon-chica @glossyloner @wittyforachange @wefracturedmotivation @january-echoes @lovely-dreamer19 @capitalnineteen @youclickedthislink @s0ftness @castieltrash1 @absolutly-me @sara–ravenclaw @startrekkingaroundasgard

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justafandomgvrl · 3 months

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The Blood Lake

Chapter Three

A second chance. Violence.

Previous ~~ Next

Masterlist

Marc did something stupid.

Chasina hummed to herself as she stepped over the threshold of her cabin, symbols lighting up all over her walls. She watched each one fade into nothing as she closed the door behind her. One symbol was still glowing when she turned back to her wall and she frowned, walking closer to it. Intruder. She pulled her mask back over her head and pulled her sword free. Her other hand began to glow and the energy once again spiked from her hand to the ground, creating a perfect image in her mind of her surroundings. The silhouette of Moon Knight came into her ‘vision’ and she sighed.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, not bothering to ask how he found her after him learning who she was.

“You threatened me last time I saw you. And right after I rescued you.” His voice was harsher than usual and she rolled her eyes. “I can’t let you arrest me. I’ll be executed and I can’t let that happen, I can’t let what I’m trying to do fail.”

“You sound exactly like Harrow, you realise that? You’re not going to make the world better, you’re going to destroy it.” Her voice was softer than she expected and it made him stumble back.

“I am nothing like Harrow. He wants to cleanse the world. We’re trying to fix it.” He hissed, though his voice sounded different. Chasina removed her mask, putting the sword back in her scabbard. He appeared to have changed, his posture was less certain, his hands were fidgeting, his gaze was darting across the room.

“Leave. This is the only time I will ask. If I have to ask again, I will be taking you down and taking you in. You get one chance to go peacefully, because I really don’t want to have to clean blood off my floor and my walls, and I feel that something has changed in the last sixty seconds.” The masked man nodded, vanishing and she frowned at his retreating figure. Something had definitely changed.

“Look, Steven, you can’t take over like that. We should’ve taken out the threat there and then.” Marc hissed at his reflection in the lake. Steven was glowering at him and Jake was shaking his head with barely constrained laughter. We were at her home, Marc. Did you not see all the symbols on the walls when she stepped through the door? We would’ve been obliterated. Steven argued. He’s right. She’d have killed us if we didn’t back down, and we know for a fact that you wouldn’t have backed down. Marc glared at them both, crouching down closer to the water. “We can’t fix this doomed world if she doesn’t give us space to do that and she insists on stop-” Marc. You’re the one who was taken aback by her softness and gave enough space for Steven to take over. Jake interrupted, a shiteating grin spreading across his face. Marc’s glare somehow got even deeper. Steven shrugged. The real question is why did she let us go? Marc hesitated. “It doesn’t matter. We’re behind schedule.” He huffed, reforming his armour around his body, setting off deeper into the forest.

Jake was in control by the time they arrived at the sorceress’s hut. He knocked once, twice, three times on the old wooden structure and the door swung open, revealing the woman he’d met in a tavern a long time ago.

“It’s really you… I didn’t think you were ever coming.” Sabrina whispered. She cleared her throat and stepped back, letting him in and he smiled under the mask. “How have you lived this long?”

“I’m lucky.” She nodded, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she glanced to the side behind him. His eyes narrowed but he said nothing. “Do you have it?” He asked, brushing past her and her breath hitched in her throat as his mask vanished.

“Oh! Of course! I said I’d hold onto it for you.” She stumbled over her words and her feet as she rushed to find the jewel he had been looking for. “The only true blood diamond that was owned by the Wild Hunt.” She confirmed as she passed it to him. “So, is that all you came for?” She asked and he shook his head absentmindedly, examining the diamond. “I’m so sorry.” She whispered, stepping back as she created a portal and he sighed, tucking the diamond into his sleeve.

“No, Sabrina, you’re not. But you’re about to be.” Jake said, turning to face her with a disapproving frown plastered on his face. He pulled the crescent shape blade loose from the chest piece of his armour and he was in front of her before she could step into the portal, slashing her cheek. She cried out, dropping to the floor in shock as she clutched at her face. He chuckled, almost enjoying seeing her beneath him. “Unfortunately, Sabrina, sorceresses are part of the plague that is destroying this world, as you just proved. We were just having a friendly exchange and you threatened me.” He tutted, crouching down to eye level. “Why did you have to do that, Sabrina?” She stifled a sob as she tried to scurry away from him, footsteps running into the hut and Jake sighed again. “What a pity.” He stood, stamping on her ankle to still her as she screamed in pain and he turned to see three village boys. “We don’t have to do this.” He said, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m just here for the sorceress.”

“You can’t hurt her and get away with it!” The bravest of the lads said, his voice shaking. Jake chuckled, unaware of Sabrina reaching for something and tapping a symbol on the floor.

“Let’s get this over with, boys.”

Chasina sprinted through the forest, not having bothered with her mask. She ran as fast as she could, ignoring the howls surrounding her. The light of the full moon lit her way as she tore through the undergrowth, clearing a lake with a single jump. By the time she made it to the hut, there were three dead men, a portal flickering, Sabrina on the floor, and Moon Knight, unmasked. Her eyes narrowed.

“Back away from her.” His shoulders tensed, turning to face her with shock written across his features clear as day. She blinked, not having expected the face that she saw looking back at her.

“I wouldn’t step any closer unless you want to die, parajito.” the man snapped. His voice was different, a look of calculated cruelty in his eyes that would’ve scared her on a more dangerous man. Chasina tilted her head, taking another step forward.

“Let Sabrina go.” Her voice was empty as she pulled her sword free and manoeuvred until she was between him and the sorceress. He watched every move she made, trying to figure out what she would do next as the tip of her sword pressed against the underside of his chin.

“¿Estás tratando de obtener una reacción de mi parte?” He whispered, a dangerous glint in his eyes. She narrowed her gaze as Sabrina began to crawl towards the portal.

“No. But I am distracting you, aren’t I?” Chasina asked with a small smile as she realised his breathing pattern had changed, ever so slightly. The portal fizzed shut and the smile dropped as she picked up her foot and slammed it into his knee.

“Fuck!” The tip of her sword nicked his chin as he stumbled back, dropping his leg out from under him. “That’s not fair, parajito.” He snapped. Chasina shrugged, moving her sword into a defensive hold as she watched him regain his balance.

“All is fair in war, Moon Knight.”

“I think you forget part of that phrase on purpose, parajito.” He lunged, slamming his elbow into her wrist and her sword slipped from her grasp. He threw punch after punch, all of which Chasina evaded as though she was stepping through a dance. How many times have we done this? Steven wondered. Too many. End the threat. Marc snapped and Jake rolled his eyes. Chasina hesitated for a split second but it was long enough. A blow caught the centre of her chest and she flew backwards, coughing and wheezing. Before she could stand his fingers were wrapped around her throat, lifting her into the air and slamming her against the wall. “Hoy te toca perder.” He whispered.

Chasina stared at him, golden defiance burning in her eyes. Jake stared back, entranced by the change in colour, as her fingers inched closer to his hand even as her lungs began to burn. Jake. Jake watch o- Chasina smiled, gripping his wrist as her hand began to glow and heat poured from her skin to his. He shrieked in pain, letting go of her and she smiled as she landed on her feet. Before he could recover she drew a quick symbol in the air that he didn’t recognise and he found it was impossible to move.

“I’ve never lost to you. And I don’t intend to start now.” She whispered, binding him and lifting him as though he weighed nothing. Her fingers pressed into his neck and his vision turned dark.

“Fuck!” Marc mumbled as he woke up, surrounded by 3 grey walls and a metal door. “Fuck!” He yelled, making everyone else in the cell turn to him in displeasure.

“Shut it, or the guard’ll come back and take our food from us.” One of them hissed and Marc glared at him.

“That won’t be my problem for long.” Marc grumbled, analysing the structure of the cell as he began to pace.

Translation - ¿Estás tratando de obtener una reacción de mi parte? - are you trying get a reaction out of me?

Parajito - little bird

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mrsaguapapi · 1 year

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Ch 1 Ch 2

Chapter 3

Hidden Desires

Namor came and stood in the doorway; I'm assuming to watch us fight.

Gotta be quick

Before they could advance toward me I clasp my hands together and release,

"Ignite" I declare.

A barrier of fire appears in front of them; they would be seriously injured if they tried to cross it. I may have kept them out but I trapped myself in with Namor. Before I could do anything both my hands were grabbed and pinned to the ground. Namor was on top and looking over me.

He looks me in the eye and whispers to himself, "Such a pretty girl what a waste"

I roll my eyes, " Oh please" I use my legs to grab him and roughly roll him over, so it was now me straddling him. My legs pinned his legs and I grab his hands this time.

"You're a real piece of work you know that?" He struggles under me trying to move. He was confused by my strength, I get the vibe he hasn't been overpowered like this before. "Never been bested by such a pretty girl before huh?" I tease. He was pissed and began to struggle under me.

"Why are you this strong?" He practically hisses

"Pilates?" I quip back jokingly "I'm sorry, I will admit I am enjoying this" I laugh "Look, I don't want anything from you or your people; who by the way are scientifically extraordinary, beautiful really. I understand you want to protect them, so I will and never come back," Before I could continue the voice speaks yet again,

Paal áanteni', Cha' u bin (my son, let her leave)

"Ba'ax na'? (Mother?)" The look on his face was utter shock but there was also grief in his voice.

Mother?

"You heard her this time?" I pause "Your mother led me here, I don't know why and respectfully I don't care anymore. I just want to go home now. I have people I protect and care about too." I release one of his hands and put it to my heart.

"I give you my word that no one will know of this place"

He relaxes slightly, "Wakanda didn't send you did they?"

"The Wakandans know of your existence? I am very close with Queen Shuri and she hasn't uttered a word about you. I hope that brings you ease." I release his other hand and get off of him. Standing up I extend my hand to help him up.

He hesitates but eventually accepts. He doesn't let go of my hand and pulls me closer to look down into my eyes, in a low voice he says, "please extinguish your fire."

With a wave of my other hand, the fire dissipates.

Without breaking eye contact or letting my hand go he says, "You are a fascinating creature Ki'ichpan (beautiful girl)."

There goes that energy again.

The tension is thick, and if I'm being honest I kinda don't want to let go of him. Still looking into my eyes he speaks," We will see each other again."

He releases me. For a while, I stay in that moment, never breaking eye contact, never moving. Eventually, I reach into my bag to grab my sling ring and open a portal to my room. Before I step through I leave him with a few words,

"I'll be in Wakanda in 2 days for Shuri's official celebrations as Black Panther, you and your people should come. Maybe we can continue our conversation or have a proper fight; I'll go easy on you" I say with a hint of amusement and step through the portal closing it behind me.

I let out a long sigh of relief and fold over in exhaustion. My body was on high alert for a while so it felt good to finally relax. My stomach begins to growl so I check the time, "5 o'clock. Time to cook I guess"

Almost forgot I hung up on Peter, this should be fun

I make my way to the kitchen and begin prepping for dinner.

--------

When Peter gets home he lectures me for a good 30 min over dinner. He means well, it comes from a place of concern; I'm the only family he has left so I get it.

"Peter I am sorry for scaring you, but I managed myself well. You know if it came down to it I still would have won a fight. Takes me 2 seconds to deplete someone of all the water in their body, It would not have been a fair fight for them." I say taking a sip of wine.

"I know Millie, I just don't want to lose you. I can't really replace you with another 300+-year-old witch with amnesia." We laugh, "But seriously you're all I have left."

"Okay, Okay," I raise my hands, "I hear you; I'll be sure to be safer next time."

"Good" he pauses, "Sooo I met someone interesting today too"

"Oh, yea? Interesting how?"

"Yea she was watching me fight from a distance."

"Ooo a girl? You talk to her" I lean in and ask.

Peter clears his throat, "I did. I'll spare the details, but she was pretty descriptive of what she thought of me." he blushes.

"Oh my god. You have your first spidey super fan. Is she hot?" I obnoxiously ask.

"I mean she wasn't not attractive. I'm not sure how to feel if I'm being honest"

"Well if it's because your heart is still with MJ that's totally understandable. I still mean what I said about yall finding each other again, but.." I finish my wine "In the meantime, Peter have some fun. You're 18 go out, kiss girls, kiss boys! Who cares just don't come home with a baby yet." I exclaim. "If you wanna fool around with this girl do it, no judgment here"

"Okay, pump the breaks, Aunt May 2.0; there will be no fooling around here. I swear that was literally like May giving me the sex talk all over again" he laughs "I'm just conflicted I guess. I also think she may be a villain"

"Gasp! Do tell"

"Yea she goes by the name 'Black Cat' and was wearing a black leather catsuit and eye mask. Pretty strange"

"Hmmm. I like her already. Keep me updated" I laugh

Peter stands up to clear the table "I'm never telling you anything again." he laughs.

"You love me!" I reply as I start to help clear the table following him into the kitchen.

"So tomorrow I will be spending the night in London and then I'll head straight to Wakanda. You'll be good here by yourself until I pick you up for the party? Need me to prep dinner for you?" I ask

"No ill be okay, gonna work on some of my tech and chill here. What's in London?"

"Dick Appointment with a Knight"

"Okay don't know how to respond to that, have fun I guess?"

"Oh, I will" I chuckle, "Alrighty I'm off to bed, I will most likely be sleeping all day, so ill miss ya in the morning" I give him a bear hug "Goodnight"

"Goodnight see ya in a few days Mills"

-----------

I usually don't enjoy my dreams; it's a control thing I'm sure. My dreams usually turn out to be pretty boring like grocery shopping or going to work, nothing eventful.

Tonight is not the case, I find myself on that same Yucatan beach; this time in the middle of the night. I'm wearing nothing but a long sheer robe and sitting on a giant beach towel to keep sand off of me. The only light here was coming from the moon and stars; it was all I needed to fully see. People don't realize how light pollution takes away this experience from so many.

"Enjoying the view?" Namor suddenly appears sitting next to me.

Looking at him I smile, "Yes my love, as always"

My Love????

He takes my hand and puts it to his face; I begin to caress his cheek ever so softly. After I do this for a few seconds, he snakes his hand through my robe and begins to take it off.

"This is not necessary." He finishes fully exposing me "This is better"

I move in closer to his face just enough that our lips can lightly touch, "What shall I do for my King tonight"

He roughly pulls me into a kiss. It was like he hadn't seen me in years like he was afraid if we stopped now he'd never get to again. He grabbed a handful of my hair and firmly pulled my head back so he could get access to my neck.

Instead of rough kisses like before he softly kissed and sucked on my neck. He let go of my hair and pulled my chin to make eye contact with me.

"I've missed you Ki'ichpan (beautiful girl)."

The Vibe:

Labrinth – McKay & Cassie (Official Audio) | Euphoria (Original Score from the HBO Series)

We continue to kiss this time slowly and passionately; we were taking our time enjoying each other's taste. I start to lay back pulling him with me so he could be on top. He was sure to never stop kissing me on the way down. After a few minutes of making out, he begins to move down my body leaving kisses sprinkled with licks and bites. When he gets to my breasts he was sure to make eye contact with me when he took my nipple in his mouth.

While doing this his hand was on my other breast massaging and teasing my hard nipple. Between him playing with my breast in one hand and licking and sucking the other, I wouldn't be able to take this much longer.

I bite my lip to stifle my moans, Namor notices and moves his hand from my breast down to my pussy and begins to caress my clit. I couldn't help but cry out from the sudden sensation change.

"Let out your moans, I want to hear what I do to you" He begins to spread your folds and plays with your entrance, eventually and painfully slow, he inserts a finger and then a second.

Fuck this feels so real

"Milleanyia my Queen, you are so wet for me already. Is this what I do to you?" He teasingly asks.

"I yearn only for your touch my King"

Namor Starts to move his fingers in slow thrusting motions, thoroughly exploring my sweet insides. I begin to look desperate, he was torturing me at a steady pace.

"Your distressed appearance only turns me on more," he picks up the pace a bit "You feel so good" he praised. Increasing his pace even more he could feel your tight walls wrap around him. I begin to cry out in pure uncontrollable pleasure. I tried to speak but no real words came out, just broken sounds.

Oh god, I'm so close

He takes his free hand and lightly squeezes my neck while making eye contact.

"Cum for me, cum for your king" He demands.

"Oh god," I yell out. "Don't fucking stop" he pumps his fingers so hard and deep inside of me that he pushes me over the edge. A melody of loud, breathless moans left my mouth as my orgasm crashed into me. My tight pussy was squeezing his fingers and he was enjoying every second of it. Finally coming down from my high he slowly pulls his fingers out of me and puts them in his mouth licking every last drop of my essence.

"You taste amazing" he proclaims, "ready for the rest of me?"

And with that, I abruptly wake. I raise up in shock my sheets clinging to my bare sweaty skin.

"What the fuck was that Millie?"

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gl1tchgr3mlin · 2 years

Text

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39997479

The first chapter of my first fic on AO3, and I’m very excited (terrified) to share it! ✨🥰✨

#steven grant x oc #marc spector #jake lockley #moon knight #fanfiction #original character

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bagsybaggins · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 4: CHOOSING THE PATH

Isabella's breath came out rushed as she was knocked down to the ground again, her eyes drifting closed as she tried to catch her breath. She didn't bother opening her eyes when she heard the familiar giant footsteps making their way onto the open floor, towards her with the sound of regulated breathing being enhanced with his mask.

"You did well little one." Bane crouched beside her, "Take this moment to rest and reflect. What mistakes did you make?"

Isabella exhaled heavily, opened her eyes, and looked at the blurry wooded ceiling. "I rushed to end it. I was impatient."

She could see Bane nod beside her. "That was your first mistake, and what other mistakes did you make?"

She inhaled before sitting up, her eyes moving down to the floor in between her legs. She swallowed before turning to look at him. "I got caught up in my mind and was distracted by my thoughts. And I let myself get sucker-punched in the stomach."

Bane looked down at her before nodding his head. "That you did do, but you failed to evaluate your opponent. Not only that, but you attacked first."

She looked down at the ground in front of her and nodded her head slowly. Bane studied her but then stood up, his hand reached down towards her waiting for her to take it. Her eyes glanced at the hand, before looking up at his blurred face and taking his hand. He held it securely as he turned around and led her out of the room, her brown eyes glanced around at the blurred figures that were standing guard. Hesitantly she looked away, turning back to Bane.

"Where are we going?" She asked, walking slightly faster to catch up with his normal pace. Bane turned his head ever so slightly to look at her before looking ahead again.

"I am going to show you something that I think you will enjoy." That was all that he said as he turned to his left, where there was one single door at the end of the hall.

Isabella blinked in confusion, her vision only seeing a dark hallway. She turned to look over her left shoulder, no longer able to hear the wind or any voices out of her left ear since the incident. Only loud, clear voices and loud sounds could she hear out of her left ear, so she mostly relied on her right ear. But her eyesight was the main problem that she couldn’t do anything about, her glasses that Tony and Harley had made were special. More than they just had an AI, but that she wouldn't have to change her glasses to see clearly, they would just auto-adjust to make her vision clear again.

It had been almost a month and a half since she had arrived in this alternate universe. And while she had yet to tell Bane or anyone where she was from exactly, or what her past was, she felt so alone. Surrounded by people, assassins, that she didn't know. Sure, it made it less lonely, but she was still so alone. She only talked to two people, Bane and Nickolas, Nickolas being the old man doctor who she would eat her lunch with.

Izzy gasped as the door in front of them opened, and she could see hues of orange, red, and white.

"There are trees whose leaves are turning orange and red from the cold." Bane began telling her what she was seeing, pointing to different areas in front of her. "And over there you can see the Kandalosh Mountain covered in snow."

Izzy's gaze stayed on the view in front of her, her mouth parted as she stared in awe. "Why are you showing me this?" She asked slowly, her eyes drifting towards him.

He looked down at her, and through her blurry vision she could see that his eyes had narrowed or grown smaller, he was smiling behind his mask.

"You haven't had a moment to adjust to being here, at least not truly. I have noticed that you have been pushing yourself too hard during your training, something that I have noticed in other men who wish to forget or to ignore something." He crossed his arms, pausing for a moment to breathe. "I wished to know what you were wishing to forget, little one."

Izzy gaped at him, her thoughts turning over her options of what she could say. Then she sighed, turning back to look off the balcony, her eyes slowly slipping closed. However, Bane's silence spoke volumes of his unwavering will, he wouldn't leave until she told him something.

[Isabella's POV]

"I lost my family," I whispered, and I heard Bane's breathing change just slightly to my right. "It was January, a week and a half before our birthday, my sister Liz and I. We learned that our Papá, who had left when we were six, had come to visit our Mom."

I inhale sharply as the memories of that night start creeping into my mind, flashing the grotesque film of what we had seen. "He was with bad people, or something along those lines, because when Liz and I got home." I fell silent as my eyes flutter open to look at the mountain in the distance. "Our Mom and Step-Dad were dead, and the killers had left a message for him. Saying, 'You shouldn't have come back here.' Written with my Mom's blood."

Pausing for a moment, taking in a deep breath as my heart races beneath my ribcage. "And in April, the day I got here- moments before I got here. Liz had gotten shot, and I tried to call the police and keep pressure on the wound. But then, I think I died. My body became dust within seconds, and I have no idea if she's alive or not."

I turn to Bane, who was looking at me, no doubt with a look of pity or sadness in his eyes.

"So that is what you wish to forget little one? Your wishing to forget your past and the people you've lost?" Bane asked, his voice modulator altering slightly at his soft tone.

Considering his questions, I fall silent, my eyes turning towards the mountainside again.

Did I want to forget them? Did I want to forget my family, my friends? Did I want my past to disappear like a shadow under the sun with nothing to hide it from its shine? Hesitantly I shake my head and answer his questions.

"I don't want to forget them, even though I may never see her again, or any of them again." I noticed the questioning look on his masked face. "I wish, not to forget them, but to remember them. My memories are all that I have of them, if I forget them, I have nothing."

Bane's laughter startles me as it sends an echo into the deep valley far below our feet.

"You won't be left with nothing little one, you'll have me and my men to rely on." He steps closer to me, his hand reaching out and covering my entire shoulder. "If you wish to remember them, keep the joyful memories for when you are at peace. But use the sorrowful memories as fuel to the fire within your heart, use them as your will to fight. The sadness and the rage, use them to push yourself forward after you have been broken."

I stare up at him, feelings of relief flooding my heart, and I lean towards him and hug him. "Thank you, Bane," I whisper.

"You don't need to thank me little one, I will make adjustments to your training regiments. You'll have to fight harder than before, but make sure to use your emotions to push yourself further than before. Don't let their deaths hold you back."

[Three Months Later]

The grin was wide on my face as the adrenaline was pumping through my body, dodging another punch thrown by the assassin named Xander. He had been the latest assassin that I'd been fighting with for this past week, Bane insisting that it be changed every week so I would adjust to different fighting techniques. Xander was quick to fight, and he mostly used his fists, rarely kicking at me. He used knives, possibly swords when actually fighting, instead of training.

I let out a 'ha', as I managed to kick his leg, causing him to drop to his knees. Before he could stand again, I grabbed his arm and kicked his back, and he fell onto his chest. Twisting his arm, I sit firmly on his back, turning his arm up until he let out a hiss of pain.

"Surrender," I order, and after a moment, and another pull of his arm, he nodded his head.

I grin widely, letting out a gleeful laugh as I jump up. I turn around when I hear slow loud clapping, seeing Bane standing by the door.

"After four months of training, you managed to take down one of my men." I cross my arms and raise a brow at him, and a laugh resonates from his mask. "That is something you should be proud of little one, it would have taken others many more moons before they would make one of my men surrender to anyone. You have done well."

Slowly I nod and smile again. "Thanks, Bane."

He nods his head. "I may have given a hand in training you little one, but that was all of your hard work that caused this accomplishment." And with that, he nodded to another assassin who still hasn't told me their name, so I call him Dave, and then Bane walks out the door again.

I turn to Dave who walks towards me, and I send a glance to Xander, who was now standing behind me.

A sudden dreaded realization settles into my stomach, "Ah, I see what's going on. I don't suppose we could do this in an hour or two. Maybe tomorrow even?"

"No Miss Lockley, you're training has only just begun." I hear Xander say before Dave and Xander run at me.

[Later That Night]

Isabella sighed as she closed her eyes and rested her head on her arms on the balcony. Her right eye was swollen and she could tell that her ribs were bruised as well. The door creaked open behind her, but she kept resting her head and her eyes. The cold air of December should've made her shiver, but her blood was still warm from the fight.

"I heard that you didn't win the second fight." Bane said from behind her.

She sighed heavily before standing up straight and turning to look at him. "No, I didn't win."

Bane stayed silent, studying her before walking closer, his figure towering over her. His index finger barely brushed against her swollen skin, before his eyes narrowed. "And how did this happen?"

Isabella raised a brow, "Not everyone can escape a fight without a scratch." At his own raised brow, she sighed. "I might have tripped over Xander and fallen into Dave's elbow. It was my own fault, really."

Bane's breathing through the modulator filled the silence, apart from the wind howling deep within the valley.

"You tripped and fell into his elbow, you say?" He says slowly.

She nodded her head. "Yep, rather clumsy, even for me."

Bane exhales heavily before asking, "And who is Dave?"

Isabella blinks before shrugging, "He never actually told me his name, so I just started calling him Dave."

Bane chuckles deeply whilst shaking his head in disbelief, and Isabella smiles despite the aches and pains in her body.

[Three Months Later - Isabella's POV]

I have been in this universe, and place for seven months now. My training with Bane has gotten smoother, well not smoother actually, definitely not easier either. My training has gotten more difficult, but I've gotten stronger. I could take down five men by myself, almost six now, and I've started to use knives and was taught how to use a gun. So to say my life has changed drastically, would be an understatement. Nickolas has started pulling me from training to meditate, to help 'increase' my 'senses', which to me seems alright. Being both partially deaf in my left ear, and unable to see anything clearly after 3 feet, does put a disadvantage on well, everything. But Nickolas's meditation training isn't bad, in fact, I do enjoy it. It helps me calm down, and just take a moment to breathe. And to think, even if he tells me to clear my mind.

I can't tell if the meditation has helped with my vision or hearing, but it has helped me to think a little faster while fighting. Not saying that when I'm fighting things start to go in slow motion so I can dodge things, although that would be useful. It helps me react faster, and almost predict moves from people I haven't fought before. I no longer fight Xander or Dave whose real name is actually Alverez, I thought he said Alcatraz but I guess that's just me not listening.

"My dear, clear your mind," Nickolas says, somehow knowing that I'm thinking. Maybe he's a mind reader, it would make sense if he was.

Nodding my head, I inhaled and exhale deeply, keeping my eyes closed. But they immediately open when the doors swing open, Bane's footsteps clumping in, so I know he's wearing the boots today. When he wears his boots, that means he's going out, which I assume for a mission, but he did surprise me when he came back with a cinnamon bagel I had told him about.

"Little one! There you are, I thought you were training but you weren't there."

Smiling I stand up, while Nickolas stays sitting, meditating the day away until someone gets hurt. "Well, someone needed to keep Old Nicky some company. That and we meditate together, training our minds." I explain, and Bane nods.

"There is a mission, small and simple. I believe that you are ready now, but only if you are willing to go." Bane says, his eyes softening at their narrowed gaze.

I frown, "What's the mission entail?"

Bane glances at Nickolas before turning back to me. "A simple means of reclaiming what has been stolen from us a long time ago. Should the mission go well, no blood will be drawn. However if not, would you be willing to take a life?"

A lump forms in my throat as I stare up at him, the thought of killing someone sending a cold sensation of fear through my body. But then I remember Liz, and how she could possibly be dead.

"These people," I start, swallowing the fear down. "Are they innocent?"

Bane shakes his head firmly. "It is not in my will or in my men's will to kill innocents. They are criminals and low-life scum. Should they need to die, the world will have no tears to shed on their graves."

Intaking his words, my mind drifts back to words from Edgar Allan Poe. "But as in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy, sorrow is born," I repeat aloud, and I see him nod.

"Very true."

I smile and nod. "It's by Edgar Allan Poe. But, if it comes down to taking a life, Bane." I pause, looking at him with a concentrated gaze. "If it comes down to fighting, I will fight. And if it's to the death, I will do my best to survive and be the one left standing."

Bane slowly nods his head. "Alright, little one. You can handle yourself, however, try your best to not stray too far."

Tension filled every muscle in my body as I walked beside Bane, following him through the stony alleyways. Past buildings that I wanted to call ancient, their designs and brickwork looking like it was from another time. I smiled softly as Bane had to bend down to avoid hitting the clothes that were hanging from the clotheslines. I noticed Xander and Alverez ahead of us, standing beside a door. They nodded their heads at us as we approached, before opening the door for us. I followed behind Bane as he walked in first. I narrow my eyes at the dark room, with only two windows to light up the room, but the sun wasn't shining too brightly behind the clouds.

But it did, almost dramatically, shine down directly on top of an almost throne-like chair, carved out of stone. The man sitting on top of it had the look and body language of someone who was bored, with his head resting on his hand and his leg crossed over his knee. I mentally did a recount of how many knives I had, and where I put them. As I stand beside Bane, I mimic him to lessen my own nerves that were bussing beneath my skin. So I cross my arms and keep my face natural as I stare at the man, who was rather blurry considering that he was over 4 feet away. Probably about 8 feet away maybe.

The man in question huffed, "Is this supposed to intimidate me? You and your men dressed in dark articles of clothing, glaring at me. Ha, I'm shaking."

I feel my brow twitch at his sarcasm, resisting the urge to point out that he did in fact look scared. And then he turned to look at me, looking me up and down.

"And who's she supposed to be? Your secret daughter? Or perhaps a whore? I have to say she looks rather young, but then again-"

I feel a little better when Bane, who took a step or two, put his hand around the man's throat and silenced him within an instant. The man, who now looked scared shitless, snapped his fingers. I felt the vibration through the floor as someone dropped down behind me, and before I could turn, a gun was pointed at the left side of my head. Flashes of the alleyway with Liz sped past my vision.

"Let him go, and she won't die." A voice says from behind me, a man who doesn't sound familiar to the gunner in the alleyway breaks me from my memories.

Bane looks over his right shoulder at me, his eyes darting between the gun, the man, and me. When he looks back at me, I slowly shake my head at him, barely moving my head. My arms were still crossed, which didn't exactly help much, but I could make it work. I close my eyes as I inhale and exhale, before opening them and grabbing the gun in my left and throwing my right arm back into their ribs. As I pushed the gun up, and my elbow hit the man, the gun went off. I clench my teeth, hissing as a sharp ringing ensues in my left ear. But I push through it, turning around, my hand still on the gun, and I kick the man's leg. As his knees hit the ground, I twist the gun out of his hand and kick him down onto his chest, my foot being pressed on his back to stop him from moving.

"Try anything, and I'll shoot you." I hiss as I point the gun at him, causing his struggle to cease.

I hear Bane laugh shortly, and I resist the urge to look, not wanting to risk the guy getting the nerve to try and escape.

"She is like a daughter to me, but she is not my blood," Bane says simply, and I laugh softly.

I hear Bane hum and in the corner of my peripherals, I see him look at me.

"We have come to take back what is ours, and you have tried to harm someone I care for. I believe the fate you have is much worse than death, and no one will set you free as long as I live. You should pray that the gods have pity for you." Bane lifted the man up from his seat with only his hand around the man's neck.

Xander and Alverez walk in, Xander grabbing the man from under my foot, and Alverez taking the man from Bane. I watched them walk out the door, before walking out after them, taking in deep breaths.

"Your ear is bleeding." I hear Bane say from behind me, and I raise my hand to my left ear and feel the blood dripping down my neck.

I curse softly as I see the blood, and Bane moves in front of me and grabs a sheet from one of the clotheslines that littered the alleyway. He presses it against my ear and I chuckle.

"I'm not sure the person who owns this will be too happy about the blood," I explain at his questioning look.

I see his eyes narrow as he laughs, "I'm sure they won't mind if they knew the cause of such injury."

Scoffing, I take the sheet from him and shake my head with a smile. "Injury caused by taking down a lazy gang monarch-type guy right? That's the gist of what I thought was happening anyways."

Bane laughed again and nodded his head as we walk down the alleyway, me wiping the blood away before holding the cloth to my ear when I realize it was still bleeding. "That is the simple version of what happened, yes. He was stealing the people's money, making himself rich while leaving his neighbors poor. Amongst other things that have already been dealt with."

Glancing back at where we came from, I scoff in disbelief. "If that's the guy at his richest, he is obviously unwise in the way that he spends his money."

Bane turns to me, his brows furrowed. "You didn't see the gold and jewels laying on the table?"

I frown. "There was a table?" At his blank stare, I look away. "You know I need glasses to see clearly, not to mention that it was dark in there."

Bane exhaled and nodded his head. "Your sight had slipped my mind, I apologize."

Waving my hand in dismissal, I shrug. "It's alright, I forget sometimes too."

Bane falls silent and out of curiosity, I turn to him.

"Bane, are you alright?" I ask and hear him hum in reply. "Whatcha thinking about? You've got your thinking wrinkles on your face."

"Why did you laugh? When I had said that I thought of you like a daughter?" He turned to me.

Blinking rapidly at his question I think back to that moment. I smile as I remember what had popped into my mind.

"Oh, well it wasn't that part that made me laugh, not that I thought what you said was funny! It's just when you said something about not being related by blood, it made me remember something from where I come from." He raised a brow, staying silent and waiting patiently for me to continue and clarify why I had laughed. "It's a quote from a show I love, 'Family don't end with blood, but it doesn't start there either.'"

Bane looks ahead of us, bending slightly to avoid touching the sheets.

"Are you alright with being considered my daughter?" He asks softly.

I pause, faltering in my step and he turns to me. I notice the look of worry in his eyes, and I smile. "I don't mind Bane. Even if we've only known each other for a little over seven months, you've been nothing but helpful and caring. You've taught me so much, and I'm grateful for having been found by you." I take a step closer and hug him, his arms shortly wrapping around me. "I would be happy to be called your daughter."

I feel him place his head on top of my head, no doubt craning his neck due to his huge stature.

"I believe I like that quote, 'Family don't end with blood.'" He repeated causing me to smile. "What is it from? This show, what is it called?"

We part, mostly due to my excitement to tell him all about Supernatural. Avidly telling him about how Bobby had originally said it, and how he was my favorite character besides Dean. And as we returned to our home, I don't think I shut up about it. But he didn't ask me to shut up either, so I think it was okay.

[Seven Months Later]

I cross my arms as I stare down at the note Bane had sent me, the note that I threw into the fire, that was now being burned. Just like that, it was gone, along with his words.

He had left almost a month and a half ago when the leaves on the tree were starting to fall. But now it was October, and the leaves were almost gone. He had left for a mission in a place across the world. But his note said he had been captured, and that his chances of escaping were slim to none, having been locked up in an Asylum. He told me that he cared for me, and wanted me to be safe and that I could leave and go anywhere I wanted. To not risk coming to him, for the whole shtick of protecting me. That if he ever escaped, he would find me.

I sighed heavily as I turned to look out the balcony window, but only saw my reflection in the glass, the night sky having been clouded over to cover the bright stars. I looked different. Different than when I had gotten here, a year ago. Actually a year and three months almost. I wasn't the 16-year-old who had just died and been revived in an alternate universe dimension/reality anymore. My face wasn't as round as it was, and I had sloppily cut my hair a few months ago, but it was now reaching just below my shoulders when I had it down. I had a few more scars to add to my tiny scar that I had gotten when I was 4 when I had worn metal-wired glass and tripped, which ended up putting a scratch on my nose that was now a faded scar. Also, I had much more muscle mass than before, like, I wasn't as built as Bane. But I did have muscles, cause I defiantly didn't have those before, other than being able to carry a lot of books.

But now, I was the 17-year-old who has a kind assassin, built like a tank father figure. With two assassin Uncle figures and a medical Grandpa figure, Xander, Alverez, and Nickolas. I had the option of choosing what to do with my life and to be honest, I haven't a clue what to do.

With another sigh, I turn towards the table I had on the wall next to the fireplace, looking down at the map I had borrowed and rolled out. I squint my eyes as I try to read the words, but evidently, my vision has gotten a little worse.

"Does that say Got-Ham?" I mutter as I move closer to read it.

"It's pronounced Gotham, Isabella." I hear Nickolas say from behind me as he walks into my room slowly, being followed by Xander and Alverez.

I sigh and turn around. "Yeah, well, it's still Got-Ham. I mean, it's spelled like it." Crossing my arms, I lean against the table. "So, I'm assuming you all know about Bane?"

At their nods, I narrow my eyes at them. "Did he tell you all to try and get me to go do my own thing?"

"Yes, he did," Alvarez stated, his hands behind his back.

I turn and look over my shoulder at the map before sighing again. "Will you be coming with me?" I ask softly.

At the silence, I turn back to them, Nickolas was the only one to look at me. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.

"You will have to take this journey by yourself, my dear. We can provide you with the money and a few supplies perhaps, but nothing more than that I'm afraid." Nickolas explains softly.

Closing my eyes, I sigh and nod hesitantly. "Alright, I guess. Will I see you again?"

Xander smiles, walking over to me and placing his hand on my shoulder. "Of course, we will. Like Bane says, 'Family don't end with blood.' We're family, so we'll see each other again."

I wouldn't bother trying to explain why I started laughing after that, not wanting to explain that Bane had heard it from me. And that night, I packed my duffle bag with my clothes, a few knives, and maybe one gun. And I gently placed my broken glasses in the bag's side pocket, before zipping it up. Nickolas gave me some medical supplies, along with a chakra bracelet, saying that it'll help keep my spirit and energy balanced. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't believe in that, but I guess if the Norse Gods can exist, why can't Chakra? Xander and Alverez didn't give me anything, other than a book by Edgar Allan Poe, who existed here apparently, and the plane ticket to get there. Oh, and money.

So with all of that in my bag, I left the place I called home. And headed towards Got-ham, sorry, Gotham.

#marvel #marc spector #jake lockley #jason todd #jason todd x oc #dc batman #bad at tags #bane #dc bane #steven grant #original character #gotham #dc universe #marvel mcu

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sarahghetti · 2 months

Text

moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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